Attending a Ball...with Julie Anne Long and Giveaway

Attending a Ball on Christmas Eve - Julie Anne Long

Julie Anne Long originally set out to be a rock star when she grew up, and she has the guitars and the questionable wardrobe stuffed in the back of her closet t prove it. When playing to indifferent crowds at midnight in dank clubs lost its, ahem, charm, she realized she could incorporate all of the best things about being in a band—namely, drama, passion and men with unruly hair—into novels, while at the same time indulging her love of history and research. So she made the move from guitar to keyboard (the computer variety) and embarked on a considerably more civilized, if not much more peaceful, career as a novelist.

Julie lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with a fat orange cat. (Little known fact: they issue you a cat the minute you become a romance novelist.)

Place to find Julie:

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Readers often write to me to ask about the supporting cast of characters who've appeared in the Pennyroyal Greens series books, which is delightful, because if you're wondering about character back stories and what goes on behind the scenes in Sussex, then I've accomplished what I hoped to do as a writer. :) I do know their stories, and I've always maintained that any character who appears is eligible to star in a book, if only a novella.

I also know readers are dying to know what becomes of Lyon Redmond and Olivia Eversea.

In I KISSED AN EARL, a spy for Lyon Redmond (disguised as a clumsy French waitress) delivers a message to his sister Violet—and this spy is one of the characters readers ask about most often My theme is a ball on Christmas Eve, and this brief little scene, starring that spy and Lyon Redmond (and Olivia, in a way), may become part of a novella. (It may help to read I KISSED AN EARL for context, if you haven't yet.)

I hope you enjoy it!! Thank you so much for including me in your fabulous event, Danielle, and Merry Christmas, darlings!

P.S. The next Pennyroyal Green series novel is BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND IAN EVERSEA, out in April 2014.!

*****

It wasn't quite midnight, and the rest of the crew was snoring in their bunks, but some instinct told Daisy she'd find the captain on deck. And so he was. He was leaning against the rail, outlined in shadow and moonlight.

Her breath hitched. It always did when she stumbled across him unawares.

She couldn't remember how she used to breathe before she'd met the captain.

Daisy would never forget that morning. She'd heard he was hiring crew; she needed money and a way out of Cadiz. But he was an elusive man. She'd been surreptitiously following him and his men on a busy street in Cadiz, ducking between street vendors, merging with clusters of walkers and peddlers, always keeping him in sight while remaining just out of sight. Or so she thought.

She stifled a shriek when he'd swiveled with terrifying speed, hand on his sword, and stepped in front of her.

She'd had time for just one bemused thought: “Ah. So this is how I'm going to die.”

When he got his first good look at her, his hand froze on the hilt of his sword. And the men flanking him did precisely the same thing, as if they were mirrors.

He frowned swiftly, swept her with a the sort that could peel paint from a wall before his expression settled into cold, unblinking inscrutability.

Which suited her just fine. She wasn't interested in hiding anything from him.

Up close, he was the most alarmingly beautiful man she'd ever seen. It shocked the breath from her as surely as if he slapped her.

“I'd warrant you've slaughtered more women with those blue eyes of yours than you have with that sword.”

He might have a sword, but she was well-nigh fearless. Her mouth had gotten her into and out of an equal number of scrapes.

He didn't blink, but she thought she detected a glint in those eyes. Amusement? Murderous intent?

“You've been trailing me for a quarter of an hour. What do you want?”

“A job.”

He flicked another swift glance over her, snorted cynically, and turned as swiftly as he'd stopped, with a gesture to his men to folow.

She raised her voice. “I should have thought a man like you would have more imagination. That's not the sort of job I had in mind...captain. Though I lack no talent in that regard, either.”

She'd known his gaze had taken in her feminine merits, which were not inconsiderable.

He stopped and turned again. He studied her in silence.

“A 'man like me', is it? He drawled ironically. “And what do you know of 'men like me'?”

It seemed he'd decided to indulge her. Or toy with her.

“I spoke out of turn, sir. Surely there are no other men like you.”

It was part flirtation, part sincerity, and all risk.

And this time the corner of his mouth quirked—he wanted to smile, she was certain— and he shook his head slowly to and fro.

Her heart began to pound. She'd begun to interest him. Just a little. The men flanking him shifted like restive horses. Would likely welcome an opportunity to shoot her or throw her into the bay, just to relieve their boredom.

“You speak truth,” he said finally, not without humor. “Your accent is English and I'd warrant you had something of an education. Who are you and from where do you hail?”

“Has my interview begun then?”

“If you would be so kind as to answer me, please.”

The tone was calm, but she understood immediately that he had decided to apportion her a particle of his attention and patience, no more.

“Delphinia Digby. Dorset.”

If any of this surprised him, not a single twitch of a brow betrayed it.

As it so happened, it was true. Her friends and an erstwhile lover or two had called her Daisy, but she suspected the more syllables the better when it came to this man.

“Very well, then, Delphinia Digby. Why do you think I should employ you?”

