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![[image] Awaiting The Moon book cover](AwaitingTheMoon_Website.jpg)
Excerpt from: Awaiting
The Moon
"Awaiting The Moon" is a combination of historical, paranormal,
and gothic romance.
With a dark
and interesting premise, Simpson will entertain.
...Romance Designs – Paranormal Romance Writers
A late night meeting...
“What are you doing in here?”
Elizabeth whirled, almost dropping the candle, to find Count Nikolas von
Wolfram, her new employer, standing by the desk in the far corner, a black
cloak on and snow sparkling on his broad shoulders.
“What… how did you get in here?” she cried.
He pulled off his gloves as he circled the desk and crossed the floor toward
her. He seemed larger in black boots and cloak, she thought, larger and
more forbidding. Her wavering candle showed dark circles under his eyes,
and she had the feeling he had not slept at all that night.
Instead of answering, he asked, “What are you reading so intently, Miss
Stanwycke?” He circled behind her and gazed down at the bible, still open
to the recent family history.
Unnerved by his looming presence and the crisp scent of the outdoors that
he carried, she moved to the other side of the lectern, feeling more comfortable
with it between them. She held up the candle and the golden light played
shadows over his face as the flame wavered. “I was just trying to get a
sense of your family. Frau Liebner would not speak much of it.”
“And is that knowledge of my family history vital to teaching my niece
the finer points of English etiquette?” His hard jaw flexed as if he was
restraining some powerful emotion and he slapped his black gloves against
his thigh.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Her voice quavered with disquietude. She took a
deep, calming breath, gazed at him steadily, and said, “How am I to know
yet?”
“Indeed. But then, how are you to know anything?” His expression remained
grave. “You are an early riser. And curious.”
He made both attributes seem like infractions of some unwritten rule, and
she supposed she should have stayed in her room until beckoned. That was
no doubt what a proper lady, one with the correct instincts of decorum,
would have done. It struck her that he may begin to doubt her ability to
teach etiquette to his niece if she was devoid of it in his eyes. She shrugged
and glanced toward the door. It was closed, still, and she wondered again
where he had come from. The snow on his cape was melting and trickling
in rivulets down the black wool of his cloak. One drop caught in the bristle
of black hairs on the back of his broad hand, and she stared at it, her
mind working feverishly.
He couldn’t have come through the door and made it all the way across the
room and behind the desk before she noticed, because although her head
was down and her attention was focused on the bible, she was facing in
the general direction of the door to the hall. And why would he creep in,
waiting to say anything until he was in the far corner of the room? If
he was coming into the library from the gallery he should have noticed
her right away and confronted her immediately.
But where else could he have come from?
Closing the book with a soft thump, he circled the lectern and stood in
front of her. She met his gaze, trying, but failing she feared, to quell
the hint of defiance she was feeling and that no doubt emanated from her.
It was her downfall, that sense she had and radiated, apparently, that
she was just as good as her employers, and perhaps better. It had gotten
her in trouble before and would again if she didn’t subdue it. She looked
down at her feet, hoping that gesture passed as an appropriate submission.
He chuckled and she met his gaze again, to find his lips twisted in a mocking
smile.
“Let me say, Miss Stanwycke, that I hope to bend Charlotte to my will because
it is what is best for her, but I fear very much that I have brought into
my home a less than ideal tutor, if I wish my niece to learn meekness and
surrender.” He flung his cloak off, sending a shower of silvery drops spraying.
She pointedly wiped one droplet from her cheek and said, proud that her
voice was steady now, “In my experience, count, meekness and surrender
are not always the best attributes for a woman to cultivate.”
“I think in this case you should at least pretend to possess them if you
want to stay well and happy here at the castle.” He whirled and strode
to the door, but stopped before exiting and gazed back at her, his face
shadowed. “I will see you later today, Miss Stanwycke, and if you have
any questions or concerns, I will address them then. I would return to
your room now, if I were you. And please leave your tour of the house until
we can provide for you a guide.”
And
once again in the library, in the night...
They were so close that she could see where the bristles of his beard
shadowed his skin, the dark outline arcing up to his hairline and down
under his square chin. His open robe— black figure satin with silk cord binding it—
exposed a naked V, and the dark chest hairs curled flat against his
pale skin almost up to where his pulse thrummed at the base of his
throat.
He moved closer and stood behind her, his breath warm on her neck. “Ah,
so that is the word,” he said, placing his finger next to hers on the page.
“That means ‘stillborn’,” he said. “We had another brother— he would have
been my junior by three years— but it was not fated to be, and my mother
lost him.”
The pool of golden light highlighted the dark hairs on the back of his
broad hand and the gold and onyx ring he wore, with the family crest emblazoned.
Hypnotized, she brushed her finger over it and heard his swift intake of
breath as their hands touched. She swallowed and tried to catch her breath
but it was impossible, suffocated as she as by warring emotions. She closed
the bible and moved away from him in the confines of the narrow space between
the lectern and the wall of books.
“My aunt,” he said, following her, “has told me little of your family,
Miss Stanwycke, but that you lived with them and worked for them. Why do
you not live with them still?”
“I am an orphan, but I believe you already know that.”
“Yes, but you do have family, and were in fact living with them when Aunt
Katrina met you,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave them? Surely even the role of poor relation is preferable
to being an even poorer tutor in a foreign land?”
He was being deliberately cruel, she thought at first, by calling her the
poor relation, but when she looked at his expression there was no taunt
there, merely curiosity.
She sat down abruptly on a chair. “I… I couldn’t live there any longer.
