November’s topic “Falling into Romance”, prompted me to think back to the first time I discovered romance. (No, it wasn’t the 7th Grade Winter Dance, the only thing I discovered there was pre teen awkwardness.) My first romantic experience involved me, a pair of thick reading glasses, and a well worn paperback. But at age 11 I was still years away from Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth or Heathcliff and Catherine, my first taste of heroes and heroines was none other than Nancy Drew and her long suffering boyfriend Ned Nickerson. Let me set the scene for you: Nancy had just finished solving the case involving a high school student who worked for the Russians (not making this up) and Ned picked her up for a celebratory date. She resisted the urge to run her fingers through his hair; he squeezed her hand before leaning in for a kiss… You can imagine the rest. Actually, you have no choice but to imagine the rest because that’s all there was. While Nancy and Ned’s relationship never ventured much further than a peck on the cheek, the furtive glances and blushing cheeks were all I needed.

It wasn’t long before I started sneaking my mom’s romance novels off the shelf and discovering a whole new kind of romance. Sparks flew as devastatingly handsome men and fiery tongued women fought a battle of wills ending with much more than an innocent embrace. I was hooked! When I started working on Priceless Deception one of my biggest concerns was making the romance believable. It certainly seems easy enough at the beginning, but after a couple of drafts with jerky dialogue and no chemistry the panic button went off. It was time to go back to the basics. Digging through the closet I pulled out several old copies of Nancy Drew. I was searching for inspiration. I needed to remember what it felt like to fall in love for the first time, to have my heart broken, to long for someone who is out of reach. And I needed to look for the quiet moments, those little gems when the heroine slips off her silk glove and oh so gently brushes her bare fingertips against the hero’s hand. Magic!

Let’s face it, I no longer want to spend my Saturday afternoons reading about the adventures of Nancy Drew and Ned Nickerson, the mysteries are a little predictable and Ned isn’t all that supportive of Nancy’s career. Despite that, I am forever grateful to them for introducing me to the concept of romance and all the conflict and tension that goes with it. Sure I was reading for the mysteries, but the storyline where Ned breaks up with Nancy and dates a ballerina who is later accused of a crime…well it’s just too good to pass up! It kept me reading into the wee hours of the morning.

Blurb:

Have you ever had a dream that HAD to become a book?

After reading Judith McNaught’s Whitney, My Love (Oh, my goodness!) I was hooked.  I knew then exactly what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.  Dream up saucy little vixens who like to break the rules and brave heroes who fall in love with them.  And dream up a story is exactly what I did.  One night, I had a dream about some sexy-as-hell duke who found a ravishing beauty in one of his guest bedrooms.  When I woke, quite needing a very cold shower, the whole story slipped into place.  I knew all the characters, what they looked like, where they lived, even their favorite food.  And Innocence Lost was born.  Of course, just out of the third chapter of the book, other characters clamored for stories of their very own.  That’s how Innocence Lost became book one of a seven-book series.  I’m coping, though.  Being brave about having to fulfill my dream-come-true job.  From time to time, I dream about my characters and put the information I learn into my books.  Sometimes I find the most interesting details.  Megan hates peas.  Nicholas refuses to step foot in the music room at his estate, convinced it’s haunted.  Julian got horribly lost once at sea, too embarrassed to admit he’d read the map up-side-down.I love to dream about my characters.  This makes them seem so real to me.  I’ve even dreamed about characters written by someone else.  What about you?  Ever dream about characters in a book?  If so, do tell!

~Tiffany

Why did her head feel like she’d swilled too much tralacki? “What happened?” Sarina moaned and opened her eyes, finding a strange woman standing over her. “Who are you?”

With a gasp, the woman straightened and turned. “You didn’t kill her, Bedford. She’s awake.”

“Thank God for that, George,” replied a deep, somewhat familiar voice, and he stepped into view.

It was him. The man, Bedford, who had accidentally knocked her down with his animal. A horse, yes, those creatures were called horses. Everything came back in a rush. Sarina pressed her lips together, trying to ignore the pounding in her skull, and wondered what he had been doing on the street. The street that should have been vacant. Unless Plyas had transported her to the wrong location, which was entirely possible. It could have been worse, she supposed. Plyas could have sent her to the bottom of the ocean or the center of the sun.

Sarina took a quick assessment of her surroundings. She lay on a bed and four large wooden pillars rose up from each corner with some sort of thick blue material tied to them. How interesting. She recalled the notes from last century’s exploration detailing similar furnishings. Had the planet not evolved much in a hundred years?

