PROMO BLITZ - To Defend A Damaged
Duke by Fearne Hill
Length: 75,000 words Series:
Regency Rossingley, book 2 Prior Reading: not required Genre:
Historical Romance (Regency) Tropes: second chances, a wealthy duke, a gambling
hell owner, wrong side of the tracks, forbidden love, revenge, hurt-comfort , Regency England, horse
racing Trigger/Content Warnings: n/a Publisher: NineStar
Press
Benedict Fitzsimmons, the reclusive fourteenth Duke of Ashington, nurses a
secret desire for his own sex he’d much prefer nobody ever found out about. Indeed, having only ever given in
to his urges as a youth—and with disastrous consequences—he never imagined they would. Preferring the
company of his racehorses to people, Benedict spends most of his time working on estate matters, longing for
a lost love he can never have.
When an anonymous letter threatening to expose Benedict lands in his lap,
he’s shocked to the core. He doesn’t have any enemies; why would anyone want to destroy him? Terrified, and
with his family’s impeccable reputation at stake, Benedict joins forces with loyal friend, the Earl of Rossingley,
to track down the culprit.
Risen from poverty and with a sordid past he’d rather forget, Tommy Squire
has a mind dedicated to growing his business ventures and a heart shaped from stone. When the man who
once broke it in a life-changing betrayal requests Tommy’s help to avoid a scandal, he finds himself embroiled
in a daring scheme to bring down a blackmailer. As their plot unfolds, Tommy realises it’s more than his former
lover he’s endeavouring to protect, it’s his battered heart.
Fearne Hill resides far from the madding crowds in the county of Dorset, deep
in the British countryside. She likes it that way. Her queer romance, Two Tribes, was a finalist in the 2023
Lambda Literary Awards. Her popular Rossingley series was nominated in nine separate categories of the
2021 Goodreads M/M Romance awards and received an Honourable Mention in the 2021 Rainbow Awards.
My pro hockey dreams are hanging by
a thread. I need to have a great season, and that means no partying, no
distractions, no fun. A grad student’s science experiment is the definition of
no fun, so…okay.
Pros and cons of agreeing to this
deal:
Pro: Positive use of free time. (At
least, that’s what my agent says.)
Con: Malcolm is bossy, clumsy, and
he doesn’t know the first thing about hockey.
But he’s also cute and he’s got a
great sense of humor and—oh, no.
I cannot have a crush on the geek.
No way. Not now.Malcolm
Yes, I’m a serious student, but a
hockey project is not serious. Who cares about big, hunky hockey players
zipping around a sheet of ice at warp speed? Not I.
According to my professor, however,
the only way to attain the required data is to study the specimen in his
natural habitat, a.k.a., the ice rink.
Pro: My thesis should lead
to a bevy of job offers.
Con: Jett. He’s impossibly big and
gruff and handsome and disarmingly charming and—
Fine. Guilty. I like the
jock…perhaps too much.
Lately, I find myself wondering if
there’s such a thing as a one-time shot at forever.
One-Time Shot is a
low-angst, geek-jock MM bisexual college hockey romance featuring a charismatic
hockey star and an adorkable scientist.
“Hello. Please allow me to
introduce myself. I’m Malcolm Maloney, a grad student in the physics department
at the venerable Smithton College. I specialize in…”
Okay, Malcolm.
You had me at hello and lost me at physics.
I zoned out, mesmerized by
his animated gesturing, melodic voice, and opposing features—sharp chin and
soft eyes, straight freckled nose and plush lips. He was even cuter up close,
but I didn’t go for geeks. Or guys in general. I mean, yeah, sure…I was bi, but
that info wasn’t widely known. Too risky for someone in my position, and I was
comfortable enough in the closet.
Yes, that sounded douchey,
but the world is a fucked-up place. Am I right?
Back to Malcolm,
who—I think–was giving a small presentation on the related
properties of energy and motion. Shoot me
now.
I held up a hand to stop
him. “I don’t understand anything you’re saying. If you want to talk physics,
I’m not your guy.”
“Oh, but you are,” he
insisted, leaning forward. “You’re a hockey person,
correct?”
