Review coming very soon!
BLURB:
What’s the harm in a little white lie?
Especially when it could carry so much good: a new life for
a wounded soldier, catharsis after long years of war—and an opportunity for
lady composer Olivia Delancey to finally hear her music played in public.
Newspaper publisher Will Marsh refuses to compound the sins
of his father’s generation by taking money to print propaganda. But with the
end of the wars in France and America, he needs something new to drive
Londoners to grab his paper first. Why not publish the score of the “Tune That
Took Waterloo,” by a wounded vet, no less?
As Olivia struggles to keep her secrets from this unsuitably
alluring publisher, and Will fights to find the truth without losing his hold
on this bright-eyed angel who has descended into his life, both discover
another sort of truth.
Being the talk of London can be bad—or very, very good.
Interesting elements:
The newspaper-publishing setting is very rare in regencies
but fascinating to the author, a former newspaperwoman.
Music plays a big role: Olivia plays pianoforte and
Spanish-style guitar; there are three very different concerts in the story.
Water also is big: the hero falls in the sound and nearly
drowns; the heroine surprises the hero during a steamy bath.
Olivia lies to help a wounded veteran and he is a strong
secondary character. Services and conditions for war veterans were poor at this
time.
BIO:
Nicky Penttila writes stories with
adventure and love, and often with ideas and history as well. Her favorite
settings are faraway cities and countries, because then she *must* travel
there, you know, for research. She lives in Maryland with her reading-mad
husband and amazing rescue cat. She’s chattiest on Twitter, @sunshinyday, and
can also be found at nickypenttila.com and on Facebook.
ONLINE LINKS:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/sunshinyday
Website: http://www.nickypenttila.com/
Facebook Page: Nicky Penttila, author: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Nicky-Penttila-Author/264840016929109
Pinterest (sometimes): http://pinterest.com/nickypenttila/
Present but rarely on: Google+,
FriendFeed, new.myspace.com, shelfari, Kindleboards
Member of: Washington Romance Writers
(Romance Writers of America), The Beau Monde (RWA), Historical Novel Society,
National Association of Science Writers
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EXCERPT
“I might
tell you one of my secrets.” She gave him an oddly timid smile, as if she were
unsure of her allure.
“A false
promise. You have no secrets from me.”
“No?”
“Not with
that expressive mouth. And those eyes.” He stroked her chin. “And that jaw
line.”
She leaned
into his touch. “Can you be sure?”
“As sure as
I am of anything. I knew you were hopping mad when you came in here, and it was
not all about me.”
“True.” She
lifted her head away, just a fraction, from his hand. “But you didn’t seem to
know you’d stung me in Mr. Swizzlewit’s office.”
“I did
know. But what you may not have known was that our solicitor had given me the
worst of news, and I was angry with the world and ready to lash out.
Unfortunately for you, and for me.”
“For you?”
“Most
assuredly. For I knew it meant that later I would have to humble myself
abjectly and plead for forgiveness.”
“You did
not need to.”
“I did. You
see, Miss Olivia Delancey, your good opinion means much to me, it turns out. I
did not feel right after you left, not until I saw you walk through my door.”
“Such
flattery.”
He
shrugged. “Truth. We don’t go much in for lying here.”
It was her
turn to put her hand over her heart. “I thank you for your kind apology. It is
accepted. Now may I do something for you?”
He could
imagine many things she could do. Likely none of them were what she was
thinking of. “What?”
“Come to Plymouth . I know the town
well, and can guide you. We might even arrange to row out and meet the ship in
harbor. A first.”
“A scoop.”
“Meet me at
our house at Manor
Gardens Union Street . I’ll
get you your story.”
How could
he say no? “Deal. And a finder’s fee.” He took her jaw in his hand again, thumb
over her cheekbone, and pulled her gently toward him. He brushed his lips
against hers. The barest whisper of a touch, but it pushed all the
thunderclouds from his mind, making way for the sweet warmth of spring sun.
Then she
pressed back, and the sun grew hotter. His hips moved of their own accord
closer to hers, possessive. Her hand on his chest, over his heart, seared him,
marking him as hers.
Footsteps sounded in the
hallway, and they pulled away. Her gaze was softly intent, as if she were
trying to read his mind. He prayed she could not.
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