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I hope that you enjoyed ‘The Journey’.
You’ll find a preview another of my books ‘Summerton’, after the About the Author section.
About the Author
Stories of the Heart for the Heart from an Accidental Author
Writing was a tool, not a toy, until a stay in a haunted hotel and a bookcase full of dog-eared romances. Hooked, Becca read old romances, new romances, both sexy and sweet, until her own tales begged to be written.
Living in Florida, Becca divides her time between dreaming up stories, diving deep into history, kayaking, and swimming. Her English husband gives her the space she needs by fishing in the mangroves and waterways or watching football (the English sort) with his British buddies. Becca and hubby break the routine with adventure travel though, at heart, Becca is a homebody believing there is no greater playground than inside the mind.
Connect with Becca
Becca St. John
Winterbourne Farm Publishing
www.beccastjohnwrites.com
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/beckastjohn
Twitterhttps://twitter.com/BeccaStJohn1
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Here is your preview of
Summerton
Chapter One ~ The Bride
Alfred Henry Bertram Edgwater, Duke of Summerton, Earl of St. Martins, stood before the warm glow of the fire, studying the rich amber of his brandy, sloshing it about in idle circular motions, coating the sides of the tumbler. A weak distraction, but more suitable than pacing the room or indulging in his second occupation of the evening — glancing at the closed door to the Duchess’s chambers.
His Duchess’s chambers. He could barely fathom it. Married.
It could have been worse, would have been if his bride had said no. Which she hadn’t. Every lady wished to be a Duchess.
Still, he fretted over his choice of looks and wit over breeding and hoped to God he’d made the right decision. Of course, there was the dowry and, further, the pounds per annum. He mustn’t forget the whole reason for the enterprise. He downed his drink in one swallow, chastising himself. No need to be impatient. They had exchanged their vows, enjoyed a splendid wedding breakfast with a few guests. His man of affairs had confirmed that the funds were already in the bank. No need to rush the bedding. A promise was a promise and he’d made his. Wait for the lady’s maid to crack the door of the adjoining room and signal he could enter.
He set his glass on the table. Best not to have another. Brandy was a foolish means of wasting time. Earlier he’d found diversion in his study, checking over the itinerary for a bridal journey he already knew by heart. He’d tried to read a recent book on traveling through Italy, but he couldn’t concentrate.
Whatever doubts he held about this marriage — the taint of trade, a commoner for a wife — physical attraction was not one. Desire stifled all other diversions.
In the end, he left his study for his valet, Percy, before finally settling in the Duke and Duchess’s sitting room. The fire, flaming perfectly when he entered the room, had died down to glowing red coals surrounded by ash. No one took that long to prepare for the night. Surely, the maid had forgotten to leave the door ajar.
According to Percy, his bride’s bath had been emptied hours ago. He should tap on the door. Lightly. Except the Duchess’s bedchamber was on the far side of her sitting room, making it unlikely she’d hear it, and if she did, that he could hear her response. Entering her sitting room wouldn’t, exactly, break the promise.
In four long strides he faced the first barrier, hand hovering over the door lever. He withdrew it, uneasy for the hesitation. A Duke is born and bred to be decisive, to have the last word. That was the problem. He’d given her the last word. She had asked for his patience. Unlike her uncle, a doting old fool of a guardian, Summerton’s beautiful, biddable bride had never asked for a thing before. Not anything in the whole of their brief courtship, or the six weeks of their engagement.
Mind you, in all that time, they’d seen little of each other and never shared a private word outside of one very short walk in the garden. Even that had been quickly interrupted. He sighed. The protection of innocence was a trying thing indeed. Still, his impatience did him no credit. She was to be his wife, not his mistress. He’d do well to remember that. But how long could it take to brush out her hair? Arrange it in artful disarray? Don a wisp of a nightrail? Not this long, even if she wished to powder every inch of that delectable body of hers.
Restless, he took another tour past the long windows of his sitting room, pushed aside a heavy brocade curtain to find a world of silver and shadows. Eerie, even more so, for the constant howling that carried across the fields. Dogs and wolves loved a full moon. Good time for seeding fields as well.
A flicker of light at the edge of the woods startled him. He looked back. Nothing. Probably a town boy signalling to his sweetheart in the Hall.
Affairs of the estate flitted through his thoughts, nothing strong enough to linger. His steward, Tom, had the farmers ploughing tonight. They would later plant clover, contrary to generations of traditional crops. He thought of the pretty little mare he had bought for his bride, all high strung and prancing about. Hopefully, it would not be too much for her.
He smiled. It faded.