Bedford halted beside the bed and smiled down at her, his gray eyes sparkling like rare tirago gems, causing a strange flutter in her middle. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Wretched. “Fine.” She needed to get back to the ship and check her files. She could also use an hour in the healing pod to get rid of the throbbing at the back of her head. And that odd sensation in her stomach. She pursed her lips, knowing she had been inoculated against the change to Earth’s atmosphere. Perhaps she was coming down with an illness? She had better return to the ship and find out. That reminded her, where was her little blue bag? She glanced around. It contained her transporter. “Where is my…” What was that word? “Purse?” She lifted her gaze to Bedford.

He opened his mouth to answer but another man stepped forward, slightly shorter than Bedford, with kind brown eyes. “I am Dr. William Parker, Miss, a physician. While you were unconscious, I took the liberty to look at your head.” He folded his hands together before him. “You have a nasty bump, I am afraid.”

Sarina lifted her hand and touched the back of her head, wincing when she grazed the painful swollen area. “How long have I been here?” Plyas and the others were probably wondering why she hadn’t returned. She frowned slightly. They should have been able to target her location through her transporter. Why hadn’t they done so?

“About twenty-three hours, I believe.”

“Hours? Were there sixty of them in a minute? Or was that days?” Sarina knew precisely Earth’s time measurements, she just couldn’t always remember what name went with what measurement. She caught the doctor and Bedford exchanging looks and wondered if she had spoken out loud.

Bedford leaned forward, his eyes filled with concern. “I feel quite responsible about what has happened and am truly sorry. Dr. Parker believes you should remain here abed for several days at the least. If I have your consent, I should like above all things to see to your recovery.” He straightened, his brows shooting up. “Or must I seek consent from your parents? A guardian, perhaps?”

Sarina started to shake her head but stopped when pain shot through her skull. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. The pain receded. “I appreciate your concern, but I would just like my purse returned to me.”

He stared at her for several seconds, causing the pulse in her neck to leap, then he turned to the woman behind him. “George?”

She was tall, thin, and resembled Bedford, although a lot more silver streaked her dark hair and her eyes lacked the sparkle. They must be related. The woman scurried to a small desk near the windows and opened a drawer. She returned with the blue purse.

Smiling in relief, Sarina held out her hand. “Thank you. George is it?” The ache in her head pounded even worse with the movement, making her wince.

The woman crossed her arms and gave a sour look, reminding Sarina of Mastrina Glindok at first school. “I am addressed as Lady Willoughby,” she swung her arm out, “and my brother is Lord Bedford.” She handed the purse over. “My lord and my lady will also do. The rules on proper address must be followed.”

Oh, right. Sarina almost rolled her eyes. Truthfully, she hadn’t spent that much time studying titles and social etiquette. Instead, she poured over their primitive transportation methods and scarce scientific breakthroughs. Why, they only just discovered atoms a few years ago but had yet to learn about subatomic particles, never mind the more difficult concepts like space folding and time warping, the very basics of inter-dimensional travel. And those things they called ships!

Thinking of ships, Sarina opened her purse to make certain her transporter hadn’t been removed. Although no one would realize what it was, they might be curious and start pressing buttons. Having to explain to Master Cronos how some poor soul ended up on the moon and it not being Plyas’s fault would be difficult, indeed. She relaxed when she saw the device, but noticed none of the buttons were lit. A closer inspection had her heart sinking down to her knees. The transporter must have been damaged when Bedford’s horse struck her. How was she going to get back to the ship? How would her team locate her?

Someone clearing her throat rather loudly brought Sarina back from her thoughts. She looked up to find Lady Willoughby frowning again. Sarina tried to ignore Lord Bedford, but couldn’t keep her gaze from sliding over. The flutters in her stomach returned. His dark brows were pressed together, as though he were solving an intricate problem. Clearly she had missed whatever was said. “My apologies. What did you say?” she asked, glancing from one to the other.

Lady Willoughby unfolded her arms. “I asked if you would be so kind as to supply your name and someone we may contact.” One of her brows shot up, an exact replica of Mastrina Glindock. “And, pray, what of your chaperone?”

Chaperone? What on Cantar was that? Sarina was going to think up something really awful to do to Plyas when she returned to the ship. She hadn’t scheduled to interact with anyone from this planet for another parleon, at least long enough to study the rules, as Lady Willoughby had put it. Why Master Cronos put Plyas as second-in-command, she would never know. Why not Tiv, Korokk, or Guenn, the others on the team? Why did it have to be Plyas?

