Virginia Taylor is here to tell us about her historical romance Starling. On sale for 99¢ until the end of the month.
Read on for details...
An aspiring dressmaker, orphaned Starling Smith is accustomed to fighting for her own survival. But when she’s offered a year’s wages to temporarily pose as a wealthy man’s bride, she suspects ulterior motives. She can’t lose the chance to open her own shop, but she won’t be any man’s lover, not even handsome, infuriating Alisdair Seymour’s…
To prevent his visiting sister from parading potential brides in front of him, Alisdair has decided to present a fake wife. He lost his heart once, and had it broken—he doesn’t intend to do it again. But stubborn, spirited Starling is more alluring than he bargained for, and Alisdair will risk everything he has to prove his love is true…
Set against the sweeping backdrop of 1866 South Australia, Starling is a novel of cherished dreams and powerful desires, and the young woman bold enough to claim them both…
“Oh, my,” Starling said, walking into the insulated silence. Shelves of books reached to the picture rail. Her nose tickled with the smell of wood polish and ink. Comfortable chairs upholstered in dark blue surrounded another white marble fireplace. A massive table, holding various stacks of papers, stood in the center of the room. Barely two steps inside, she reached reverently for a book named The Silk Routes with a spine embossed in gold.
Heart leaping, she turned to face her accuser. “I didn’t—”
“Sorry for startling you, ma’am.” Ellen’s face looked flushed and anxious, and
she pressed one hand to her breastbone, as if trying to calm herself. “I can’t find Mr. Seymour. Tammy Burdon’s fallen in the well. They need him. They can’t get her out. When Derry tried, the bucket rope broke—”
“Who is Tammy?”
“The daughter of a neighbor.” Ellen’s eyes glistened and her mouth trembled. “She’s only six years old. She’s wedged, jammed, and the men can’t get down to her because the shaft’s too narrow.”
“Where is the well?”
“There.” Ellen pointed to the back of the house, in the direction of the river.
“Mr. Seymour went into the billiard room. He might still be there.”
“I’ll see. Thank you, ma’am,” Ellen spun on her heel. She ran off in a twirl of
white petticoats, sprinting across the hallway. Starling heard her calling Mr. Seymour. She heard more than one set of footsteps thudding on the marble flooring. A faint voice shouted. Thunder rumbled. The curtains lifted with a gust of wind. Lightning flickered frantically.
They need him.
Pity help them. They needed a child dug out of a well. Although Mr. Seymour had shoulders like a blacksmith and a tall, strong frame, he had white elegant fingers that did nothing more strenuous all day but ink his pen.
She hoped they could use a man who could issue high-handed orders, for that would be Mr. Seymour’s only true skill.
Link to Goodreads about the tunnel escape.
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