Posted in Uncategorized on November 20th, 2010 by Casey Crow
As a writer, having a book published is about as exciting as it gets. So when word got out that my historical romance ‘A Dead Man’s Debt’ is now available, guess what my boss’s response was? Yep, you guessed it.
‘Oh, a romance? Not Mills and Boon, I hope.’ (Said in a derisory tone.)
It’s niggled me since that I didn’t immediately respond, ‘So you’ve never read one?’ But in truth, I was a little embarrassed about being a romance fan… plus I was angling for a pay review at the time!
Now I’m an intelligent woman, a professional, and I love romances. In truth it’s the ‘sneerers’ who have never read one who should feel embarrassed. Why? Answer -Because of their ill informed assumptions.
Sneerers assume that romance novels are superficial and poorly crafted. OK so there is the odd dodgy writer out there, as in any genre, but the best romances are a subtle interplay of emotional tension, evocative description and riveting plot such that you are transported to a different time and place, away from the responsibilities of the real world.
And as for being superficial – a historical romance requires heaps of research to successfully evoke time and place. I write the sort of books I love to read; steeped in atmosphere, complex characters and a gripping plot. I hope you agree, hold your head high and ignore ignorant ‘sneerers.’
Set in Regency England ‘A Dead Man’s Debt’ is a story of blackmail, duty and an unexpected love.
Celeste Armitage has a plan…and that plan doesn’t include marriage.
After deliberately humiliating a suitor, Celeste’s despairing parents exile her to the country. But once there she discovers a sketch book of daring nude studies and is shaken to find the artist is her hostess’s eldest son, Lord Ranulf Charing. This darkly cynical lord is exactly the sort of dissipated rogue she despises most…if only her blood didn’t heat at the thought of him…
Nothing is as it seems. Lord Ranulf’s life is a façade. Only he can save the Charing’s from disgrace as a blackmailer tries to ruin his late brother’s reputation. But just as Ranulf dares to open his heart to Celeste, the fury of his nemesis is unleashed… facing him with the stark choice between true love and family duty. However when Celeste guesses the truth behind his rejection, Ranulf underestimates her resolve to clear his name and in so doing places the woman he loves in mortal danger….
To find out more about ‘A Dead Man’s Debt’ visit:
On the next page a lithe figure rose out of darkness, arms raised as if to dance away. Candlelight played in soft shadows of her sinuous back. But more remarkable than the fluidity of her form was the intimacy of her look, glancing over her shoulder toward the artist with eyes brim full of lust.
Celeste forgot to breath, shaken by the undeniable realisation that these pictures were drawn by a man…and one intimately acquainted with women.
“Oh my.” Fascinated, hand trembling, she was unable to turn away.
The next drawing was a naked woman reclining with her back toward the artist. The undulation of her waist, hip and thigh formed a landscape of their own; the rhythmic lines of her body lovingly rendered, observed as if the artist were caressing her form with his skill.
Celeste stays had become uncommonly tight. If her mother wished her to be more broad minded then surely such sketches were educational…besides, the artist’s skill was admirable, to study his technique would help her own poor efforts.
Sucking her top lip, Celeste once again opened the sketchbook. Dipping back in, devouring the images greedily, this world of shapes and shadows, or deft strokes and bold smudges. With each new sketch her heart raced afresh until she became lost in the use of tone and assured line. But as she drank in each new image, the conviction grew and strengthened within her, that this was more than a few lewd pictures, but that she had glimpsed a world of freedom, a celebration of life denied to her as a woman.
Celeste was so engrossed that the unexpected sound of a man clearing his throat was as cold water thrown over her. She froze, then very slowly, praying that she’d imagined the cough, looked up to see leaning nonchalantly against the door a dark haired devil with a wavy mouth, assessing her as if she were his next meal.
Lean and athletic, in tight fitting breeches, a kerysmere waistcoat and faultless cravat, with the assured arrogance of a rake, he seemed an oddly familiar. Her heart skipped a beat. With the ghost of a smile, he crossed the room toward her. Reining in her galloping heart she struggled to recall how it was that this dangerous stranger seemed so familiar.
His masculine presence filled the room, quite robbing Celeste of breath; his arrogant, male magnificence calling to her body in an animal way. He filled her senses so much so that she forgot to breathe; throat constricted and chest tight. In her right mind she might have chastised him for staring, but as it was she was hypnotised, unable to see past the hollowed cheeks and wavy mouth. The rational part of her mind feared lest he guess the havoc his velvet brown eyes was having on her body but with stubborn determination she returned his gaze, refusing to be cowed. A delicious shiver tingled her skin. She knew this man. She just didn’t know how.