Scandal’s Promse by Pamela Gibson ~ Excerpt
As an affiliate at retail sites, I earn a small commission from qualifying purchases. See my disclaimer for more details.
About Scandal’s Promise by Pamela Gibson
Title: Scandal’s Promise
Author: Pamela Gibson
Genre: Historical Romance
Haunted by questions and her own insecurities, Lady Emily Sinclair longs to discover why her betrothed abandoned her and married another. Seven years have passed, but the pain of his betrayal still lingers, buried beneath layers of humiliation and mistrust. When he returns after the Napoleonic Wars, she vows to avoid him. If only her foolish heart felt the same.
Broken and addicted to his medication, widower Andrew Quimby, Lord Cardmore, rattles around his ancient manor, oblivious to his deteriorating health and state of mind. When he learns the woman he was forced to abandon remains unmarried, he vows to try to win her back, even if it means returning to a society he despises.
But Andrew soon discovers he has a secret enemy. Threatening notes appear and sinister accidents put those in his inner circle in danger. Can he overcome his demons in time to keep them safe or will everyone and everything he loves disappear forever.
Excerpt from Scandal’s Promise by Pamela Gibson
© 2020
Pamela Gibson
She found her room and closed her door, breathing hard. Her hand still tingled from the physical contact, and her body trembled with delicious aches she refused to name. She was exhausted, and the wine had dissolved her usual barriers. If Andrew had tugged a little harder, she would have dropped into his lap and made a proper fool of herself.
Her room, right across the hall from Andrew’s, enveloped her in warmth as she disrobed and found her nightwear in the valise Aunt Lily had sent. Someone had freshened the water in the ewer and placed a drying towel next to it. A lighted candle was placed on a table close to the bed. Andrew knew she loved to read and probably had it put there in case she couldn’t sleep.
That would not be the case tonight.
She felt like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, walking the parapets with unseeing eyes. Her movements were methodical, but if she looked in a mirror, she’d see blank eyes glazed over from a full stomach, wine, and fatigue.
Mrs. Townsend was to wake her at midnight. Thank God. She probably would not be able to wake herself.
She dropped into bed and pulled up the coverlet, leaving the candle lit. She closed her eyes, lying rigidly in the center of her bed. Sleep would not come. Her thoughts were not on the child, but on Andrew. God help her, she burned for him. When he’d held her arm in the library, then let his hand drift to her palm, stroking the tender skin gently with his thumb, she’d nearly melted into a puddle of treacle.
She wanted his hands and mouth on her. She wanted to run her hands down his muscular arms, reach around his back, and pull his body against hers to ease the pulsing between her thighs. She wanted to know what it felt like to lay skin against skin instead of always with a layer of clothing between them.
She didn’t want to die never having experienced physical intimacy with a man. Andrew wanted her, she was sure. But if she walked across the hall and entered his room, she’d be no better than Caroline Woodley.
Scrunching into a ball, she tightened every muscle, wishing this longing would go away. She could never marry anyone else, not even for children. Every time she closed her eyes in the marriage bed, she would pretend it was him.
You have to stop this nonsense right away, or you will be too weary to be useful when it’s time for you to tend the child.
He was inside his room now. She’d heard his footfalls not five minutes past.
She’d resigned herself to spinsterhood. She had Aunt Lily as a companion, a house full of books with a pianoforte and a sewing room to indulge her creativity. What more could she possibly want?
A door closed, and someone walked down the hall. Lester—she recognized his heavy tread. Andrew was alone.
She uncurled and tried to relax. Her breath caught in her throat. What was she? Some kind of wanton? Did she really want to “let go” as Aunt Lily put it?
You’ve been raised as a lady. You know what you want to do would seal your fate. There would be no marriage ever in your future, not even to a widower because you would be used, soiled, no better than a barque of frailty.
“Damn.”
She rose from her bed, leaving the lighted candle, and jerked open the door.
Pick Up Your Copy Today!
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Apple
About Pamela Gibson
Author of eight books on California history and fifteen romance novels, Pamela Gibson is a former City Manager who lives in the Nevada desert. Having spent the last three years messing about in boats, a hobby that included a five-thousand-mile trip in a 32-foot Nordic Tug, she now spends most of her time indoors happily reading, writing, cooking and keeping up with the antics of Ralph, the Rescue Cat. If you want to learn more about her activities go to https://www.
