Crazy for the Countess (Releasing Sept. 3rd!)

Destitute after the mysterious death of her husband, Nora St. James, notorious Countess of Havermere, is desperate for a benefactor to support her growing gaggle of orphans. The surest way? Remarry. But, after finally tasting freedom, the thought of trusting her fate to another man is unbearable. And reentering ton society to beg for a handout seems equally daunting—especially when gossips gleefully whisper, “Murderess!”

Sick of blood and death, Farren Cavanaugh flees civil war-torn America to scour England for his missing brother and niece. But a captivating woman keeps turning up at each stage of his quest, proving a sore distraction. Or is she? Might the bewitching countess and her charity home hold the key to finding his family—and healing his wounded heart?

Excerpt:

Nora St. James, Countess of Havermere, should not have attended the burial.

Gently-bred women did not go to such events. They were deemed too frail, their emotions too uncertain to withstand the ritual of consigning a body to the earth.

An equally-held belief was that women, being sisters of Eve, were sinful by nature therefore not worthy to tread upon consecrated ground. The ton, no doubt, would ascribe the latter to Nora.

She went anyway.

Men in black armbands slanted looks at her beneath their stovepipe hats. Some disapproving but most slyly coveting. Their eyes slid over her veiled face and red hair to settle on her breasts, waist, and hips.

No matter. She was used to it.

Removing her glove with two quick tugs, she bent and dug her fingers into the dark earth, musk and pungent decay filled her nostrils. She wanted the black beneath her perfectly manicured nails. She wanted it to seep into her body and somehow make this death real.

With a fistful she rose, squeezed, and then let it fall in a clump. It burst open, scattering over the pristinely polished ebony and rosewood casket.

Bile burned her throat at the memory of his white face turning yellow, the blood pooling in his lifeless body and the tang of urine as he finally released his brutal grip on life.

Nine years married. Just a raw, naïve girl when he’d claimed her.

Now he was gone.

Praise God.

An incredible lightness enveloped her as if she were suddenly within one of those hot-air balloons soaring over the top of the churchyard. She rose to her toes and lifted her chin higher. But remained solidly on the frozen ground, imprisoned by mourners all huddled around the gaping hole and the black iron fence that surrounded St. Martin of the Fields.

With the final benediction pronounced, she offered her own silent prayer—quite different from The Reverend Harmon’s hope of eternal joy in heaven for the fifth Earl of Havermere—and then turned her back on death.

Penny press reporters, who had hung about like carrion on the edges of the churchyard, now swooped in to surround her. Their mouths formed questions, a barrage of words fired like so many shots, making her hot ears ring, their pencils poised to capture her answers, so eager to twist them into lies.

“Did you do it, Countess? Did you poison your husband, Lord Havermere?”

“No chance of the old earl sending you off to Ballencrieff Asylum now that he’s conveniently dead is there, Countess?” another shouted.

“You must be relieved to have the inquest behind you. What will you do now? Perhaps find another rich husband?”

Havermere’s plan to send her to Ballencrieff Hall, a madhouse in the Scottish Highlands, had been quashed by his apoplexy. He could no longer speak or write. Still, he had lingered, lying in bed for nearly three months while servants wiped spittle and food from his twisted lips, faithfully turning his wasting body.

Once a day Nora had made herself enter his room to endure his accusatory glare. It could not touch her. He could no longer touch her. Hurt her. She’d breathed in the sour smell of death and stared back, her truth deflecting his vitriol.

That last day, she’d watched as he gummed down his favorite cake, delivered each morning from Downs Bakery. He smacked his papery lips, impatiently gesturing to his nurse for more.

Disgusted, Nora had turned away. Only a moment later, a panicked gasp had her whipping around. The old man lurched and the cake flew, the plate clattering to the floor. Nearly knocking the nurse aside in his haste to haul his lordship into a sitting position, a footman thumped on the old man’s back. White froth bubbled between his blue lips.

Heedless of his peril, he seemed to use all his remaining strength in order to raise his arm and point an accusing finger at Nora.

Try as she might, she could not move. That boney finger and glassy gaze pinned her to the wall as if she were already imprisoned in iron shackles.

In the ensuing pandemonium, the cake had been thrown away. No evidence.

However, poison had been found in his body. Nora would not have put it past the old reprobate to do the deed himself if only to drag her down with him. But the brief inquisition ended with the ruling, “Death by persons unknown.” Still, gossip had run rampant.

And now, with the old earl’s funeral, it seemed the newly-widowed Countess of Havermere was still a tasty morsel for a few voracious curs, yapping to tear over the last shred of scandal.

Nora ignored them, moving steadily toward the refuge of her waiting carriage. Her heavy black lace veil lent a curtain of protection, and her coachman’s hand and gaze were sure and steady as he helped her inside.

She welcomed the dark interior and sat back into the squabs, pressing her fingertips against her dry eyes. “Drive on, Thomas.”

Her voice surprised her. It sounded as if it belonged to someone else.

Someone with hope.