“Uh…”
“I’ll take that as a yes,
but that was a rhetorical question. I know who you are. Jett Erickson, a senior
at Smithton and a right-wing offensive player for the Bears. It’s widely
reported that you’re the best shooter on the team. Your impressive stats last
year include a high percentage of goals and assists.”
All true. But that was last
year. This year…I was off to a slower start.
“Are you a hockey fan or
something?”
“Oh, gosh, no.” Malcolm
widened his eyes. “Hockey is much too violent for my taste. The risk of injury
compounds as players become better, faster, stronger…so regular strains,
sprains, contusions, inflammation, fractured bones, and concussions are
practically a foregone conclusion. I understand that fans are attracted to the
speed and skill involved, but it’s a bit too dangerous, and
too…”
He wrinkled his nose and
fiddled with the edge of a napkin nervously.
“Don’t hold back now,” I
chided, charmed in spite of being unsure what the hell we were
discussing.
“Barbaric.”
“Barbaric,” I
repeated.
Okay, well…wrong. Hockey
was the best sport ever. I geared up to tell him so, but I had a feeling my
face did the job for me.
About that: I had a
reputation for being intense, on and off the ice. Intimidating, aggressive,
terrifying…
Malcolm sputtered an
apology. “Barbaric in the tradition of Roman gladiators and knights in shining
armor. Masculine with a slightly toxic energy.”
“Right.” I furrowed my brow
and leaned across the table, like a panther, ready to strike. “Cut to the
chase, Malcolm Maloney. What’s this about?”
He cleared his throat and
met my gaze. “I have an inquiry, a request, a favor to ask of
you.”
“What kind of
favor?”
“I’m working on an
experiment that’s grown into a small portion of my senior thesis. Quite against
my will, I might add. This is my professor’s idea, not mine. Though I admit,
it’s a good one.” He paused to adjust his glasses. “You see, Newton’s laws of
motion are applicable to sports in every way imaginable. In hockey, reduced
friction on an icy surface facilitates speed, agility, and precision. A
skater’s acceleration is directly related to force and mass
and—”
“Whoa. You’re losing me
again. I’m not a science guy.”
“That’s a-okay. I am. But
I’m not a sports person, and that’s where you’d come in.”
“I don’t think
so.”
“Hear me out. Please. It’s
a rather simple experiment and—”
“Sorry, no. Good luck on
your thesis. Seriously. It sounds…well, it sounds boring as fuck, but hockey
might make it interesting,” I conceded with a shrug. “The best I can do is pass
your request on to my teammates. Maybe someone else can help you
out.”
Malcolm grabbed my wrist
before I could make my escape. “It has to be you.”
I shook him off, narrowing
my eyes to foreboding slits. “Why?”
“You’re the best, the
fastest, the most accurate. No one else on your team comes close,” he said in a
rush. “And that’s not a compliment. That’s valid information based on remedial
statistics.”
Okay, cool. But I was
definitely taking it as a compliment.
Lane Hayes lives in sunny
Southern California with her amazing husband, who thankfully doesn’t mind
cooking, and their fabulous fox red Labrador, George, who’s pure mischief. Both
provide oodles of inspiration for the low-angst, humorous books Lane loves to
write. She’s been telling stories about sexy, funny, sometimes geeky
and quirky men who find love for a dozen years now and loving every minute. In
her previous life, she sat at a desk and dealt with numbers, so yes…romance is
much more satisfying! Lane loves tea, travel, and chocolate…in any
order. Add a book and she’s set!
My Readers’ Group, Lane’s Lovers:
https://bit.ly/3aIbMYg My Newsletter:
https://bit.ly/3cICfaK Website: www.lane-hayes.com Blue Sky:
https://bsky.app/profile/lanehayes.bsky.social Twitter:
twitter.com/LaneHayes3 FB:
facebook.com/LaneHayesAuthor Amazon Author Page:
amazon.com/author/lanehayes BookBub:
bookbub.com/authors/lane-hayes Instagram:
instagram.com/lanehayesauthor/ Goodreads:
goodreads.com/LaneHayes
Uncover the conspiracy,
outrun the enemy, and trust no one—survival is the ultimate
test.
