PORTRAIT OF PASSION
by Lynne Barron
What’s a Viscount to do when a mysterious lady with a secret past and a reputation frayed around the edges suddenly appears in London in hot pursuit of his naive young cousin, setting the gossips’ tongues wagging, stirring his family into pandemonium, and driving him mad with her irreverent ways?
If the Viscount in question is Simon Easton, the answer is quite simple. Seduce the beguiling lady. But Miss Beatrice Morgan isn’t your average tarnished lady. She’s lived a slapdash life wandering the globe like a gypsy, painting fantastical portraits of Duchesses as Sirens and landscapes featuring a crumbling old fountain, all the while harboring a secret desire to return to Idyllwild, the only home she’s ever known.
What Simon does not know is that Beatrice just might be willing to sacrifice her honor, her virtue, her very heart to reclaim Idyllwild.
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Enjoy an excerpt:
Beatrice thought that had Abby been born into a different family, she would be making her debut soon, perhaps next year.
Instead she waited upon a dishonest, lying, scheming woman.
Bea could not hold back bitter laughter at the thought. Simon turned his head to look at her in surprise. Abby froze, her gaze flying to Bea’s face.
“You are a very pretty girl,” Bea said and watched the blush deepen on the girl’s cheeks.
“Thank you, miss,” she shyly replied, bobbing another quick curtsy.
When Bea only watched her silently, Abby looked to Simon, who gave her a subtle shrug, before she asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, miss?”
“You may undress me,” Bea said.
“Beatrice,” Simon protested quietly.
“I would like Abby to undress me and brush out my hair,” Bea insisted. She forced herself to raise her eyes to his, unsure what they would reveal to him. She was confused, an awful feeling of desperation mingled with the banked rage and shame. Would he see?
Simon captured her gaze, his eyes dark, not angry, uncertain perhaps. She knew she was behaving irrationally. She did not care.
“I’ll step outside,” Simon finally replied.
“Do not,” Bea said, waving her hands about in agitation. “Please, stay.”
Simon looked from her face to her hands, suspended in midair. She dropped them to her sides, clenched her fingers in her skirts, grabbing fistfuls of the dark silk.
Bea looked at Abby, standing as still as a statue, her eyes wide as she looked back. Bea realized that it was the first time the timid girl had ever looked her mistress in the eye. As if reading her mind, the maid tore her gaze away and bent her head down.
About the Author:
Every Creative Writing Teacher and College Professor said these words to Lynne Barron in one form or another. But what did she know?
She knew she enjoyed the guilty pleasure of reading romance novels whenever she could find time between studying, working and raising her son as a single mother.
She knew quite a bit about women's lives in the Regency and Victorian era from years spent bouncing back and forth between European History and English Literature as a major in college.
She knew precious little about romance except to know that it was more than the cliché card and a dozen red roses on Valentine's Day.
Then she met her wonderfully romantic husband and finally she knew.
Passion, Love and Romance.
And she began to write.
If you would like to learn more about Lynne Barron and the Idyllwild Series, please visit her website at LynneBarron.com or follow her at Facebook or Twitter.
I Think I’ll Begin with a Corset
As an author of Historical Erotic Romance I write about ladies and gentlemen falling in love and falling into bed, onto settees, against walls, atop tables, to the floor, in carriages, gazebos and dark alcoves.
And each time my hero and heroine find themselves about to fall into carnal bliss I find myself falling into a conundrum as I attempt to strip the lady bare properly, both gracefully and grammatically.
Slippers, Gloves, Gown, Petticoats, Corset, Drawers, Stockings and Chemise.
Truly, it is quite an endeavor for a gentleman to get a 19th century lady undressed with any sort of finesse. One that involves plucking buttons, wrestling hooks, untangling laces, untying ribbons, rolling silk and generally pushing, pulling, tugging, shucking and shrugging until the lady finally, finally stands in a pool of satin and lace, starched muslin and whale bone.
It’s enough to make a 19th century gentleman swear off sex forever. Or behave as the consummate cad, the perfect libertine, tossing up skirts and entirely ignoring every other part of a lady’s body but the treasure to be found between her legs.
Sometimes it’s enough to tempt a writer of Historical Erotic Romance to encourage Jack and Simon’s roguish behavior so I don’t have to face all that plucking, wrestling, untangling, untying, rolling, pushing, pulling, tugging, shucking and shrugging either.
Alas, Simon cannot always bend Beatrice over a table and toss up her skirts.
And Olivia would be quite cross if Jack were forever neglecting her pretty bosom.
Slippers, Gloves, Gown, Petticoats, Corset, Drawers, Stockings and Chemise.
I have decided to give them all a try, in one fashion or another, to discover just how truly difficult it was to be stripped bare by my hero.
I think I’ll begin with a corset.
Kisses, Kisses and More Kisses
As a writer of erotic romance novels I am admittedly obsessed with kisses.
Deliciously soft and slow kisses.
Decadently wild and hungry kisses.
First kisses, farewell kisses, chaste kisses, passionate kisses and every imaginable kiss in between.
I love them all.
But there is a special place in my heart for those kisses that take my hero or heroine by surprise, the soft brush of his lips when she expected to be devoured, the tempestuous twist of her tongue when he anticipated bashful resistance.
And my absolute favorite, the kiss that a man never imagined was part of his vast repertoire of kisses, a kiss that is as much about his hand tracing the slope of her cheek as his tongue trailing along the seam of her lips, a kiss that is both tender and fierce, exploration and discovery, a kiss that is a mingling of his breath and hers until he can taste them together on his tongue, a kiss that makes him think…
Wow, I didn’t even know I knew how to kiss like this.
Kisses inspire me to write, write and write some more in hopes that one day I will write a kiss so tender, so passionate, so out of control ferocious and sweet and sensual and just plain yummy that I will think…
Wow, I didn’t even know I knew how to write a kiss like this.
The Perils of Finding a Publisher
Becoming a published author is a lot like turning down a pretty little tree-lined lane you’ve passed every day but never taken the time to explore. At first you are intrigued by this new path, curious as to where it will lead and certain you will be able to find your way back.
The first leg of your journey is all smooth roads and pretty scenery as you plot out the story that’s been flitting around in your mind for months or perhaps years. You stroll along when the words are flowing at a nice even pace, skip about when they are falling from your fingertips faster than you can type them, and stop to rest when you slam into a detour sign and the words simply disappear. But eventually you get back on the straight and narrow, or twisted and curvy if you are writing an erotic scene with hills and valleys and long legs twining and tangling.
Before you know it the end appears to be in sight, a sun-dappled park with a parade of publishers clamoring to accept your novel and a fountain overflowing with royalties.
Then you type those two little words.
And you realize you have not reached the end of your idyllic journey at all. No, you have arrived at the base of a mountain and to reach the summit you must traverse steep inclines, jump from jagged cliffs, and swim through a river of foamy rapids.
Writing a novel is a walk along a pretty little tree lined lane.
Finding someone, anyone with a desire to read your manuscript, let alone actually publish it, is a trek up Mount Kilimanjaro.
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