A Christmas Ball (Nvengaria, Book 4) by Alissa Johnson, Jennifer Ashley, Emily Bryan

By Alissa Johnson, Jennifer Ashley, Emily Bryan

"It is the main expected occasion of the ton: the once a year vacation ball at Hartwell condo. The song is classy, the nutrients beautiful, and the visitor checklist totally unique. a few come searching for love. a few will do virtually whatever to prevent it. yet all people desires to be there. it doesn't matter what their wants, amid the swirling robes and smooth glow of candlelight, magic has a tendency to occur. And one dance, one kiss, one evening can form a brand new future.
--from again hide

From Emily Bryan's ""My woman lower than Stairs,"" the tale of a bastard servant woman known as in to impersonate her lacking aristocratic half-sister with effects helpful of Shakespeare, to Ashley's ""The Longest Night,"" within which a shapeshifting nobleman makes an attempt to win the guts of the cautious girl he loves whereas at the path of a undercover agent, to Alissa Johnson's ""Traditions,"" the story of an earl who units out to woo one lady and falls for her exciting spouse as a substitute, those gentle, enjoyable romps usually are not general vacation fare. .

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Sally. I’ve never known one, but I had no trouble picturing her. Sally would be a natural blonde with a wholesome, perky outlook. She’d wear an apron when she baked special, complicated but healthful cookies for her men. ” Mick backed up a step, looking directly at me for the first time. “So, Monday,” he said. “Right. ” My voice sounded snippy—how stupid. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t wear a wedding band, but he hadn’t lied, hadn’t even done that shuffle-dance men do to imply that they’re single without saying it.

But then I knew. The little wife. THE SAVING GRACES / 43 Oh, perfect, the story of my life. And it wasn’t even going to make for a good joke, no funny routine about the date from hell or the newest hilarious bedroom blunder by one of my famously inept sex partners. No, this just hurt. I was blindsided, totally unprepared for how bad it felt. Do you think this was peculiar of me? Immature or unstable? I mean, to react this strongly to the married status of a man I barely knew? Well, so do I. I can’t explain it.

He calls his people “Old South aristocrats,” although how you can be aristocratic and stone broke at the same time, I’m not sure. The Lloyds have a kind of slow, brittle southern charm that freezes my New England blood. They smile and smile, but in their hearts I don’t think there’s anything but contempt. THE SAVING GRACES / 57 And none of them talk, they all drawl. They remind me of fat brown lizards sunning themselves on hot rocks, too lazy to move a muscle. They drink all the time, and publicly, not in secret like my family—gin martinis, three fingers of bourbon, scotch from tarnished sterling flasks, beakers of warm, smoky brandy.

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