The Spinster's Seduction Release Day

I can’t quite believe it’s finally here, but The Spinster’s Seduction is in the world! In readers’ hands! Or at least, on their kindles.

If you preordered, check your devices to read it. And if you haven’t, now’s your chance to get it FREE with KU! And, for those who want something a little fancier adorning their shelves, there is a special edition available too!

So far, reviews have been amazing, and I feel so fortunate that readers are loving this book as much as I do. Charles has SUCH a special place in my heart, even though his only redeeming feature is Evelyn and the goodness she brings out in him. And Evelyn—my sweet, lovely spinster with a forthright tongue and an unrequited love (or so she thinks). I adore her so much. It was such a pleasure to write about a friendship that is SO deep and entrenched. And love that is so pure. Charles wants everything that is honourable for Evelyn (for the first time in her life) and she wants to be thoroughly dishonourable with him.

I think I healed my own heart writing it.

Don’t forget to check out the rest of the Lovers’ Arch series! The books are so fabulous and so worth the read!

(Also, the covers are so pretty!)

Chapter One Sneak Peek

For anyone who isn’t sure if they definitely, definitely want to commit to reading The Spinster’s Seduction, check out the first chapter below! 

If there was one thing Evelyn Davenport knew for certain, it was that proper, demure young ladies did not propose liaisons of a sexual nature with rakish marquesses. Of course, she was no longer young, and it transpired that she was not particularly proper or demure, either.

At least the marquess in question also had his share of vices—far more salacious than hers. And, crucially, he had plentiful experience in the realm of lovers.

Lovers.

The salacious word slid over her skin, and she shuddered. If she played her cards right, she might join those ranks.

Charles Hardinge, the Marquess of Rotherham and son of the Duke of Norfolk, was also one of her best friends, which made things infinitely more complicated. But if she could find the right words to convince him, he might be persuaded to teach her all the things she had missed in her thirty-seven years of life.

She had no problem with being a spinster. That, she knew, was an unavoidable fact of life. She didn’t even mind being mistress of her father’s house, or caring for him in his old age. These were things that made her useful, and she enjoyed being useful.

But as the years passed and her peers married, she had begun to wonder if there might be other things to life. Not marriage. Not children. But pleasure. A certain blooming joy that had never touched her—but that she hoped might.

Thus, she had concocted a plan to find something—or someone—who would. Before it was too late.

At a rap on the door, she glanced up. “Come in.”

Charles strode into the room, brushing snow from his greatcoat. “Evie,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. “You look well. But what’s that awful cap for?”

She touched the cap on her severe bun. “Don’t you like it? It’s perfectly appropriate, you know.”

“I hate it.” He scowled at her, then cast a quick glance at his reflection in the mirror above the fire. As always, the glass returned the image of a man a fraction past his prime, with a lean face and dark hair falling rakishly across his forehead, his temples slightly streaked with grey. His scowl deepened.

“When did I become such an old man?” he grumbled.

Evelyn didn’t bother telling him the wild excesses of his youth were the likely cause. “You’re not yet forty,” she told him, pouring him a glass of port. Better he imbibe something before she get into the matter of why she had invited him here. “Not very much older than I am.”

“Well, in that case, you should remove that ridiculous ornament on your head.”

She only smiled. “I prefer wearing it.”

“Why?” He accepted the port and folded his long body into the armchair beside her own. “It’s unflattering.”

“So is my hair.”

Charles looked at her critically. Although he only had two years on her, he often pretended he had far more wisdom, a trait she found endearing enough to allow. “There’s nothing wrong with your hair, Evie,” he said at last. “Now, why did you summon me here? And why the port?”

Evelyn refrained from patting her hair with some difficulty. She had been in her mid-twenties when her dark hair had first begun greying, and now no hint of colour remained. Even now, though it was somewhat less of an oddity, she felt self-conscious.

“The port is a celebration drink,” she said, deciding to save the subject of seduction for later. “To congratulate you on your forthcoming engagement.”

He scowled. “Not you too. Who have you been speaking with—my mother?”

“The duchess did inform me of your arrangement, yes. And while I am not out and about as much as I once was, I do hear rumours, Charles. Lady Buxton keeps me abreast of all the news. You’ve been paying Lady Rosamund particular attentions. All that remains to follow is your proposal.”

“Between my mother and Lady Buxton, you no doubt have all the gossip in London,” he muttered, tossing his drink back in one. Long fingers toyed with the gold pattern etched into his glass, and Evelyn watched the clever way they moved, fascinated despite herself. Charles had always been rather tall and thin, though he contrived to be elegant despite it, and his hands looked as though they had been designed to play the pianoforte.