“I gave Lord Bedford my name,” Sarina said, knowing they waited for her to answer. “It’s Sarina.”

“It is quite improper to give a stranger leave to use your first name,” Lady Willoughby said in a prim manner.

Oh, enough of this. Sarina would just return to where she had been transported. Surely, someone on the ship was sweeping the area. She tried to sit up. Pain exploded and the room gave a complete spin.

Then Lord Bedford was leaning over her, his warm hand on her shoulder. “Easy, now. You hit your head very hard. I think you should stay a little longer.” He lowered his voice. “And please try not to be offended by my sister’s lectures. She only spouts that sort of nonsense when she’s worried.”

Sarina stared into Lord Bedford’s eyes, so close to hers. She could see the shards of smoky blue mingled with the gray and how thick his black lashes were. Her middle quivered. She licked her lips and watched his eyes dip down to her mouth and darken. Then his gaze made its way back up to hers. Her whole body tingled. Sarina had the absurd urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him senseless.

She must have hit her head harder than she thought.

A knock sounded, nearly making her jump. Lord Bedford frowned, sweeping his gaze over her face once more, then straightened and turned to the door. “Enter.”

An older man in black trundled in and bent over at the waist for a low bow. “Pardon, my lord. A gentleman has arrived to retrieve Her Highness.”

“What?” Bedford took a step forward. “Say again?”

Sarina closed her eyes, a bad feeling coming over her.

“Her Highness, the Princess Sarina,” the old fellow said. A gasp came from Lady Willoughby’s direction and Sarina covered her eyes with her hand.

“Princess?” Bedford repeated. “Who has come to retrieve her?”

“I am Tumrik Plyas, my lord,” said a very familiar voice from the doorway. Sarina lowered her hand and nearly groaned out loud when she got a good look at him. If she hadn’t already heard him, she would never have recognized Plyas. He must have used the ship’s imaging modifier. That was the only explanation for him looking so human. Instead of his usual blue skin and large black eyes that marked him Cantari, he had wavy light brown hair, striking blue eyes, and perfect white human teeth. In fact, she narrowed her eyes, he looked a bit too perfect. And his clothes were definitely over the top. Cobalt blue trousers and over coat with a silver threaded waistcoat and stark-white cravat containing a blinding diamond the size of a bird’s egg in the center folds. His hands were covered in diamonds and sapphires, even his walking stick glistened with jewels as he moved.

Definitely over the top.

Plyas had obviously been enjoying the ship’s replicator along with the imaging modifer.

Bedford’s back stiffened. “I am Lord Bedford, Mr. Plyas. How do you know Sarina?”

“Princess Sarina,” Plyas corrected, trying to look past Bedford to her.

Sarina glared at her second-in-command. If he said one more thing to make her angry, she was going to—

“And she is my fiancée.”

Cantar

“If you don’t give me what I want, I will destroy this planet and everyone on it.”

Cronos leaned back in his chair. He didn’t doubt Vikkar, the new ruler of Tiberon, meant what he said. He just needed to find a way to stop it from happening. Hopefully, a diplomatic way. He had worked a very long time to obtain peace with Vikkar’s father and didn’t wish to have it all wiped away in a few sentecs. “I am not certain I understand the reason behind your request.”

Vikkar’s hologram grew several feet taller and leaned over the desk. His face, similar to his human mother’s, twisted in rage. The rage and extreme intelligence came from his Tiberonian father. Too bad all that intelligence was wasted on malevolent works. “You do not need to understand, Cronos. Just tell me where she is.”

“She’s gone, Vikkar, and she isn’t coming back,” Cronos said softly. Thank Tor he had erased all mention of the expedition from the network, knowing Vikkar had probably already started cracking the encrypted security codes to gain access. Those who knew of the expedition had undergone memory wipes to keep Vikkar from learning the location of Earth. Fortunately, Cronos had spies on Tiberon who had given him enough warning to implement the precautions. Thank Tor.

For a moment, Cronos thought Vikkar was going to unleash a tirade sure to rattle the stars from the sky. Then the man took a deep breath and shrank back to normal size, which was still a great deal taller than the average human. “You have exactly one parleon to retrieve her.” Vikkar’s hand moved over a control panel. “Until then, I will leave you with a taste of my displeasure. Just so you understand I mean exactly what I say.”

Cronos rose from his chair. He lifted his hand. “Vikkar, you can’t mean to—”

The alarm sounded. With dread, Cronos glanced to his viewer and sank back down onto his seat. The city Patia on Cantar had been destroyed. And all ten million citizens, including some of his own family and many colleagues and good friends. He raised his gaze to Vikkar, unable to believe the man had become so evil.