Blurb
Oberon Wycherley never thought his dull London life
could take a deadly turn—until a frantic neighbour, American journalist Art
Carew, claims to have uncovered an international conspiracy. A Greek
industrialist is marked for assassination by a shadowy cabal called the Black
Stone and that's only the beginning.
When Carew is found dead in his flat, Oberon finds
himself the prime suspect—and the only one who can stop the plot. Fleeing to
the rugged Scottish Highlands, Oberon must decipher Carew’s cryptic notebook
while dodging assassins and evading the police. Along the way, he forms an
unlikely partnership with the enigmatic Syd Whatten, a man whose charm is
matched only by his secrets.
As the Black Stone’s sinister plan accelerates,
Oberon and Syd race against time to unmask the conspirators. From explosive
escapes to a high-stakes standoff on a storm-battered coastline, every step
brings them closer to the truth—and deeper into danger.
Will they foil the plot in time? Or will Oberon
become another casualty of a deadly game?
A gripping blend of espionage, danger,
and unexpected alliances, The 39 Steps will leave
you breathless to the last page.
My Two Pennies' Worth
I'm a massive fan of the original story and I loved how this paid homage to the original work and yet adapted it for the the current day with all the cameras and tracking devices that Buchan would never have dreamed of more than a century ago.
It's a roller coaster ride of constant action, unexpected twists and turns of the plot. The relationship between Obi and Syd follows the same frantic pace, with sizzling banter and plenty of heat, even a side order of kink.
Whether you're a fan of the original or you've never picked it up, you'll find this book is one you don't want to put down.
Excerpt
“I’m gonna go sit in the corner and browse my phone
like a normal human.” Oberon paid for his drinks and the wine he’d be taking
home with him then took his glass and snagged a table in the corner next to the
window. His job meant keeping an eye on the news so he could justify a bit of
doom-scrolling as work. The media sites were full of the usual rubbish about
the royals, D-list celebrities and the cost of living. Oberon browsed anything
he could find that was remotely related to mining and mining companies. There
was a particularly interesting piece about deep seabed mining for polymetallic
nodules. Potato-sized lumps containing copper, cobalt,
nickel and manganese…hmm, all crucial to battery manufacture. The
mention of potato was enough to make his stomach rumble. He took his glass back
to the bar, said goodbye to Marley, who handed him a bag containing his bottles
of wine, then headed for home.
The rain had stopped, leaving a fine, clear
evening. Everything smelled freshly washed. As Oberon walked back to his flat
near Portland Place, the crowds surged around him, busy and chattering,
snapping pictures of anything and everything. He envied their easy-going
camaraderie and excitement even if he didn’t understand the attraction of
countless selfies. The shop assistants, office workers in sharp suits, street
cleaners and buskers all had things to do and places to be. He gave a few pound
coins to a homeless guy hunched in a tatty sleeping bag in a closed-down shop
doorway because he saw him yawn; he was a fellow-sufferer. At Oxford Circus,
Oberon looked up at the sky and made a vow. I’ll give this
place another week and if nothing exciting happens, I’ll stick a pin in a map
and buy a one-way flight.
His short-term home was on the first floor of a
newish block behind Langham Place. He was flat-sitting for a friend who’d taken
a six-month engineering contract in Brazil and the rent he was charging Oberon
was peanuts compared to the going rate in the area. The building was upmarket
enough to merit a security desk in the entrance hall, along with mailboxes and
a well-maintained noticeboard. The lobby smelled of lemons.
His friend had a cleaner who came in three times a
week and though Oberon didn’t make enough mess to justify it, he didn’t want to
take the woman’s income. Magdalena traded light duties for baking, leaving him
Polish sweets and pastries that did nothing for his waistline. There was a
lift, which Oberon rejected in favour of the stairs, thinking of those
pastries.
He was fitting his key into the lock when another
man made his way up the stairs. He moved quietly and his sudden appearance made
Oberon start. He was slim, with a short reddish-brown beard, orange-streaked
hair and washed-out grey eyes. He was half a head shorter than Oberon’s six
feet one.
“You’re my upstairs neighbour, aren’t you?” Oberon
recognised him as the occupant of a flat on the next floor. They’d exchanged
hellos once or twice in passing but nothing more.