Of course, he’d never so much as touched the instrument. Charles had many virtues, but musicality was not one of them.

“Your mother wants nothing more than to see you happy,” Evelyn said.

“She wishes to see me married, and before the year is out. No doubt she thinks marriage will promote my happiness.”

The displeasure in his tone about such a prospect should not have pleased her as much as it did. She attempted to push those unruly emotions back down where they belonged. “Your marriage is not an unreasonable request,” she pointed out.

“Which is why I agreed to the first girl my mother put forward.” He released a heaving sigh. “I ought to sire an heir before I get too much older, and the thought of reaching fifty and picking a bride from the latest flock of debutantes makes me feel ill.”

“You have a decade before then.”

“I already have a decade more on Lady Rosamund than I’d prefer. The years do not make me any younger.” He glanced towards the mirror again, as though he could repaint his reflection.

Evelyn bit back a smile. “You shouldn’t be so vain.”

“Vain, am I?” He sent her an arch look. “My dear, I am merely a connoisseur of beauty, and I’m disappointed to find mine fades.”

Perhaps she was not a connoisseur of beauty, but Evelyn found the years had said little about Charles Hardinge. True, his face had changed somewhat—giving him thoughtful lines across his forehead, wicked lines around his mouth. Dissipation, she supposed, wore a man down, smoothed over some corners and made others still harder.

But when he smiled, the open charm of the expression, and the dancing light in the back of his dark eyes, dampened any thoughts that he might have reached—and passed—his peak. The flaring lines around his eyes merely served to highlight their colour; the grey in his hair distinguished him. His mouth, when he was not pressing it into a thin line, was lush in a rare way, softening the severity of his face. It was also perfect for kissing.

Evelyn knew, because she had thought about kissing him often. In part because she found him so impossibly handsome that she could not, at least occasionally, help herself. And in part because she had been in love with him for over twenty years.

It was a worn, comfortable sort of love, like an old pair of slippers, not hampered by unpleasant things like expectations. She knew that whatever their futures brought them, they would not share a life.

He had proposed once, when he’d been too inebriated to know what he was saying. He’d been staying with her father and found her up late, reading in the library. His breath had reeked of ale when he’d leaned over her and told her that they dealt so well together, they may as well make a thing of it. And for a moment, she had been tempted—until she had realised he could hardly stand up straight. So she had refused him, telling him he ought to sleep and think things through before asking her questions of that nature, and he had never broached the subject again.

She doubted he even remembered.

“You should not get married to her if you don’t want to,” she said, because he looked at her as though he wanted her to say something, and the only other thing she could think of to say was how handsome he still was.

“Ah, Evie, my sweet girl. To think you have reached the age where you choose to wear a cap and yet do not understand that we must not always do the things we want to.”

She arched a brow. “It seems you have often done the things you want to.”

“You wound me.” He held a hand to his heart. “No, but let us understand one another, my dear. I am a confirmed bachelor and I have enjoyed my days being such—doing, no doubt, some of the horrid things you’ve heard about.”

“There have been a great number of rumours,” she admitted. Drinking, gambling, and even a drunken bet to sail to the Isle of Man on a yacht categorically not built for the journey. How he’d survived that, she had no idea, but she’d lain awake for a week worrying about him until he’d returned with salt in his hair, a twinkle in his eye, and far richer than he had left.

“I doubt fewer than half are true—and the less sensational half, at that. I’ll confess, however, that I’ve enjoyed my time, and I find myself reluctant to relinquish it. But,” he said with a sigh, “I am the son of a duke, much as it pains me to admit it. I must marry. And so must Lady Rosamund. Believe me, we understand each other very well.” He stared into the bottom of his glass, then looked up, eyes narrowed. “But surely you didn’t invite me here to listen to my griping.”

She half smiled, though her heart beat a little faster, and she poured him another drink. “No, Charles. Not precisely.”

He eyed the port as though he thought it suspicious—or perhaps he thought her so—before draining it and putting it on the lacquered table to his right. Then he leant forward, taking her hand in both of his and smiling winningly. “What is it, Evie? You can tell me, you know.”

Easy for him to say, perhaps, but significantly less easy to feel. Her fingers trembled in his, and he tightened his grip. “Evie,” he coaxed, eyes glinting with warmth and fond amusement. “I know you didn’t bring me here, so we can discuss that deathly boring girl I intend to marry.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your future wife that way,” she managed, but failed entirely to free her hand. As a result, her heart gave a disconcerting leap. Not much about her felt comfortable now. Her corset, loosened yet again this year, dug into her stomach and chest, and although the neckline of her modest gown practically reached her neck, she felt as though he could see through her.

