Must
Love Breeches
Time Travel Romance
Release Date: Sep 3 2014
Length: Novel (98,000 words)
Ebook Price: $4.99 (Pre-order price $3.99)
ISBN: 978-0-9905400-0-7
Content advisory: Adult language, explicit sex
Blurb
She's finally met the man of her dreams. There's
only one problem: he lives in a different century.
"A fresh, charming new voice" – New
York Times bestselling author Tessa Dare
HOW FAR WOULD YOU TRAVEL FOR LOVE?
A mysterious artifact zaps Isabelle Rochon to
pre-Victorian England, but before she understands the card case’s significance
a thief steals it. Now she must find the artifact, navigate the pitfalls of a
stiffly polite London, keep her time-traveling origins a secret, and resist her
growing attraction to Lord Montagu, the Vicious Viscount so hot, he curls her
toes.
To Lord Montagu nothing makes more sense than
keeping his distance from the strange but lovely Colonial. However, when his
scheme for revenge reaches a stalemate, he convinces Isabelle to masquerade as
his fiancée. What he did not bargain on is being drawn to her intellectually as
well as physically.
Lord Montagu’s now constant presence overthrows
her equilibrium and her common sense. Isabelle thought all she wanted was to
return home, but as passion flares between them, she must decide when
her true home—as well as her heart—lies.
Bio
Angela is a geek girl romance writer. What makes
her romances geeky? Whether it's fan girling over Ada Lovelace by having her as
a secondary character in Must Love Breeches, or outright geek references
with geek types in her romantic comedy with paranormal elements, Beer and
Groping in Las Vegas, or going all Southern steampunk in Steam Me Up,
Rawley, she likes to have fun with her romances and hopes her readers do
too.
Angela works at an independent bookstore and
lives in an historic house in the beautiful and quirky town of Mobile, AL. When
she's not writing, she enjoys the usual stuff like gardening, reading, hanging
out, eating, drinking, chasing squirrels out of the walls and creating the
occasional knitted scarf. She's had a varied career, including website
programming and directing a small local history museum, and has discovered that
writing allows her to explore all her interests.
She's an admitted geek and is proud to be among
the few but mighty Browncoats who watched Firefly the first night it
aired. She was introduced to the wonderful world of science fiction by her
father, by way of watching reruns of the original Star Trek in her
tweens and later giving her a copy of Walter M. Miller Jr's A Canticle for
Leibowitz as a teenager. She hasn't looked back since.
She has a B.A. in Anthropology and International
Studies with a minor in German from Emory University, and a Masters in Heritage
Preservation from Georgia State University. She was an exchange student to
Finland in high school and studied abroad in Vienna one summer in college.
Author Links
Book Links
Excerpt
A reenactment ball was
the perfect setting for romance. Or not.
Isabelle Rochon fidgeted
in her oddly-shaped-but-oh-so-accurate ball gown, surrounded by women who’d
sacrificed historical authenticity for sex appeal. Red carpet ball gowns in the
nineteenth century, really? Once again she was like the dorky kid participating
in dress-up day at school when everyone else had magically decided it was lame.
“Gah. I feel like a
green robot with strange battle armor.” Isabelle pointed to her dark green
dress, the shoulders flaring out almost to a point, exaggerating their width.
“What were the fashionistas in 1834 thinking?”
“I have no bloody idea.”
Jocelyn squeezed the poof of fabric at her shoulder. “These huge-ass sleeves
are ridiculous.”
“Ah, screw it, we’re
having fun, right? I’m not going to self-sabotage the ball. Not after all the
time I spent obsessing over my costume.”
“And obsessing over the
etiquette rules.”
“That too.” Besides, how
fun was it to learn Jocelyn shared her obsession with guys in period clothes
and bodice-ripper romances?
Isabelle eyed a guy
strolling past in tight-fitting, buff-colored pantaloons. She pitched her voice
to be heard over the string quartet. “Hmm. How about the clothes on that daring
derriere?”
Jocelyn sucked on her
olive and plopped the empty stir stick into her martini. “Oh, yes. Definitely a
breech-ripper.”
Isabelle choked on her
Bellini, the champagne fizz tickling her throat and nose. This was the first
opportunity they’d had to socialize outside work, so she treated this moment
delicately, afraid to puncture the mood. No need to point out he sported
pantaloons, not breeches.
She should ease up on
the drink, though. She didn’t want to get plastered at the Thirty-fourth Annual
Prancing Through History Reenactment Ball. Especially since her new colleagues
would be around. And her boss. She needed to impress him.