“One parleon and not a sentec longer, Cronos, you will deliver Sarina to me.” Then he clicked off.

To be continued Friday, July 15…

Copyright © 2011 Tiffany Green

Aidan St. John, the seventh Earl of Bedford, maneuvered his new phaeton through the park, smiling and nodding to the passers-by, having a supremely rotten time. He prayed for this torture to be over and done with. And once it was, he was going to kill his sister Georgette for talking him in to this asinine ritual. He sighed, feeling old of a sudden. George reminded him often enough just how old he was, and today, he felt all of his thirty-six years. Plus a few extra.

A landau slowed as it approached, catching his attention. Two young girls with hawkish mamas watching their every move smiled up to him with lashes all aflutter. To hide his grimace, Bedford tipped his hat, and the girls batted those lashes so hard, he thought they might lift up and fly away with the birds. He supposed they were attempting to be coy.

Bedford hurried on. He would much rather be at home in his study with a brandy in hand, pouring over his ledgers, adding up his most recent fortune made on the ‘change. This month would surely be close to his best record, if not breaking it entirely.

He blew out a breath and checked his watch, wondering if he had been out here long enough. Damn, sixteen minutes. Georgette demanded at least an hour, the taskmaster. His older sister was much too motherly, and since her widowhood last year she thought it her life’s work to see him settled and wed with a family on the way. The thought rather soured his stomach. He liked his life just the way it was. Quiet and orderly.

Seeing a rather large group of debutantes charging in his direction on foot, Bedford glanced about for a quick escape. None. He was trapped. Praying they weren’t about to form a blockade before his phaeton, he nodded as they approached, careful not to make eye contact. The girls broke out into a fit of giggles and toddled by. Once they were out of his way, Bedford snapped the reins. He had to escape from that flock of guinea birds before they formed ranks and bugled out the charge signal.

Bedford shuddered and turned out of the park. Georgette be damned. He would rather be alone for all of eternity and have his vast fortune, titles, lands, and estates given to the crown at his death than subjected to one of those feather-brains for a wife. Hell, he would rather be burned alive at the stake.

Making another turn down a secluded street, Bedford signaled his horse to pick up speed. He couldn’t get away fast enough. He pulled off his hat and allowed the wind to rush through his hair. For the first time this morning, he could breathe. His eyes slid shut. He tipped his face up to the sun and took a deep breath of crisp spring air. What law said a man had to marry, anyway?

Feeling more the thing, Bedford opened his eyes. A strange green light flashed before him, making him squint, then a woman appeared out of nowhere. What the hell? Realizing his horse was about to run her down, he sawed back on the reins, his heart in his throat.

The woman turned, eyes wide, and threw up her hands to shield herself from the impact. But it couldn’t be helped. The momentum forward was much too great. His damned horse knocked her onto the cobblestones before stopping, the back of her head making a sickening smack against the hard surface.

Shaken, Bedford scrambled down from his phaeton and approached her. She lay on her back, eyes closed, unmoving. Swallowing hard, he hunched down, tore off his gloves, and looked for signs of her breathing.

Her chest rose and fell, and he rocked back on his heels, relieved. Wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, he wondered what he should do. Get help? Bedford really didn’t want to leave her alone. He glanced around and found no one about. Dash it all, where was everyone? Perhaps he should try to rouse her.

Carefully, he reached out and touched her shoulder. “Miss? Can you hear me?”

No response.

Clearing his throat, Bedford tried again, a bit louder. “Miss, please come to.” He watched her face for any signs she heard him. And that’s when he noticed how lovely she was. Bedford frowned, wondering where the deuce that though had come from, and focused on helping this poor lady, whom he had just injured.

With rising fear, Bedford gave her shoulder a slight shake. “You will wake now!”

Her eyelashes fluttered. Bedford snatched his hand back, watching in rapt attention as she opened her eyes and focused on him. His heart slammed hard against his ribs. She had the loveliest eyes he had ever seen, some deep azure shade. After realizing he was gawking instead of helping her, Bedford cleared his throat. “Are you hurt, Miss?”

Without a word, she continued to watch him. “Do you understand my words, Miss?”

She blinked several times, then her rosy lips parted. “Yes, I understand you.”

Oh, what a relief! Bedford smiled down at her. “Well, that is a start. Are you all right?”

