In this first installation of the DAMSELS IN DISGUISE series, a passionate clergyman on a mission to steal an earl’s secrets finds himself captivated by a cunning and courageous countess.
Charismatic curate Jonah Sinclair survived the deadly streets of south London with two well-trained fists and divine intervention. He will let nothing—not his vocation, nor his yearning to find love—stop him from pursuing the criminals who killed his father. When he learns the notorious Earl of Rochford could hold the key to retribution for his family, he seizes on the chance to become tutor to the earl’s young ward. But the only trace of Rochford he discovers at the mysterious Ravenglass Hall is his abandoned countess, a woman whose fierce strength stirs a forbidden temptation.
Faith Trenton, Countess of Rochford, is on the brink of ruin. Betrayed and abandoned by her husband, she disguises herself as a man to defend her estate from an embezzling steward. Jonah’s arrival threatens her carefully constructed masquerade, and despite the irresistible spark between them, she must send him packing, or risk having him expose the dangerous secrets she keeps hidden. But when a succession of attacks threatens everything that Faith has fought to protect, she’s forced to place her trust in Jonah, and pray he won’t unravel the truth, or her heart.
Helping Faith could sabotage Jonah’s mission. Loving her might cost him everything.
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EXCERPT:
Jonah marched out of the tavern, his vexation blinding him to any semblance of the direction where he headed. It did not take long to realize he was absolutely stranded, alone in a country wilderness.
In the disorienting shadows of the soaking evening, a seed of regret at his impulsivity sprouted. As he contemplated swallowing his pride and turning back to the tavern, a preternatural cry sounded on the moor.
The ground shook, heralding a beast rising out of the fog.
Jonah wouldn’t have dared called the creature a horse; that was far too earthly a comparison. It sped toward him as if it had escaped straight from the ninth circle of hell.
Unholy thoughts clouded his brain. Unholier curses tumbled from his lips. He was pleased to discover the passage of time and years of service in Her Majesty’s Church had not scrubbed them from his memory.
The shriek of the wind rose over the roar of approaching hooves. This was the exact reason Jonah avoided Gothic novels like vermin; he preferred interacting with the supernatural in the controlled boundaries of the King James Bible.
Through the sheets of rain, he spotted a slight figure mounted on top of the enormous steed. Was the rider attempting to bring the monster under control? Or did he urge it on, hoping he might flatten a weary traveler to the ground?
A shrill cry sounded from the rider. Was it a warning? An apology? A prayer?
“MOVE OUT OF THE BLEEDING WAY, YOU DAFT FOOL!”
With a screeching whinny, the beast reared up before him, a black wall of menacing horseflesh. As lightning flashed around them, Jonah braced his arms over his head and curled himself into a protective crouch, precisely as the hell-beast tossed its rider from the saddle.
A moment of raw stillness followed.
The rain relented, revealing where the rider lay motionless on the path.
Jonah staggered across the short distance toward the body. With a deep breath and a short prayer, he kneeled down to examine the fallen man.
The crash of two thick skulls meeting each other upended his balance. He slipped on the drenched ground, falling on top of the rider, who protested wildly by snarling in a manner more feral than a quayside cat. The body entwined with his was as scrappy and slim as one. He had to be a young lad.
“Get off of me!”
“I’m trying!” Jonah protested as they tussled in the mud. Muck worked its way beneath the collar he’d starched himself, to make a good impression for the toffs who’d forgotten him. The potential embarrassment he’d face if he ever arrived at his destination burned energy into his limbs.
An instinct he thought he’d long retired kicked in and he rolled, quickly pinning the rider’s shoulders by pressing his own weight into the lad’s chest.
And therein, he discovered a very distinct set of curves that most decidedly did not belong to a young man.
The body beneath him hissed.
Jonah scrambled away and staggered to his feet. With his last remaining ounce of sense, he extended his hand to the rider.
Author Bio:
Lille Moore writes romance with a twist on time-honored tropes and tales. Her first career in public diplomacy and strategic communications took her across five continents and six of the Seven Seas and spurred a lifelong love affair with uncovering new worlds through storytelling. She lives with her spouse in Texas
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