“Look lively,” Jocelyn
said, her voice low, with a dollop of teasing. “Here comes the office hottie.”
She’d been cultivating a
mild crush on Andrew since starting her new job at the British Museum six
months ago. The whole situation was perfect. A guy in the same field would
respect her interests, wouldn’t expect her to give up her profession for a
relationship. He was safe. If it worked out, great, if not, no biggie. She was
happy, finally, with how her life was working out.
She’d pictured him in
period clothing before, looking resplendent.
He did.
“Hi, Andrew.” Her voice
came out a little too high. Jeez, could she sound any more like a lovesick fool?
She always did this around gorgeous men—went ga-ga as if she couldn’t
rub two brain cells together. She gazed around the Duke of Chelmsford’s newly
renovated ballroom and pretended as if her breath hadn’t quickened and her body
hadn’t heated at the sight of Andrew.
“Hello, Isabelle.
Jocelyn.” Andrew nodded. His smile felt like a gift for her alone.
Her pulse throbbed. He’d
sought her out. Play it cool. Say something witty. “So, uh, having fun yet?”
Having fun yet?
Something, or someone,
in the crowd hogged his attention. She followed his gaze until she found it. Or
rather him. Their boss at the bar.
Andrew faced her and the
remnants of calculation on his hot-as-heck features disappeared behind his
over-bright grin.
He leaned closer.
The artificial tang of
his cologne drifted her way. She wrinkled her nose.
“Well done on the
Whittaker exhibit. Finding that journal was a bit of a coup. It’ll be a fine
addition to the exhibit, once it’s built.”
He’d noticed. She’d
worked damn hard. “Thank you.” Why couldn’t Brits find her Southern accent as
sexy as she found theirs?
“Glad you came across
the pond to work with us. That find should put you in the running for the
promotion.”
Good. The promotion
would mean she could stay in London. Well, it would make staying easier. No
matter what, she was determined to remain.
“Of course, you’ll have
to beat me out.”
Cold clarity hit her
stomach like accidentally gulping a glass of iced gin instead of iced water,
jolting her from her usual foray into Incoherent Land around attractive guys.
“You’re applying too?” Of course he was.
“Without a doubt. Career
changer and all. I’m a shoo-in. Sure you still want to apply?”
Could she scrub the smug
look off his face? She settled for the less satisfactory, but more controlled,
“Yes.”
Now catching her boss’s
attention was more important than ever. Besides wanting to escape into another
era, she’d also hoped her costume would impress him. She glanced at the wet
bar. Drat. Where had her boss gone?
Andrew slipped his hand
around her elbow, pulling her closer. “How about we ditch this party and grab a
pint? You and me.” He ignored Jocelyn, who stared back and forth between them.
It all made sense—his
sudden interest after dismissing her for months, the calculation she’d caught
when he’d turned back—he thought he’d intimidate and charm her into giving up
the position.
She yanked her arm free,
saying, “Fat chance, you smarmy horndog,” which cut through the room because,
of course, the music had just ended.
Jocelyn snorted her
drink, eyes watering, and coughed, fighting to catch her breath. For a moment,
her coughing was the only sound punctuating the silence.
The curious eyes of the
onlookers made Isabelle feel as if a huge moat had sprung up around her. The
moat of Beware, All Ye Who Enter—Idiot in the Center. If one of those eyes were
her boss…
Andrew trotted out his
grin, the one that used to make her insides hum. “Thought we had a connection.
No?” He backed away, hands up, eyes locked with hers in a you’re-such-a-fool
stare, his heels snapping on the marble floor with each backward step. “Cheers,
then, babe. May the best man win.” He nodded and sauntered off.
Jocelyn, bless her,
completely ignored the Moat of Embarrassment and stepped to Isabelle’s side.
“How had we never noticed what an ass he was?”
“Probably because we
were too busy drooling?”
“There is that.”
“Seriously, I should
just go pound my head against the nearest vertical object and repeat one
hundred times, ‘When will I learn?’”
“Just be careful not to
poke out your eye with those lethal shoulder sleeves.”
“Ha.” But Jocelyn’s dry
humor softened Isabelle’s mood. “Can’t believe he expects me to just roll over.
I have to get the promotion, I need the security. No way am I going to
sacrifice my dream to be with a guy, I don’t care how hot he is.”
Never
again would she let a jerk encased in good-looking skin influence her life.
Been there. Done that. Have the gold-stitched Fool’s cap.
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