Pressing her brows together, she nodded, then grimaced. Her hand went to her forehead. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit of an ache in my head.”

Her words were slightly accented, but he didn’t recognize the dialect. “Do you think you can stand?”

“Yes.”

As she attempted to lift herself from the ground, Bedford rose and placed a hand beneath her elbow. “Pray, permit me to assist you.” He tried not to notice how nice she smelled, some sort of exotic sweetness, quite intoxicating. She eased up to her feet, swaying for a moment. Bedford kept his hand at the ready in case she decided to crumple at his feet. “Easy, now.”

After a minute without incident, she reached up and rearranged some pins holding her honey-gold curls. Bedford grew curious about her. It was difficult to tell her age, although he felt certain she was above her twentieth year. Who was she? He eyed her clothing, looking for a clue. George would sometimes give her old dresses to her maid, but he didn’t think that was the case here. Not only was the expensive dress she wore tailored too perfectly, it was way too fashionable to have been a cast-off. So, where did she come from? And what in the hell was she doing out in the middle of the street like that? He narrowed his eyes, recalling the flash of green light.

She finished swiping the dirt from her blue dress, the exact color of her eyes, and adjusted her matching wrist bag. Then she lifted those eyes to his. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

Bedford had the absurd urge to pull her tight against his chest and kiss the fool out of her. Instead, he smiled. “You are being above kind, my lady, toward someone who nearly killed you.”

She stared at him for several seconds. He felt her gaze like a caress and had to hold on tight to his gloves to keep from touching her. How odd. Then her lips curled up at the corners, and her eyes lit up, turning his insides to butter. Bedford swallowed, unaccustomed to the odd sensations sparking to life within him.

“I was thanking you for assisting me to my feet, not for nearly killing me,” she pointed out.

“Yes, well,” he glanced around, trying to get his mind off kissing her. “Where did you come from?” He again recalled the strange green light and her sudden appearance. “It was as though you materialized out of thin air.”

Watching her smile vanish and her features slip into a cool, aloof mask, Bedford silently cursed himself. “I am actually late for an appointment, sir, so I must beg your leave,” she said and started past him.

He held out his hand. “Wait. Permit me to introduce myself. Lord Bedford.” He gave a slight bow. “At your service.”

Bedford waited for her to supply her name. Instead, she remained silent and thoughtful, just staring at him with those exquisite eyes. It occurred to him he had never had a lady stare at him like that. Then he remembered her accent. She must not be familiar with English etiquette. “I would very much like to know your name,” he prompted and waited, trying not to think of how much he really wanted to know.

She gazed toward the end of the street. Bedford wasn’t at all certain she would reply, which he found rather unusual. Then something occurred to him and he grew worried. Perhaps that knock to the head brought about some sort of memory loss? He should take her to see Will Parker, his good friend and physician. He was about to suggest that when she turned back to him. “My name is Sarina. Now I really must leave, my lord.” She took a step, wobbled, then closed her eyes and started to fall.

Bedford swore and caught her before she hit the ground, lifting her easily into his arms. As he hurried toward his phaeton, he knew he would never forget the feel of her pressed against his chest. Nor would he ever forget her sensually sweet scent.

How odd that she had given just a first name. Sarina.

Bedford tightened his hold on her. He had the absurd thought of never letting her go.

Sarina.

4 Parleons (6 Earth Months) Earlier…
The planet Cantar

The rumors must be true. She couldn’t have been summoned for any other reason. Sarina remained poised as she listened to the master chancellor, careful to keep her breathing even. Careful to keep her face schooled in calm. She really wanted to scream. Or pick up something heavy and throw it at him. Her insides shook with the force of a Cantari firewind.

How could they send her away?

Master Cronos shifted in his seat, his large black eyes sweeping over her face. “As you are aware, Sarina, your ancestors and many other humans wished to come to Cantar when we visited Earth for the first time just over three hundred sentons—five Earth centuries—ago. We’ve sent observers back once an Earth century since then to monitor the planet’s progress and human advancements. This century, we have chosen you to lead the expedition.”

Sarina knew she had to pick her words carefully. While part of her was flattered they wanted her as the first Earthling to lead the mission, not to mention how incredibly curious she was to see Earth with her own eyes instead of on a viewer, another part was terrified of leaving all she knew and loved. Something whispered to her if she left, she wouldn’t come back. That thought sent a cold chill down her back. “Master Cronos, you honor me beyond words to lead such an important mission.”

