Temptation Incarnate
By Isobel Carr
3/5
()
About this ebook
An impossible challenge … Eleanor Blakely is all too aware that her reputation dangles by a very slender thread, unfortunately, she’s found herself in the midst of a delicious series of wagers with a consummate charmer, and she can’t seem to stop herself from saying yes to every wicked proposition. Whatever twist of fate has kept his best friend’s sister on the shelf is a mystery to Viscount Wroxton, but when the inveterate little gamester suddenly catches his attention, she’s entirely is too fascinating to ignore. The fact that she has five enormous brothers is hardly worth thinking about—she’s thrown down the gauntlet, and he has no intention of losing, whatever the cost…
Isobel Carr
Isobel grew up in the lively historical re-enacting community of Northern California. She’s made and worn the clothes of people from Ancient Rome up to the Roaring 1920s. She’s cooked and eaten their food, and experimented with their entertainments and art forms. She also grew up around numerous writers of historical fiction and science fiction and fantasy (it was impossible not to as a child of the 70s in the Society for Creative Anachronism), so being a writer seemed a perfectly normal career choice. She currently lives in Oakland, California, with a 250lb English Mastiff named Mycroft and a coop full of chickens named after Georgette Heyer characters. You can find out more about Isobel and her books at isobelcarr.com
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Reviews for Temptation Incarnate
4 ratings1 review
- Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5This is barely a novella. It's a snippet. Like the author lost all interest in her characters and decided to just end it. Very disappointing.
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Book preview
Temptation Incarnate - Isobel Carr
you.
Chapter One
‡The season seems a bit dull without the Countess of S—to entertain and divert us. Perhaps some other lady shall rise to the occasion?
Tête-à-Tête, 18 May 1790
Eleanor Blakely looked up from her cards as her opponents left the card table in a rustle of silk and a flurry of giggles. She glanced at her partner. Viscount Wroxton’s pale eyes met hers across the expanse of the table, the barest hint of a challenge evident in his expression.
‘Now that our opponents have so obligingly gone elsewhere,’ he said, ‘what do you say to a change in terms, Miss Blakely?’
A not unpleasant shiver ran down Eleanor’s spine, chased by the warm tone in the viscount’s voice like a hare running from a hound. Was her brother’s friend condescending to flirt with her? Was the evening really so tiresome for him that they’d come to that?
Eleanor ground her teeth and rearranged her cards. She had no right to the flash of resentment that quickened her blood, but it was there all the same.
Pride. One of her many failings.
Wroxton reached out, the large emerald on his ring finger winking the in candlelight, and plucked her cards from her hand. Never taking those disquieting eyes off her, he shuffled the deck, long fingers making easy work of the task.
Eleanor’s mouth went dry and she reached for her sherry. She shouldn’t react so viscerally—so physically—to something as banal as the way Wroxton’s fingers moved over the cards. But it was as if she could feel them touching her instead: nails grazing, whorls of his fingertips slightly rough, the promise of strength in their square lines more than evident.
She swallowed the sweet wine in one deep draught, the warmth of it bringing a flush to her cheeks. Well, she could blame the wine if the viscount or anyone else noticed her state. Across the room, their former opponents settled in at the pianoforte and Miss Hardy began to play. Mr Perry turned her pages like the worshipful pup he was. He couldn’t be a day older than nineteen if the peach fuzz on his cheeks was any indication.
Young love. Eleanor’s jaw clenched. It was horrid of her to sneer at it, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. At that age, she’d been eons older; had been forced to be.
She savoured the tang of the sherry on her tongue and pushed the glass towards the edge of the table. Eventually a footman would appear to provide her with more; hopefully, soon. She didn’t blame Wroxton for seeking to relieve his boredom with flirtation. She was overwhelmed with ennui herself . . . or she had been until a moment ago.
Now, every bit of her quivered with awareness, from her heart hammering in her chest, to the hairs on the back of her neck which stood on end as though she stood at the heart of a storm waiting for the boom that followed the flash of lightening. The air felt dead and the room too close. Sounds pressed in from all sides, the slap of cards, the clink of glass ringing against wood, the light cords of the pianoforte, the low rumble of conversation. A cacophony of the first order . . . and yet it made her drowsy, like the crashing of waves against rocks on a nearby shore.
Lady Hardy’s weekly card party was little more than a gossip session played out over games of chance, and those trapped into accompanying their mothers—such as she and the viscount—were forced to endure a tedious evening playing for penny points, usually against opponents who