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!
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