As she hesitated to find the right words, he leaned back in his chair and steepled his twelve blue fingers before him. “I get the feeling you are hesitant about leaving Cantar. Are you concerned about being mission leader? We could have Plyas lead, although you are a much better pilot and strategist, having broken nearly every record set at the academy. Some were hundreds of sentons old. Even now, almost five sentons later, your records remain intact. Every one of them.”

Sarina swallowed at the pride in Master Cronos’ voice. He rarely showed such deference. She took a slow, deep breath and released it. Duty would always come first. “Plyas would fly to the wrong planet and probably blow it up.”

She witnessed another rarity. Master Cronos actually smiled, revealing his blindingly white, pointed teeth. “You are no doubt correct, my pupil. Does this mean you will lead the mission?”

Gripping the arms of her chair until her fingers throbbed, Sarina nodded. “I will.”

And something again warned her she would never return.

To be continued…


Copyright © 2011 Tiffany Green

Hi all!  And thanks to Sherry and Ann and all the other Authors By Moonlight for having me here today.  You’re doing me a big favor because I need your help answering a question that plagues so many writers of spicy historical romance.  The question relates to the choice of heroine.  Will it be Virgin, Fallen Woman, or Widow?

I write sensual, Regency-set historical romance.  I like to create the lovely fantasy world of the ton, but I also want my stories to have grounding in the cultural values of the period.  So I’ve got to come up with scenarios that work, both in depicting the period with some degree of accuracy, and in giving me leeway in developing a romantic and sexual relationship between my hero and heroine.  And, trust me—I like the sexy, as do most readers of historicals.  It’s rarely a problem developing erotic scenarios for the heroes of Regency romance.  After all, men could have sex pretty much anytime they wanted, with all sorts of women.  And there’s nothing like a good old fashioned rake to get a girl’s hormones flowing, is there?

But that’s the easy part.  What about the heroine?  When it came to sex, stakes were high during the Regency—especially for unmarried women.  Lose your reputation, whether you actually had sex or not, and you could be in serious trouble.  No marriage, and unless you had financial independence, you were probably looking at life as a poor relation or as a servant in a stranger’s household.  A lucky few made a go of it as successful courtesans, but most women forced to take that route probably had very difficult lives.

So how to create a heroine in this time period who likes to have sex and can get away with it?  One option is to choose the merry (or not so merry) widow heroine, which is the case in my upcoming release, My Favorite Countess.

The heroine of that book, Bathsheba, is a widowed countess, but her life is anything but merry.  In fact, she’s drowning in debt and has a family to support, which means she has to find a wealthy husband sooner rather than later.  But before she can find this husband, Bathsheba is thrown into the path of Dr. John Blackmore, a heroic and very handsome physician.  As you might imagine, John does end up in Bathsheba’s bed, which could certainly jeopardize her chances of finding a rich husband but doesn’t carry quite the same moral consequences as it would if she were a virgin.

But what this scenario did provide me with were plenty of opportunities for conflict between my two characters.  It gave me a heroine and hero who can’t keep their hands of each other, but are unsuited in many other ways—all without quite as many social restrictions as a virgin would face.  Instead, John and Bathsheba have to deal with the types of challenges that confront two experienced adults, and how they work their way through those challenges keeps my story rocking.

My first two books, Mastering The Marquess and Sex And The Single Earl, both have virgin heroines who are quite different from Bathsheba.  Still, I wanted all three of my lovely ladies to fall in love and lust, and have lots of good, hot sex.  Each of them needed a scenario that made sense for both the story and the time period, but also allowed plenty of opportunity for romance with a big dash of spice.  A challenge for authors of historical romance for sure, but a really fun one.

So here are my questions.  Which types of heroine do you prefer in your historical romance—virgin or experienced woman?  Are there particular stories you feel really lend themselves to a hot, sexy read?  What are they?  Leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of My Favorite Countess.

Vanessa Kelly writes Regency-set historical romance for Kensington Zebra, and has been called by Booklist one of the new stars of historical romance.  Her next book, My Favorite Countess, will be released on May 3rd.  You can find her on the web at http://www.vanessakellyauthor.com, where you can read excerpts of all her books and pre-order links for My Favorite Countess.  You can also find Vanessa on the web at http://www.vksykes.com, her home base for the contemporary romances she writes with her husband under the pen name of VK Sykes.

Excerpt link:  http://www.vanessakellyauthor.com/excerpt_mfc.html

Join us Tuesday, April 19th for our April Full Moon Guest blogger. Vanessa Kelly will be here to join us and ask a tantalizing question. She’ll also be giving away a prize that day, too. Hope to see you here!