“I am, Mr. Wycherley. I’ve been hanging around
waiting for you,” the man said. “Can I come in for a minute?” He seemed to be
making an effort to steady his voice, and he reached for Oberon’s arm but
didn’t touch him. “My name is Art Carew. I won’t take up much of your
time.”
Oberon didn’t feel he could refuse. He got his door
open and motioned Art in. No sooner was Art over the threshold than he made a
dash for the kitchen, where he peered out of the window before coming
back.
“Is the door locked?” he asked, not waiting for a
response before fastening the security chain in place himself. “I’m sorry,” he
said. “I’m taking advantage, but you look like the kind of man who might
understand. I’m in trouble and I need a favour. It won’t cost you
anything.”
Oberon debated throwing him out there and then but
he was bored and the man was intriguing, if a bit odd. “I can’t promise
anything, but I’ll listen. Can I get you a drink?” He looks
like he needs one.
“That would be kind and very welcome.”
There was a tray of decanters and glasses on a
table next to the couch. Oberon poured his visitor a generous neat whisky. Art
downed it in one. “Another?”
“Thank you but no. I should keep a clear head, but
that one helped steady the nerves.”
“My landlord appreciates a single malt. Take a
seat. I’ll just be a minute.” Oberon carried his wine through to the kitchen
then took off his jacket before returning to the living room. “So, tell me
what’s going on.”
“Yeah, I should, shouldn’t I?” Art said. “I’m a bit
shaken up and not thinking straight. You see, I’m dead.”
About the
Author
Lucinda lives in a small village in
the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She
started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly
addicted.
She loves the English weather,
especially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm
company and a crackling fire. She's fascinated by the psychology of
relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and
some not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.
My pro hockey dreams are hanging by a thread. I need to have a great
season, and that means no partying, no distractions, no fun. A grad student’s science experiment is the
definition of no fun, so…okay.
Pros and cons of agreeing to this deal:
Pro: Positive use of free time. (At least, that’s what my agent
says.)
Con: Malcolm is bossy, clumsy, and he doesn’t know the first thing about
hockey.
But he’s also cute and he’s got a great sense of humor and—oh,
no.
I cannot have a crush on the geek. No way. Not now.Malcolm
Yes, I’m a serious student, but a hockey project is not serious. Who cares
about big, hunky hockey players zipping around a sheet of ice at warp speed? Not I.
According to my professor, however, the only way to attain the required data
is to study the specimen in his natural habitat, a.k.a., the ice rink.
Pro: My thesis should lead to a bevy of job offers.
Con: Jett. He’s impossibly big and gruff and handsome and disarmingly
charming and—
Fine. Guilty. I like the jock…perhaps too much.
Lately, I find myself wondering if there’s such a thing as a one-time shot at
forever.
One-Time Shot is a low-angst, geek-jock MM bisexual college hockey
romance featuring a charismatic hockey star and an adorkable scientist.
Lane Hayes lives in sunny Southern California with her amazing
husband, who thankfully doesn’t mind cooking, and their fabulous fox red Labrador, George, who’s pure
mischief. Both provide oodles of inspiration for the low-angst, humorous books Lane loves to write. She’s
been telling stories about sexy, funny, sometimes geeky and quirky men who find love for a dozen years now
and loving every minute. In her previous life, she sat at a desk and dealt with numbers, so yes…romance is
much more satisfying! Lane loves tea, travel, and chocolate…in any order. Add a book and she’s set!
My Readers’ Group, Lane’s Lovers: https://bit.ly/3aIbMYg My Newsletter:
https://bit.ly/3cICfaK Website: www.lane-hayes.com Blue Sky:
https://bsky.app/profile/lanehayes.bsky.social Twitter: twitter.com/LaneHayes3 FB:
facebook.com/LaneHayesAuthor Amazon Author Page: amazon.com/author/lanehayes BookBub:
bookbub.com/authors/lane-hayes Instagram: instagram.com/lanehayesauthor/ Goodreads:
goodreads.com/LaneHayes
RELEASE TOUR - The Kings Man 1 & 2 by Anyta Sunday
Book 1 Length: 70,000 words Series: The King's Man Prior Reading: not required for book one, but required for the overall series Genre: Fantasy, Romantic Fantasy, Romantasy Tropes: secret identity, forbidden calling, slow burn, rivals to lovers Trigger/Content Warnings: This book is a romantic epic fantasy and may contain (non main) character death and cliffhangers
Healing is his calling. Love is his curse. And this is just the beginning.
