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In this passionate Regency take on the tale of Cyrano de Bergerac, a wounded ex-soldier has no luck with his courtship of the ton’s beauty until he begins receiving secret letters. But are they from the woman he imagines…or from her widowed companion, who just might be everything he dreams of?
Here’s a brief description ofIT TAKES TWO TO TANGLE: WOOING THE WRONG WOMAN… Henry Middlebrook is back from fighting Napoleon, ready to re-enter London society where he left it. Wounded and battle weary, he decides that the right wife is all he needs. Selecting the most desirable lady in the ton, Henry turns to her best friend and companion to help him with his suit… IS A TERRIBLE MISTAKE… Young and beautiful, war widow Frances Whittier is no stranger to social intrigue. She finds Henry Middlebrook courageous and manly, unlike the foppish aristocrats she is used to, and is inspired to exercise her considerable wit on his behalf. But she may be too clever for her own good, and Frances discovers that she has set in motion a complicated train of events that’s only going to break her own heart…
IT TAKES TWO TO TANGLE is listed as a Regency-set historical romance with tones of passionate, witty, and romance. The heat level could be considered sensual containing love scenes with euphemisms. Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, IT TAKES TWO TO TANGLE is Book One in the Matchmaker Trilogy and is available in digital and print formats.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Historical romance author Theresa Romain pursued an impractical
education that allowed her to read everything she could get her hands on. She then worked for universities and libraries, where she got to read even more. Eventually she started writing, too.
She lives with her family in the Midwest, where she is working on her next book. This September, she’ll begin a new historical romance trilogy with IT TAKES TWO TO TANGLE. In October, her third holiday historical romance—SEASON FOR SCANDAL—will be released.
Here’s a teaser from IT TAKES TWO TO TANGLE to entice your reading appetite. Thanks for stopping by and enjoy!!
She turned her body to face his, hooking her knee up onto the sofa and bumping his hip again. And as she watched him with those bright eyes, shadowed under the candlelight from that mocking bronze eagle, she slid her hands onto his legs. Henry held himself perfectly still, certain he was forgetting something important. Oh, right. Breathing. Blinking. And probably eventually he should say something. His throat felt rusty and dry. He could feel every one of her fingertips on his skin, as though they had burned through his trousers. Combustible as he felt, he might have burned through them himself. “I can see the edge of your garter,” he rasped. He couldn’t look away from the loop of ivory ribbon peeking beneath her ruched skirts. “An incidental bonus,” Frances said. “The cursed skirts were in my way.” Her fingers began to wander, stroke, dance up his thighs. If Henry had not been sitting down, his knees would surely have unhinged. “Well. Shall we continue?” he finally managed to say. Frances clapped her hands over her mouth, but not soon enough to stifle a snort of laughter. “Indeed, yes, Mr. Middlebrook. That would please me above all things.” Now it was his turn to groan. “Me as well.” Grinning, she found his thigh again, slid her hands up a bit more. He flinched. He couldn’t help it. He felt stung with disbelief, but this time… this time it was good. Amazing. She froze when he flinched, and she started to lift her hands. “Don’t,” he said. His voice sounded harsh. “Please,” he said more softly. “Please.” He sounded as if he was begging. He had no pride now, none at all. She listened to him. She always listened. She leaned closer, just as he hoped, and she kissed him again as her fingertips clenched halfway up his thighs, clawing ten holes in his reserve. She nipped at his lip, and he moaned. Her skin was as warm and soft as a peach under the summer sun, and he tasted her, sipping at her mouth, nibbling at her jawline until she sighed and pressed closer, her chest brushing his. He wrapped an arm around her—his only arm, all he had—and tugged her closer, until she was almost sitting on his lap. He could not draw her any closer lest she notice his arousal. Kisses at a ball were nothing more than many people shared. They were a simple pleasure, as ephemeral as a breeze, soon forgotten. But not to Henry. Not after three years gone and long years alone. If she knew how hungry he was, and how parched, she would be terrified by the force of his need. He was starving; he was dying of thirst, and she was a feast, and as crisp as cool water.
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