By Pam Rosenthal
A bold Masquerade. . .
For 3 years, London's haute ton has been captivated through the cool splendor of Philip "Phizz" Marston. Tall, subtle, a professional gambler with a chilly, unerring eye for kind, what retains the ruthless social climbers attuned to this dandy's each circulate is whatever extra unsettling. . .a grace and wonder that leaves men and women alike in a nation of unthinkable craving. . .
. . .Will Be Deliciously Undressed. . .
Lord David Hervey has to be wasting his brain. How else clarify the annoying wishes he feels every time his eyes meet the penetrating gaze of Mr. Marston? while he overhears a probability at the gentleman's existence, he intervenes and by myself discovers the wonderful fact. . .beneath the bindings of Mr. Marston's masquerade hides a lovely physique that's every piece a woman's. . .
. . .And each Hidden wish, published.
Armed with hope and entrusted together with her daring video game, Lord David will not hand over until the girl offers in, revealing herself to him thoroughly, surrendering her inner most secrets and techniques with each persuasive excitement he can supply. . .
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Additional resources for Almost A Gentleman (Brava Historical Romance)
For it had been Lord Beverredge, in grateful recompense for the vicar's friendship to his daughter, who'd supplied the money for Phoebe's dowry when Mrs. Vaughan had dared to ask him for it. "And my only regret," Phoebe would retort, "is that you persist in seeing yourself as disfigured. " Sadly, this trip had presented Phoebe with an additional regret. For, after some years of trying, Jonathan and Emily had finally conceived a child that would be born next spring. Tactfully, they'd tried not to talk about their long-dreamed-of baby in front of Phoebe; their delicacy made her feel alternately ashamed and grateful, and she knew she wouldn't be burdening them with another visit any time soon.
Naked to his gaze. Vulnerable. She'd enjoyed hiding behind a tall cravat these past years, reveling in the freedom not to display her neck and chest to the city's thousand prying eyes. And yet she'd strode through the London streets with the outlines of her long legs entirely visible to all observers. She shrugged. The laws of fashion were crude, barbarous: irrational and inescapable as the incessant struggles among the Beau Monde for social priority. All dress was masquerade, all manners a game of hide and seek.
She trembled under his mouth as he moved it upward over her neck, chin, and jaw. Steadily, deliberately, he claimed her for himself in tiny, irrevocable movements of lips and tongue, before finally forcing her lips open for a breathless kiss. She wrenched herself away from him. " "I know, Mr. Marston. But then you didn't kiss me—not as I imagine you're capable of kissing me. " She lowered her eyes, wondering if she had known that. "Perhaps," she murmured. "But then why not take even more? " "That would be a crude pleasure.