It didn’t escape her knowledge that he knew precisely what lay underneath a lady’s clothes—far more than even she knew, probably. After all, the only person she had ever seen naked was herself, and she had no way of knowing if her body matched those of other ladies. Her breasts were smaller than many, to be sure, and her waist not nearly as slim as some others, but aside from knowing her figure was not fashionable, she didn’t know what men thought.

Presumably they had preferences. After all, she had developed a preference for tall, lanky men.

Or rather, one specific tall and lanky man.

The teasing look in his eyes gentled, and he released his hold on her hand. “Too much, Pidge? Want me to stay quiet for a while?”

She shook her head. “It’s unseemly to call me that.”

“It was unseemly for a twelve-year-old girl to catch a disease-riddled pigeon and attempt to turn it into a pet, but did that stop you?”

“I read about messenger pigeons,” she protested, smiling faintly. The pigeon had been another faux pas, one her mother had despaired over—but when she’d told Charles, he’d roared with laughter. The name Pidge had been born thereafter, to her dismay and secret pride, and it had stuck.

Four years passed before she realised she might love him, by which point she knew it was too late to do anything about it. Charles’s character was set as a flirt, to the disappointment of his father, and Evelyn was . . . well, she was Evelyn. And there was little she could do about that, either.

“Drink?” he asked, holding up his glass and pouring her a little in the bottom. “That might calm your nerves.”

She shook her head. “I dislike port.”

“Hmm.” He sniffed the glass, then took a drink. “I forgot. Hold all wine in distaste, don’t you. Want me to call for a scotch? Brandy?”

For a moment, she considered reminding him that this was, at least for all intents and purposes, her house, and if she had wanted another drink, she could have arranged for one herself. But she knew his intentions were good; he had only ever tried to look after her.

“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s just . . . I’m not precisely sure how to approach the subject.”

“I can wait.” He sat back in the chair, sipping at his port and lounging back, one leg curled under him and the other outstretched, knee angled out, as though he had nothing better to do but wait for her convenience. As though he had nothing he had rather do. Like this, he appeared all long limbs and smouldering heat, and Evelyn briefly lost her words.

It was hardly any wonder that she loved him. For all his foppishness—and whatever he liked to claim, he was vain—he had a kind heart, and he never treated her as anything other than an equal, even when she failed to abide by society’s dictates.

After a few moments, where she forcibly untied her tongue and reminded her heart of its given duty—pumping blood around her body, not breaking free of her ribcage—she spoke.

“I had hoped for a . . . favour,” she said carefully, and his head tilted slightly, firelight gleaming across his skin as though he were made of gold. “From you.”

“I’d assumed as much, given you asked no one else to come.”

“It’s a delicate matter.”

“You intrigue me.”

She folded her hands on her lap, wishing she had brought some scotch with her for this, after all. Perhaps then she might not feel so self-conscious, and in a way she rarely did in front of Charles. Though obviously he knew she was a lady, and he made allowances for the fact, he never treated her as one of his flirts, never made her feel as though he judged her for her appearance or her lack of beauty. With him, she knew her value lay elsewhere. A touching sentiment until she considered that for this, physical beauty would go a long way.

“I’ve thought about this for quite some time,” she began, “so I hope you will hear me out before coming to any decisions. You see, I do believe I am being logical about this.” She took a deep breath before plunging on, not allowing herself to look at his face or see the expression there. “As you know, I am not particularly skilled in the art of making friends. You are my only male friend, and you are currently unmarried, though not for much longer. I have very little chance of marrying now or in the future, and there are certain things I—I wish to know. About . . .” Again, her words failed her, this time at the most crucial moment. “About the act of, ah, lovemaking, as it were. Coitus. Physical intimacy.”

Charles held up a hand, his face, once so open, now carved in hard lines. His eyes glittered with an unreadable emotion. “Enough,” he said sharply. “Am I hearing right? Are you asking me to seduce you?”

“Yes,” she said, relieved he had finally got the idea. “That’s precisely it.”

“Evelyn Davenport,” her oldest friend exploded as he pushed himself to his feet. “Are you out of your mind?”

If you love friends to lovers, spicy (but sweet!), bedroom lessons, and a gentle, low-angst read, then pick it up now!

Book Recommendations

I’ve recently been getting into Aydra Richards! My current favourite is The Marquess Wins a Wife. I LOVED Luke. He was such an arse at the beginning of the novel, and the grovel was wonderful by the end. A very enjoyable read if you like heavily flawed characters.

Alice Coldbreath is another author I’ve (belatedly) been getting into. Turns out I’m a sucker for large, overbearing men. Who knew!

Until next time!

Terri x