By Katharine Ashe
"Historical romance... with a twist.
2015 RITA® Award Finalist
The Goddess of affection is trapped in a statue in Regency England, and one altar shy kinfolk is ready to find how committed Aphrodite is to her work...
THE BLUESTOCKING
Lady Corinna Mowbray has 3 passions: first-class books, clever dialog, and disdaining the libertine Earl of likelihood.
THE RAKE
Lord Ian likelihood has 3 pleasures: appealing ladies, quick horses, and tormenting high-and-mighty Corinna Mowbray.
Neighbors for years, they've been at each one other's throats in view that they could have in mind. but if a coincidence forces them to exchange lives, how lengthy will or not it's sooner than they become aware of they can not reside with no each one other?
"
Read or Download My Lady, My Lord (Twist, Book 1) PDF
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Extra info for My Lady, My Lord (Twist, Book 1)
Sample text
The cottage has a few modern conveniences, meaning that an appropriate area was built against the back of the cottage so one needn’t go out into the night or storm to answer the call of nature. In addition, there is also a hand pump in the kitchen to draw water so one needn’t go to the old well outside, whose windlass is in disrepair. Cooking is done on a small cast-iron stove, and bathing and laundry are done in a brass washtub—also in the kitchen, so that the water may be heated on the stove.
Chapter Three Houses will build themselves, And tombstones re-write names on a dead man’s grave. —Andrew Young, “Culbin Sands” Fear is paranoia’s chief handmaiden, and therefore sometimes an evil influence on even the most rational mind. I had calmed considerably by the time I made porridge and brushed out my hair. It takes patience and time to add the oats little by little to boiling salted water. I don’t care for lumpy porridge, and it is my experience that alarm can only be sustained for a short period of time in the absence of any new threats, especially when doing something so prosaic as whisking oatmeal on the stove with a cat looking on.
Apparently Fergus Culbin was the last of the local line of Culbins, and it was widely believed that it was one of his godless ancestors, living in a now-ruined keep, that brought the curse down upon the village. Twaddle, all of it. Nonetheless, Fergus was rumored able to dispense with his shadow when desired, a sure sign of diablerie—or a sign of a cloudy day, but that was less exciting to talk about late at night around the peat fires. And if the subject of Fergus’s wicked ways failed them, they could always talk about me.