What woman isn't a sucker for a sexy hunk with a hot English accent and a very large estate Fall in lust with three British Bad Boys who like it shaken and stirred, and who know exactly how to give a woman the royal treatment, in bed and out
George and the Dragon Lady
George Hartley is high on the list of England's most eligible bachelors: he's young, single, gorgeous and, as the 19th Earl of Ponsford, lives in a castle. Granted, the castle has seen better days . . . but nights with the Earl are what LA TV producer Maxine Larraby keeps thinking about . . .
Nights Round Arthur's Table
Seattle thriller author Meg Stanton desperately needs a quiet place to work. Stag Cottage in the English countryside is perfect . . . until she meets local pub owner Arthur Denby. He's as dark and brooding as one of her imaginary villains, and Meg always falls for her villains. But there's nothing imaginary about the things Arthur does to her after last call . . .
Former head chef and current love cynic Rachel Larraby can't believe she got dragged across the pond for a catering job. Weddings ugh, she's had enough personal experience, thanks. And though recurring best man Jack Flynt is quite smashing, she can keep it to just a steamy fling. Until this very bad bloke starts looking at her with those forever eyes . . .
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
October 31, 2006
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from British Bad Boys by Nancy Warren
The public loo in the riding stable's broken again, your lordship. And the head gardener says that if the rabble from the adventure playground stamp on his peonies once more, he won't be responsible for the consequences.
George Hartley sighed and sipped the tea his butler served along with the bad news from a Derby cup and saucer decorated with the family coat of arms. Despite his suggestions that he'd be happy with a pottery mug from IKEA, the staff were unbending. He might think that being the nineteenth earl of Ponsford was more of a cross to bear than a cause for celebration, but it seemed he was pretty much alone in the household with that opinion. He sipped the tea and found it strong and fortifying. Another broken toilet. Excellent, he said with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. Any good news, Wiggins
An inquiry for a society wedding. If you call that good news, the butler said in a doom-laden tone.
Actually, a wedding was good news. Very good news. Every corporate event and private celebration, every tourist who paid their eight pounds fifty to tour his ancestral home meant more of a chance to hang on to Hart House, the estate that had been in his family for half a millennium. Earls of Ponsford had brought the property through wars, revolutions, and political intrigue. George wasn t about to lose the place to death duties and taxes.
But he almost thought he d rather face war, revolution, and political intrigue than the long face of the man who d been the family butler for three generations.
You know, Wiggins, you should have been the earl. You're much better at it.
I know you enjoy your little jokes, sir, but what about the loo
Ah, yes. Right. The loo. George turned his back on the large-screen monitor where hed been designing vacation cottages he didn't have the money to build. What the bloody hell did Father mean letting me study architecture I should have been a plumber or an electrician or something useful.
One hundred and eighty-two staff depended on the estate for their livelihoods. Twenty-two acres of gardens, rolling lawns, woodlands, and streams needed tending. Another thousand acres were farmed. The small village existed mainly because of the estate.
George carried the burden of it all, along with a debt to the bank that kept him wakeful on many a night.
There were days when he wished he could give in, chuck it all, sell the old pile with its history, pedigree, priceless heirlooms, and its problems, and move to a loft in Manhattan. No, not Manhattan. Somewhere much newer, where nobody gave a toss about royalty, nobility, or antiquity. Los Angeles perhaps. Or Sydney. The daydream began to take beguiling shape as he imagined beaches populated by sun- kissed girls in bikinis, warm, blue water to swim in, and nobody expecting a bachelor of thirty-two to act as caretaker to an old girl who was nearing five hundred years old, and showing her age.