Cael knows the rules: healing magic is for the privileged, and par-linea like him exist only to serve. But when his forbidden spellbooks vanish and his father arranges his marriage to settle a debt, he flees into the royal woods, where he stumbles upon dying soldiers and a poisoned noble.
Using illegal medius magic, he saves the noble’s life, only to entangle himself in a dangerous game of politics. Now hunted for magic he shouldn’t possess, his only escape is to secretly compete in the mage examinations and prove himself a true vitalian.
But the capital is a den of vipers, and two men stand in his way: Silvius, the secretive fugitive who saved his life and kissed him like a promise, and Quintus, the sharp-tongued merchant who challenges him at every turn.
Both dangerous. Both holding secrets. Both about to change his life forever.
THE KING’S MAN is an epic romantasy filled with slow-burn passion, courageous choices, and the relentless spirit of a healer determined to beat all odds. This six-book series is one continuous journey and romance arc and is best read in order for maximum enjoyment.
For readers who love:
A slow-burn, rivals-to-lovers romance filled with tension
A rebellious healer who refuses to bow to the system
A mysterious noble with a sharp tongue and sharper secrets
Forbidden magic, political intrigue, and high-stakes deception
Perfect for fans of "The Captive Prince," "The Magician’s Guild," and "The Priory of the Orange Tree."
He raises a hand, stopping the aklo three steps behind him from rushing forward to block my approach.
I bounce down a few steps. “At a poetry convention? You seem more the debate type.”
Quin’s dark gaze sharpens. “You’re mistaken.”
“Enjoy poetry, then?”
“The last of the month is politics. No poetry.” His lips curl faintly, but his tone is tight. “So if you’re here, it’s by mistake.”
“Or miracle.”
Quin arches a brow, and despite himself, his lips curve. A bell chimes through the hall. “That’s the unveiling of the first topic.” He winces and rises a step. When he reaches mine, he continues upward.
I twist around. “Mind if I join? The view down there is terrible.”
His aklo moves to intercept, but Quin stops him again. He pauses, looking at me. “Wouldn’t that make us seem friendly? Wouldn’t that mean you’d have ‘a lot to explain’?”
“Ah.” Quin snaps his way up the staircase and I chase after him, flashing a grin. “We might not be particularly fond of one another, but we’re both mannered men. We can be civil.”
Quin’s brow arches slightly, politeness barely masking his dismissal as he continues up the stairs.
“Worried my perspectives might prove sharper than your own?” I say, following.
He stops abruptly, forcing me to halt. His gaze locks onto mine. “If your mind was half as sharp as your tongue, I might be.”
about the author:
Hey guys,
A bit about me: I’m a big, BIG fan of slow-burn romances. I love to read and write stories with characters who slowly fall in love. Some of my favorite tropes to read and write are: Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Clueless Guys, Bisexual, Pansexual, Demisexual, Oblivious MCs, Everyone (Else) Can See It, Slow Burn, Love Has No Boundaries. I write a variety of stories, Contemporary MM Romances with a good dollop of angst, Contemporary lighthearted MM Romances, and even a splash of fantasy.
Favorite things and peeps: hockey, family, friends. Least favorite person in the entire history of the universe: Mason Trinsky.
I have my reasons, but since you’re curious, Trinsky is a showboat and a loudmouth. Sure, he’s a great athlete. Good for him. I accept that we have mutual friends, and I grudgingly accept that he’ll be a coach at Elmwood Junior Camp this summer—however, I plan to keep my distance.
Of course, some wise guy pairs us up for a camping expedition, and everything that can go wrong does go wrong.
Guess who I’m stuck with?
Trinsky
Favorite things and peeps: hockey, surfing, and my kid brother Least favorite person in the entire history of the universe: Jake Milligan
Look, I might be in the minority, but if you ask me, Jake is a nitpicking diva who wants everything his way. I hope my NHL team crushes his, and this summer, I want my campers to out-prank his. Childish? Nah, it’s all in good fun.
