New Release and Giveaway! THE BELLE OF LONDON by Nicola Italia

He could do nothing, and it irked him so. And she hated him. That had never been in doubt. And who could blame her? But the firebrand was delightful to watch. Even when she was not on stage, the eye was drawn to her rich auburn hair and cornflower-blue eyes.

Just as he was about to turn back to the dining room, he saw her returning. The hallway was darkly lit, and she probably didn’t see him yet, but he saw her. She had been drinking at the table and seemed tipsy. Amelia hadn’t learned yet to hold her liquor.

“Miss Westcott,” he greeted her as she came into view.

She looked up with a smile on her face and then saw him. “Mr. Beaumont.”

“I saw you speaking with young Eccton,” he said easily.

“Delightful man. So charming.”

“I’m sure,” he said as she passed by him.

“Oh,” she said, coming to stand before him. “I’m to congratulate you apparently. I understand there is some poor woman in London who’s going to marry you.”

She giggled and bumped against him as he steadied her with his hands upon her shoulders. She didn’t pull away from him.

“So, you were speaking of me with Eccton?” he said softly. The thought pleased him.

She seemed to sense what he was saying. “Merely gossiping.”

“Of course.”

“He said your intended is quite pretty,” she relayed to him.

Kit thought fleetingly of Rosalind. Pretty was an accurate description. “She is.”

“But he said compared to me, she pales.” Her voice was low as she leaned into him.

Kit felt her body press against him. “Are you sure he wasn’t telling you what you want to hear? After all, you’ve never met Miss Lyon.”

“Telling me what I want to hear,” she asked. “Because why? Praise will turn my head? A mere compliment of my beauty and what? I’ll go to bed with him?”

Kit imagined Amelia in a sea of white bed sheets, her auburn hair fanned about her. He imagined her lying naked in Eccton’s arms, and he felt a strange sensation of irritation and then white-hot jealousy.

“No smart retort?” She smiled up at him.

“I’ll reserve my retort for another time. I hate to see a woman unable to hold her liquor,” he whispered. “So undignified.”

He didn’t care at all about the liquor. But he knew his words would anger her. And they did.

“Unable to hold my liquor?” she repeated angrily. “I’m sure all the ladies you associate with hold their liquor so well. After all, they must drink copious amounts to handle all the men they must see in one night.”

“Come now, Miss Westcott. Let’s remain on friendly terms,” he said, steadying her. “After all, you stumbled into my arms, and I was but assisting you.”

Amelia realized he was holding her, and she stepped away from him. “Friendly terms,” she said lowly in a growl. “How can one be friendly with the very devil himself?”