Charis Michaels makes her Avon Impulse debut with the first book in her new historical romance series, The Bachelor Lords of London...featuring a brooding earl and the American heiress who charms him.
American heiress Piety Grey is on the run. Suddenly in London and facing the renovation of a crumbling townhouse, she’s determined to make a new life for herself—anything is better than returning to New York City where a cruel mother and horrid betrothal await her. The last thing she needs is a dark, tempting earl inciting her at every turn…
Trevor Rheese, the Earl of Falcondale, isn’t interested in being a good neighbor. After fifteen years of familial obligation, he’s finally free. But when the disarmingly beautiful Piety bursts through his wall—and into his life—his newfound freedom is threatened…even as his curiosity is piqued.
Once Piety’s family arrives in London, Falcondale suddenly finds himself in the midst of a mock courtship to protect the seductive woman who’s turned his world upshttps://play.google.com/store/books/details/Charis_Michaels_The_Earl_Next_Door?id=640zCgAAQBAide down. It’s all for show—or at least it should be. But if Falcondale isn’t careful, he may find a very real happily ever after with the woman of his dreams…
Link to Follow Tour: http://www.tastybooktours.com/2016/01/the-earl-next-door-bachelor-lords-of.html
Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25944376-the-earl-next-door
Goodreads Series Link: https://www.goodreads.com/series/158555-the-bachelor-lords-of-london
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Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Charis_Michaels_The_Earl_Next_Door?id=640zCgAAQBAJ
No. 21 Henrietta Place
Mayfair, London, England
Nothing of record ever happened in Henrietta Place.
Carriages did not collide. Servants did not quarrel in the mews. No one among the street’s jowly widowers remarried harlot second wives, and families with spirited young boys boarded them in school at the earliest possible age.
No one tolerated stray dogs.
A calm sort of orderliness prevailed on the street, gratifying residents and earning high praise from Londoners and country visitors alike. It was a domestic refuge. One of the last such sanctuaries in all of London.
Certainly, the stately townhome mansion at No. 21 was a sanctuary to Lady Frances Stroud, Marchioness Frinfrock, who had been a proud and attentive resident since her marriage in 1768. With her own eyes, Lady Frinfrock had seen the degradation and disquiet that had become prevalent in so many London streets; noble-born men fraternizing with ballet dancers in The Strand; week-long ramblings in Pall Mall. And the spectacle that was Covent Garden? It wasn’t to be borne.
What a comfort, then, that Lady Frinfrock would always have Henrietta Place, where nothing of record ever happened. Where she could live out her final days in peace and tranquility.
“It looks to be fair for a second day, my lady,” said Miss Breedlowe, the marchioness’ nurse, crossing to the alcove window that overlooked the street.
“A fog will descend by luncheon,” said the marchioness, frowning.
“If it pleases you, we could take a short walk before then,” the nurse said. “To Cavendish Square and back? Spring weather is so unpredictable, we should take advantage of the sun before it disappears again for a month.”
“Cavendish Square is not to be tolerated,” said Lady Frinfrock.
Miss Breedlowe looked at her hands. “Only so far as the corner and back, then?”
“Not I,” said the marchioness, pained.
A sigh of disappointment followed, as it always did. How unhappily accustomed Lady Frinfrock had become to her nurse’s chronic sighing. It was obvious that Miss Breedlowe endeavored to be patient, although, in her ladyship’s view, not nearly patient enough. In return, the marchioness rarely endeavored to be agreeable enough.
And why should a woman of her age and station be prodded through an inane schedule of someone else’s design? To be forced to engage in robust activities intended for no other purpose than to move her bowels? If her inept solicitors felt that her alleged infirmity warranted the nurse-maiding of sullen, sigh-ridden Miss Breedlowe, then so be it. They could cajole her to compensate and house the woman, but they could not force her to abide her. Or to walk to Cavendish Square when she hadn’t the slightest desire.
Miss Breedlowe cleared her throat. “Perhaps tomorrow, then.”
Lady Frinfrock made a dismissive sound. “If you wish to walk to Cavendish Square, Miss Breedlowe, pray, do not let my disinterest detain you.”
CHARIS MICHAELS is thrilled to be making her debut with Avon Impulse. Prior to writing romance, she studied Journalism at Texas A&M and managed PR for a trade association. She has also worked as a tour guide at Disney World, harvested peaches on her family’s farm, and entertained children as the “Story Godmother” at birthday parties. She has lived in Texas, Florida, and London, England. She now makes her home in the Washington, D.C.-metro area.
Author Links: Website | Facebook | Twitter | GoodReads
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