Until it starts to feel…complicated. I shouldn’t care if he’s happy, should I? I don’t want to be Jake’s friend. I don’t want to have feelings for him at all.
The only thing that matters is hockey. It's all about the puck. Not love.
Or is it?
Puck Love is an MM bisexual, small-town romance featuring hockey’s hottest rivals, a hiking trip gone wrong, and a shot at forever…
And of course, we had Jake. No description needed, but in case you’re curious, his navy swim trunks matched his ball cap, his backpack, and his Crocs. Yeah…Crocs.
I didn’t actually hate Crocs, but I’d diss ’em ’cause I had the maturity of an eggplant, or so Jake inferred. Besides there was really no way I could be expected to be nice for forty-eight hours straight…was there?
Nah.
“Lookin’ Croc-tastic, Milligan,” I whispered.
Jake frowned and shushed me, which made me want to step on his toes. “I don’t know if this is possible, but we need to come up with a plan to stay out of each other’s way.”
“Easy. I’ll take two, you take two. I call Howard and the kid with braces.”
“Why don’t you want David?”
“Too serious and eager for me. Perfect for you,” I replied, leaning close.
He smelled good, like peppermint and evergreen and—
Geez, was he wearing cologne? Better question…why had I noticed? Maybe I was allergic to peppermint and associated it with terrible things like…uh…the holidays.
Okay, totally false. I loved the holidays, and peppermint was awesome. It was just weird that Jake would smell good and look…
Ugh, it pained me to admit it, but Jake was kind of sort of handsome…today. His summer tan made his blue eyes pop and wove golden strands into his dark-blond hair. I’d only noticed because I was in dire need of vitamin D. And this entire mental sidebar probably meant I was in desperate need of a vacation too.
“Fine. I’ll take David and Milo. Let’s win this.”
I furrowed my brow. “Win what?”
Jake spared me a glance, his lips quirked in vague amusement. “The whole weekend. I know it’s lighthearted fun, but it’s also basic swim and running relays too. Can you swim?”
“Of course I can fucking swim,” I scoffed.
“Cool. If you’re faster on the ground than you are on ice, we should do all right.”
“Are you insinuating that I’m a slow skater? That is fucking priceless.” I snorted.
Jake just smiled and clapped along to whatever Vinnie was yapping about. “If you say so. By the way, you might want to curb your F bombs. This is a G-rated family weekend. Show some class, Trinsky.”
“Fuck yourself, Milligan.”
“Nice one, asshat. You—”
Ray or Jay bumped my elbow as he sidled close, camera in hand. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. This is perfect.”
I gritted my teeth and probably would have said something rude, but I was interrupted by a cheer from the crowd.
“Are you ready to party?” Vinnie hooted, fists pumping the air. “Let’s do this!”
Lane Hayes lives in sunny Southern California with her amazing husband, who thankfully doesn’t mind cooking, and their fabulous fox red Labrador, George, who’s pure mischief. Both provide oodles of inspiration for the low-angst, humorous books Lane loves to write. She’s been telling stories about sexy, funny, sometimes geeky and quirky men who find love for a dozen years now and loving every minute. In her previous life, she sat at a desk and dealt with numbers, so yes…romance is much more satisfying! Lane loves tea, travel, and chocolate…in any order. Add a book and she’s set!
My Readers’ Group, Lane’s Lovers: https://bit.ly/3aIbMYg My Newsletter: https://bit.ly/3cICfaK Website: www.lane-hayes.com Blue Sky: https://bsky.app/profile/lanehayes.bsky.social Twitter: twitter.com/LaneHayes3 FB: facebook.com/LaneHayesAuthor Amazon Author Page: amazon.com/author/lanehayes BookBub: bookbub.com/authors/lane-hayes Instagram: instagram.com/lanehayesauthor/ Goodreads: goodreads.com/LaneHayes
A chancer and a rogue, Kit Angel is down on his
luck. Presenting himself at Rossingley Hall in the dead of night, he begs an
audience with the eleventh earl, the most enigmatic nobleman in Regency
England.
The visit has purpose. Kit, hungry to ruin the lord
who ruined his sister, believes Rossingley is the only man who can help
him.
