The Unraveling of
Lady Fury by Shehanne Moore
Widowed Lady Fury Shelton hasn’t lost everything—yet.
As long as she produces the heir to the Beaumont dukedom, she just might be able to
keep her position. And her secrets. But when the callously irresistible Captain
James “Flint” Blackmoore sails back into her life, Lady Fury panics. She must
find a way to protect herself—and her future—from the man she’d rather see
rotting in hell than sleeping in her bed. If she must bed him to keep her
secrets, so be it. But she doesn’t have to like it. A set of firm rules for the
bedroom will ensure that nothing goes awry. Because above all else, she must
stop herself from wanting the one thing that Flint can never give her. His heart.
Ex-privateer Flint Blackmoore has never been good at
following the rules. Now, once again embroiled in a situation with the aptly
named Lady Fury, he has no idea why he doesn’t simply do the wise thing and
walk away. He knows he’s playing with fire, and that getting involved with her
again is more dangerous than anything on the high seas. But he can’t understand
why she’s so determined to hate him. He isn’t sure if the secret she keeps will
make things harder—or easier—for him, but as the battle in the bedroom heats
up, he knows at least one thing. Those silly rules of hers will have to go…
Excerpt:
Fury sat down and dipped the
quill into the ink. She detected the faintest trace of nerves. It must be the
fact Thomas lay in the cellar. Why else would a man, so great, so stalwart, so
worldly as Captain Flint be nervous of her?
“Well, yes,” she said, listening to
the pleasing scratch of the nib on the soft paper.
“Babies are not always made in a night. Of course, you
wouldn’t know that, being you. It will take time.”
“All the more reason then to just
get going. After all this time, sweetheart, you don’t know how eager I am.”
He strode across the tiled
floor and the ink trailed a long dark path across the paper as he dragged her
to her feet. Had it blobbed it might have been something to worry about. But
she was very set on this. And calm. As calm as one could be having this man in
her bedroom, knowing what was coming next out of dire necessity, her husband in
a box in the cellar and her cast off, potential lovers on their way out the
door.
“No, James.” She held a hand up
between their lips. “There will be no kissing.”
“No kissing? Why in hell not?”
It displaced her calm to see
him grin. She would have preferred that he was indignant. Especially as he was
a man who thought he could settle all his arguments—with women anyway—with a
kiss. But she kept her face cold, blank.
“Because.” In some ways she was cold.
Cold with rage.
“Aw, come on Fury, didn’t you like my
kissing? Hmm?” His breath, hot and male, brushed her fingertips. He wrapped his
arms around her, splaying his hands across her back, so her hand might as well
not have been there for all the protection it was.
But she was calm. Didn’t she
have to get into bed with him after all? So, even the impulse to squirm was one
she would squash. When she thought of all he had done to her, she would give
him nothing. Not even the knowledge she found his proximity so unsettling that
she sought to pull away.
“Your kissing was fine, in its way,
I suppose. But kissing is a sign of affection.”
“How do you make that out?”
She knew exactly why he
scratched his head. Their love-making had been torrid.
It had been sensual. It had been shaming. And it had
been absent of any affection. Certainly on his part. So, why on earth would a
kiss be a sign of anything? To him anyway. She was the damn fool who had
thought it had. Who even now was forced to concede the pleasure it would be to
take her hand across his face to assist his understanding of her feelings. The
impertinence of the damn man, the stinging ignorance.
“It just is.” She eased the
distance between them a whisper. “So there will be none. Not now. Not at all.”
“All right then. Saves time. It
means—”
“Rule two.” She saw his eyes freeze
as he readied himself to yank off his shirt. She persisted anyway. Why not? In
many ways she walked a tightrope here. If she paused it might be to her
detriment. “You will be fully dressed at all times.”
“What? How the hell am I meant to—”
“I am sure you will manage.
You managed plenty before. But I do not desire to look at your body before,
during, or after. Nor in any shape or form wandering about this house in just
your breeches. Is that understood?”
He dropped his hands from his shirt
and glared, so he must have. “You wanted to look at it plenty before. In fact,
it makes my head spin, just how often you—”
True. But that was then. “Rule
three.” Clasping her fingers around the cool edge of the dressing table to
create another inch of distance, she continued.
“Rule three? You mean there’s more?”
“I will not touch you in any place,
intimate or otherwise. I will lie. You will perform.”
About the Author:
Shehanne Moore, a Scottish author, who writes gritty,
witty, as much risky as risqué, historical romance, set wherever takes her
fancy. Stories that detail the best and worst of human behaviour, as opposed to
pouts and flounces. For years she worked at various
things, while pursuing her dream of becoming a published writer, so she
was gobsmacked to sell her book, The Unraveling of Lady Fury, written in three
months, to U.S. publishers, Etopia Press, six
days after subbing it.
Shehanne still lives in Scotland,
with her husband Mr Shey. She has two daughters. When not writing intriguing
historical romance, where goals and desires of sassy, unconventional heroines
and ruthless men, mean worlds do collide, she fantasizes about cleaning the
house, plays the odd musical instrument and loves what in any other country, would not be defined, as hill-walking.
…
A fantastic story. I can highly recommend 'The Unraveling of Lady Fury'. That cover is just something else, isn't it? Congratulations to Shehanne Moore, and also to you Melissa for a wonderful blog.
ReplyDeleteNoelle, than for coming by. Melissa sorry not to thank you yesterday but was away for the day.
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