I’m not really feeling in a soapbox mood today, probably something to do with having a sniffle, a cold does rather take the fight out of a girl. Although according to the books I’ve been reading at the minute, succumbing to a cold should mean that a hero is about to sweep me off my feet and whisk me off to a bedroom with a warm bed, a hot fire, and a hot drink, and pamper me to within an inch of my life.
|Just whizzed one up in the microwave but it doesn't come close to this one.|
Hmmmm… Well I just got a text from said hero saying it’s just started snowing where he’s working, so I think I had better not hold my breath on the hot chocolate.
So instead here is a snippet from my current work in progress, Held in the Balance. This is a regency romp (won’t try and get away with higher aspirations, romps are what I do) and in this scene, the hero and heroine are trapped together inside a very small dressing room in the dark.
“An innocent mistake, anyone can just wander into an empty chamber after all,” Simon said.
“There wasn’t a sign to say I couldn’t. My hem was torn.” Lydia glared at where she thought his eyes were, no doubt bland with all their usual grey, and dared him to contradict her. Her hem was torn after all, even if she had rather helped the unfortunate edging on its way.
Simon leaned forward and with his voice already at the merest whisper, his lips brushed the shell of her ear, warm and dry, and her focus slipped from the couple outside to the man a hairsbreadth away. “Of course it was. Do you tear your clothes often?”
No, but she wouldn’t object to having a few torn off her right this minute, namely her gown and continuing onwards until the restrictions of her stays were a thing of the past.