Lando Duchamps-Avery, eleventh earl of Rossingley,
doesn’t trust the sinfully handsome stranger one bit. He does not care for the
tales he spins, his hot temper, or his thick, ebony curls. And, most
definitely, he is not in thrall to the delicious golden hoop dangling from Kit
Angel’s left ear. Lando has his own motivations to ruin the same lord, and the
two men form an uneasy alliance.
As the dangerous plot they hatch unfurls, the
suspicious earl and the shady scoundrel are increasingly thrown together.
Whilst the wily earl gradually surrenders to his growing attraction, Kit can’t
make up his mind if he wants to swive him, declare undying love for him, or
throttle him.
Bit by bit, as mutual desire swells between them,
Kit wins over the earl’s body, his passion, and his trust.
But in order to win the earl’s elusive heart? The
scoundrel must risk losing everything
My Two Pennies Worth
Well that was fun. I thoroughly enjoyed this long con romp via Regency Romance. It's opposites attract with a side order of trust issues,first from Lando who is worried Kit intends to blackmail him over his lavender tendencies, then from Kit who worries Lando is setting him up to take the fall for their (rather ridiculous) revenge con.
Grief plays a part here, Lando is still mired in his grief at the start of this story even though three years have passed since Charles' death. Unable to openly grieve the man he loved because so few knew of the relationship, he has locked himself away and stagnated in it.
I enjoyed it all, from the con, to Lando's found family of like-minded staff and his close relationship with his legitimate brother. And of course the relationship between Lando and Kit was exquisite.
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
ROSSINGLEY ESTATE, SUMMER, 1821
“You have visitors, my lord.”
Inglis floated across the eleventh Earl of
Rossingley’s sleepy eyeline, looking peevish. Lando swore the man had silken
castors in place of feet. With white-gloved hands clasped together in front of
his vexed frame, his head butler awaited his response.
“And you have chosen to disturb me about this
because…” Lando tilted his balloon of brandy this way and that, playing the
flickering candlelight against the delicately engraved crystal. That the
evening was late was an irrelevance. He and his butler were of the same accord;
visitors at any time of day were unusual, unwarranted, and unwelcome.
“A Mr Christopher Angel, my lord. And his sister,
Miss Anne. The young man says it’s important.”
One of a pair, the balloon glass had been a gift
from dear Charles. “I know of no one named Angel. Begging the question
‘important for whom’?”
“He didn’t make that distinction, my lord,”
admitted Inglis. “But he gave the impression the matter is somewhat
urgent.”
Lando took a warming sip of brandy. The drink of
the damned. He didn’t especially care for it, but he fancied it lent him a
louche, philosophic air. “What is urgent is seldom important, Inglis,” he
deemed, pleased with his wisdom. Rousseau himself might make a similar
pronouncement. “If it’s alms he’s after, toss him a half-crown, some cold
meats, and send him on his way.”
The gloved hands wrung together. “I did try that,
my lord. But he’s…ah…more insistent than our usual callers, and neither is he a
pauper. And…” Inglis paused. Never let it be said the butler couldn’t milk a
drama. “He…he mentioned one of his close relations. His uncle. One…ah…a former
cavalry officer sadly no longer with us, God rest his soul.”
As Inglis made the sign of the cross, Lando took
another, more contemplative sip. So many good men had fallen during the wars in
France, and a chap struggled to keep up. “Oh, yes?”
Inglis cleared his throat. “Yes. A…ah…Captain
Charles Prosser, my lord.”
Like rancid vinegar, the fine liquor soured on the
earl’s tongue. He fought to swallow it down. Perhaps he should have stuck to
port after dinner. Maybe it would have better softened the dull ache now
swelling behind his rib cage. Captain Prosser.
His dearest Charles, his lover. His heart.
Lando didn’t make his older lover’s acquaintance
until after the wars, from which Charles returned hale and hearty. But where
French bayonets and the battlefields of Trafalgar had failed, the insidious
wasting disease prevailed. An annoying tickle became a cough, a cough tinged
with blood. Slowly, inexorably, his lover faded away, their time together, in
all of its perfection, too brief. A life only half lived; a conversation
forever unfinished. Lando, not daring to be at Charles’s bedside at the end, heard
the news of his passing from a mutual friend some two weeks after his lover had
been buried beneath Kentish loamy earth.
