Hi, y’all, I hope you had a good Easter. Well, I have another guest for you. She’s about to celebrate a new release, and I thought you might like to hear about it. Please, check out Miss Collette Cameron’s new book, The Wallflower’s Midnight Waltz and wish her all best luck with it! The story goes as follows:
The Wallflower’s Midnight Waltz
Revenge of the Wallflower’s, Book 5
Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides, Book 9
Collette Cameron
April 2, 2024
AISN: B0C1D8QW81
Synopsis:
A masquerade ball sets the stage for an American wallflower’s revenge against an English noble, only to be complicated by unexpected love…
American Eva Westbrook has had enough of English aristocrats looking down their snooty noses at her.
Among these elite nobles is her neighbor, Peter Hartigan, a notorious rake she believes played a part in her cousin’s humiliation a few years ago. Disguised as a mysterious masked woman and seeking reprisal, Eva sneaks into a masquerade ball that Peter is hosting.
As Eva spends more time with Peter, she realizes he may not be the heartless blackguard she thought he was. She becomes torn between her duty to avenge the past pain and suffering of her dear cousin and the unexpected feelings for the very man who’d caused it.
As they dance the midnight waltz, Eva and Peter engage in a dangerous game of deception and desire.
Eva struggles to maintain her facade while battling her growing attraction to Peter. Meanwhile, Peter is captivated by the enigmatic woman in his arms and is determined to uncover her true identity.
With her blossoming feelings conflicting with a quest for vengeance, will Eva decide to follow through with her vendetta or let go of the past and take a chance on a future with Peter?
Excerpt:
Excerpt copyright Collette Cameron 2024
8 December 1826
Hefferwickshire House
Cumberland, England
Late-morning
Muscles taut and mouth firmed against the grimace struggling to contort his face, Peter Hartigan drew his mount to a halt in the grand mansion’s courtyard. His heart slammed behind his breastbone like a hammer on a blacksmith’s anvil, and despite the icy drizzle doing its utmost to penetrate his caped greatcoat, sticky sweat trickled down his spine.
He nearly reined Legend around and bolted for home.
Only sheer determination kept Peter from yielding to his survival instincts.
Teeth clenched, he tightened his thigh muscles around the horse.
As if sensing his owner’s inner turmoil, the gelding side-stepped and huffed out an agitated breath.
Peter patted the horse’s neck.
A crow cawed, its raucous call mocking Peter from the tree where it perched, watching him with beady, black eyes.
A dark omen?
Peter prayed it wasn’t.
Bile, bitter and acrid, seared his throat as tension twisted in his stomach. Breaking his fast with nothing but black coffee hadn’t helped, but so help him God, he couldn’t have gagged down a bite of food this morning.
He had to do this.
I should have done it months ago.
Nevertheless, it did not make the quest any easier, for he knew full well he did not deserve a jot of mercy or compassion. Still, the guilt and self-castigation for something he did not remember plagued him incessantly, and even if he was unceremoniously tossed out of Hefferwickshire House on his arse, he meant to ask for forgiveness.
A year ago, when he’d first returned to Landford Park to convalesce, he’d been too ill to call on the Duke and Duchess of Latham. Then, cowardice—pure and simple—had kept Peter away.
And shame.
Monumental, incapacitating, permeating shame.
For what could he say or do to make amends?
Nothing, except extend an invitation to the New Year’s Eve masquerade ball he had decided to host as a ruse to call upon the Westbrooks. And pray that their graces, Althelia Westbrook, and her brothers would not see his gesture as the pathetic and wholly inadequate peace offering that it was.
At least the invitation, tardy and insufficient, was a start.
Grayish smoke spiraled upward from the house’s many chimneys, adding a pleasant burning wood aroma to the otherwise dismal atmosphere.
Swallowing against the burning still clawing at his throat, Peter surveyed the house’s familiar, elegant façade. Even in winter, Hefferwickshire House’s gardeners kept the grounds and greens immaculate. The place fairly screamed blue-blooded aristocracy.
It had always been thus, and yet, unlike many members of le beau monde, the Westbrooks had always been warm, welcoming, and kind. Never superior or elitist in their attitudes or speech—something rare and admirable among the peerage.
How many times had he visited the Latham Duchy in his youth?
Too many to count.
At one time, the Hartigans and Westbrooks had been genial acquaintances and neighbors.
Until one night, drunken and heartbroken, Peter had made a horrendous, colossal, unforgivable, and yes—if he were wholly honest—cruel blunder. If only he could turn back time, could change that god-awful night that he’d publicly humiliated Althelia Westbrook.
Even in his foxed-to-the-gills state, he should have controlled his tongue. But wasn’t that part of alcohol’s seductive power? Intoxication rendered one’s senses numb, one’s will as pliable as warm Christmas taffy, and relegated one’s manners and decorum to something only fit for the tosspot.