There were… problems.”
“Problems?”
“Problems,” she said, firmly, unwilling to elaborate. She was not going
to recount for his elucidation her humiliation and shame and the awful
banishment that would have sent her to the streets of London.
Curiosity warred with courtesy on his handsome face. She couldn’t stand
to see it anymore and rose, swiftly going to the other end of the room
and gazing at his big desk. “The first night,” she said out loud, “you
just appeared in this room, as if you were an apparition. I have figured
out that there must a be a secret passage to this room for some reason,”
She turned to face him. “Why? And is that why I’m not supposed to be in
here alone?”
He felt a smile curve his lips upward, even against the concern he felt.
Someone at some time had mistreated her, he thought, feeling a rush of
protective ire. But though skittish and uncertain, like the female wolf
she would rather go on the attack than wait and be meek. As dangerous as
that attribute made her, he liked her for it.
But he chose not to answer. “Miss Stanwycke, come out of the shadows,”
he commanded.
She moved stiffly to stand before him.
“Look at me.”
She looked up and shivered, but her expression was not fear or resignation,
but defiance.
“You are cold,” he murmured.
“I’ve been cold ever since I arrived here. Your country is winter and ice
and snow.”
“Ah, but in spring, in the mountains, it is full of life and beauty. You
will see. Come May you will forget the ice and snow and see the beauty
surrounding you.” On an impulse, he murmured, “Let me warm you, before
you go back to your room and so to bed.” He held open his arms.
Irresistible as the invitation was, she knew there was a price attached,
a price he wouldn’t even know she was paying. And yet… one more time could
she just let her desires guide her? Numbly, fearfully, against her common
sense even, she moved into the beckoning circle of his arms and he enfolded
her next to his heart; the wall of distrust and fear she had built up to
shelter her gave way, the mortar crumbling as she felt his strength and
innate kindness surround her.
Nothing could shatter the whole structure of her doubt, but her defense
was breached.
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Simpson has penned a very sensual paranormal,
historical,
gothic read, and it will entertain without
losing momentum.
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Excerpt from: Awaiting
The Night
"Awaiting The Night" is a spine-tingling, gothic paranormal tale... Taut suspense and an intense and sometimes spooky plot making Awaiting The Night a book that's almost impossible to put down. Be sure to pick up a copy of this beguiling story."
... Jennifer Bishop
Copyright © Romance Reviews Today
Awaiting The Night
Melisande
exited her father’s room and flounced down the hall toward her own
room— the
sitting room between their bedchambers was locked off for her use only,
and so
not a through way— but then a noise on the staircase from the fourth
floor of
the castle made her stop. Who was out
this time of night? She flattened
herself against a wall and blew out her candle, irrationally afraid. Who could it be?
A bulky
shadow
slid ahead of its creator down the staircase. The
flame in the lamp in the sconce that lit
the stairs wavered with the
motion of the form passing and threw the big shadow eerily across the
wall, but
even as the figure descended, emerging from the staircase, Melisande
could not
make out who it was. Then the man— for
such a large figure could only belong to a man— paused.
Melisande
held
her breath, her back pressed to the wall, her fingers trembling around
the warm
but extinguished candle. This was
idiotic, completely and utterly absurd, and yet she could not move,
could not
allow herself to just step forward and demand to know who was there.
“Miss
Davidovich,” a deep voice commanded. “Come
out of the shadows, for there is,
truly, nothing of which to be
alarmed.”
“Count
Vasilov,” she said, forcing herself to step away from the wall, trying
to
regain her dignity after such a foolish interlude. “What are you doing wandering the halls so
late at night? Have you… lost your way?”
He was close
and he moved closer, his bulk a blot before the weak light of the lamp
sconce,
his features in shadow. “Yes, I fear
that I have lost my way,” he said.
But she was
not sure it was truly an answer to her question.
“You had a
candle,” he said. “Why did you
extinguish it?”
“I…” It seemed so silly now. “I
was afraid,” she said, trying to make out
his eyes in the darkness of the hall. Foolishly,
she felt if she could just see
his eyes she would rest
easier. “I was afraid when I heard
footsteps, for I wasn’t sure who would be about at such an hours. I was… was visiting my father.”
He reached
out
one big hand, and she thought for a moment he was going to seize hold
of her,
but instead he took the candle from her hand and went to the wall
sconce,
removing the glass— it must have been scorching hot, but he touched it
as if it
were as cool as ice— relit her candle and returned it to her, with a
deep
bow. Now she could see his eyes, the
pupils large and as black as obsidian, but the irises a warm brown
flecked with
amber.
“You should
return to your bedchamber, Miss Davidovich,” he said, indicating her
room with
a nod.
“You know
which is mine?” she asked, surprised.
His lips
twitched. “Oh, yes, I think there is
more than one man in this household who knows exactly where you lay
your head
to sleep. I am one of them.”
She felt a
chill down her back, but it was not fear. “What…
what does that mean, sir?”
“Good night,
Miss Davidovich,” he said, and turned away.
“Why… what
were you…” She had many questions for him,
but he was already gone, presumably toward the guest chamber assigned
to him by
Christoph. Though… surely he was not
going in the right direction for that? Secretive
man… infuriating man! What was he doing at
the castle? He was an old school friend of
Nikolas’s,
but that did not explain why
he stayed, nor did it explain why Christoph allowed it.
Who
was
Count Kazimir
Vasilov? She would demand answers on the
morrow, for
there were too many secrets, and if there was one thing the von Wolfram
family did not
need, it was more secrets.
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