Three long years ago. Yet even now, at unprepared
moments such as this—and was there ever such a thing as a prepared one?—that
name still had a powerful hold upon the eleventh earl. If Inglis hadn’t broken
the crushing silence, it might have persisted well into the night.
“I have taken the liberty of passing the young
man’s sister over to Mrs Sugden, my lord. The girl is in a state of great
distress. And I have shown her brother to the small parlour. He’s…ah…not fit
for the library.”
Inglis’s waspish voice sounded as if coming from an
awfully long way away. “My lord might wish to be more suitably attired before
receiving him?”
Tipping back his fair head, Lando forced another
swallow of fiery amber liquid. For a second or two, it threatened to reappear,
then he pulled himself together. Ridiculous. Three years gone and one mention
of Charles turned him into a limp dishrag. Well, it was high time it didn’t.
Time to make a clean breast of things. Time to stop bloody moping. Charles
would have hated him squandering his salad days drinking alone and brooding in
front of a dying fire.
He cast his gaze down his spare frame. Fussy Inglis
might wish him more suitably attired, but Lando gave not a fig. As purportedly
one of the richest men in England, Lando could host a ball clad in only his
underclothes, and the ton would declare
it the latest fashion in Paris. He pinned Inglis to the spot with his pale
eyes.
“I’m decent. Uninvited callers find me as I am, or
not at all. As you damned well know.”
About the
Author
Fearne Hill resides far from the
madding crowds in the county of Dorset, deep in the British countryside. She
likes it that way.
Her queer romance, Two Tribes, was a
finalist in the 2023 Lambda Literary Awards.
Two rivals, one secret, and a shot at
forever… Jake
Favorite things and peeps:
hockey, family, friends. Least favorite person in the entire history of the universe: Mason Trinsky.
I
have my reasons, but since you’re curious, Trinsky is a showboat and a loudmouth. Sure, he’s a great athlete.
Good for him. I accept that we have mutual friends, and I grudgingly accept that he’ll be a coach at Elmwood
Junior Camp this summer—however, I plan to keep my distance.
Of course, some wise guy pairs us
up for a camping expedition, and everything that can go wrong does go wrong.
Guess who I’m stuck
with?
Trinsky
Favorite things and peeps: hockey, surfing, and my kid brother Least
favorite person in the entire history of the universe: Jake Milligan
Look, I might be in the minority, but if
you ask me, Jake is a nitpicking diva who wants everything his way. I hope my NHL team crushes his, and this
summer, I want my campers to out-prank his. Childish? Nah, it’s all in good fun.
Until it starts to
feel…complicated. I shouldn’t care if he’s happy, should I? I don’t want to be Jake’s friend. I don’t want to have
feelings for him at all.
The only thing that matters is hockey. It's all about the puck. Not love.
Or is it?
Puck Love is an MM bisexual, small-town romance featuring hockey’s
hottest rivals, a hiking trip gone wrong, and a shot at forever…
Lane Hayes lives in sunny Southern California with her amazing husband,
who thankfully doesn’t mind cooking, and their fabulous fox red Labrador, George, who’s pure mischief. Both
provide oodles of inspiration for the low-angst, humorous books Lane loves to write. She’s been telling
stories about sexy, funny, sometimes geeky and quirky men who find love for a dozen years now and loving
every minute. In her previous life, she sat at a desk and dealt with numbers, so yes…romance is much more
satisfying! Lane loves tea, travel, and chocolate…in any order. Add a book and she’s set!
My Readers’ Group, Lane’s Lovers: https://bit.ly/3aIbMYg My Newsletter:
https://bit.ly/3cICfaK Website: www.lane-hayes.com Blue Sky:
https://bsky.app/profile/lanehayes.bsky.social Twitter: twitter.com/LaneHayes3 FB:
facebook.com/LaneHayesAuthor Amazon Author Page: amazon.com/author/lanehayes BookBub:bookbub.com/authors/lane-hayes Instagram: instagram.com/lanehayesauthor/ Goodreads:
goodreads.com/LaneHayes