He skimmed another glance over the Duke of Latham’s stately house.
Aware of the duke’s righteous rage and fearing repercussions from the powerful peer, the Hartigans—merely landed gentry who hovered on Polite Society’s fringes—had closed Landford Park within a week of the ghastly incident, with no intention of inhabiting the stately manor again.
To this day, Peter still wondered if the duke had encouraged his family’s abrupt departure. Neither of his parents had ever said as much, and yet…
Bleakness, cold and merciless, speared him again, and he sighed.
Regret was a sneaky, unrepentant, and relentless thief.
No one had resided at Landford Park until Peter’s return to convalesce last year.
Now with his parents deceased—Father from apoplexy and Mother, ten months later from a tumble down the stairs— Peter alone called Landford Park home.
Robert was in the navy, Harold seemed hell-bent on gambling and whoring his way across the continent, and their meddlesome and often malicious sister Leticia lived with a maternal aunt and, as always, left chaos in her wake.
Shutting his eyes for a moment, he squeezed the bridge of his nose.
He had no memory of the fateful evening that had catapulted his world into bedlam.
None.
Not even a whisper.
Had he ever?
His accident had stripped him of seventeen months of his life.
Cracking one’s skull open on cobblestones after being tossed from a horse that had slipped on ice rather had a way of doing that.
Poof.
His memory…gone, like a cheroot’s thin smoke trail in a gale’s blasting wind.
The one good thing to come from his accident was that he’d given up imbibing in spirits—make that two blessings. He no longer pined for Meridith Peterson, the woman he’d proposed to, and when she had, to his absolute shock, refused his offer, he’d sought refuge in the bottle.
Peter remembered Meridith, but any emotion he might’ve felt toward her had long since dissipated. Had he truly loved her as he had believed, would she not still hold his heart, impaired memory or not?
Bowing his neck and pulling his mouth downward at the edges, he rubbed a finger across the rough scar running from his right cheek and across his temple before disappearing into his hairline—a constant, unapologetic reminder of his fallibility. Fat droplets plopped onto his lap from his hat’s brim, and the distinct aroma of wet wool wafted upward.
His memory loss might not be permanent, the physicians said.
In truth, he’d regained a few snippets in recent months.
Nothing momentous, but enough scraps to encourage him.
Still, other recollections, taunting and teasing, drifted around the edges of his consciousness, shadows he couldn’t fully see. His mind could no more grasp them than his fingers could vapor or fog.
Regardless, he had heard the painful details of the night he’d shamed himself and mortified Althelia Westbrook over and over and over from his sister Leticia, who still openly gloated about the anguish she had caused Althelia. Distancing himself from his malevolent sister was another reason Peter had returned to his childhood home.
Other well-meaning individuals, including Peter’s London physicians, recounted past events in his life to help him regain his memory. A few malicious souls, such as his younger brother Harold, enjoyed reminding him of his idiocy merely to inflict guilt and make him suffer all the more.
Only last year Peter had learned that as a lad, Harold had shot Adolphus Westbrook’s dog and left the poor thing to die. In a competition for callousness and cruelty, Peter would be hard-pressed to say who was the worst—Harold or Leticia.
And since Peter believed himself deserving of their contempt and judgment, he remained silent, refusing to defend himself. For there was no defense—never mind that he had been three sheets to the wind.
Debauchees always blamed others for their actions.
He refused to do so.
Trying to block out his self-loathing, he closed his eyes again for a blink.
Guilt was a blight upon his soul.
God, if he could only go back in time and change that fateful night.
How many hundreds—no, thousands—of times had he made that wish?
Bloody sot.
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USA Today Bestselling author Collette Cameron® is renowned for her captivating, humorous, and heartwarming Scottish and Regency historical romance novels. With over 65 published titles, over 1.4 million books sold around the world, and multiple writing awards to her credit, Collette is a well-known author in the world of historical romance. Readers love her witty and relatable characters including daring rogues, dashing scoundrels, and the strong and spirited heroines who capture their hearts. From the rugged highlands to the refined drawing rooms of Regency England, Collette’s novels will transport you to another time and place, where love and adventure are just a page away.
Collette’s Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romances® are the perfect escape for readers looking for romantic escape, poignant inspiration, engaging humor, and entertaining stories.
Based in the Pacific Northwest, Collette is surrounded by the lush greenery and rainy skies that inspire her writing. She dreams of one day splitting her time between the Pacific Northwest and Scotland. In the meantime, she indulges in her love of all things cobalt blue, dachshunds, chocolate, and of course, crafting her next historical romance.
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Once again, congrats on your new release, Collette! And thanks for joining us!
One response to “The Wallflower’s Midnight Waltz by Collette Cameron #histrom #newrelease”
Thanks for being with us, Collette! Good luck with your new release.