How to Marry a Marble Marquis(58)
“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t. The Duchess of Sackwell has taken to giving me advice on how to balance my humours to best conceive a child, and it involves taking the oil of a fish and a weekly bloodletting. I don’t want to know how they get oil from the fish, Silas.”
“Tell the Duchess of Sackwell,” he drawled, his tone a supercilious slide of satin, “to worry about her own bedroom. Ours is perfectly healthy, thank you very much. Actually, when she comes for your recital next week, I’ll tell her myself.”
“You’ll do no such thing, you dreadful man.”
The upcoming recital was both a cause of giddy excitement and crippling nerves, the first time she’d be singing publicly since she’d left Paris. An Evening of Music, hosted by the Marquis and his wife, had already been thoroughly investigated by the High Tea in two different columns, breaking down the short list of noblewomen — wives, sisters, and daughters — who would all be taking part, playing the harp, the piano, and singing. They’d made no mention of her past at all, as if she were a dead end, a dearth of information turning itself up, and it made her wonder if the infamous Lady Grey was someone they knew.
“Thank you for not knotting me,” she added as an afterthought. “I wasn’t ready for it.”
“A skilled butterfly has no need to injure the flower, little moth,” he sniffed, drawing her into his arms again once the banyan was tied snugly at his waist. “What would you like to do this evening?”
Eleanor sighed, pressing her nose against him. She had table coverings to pick out, and Kestin would likely already be lurking outside the lord of the manor’s study, waiting with a list of grievances. There was much to do before her recital . . . but there was no end to what the two of them could do together once the sun went in. Everything, she thought, leaning up to kiss the corner of his wide, smirking mouth, was prettier in the dark.
Also By C.M.Nacosta
Cambric Creek – Where the neighbors are a little unconventional and the full moon affects more than just the night sky. Sexy werewolves, adorable mothmen, and randy minotaurs welcome you to settle in and make yourself at home! (Author’s note: Regardless of the series, all the books set in Cambric Creek are interconnected with overlapping characters. They can be enjoyed as standalones, but you get the full scope of the community across each book!)
Welcome to Cambric Creek!
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Morning Glory Milking Farm was just another quick tug machine operated facility, cash he didn’t need in the bank for doing what he would have done for free anyway. At least, that’s what he thought. He wasn’t looking for love, but it managed to find him anyway and now he’s determined to prove that you can teach an old bull new tricks. Fall in love all over again with Violet & Rourke’s romance . . . from the other side of the milking table.
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About the Author
C.M. Nascosta is a USA TODAY bestselling author of Monster Romance and a professional procrastinator from Cleveland, Ohio. She’s always preferred beasts to boys, the macabre to the milquetoast, the unknown darkness in the shadows to the Chad next door. She lives in a crumbling old Victorian with a scaredy-cat dachshund, where she writes nontraditional romances featuring beastly boys with equal parts heart and heat, and is waiting for the Hallmark Channel to get with the program and start a paranormal lovers series. For exclusive stories, signed paperbacks, bookish merch and more, visit: https://linktr.ee/Monster_Bait
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To Ravish A Rogue
Coming Autumn 2023 - a Talons & Temptations Historical Monster Romance Novel
“Boy. You there, boy! Where did you come from? Did you think to be a stowaway? Are you too stupid to know you were meant to hide for that?”
Lirian turned, narrowing his eyes at Stride’s sharply barked words. The new crew was being lined up on deck for introduction to the rest of the officers and to the captain, the smallest member being the object of his second-in-command’s ire. It was the boy Lirian had watched coming up the gangplank before the sight of bronzed tits had swayed his attention, and his eyes narrowed again.
The young boy was not a boy at all; he could tell now that he was at a closer distance, although they had gone to lengths to suggest otherwise. Slight and thin, their baggy clothes did an admirable job of hiding any hint of their true form. The woolen stockings they wore were loose and bagged slightly, voluminous breeches ballooned around their knees, while a long linen tunic tented over narrow shoulders, coming to rest partway down their thighs. A cap covered their hair, the fringe of brown curls that had escaped giving them an unruly, unkempt air. It was impossible to tell what the oversized getup concealed. It could have been wings or another set of arms, or a pair of tits as lush and soft as the ones that had just been displayed for him. They were petite and scrawny, and while he couldn’t immediately tell their gender or species, what he could discern was that they were not a preteen boy. Not a boy, and he suspected not a shifter. They lacked the otherworldly air of sea sprites and moved too clumsily to be a nymph. But there is a glamour there. A glamour a shifter would not possess. He could just barely see the outline of shimmer, a slight waver at the edges of their silhouette, so slight that he could nearly persuade himself he imagined it.