She was prepared. “I speak three languages and can convincingly fake a few others. I am more than fair actress. I'm unafraid of hard work of any kind. I can follow orders and mind my own business. I can cook, cobble a shoe, and shoot a pistol. I'm resourceful and a quick learner. And I was trailing you for three quarters of an hour, not one.”

At last. Real humor lit those eyes, and the smile, though fleeing, was real.

He hesitated a moment.

“Come to my ship at three o'clock today and tell the men on duty you've a meeting with the captain. We'll continue our interview then.”

She'd been sails waiting to be filled with the winds of purpose. A young woman orphaned and rudderless, quick to anger, slow to trust, bold and cynical and capable of dazzling—after all, God hadn't given her a magnificent bosom and big sherry-colored eyes and all that curly hair and expect her not to use them— but in truth all too embarrassingly eager to be loyal to someone who deserved it.

And once you knew him, really saw him at work and knew what he was about, it was nearly impossible not to swear fealty to the man. She would do anything for him.

“You've the look of a man who could use a little comfort tonight, captain.”

She could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke, but he didn't turn. “Who couldn't use a little comfort now and again? It's cold out here,
Digby. You should be inside.”

He'd always called her Digby. As if she were some gruff staff sergeant in the army, and now a woman of marked curves and charm. It was a way to impose a necessary professional distance, and she supposed it worked. But it also made her all the more determined to find a way beyond that wall.

“My bunk is warm. And comfortable.”

They had a tacit agreement that their relationship was all banter. She would say such things, he would laugh.

Sometimes this made her want to throw herself overboard.

And usually he could flirt and field her volleys with the skill of a seasoned roue. It was both invigorating good fun and torture.

Tonight he was silent, instead. He seemed weighted and distracted.

“So who is she, captain?”

“What do you mean?”

“You've the look of a man who's pining after a woman.”

“Know the look, do you?”

“I'm a woman with a past, captain. I've doubtless sent a man or two into a reverie just like that.”

She placed a slight emphasis on the word “woman.” Just in case he needed a reminder.

Alas, he didn't seem to notice.

And he said nothing for a good long while.

“Christmas Eve.” He said it aloud, musingly.

“Aye, Captain. That it is.”

His voice was soft and steady. “I danced with her the first time on Christmas Eve, Digby. At a ball. And I kissed her for the first time on 12th night. She was wearing white. A dozen other girls were, too. But she had...” his hand went up to his head. “Some sort of sparkling thing was in her hair. And I think she wore a necklace. All I could see were her eyes. Jewels would have been redundant. And we...” he stop and gave a short laugh. “...we argued.”

He caressed the word “argued.” He might as well have said “made love.”

“So you kissed her to make her stop talking?”

He didn't laugh. “I kissed her because I couldn't bear not to. Because I was dazzled. Because everything was better with her. Better and newer. Things I'd seen and done hundreds of times before. Silences, laughter, dancing, arguing, breathing, just being. I was grateful and angry and overwhelmed and...It was all too big to contain. So kissing her seemed the only thing left to me in that moment. Words would never do..”

She stood frozen. Humbled and shattered by the bald honesty and emotion, delivered in such a steady voice, as if he was delivering a verdict. He'd never seemed more remote to her; it was though he'd visited a land she had not and turned forever changed and that was she could never possibly understand him. And suddenly her own limited understanding of such things—ballrooms, kisses, raw love— felt like an airless box. She, for all her bounding from one experience to another, escaping from some, running to others, and had never lighted anywhere long enough to feel anything quite this deep and true for a man. Or to allow anyone else to feel this way about her.

Until, irony of ironies, the captain.

She flailed for something to say.

“What happened to her?” Her voice was a rusty whisper.

He hesitated. “She came to despise me.”

He said it with a peculiar tonelessness.

“Surely that's impossible.”

He gave a laugh, and shook his head at what a card she was. “A lot you know, Digby.”

And continued staring out at the ocean.

They listened to the now familiar sounds of the docked ship creaking and sighing, rocked now by a gentle see.

“I've never been to a ball,” she was still whispering for some reason.

He straightened to his long height and studied her. Surprised by her sudden small voice, perhaps. Or just remembering she was there.

And then he moved away from the rail and strode slowly toward her, and stood looking down at her, and a faint frown creased his brow, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

And suddenly she was afraid he actually would.

Perhaps she ought to say something. About Christmas and mistletoe and kissing and ...

She gave a start when instead he bowed, low and slow.

She gawked at him like a green girl when he was upright again.

“Well? Aren't you going to curtsy, Digby?”

“Oh! Very well! Right, then!” She managed a curtsy as slow and elegant as his bow. She was an actress after all.

“Now, then. Pretend the stars above are the candles in sconces, and the moon is the chandelier, and the creaking of the rigging and the slap of the ocean are music.”

“Would it be insubordination to ask why?”

“Consider this your first ball.”

And just like that, he settled one hand on her waist, and took the other in his, as if he did this every day, a thousand times a day, the way he raked his hair out of his eyes or tugged at rigging or all the things she'd seen him doing. His bare hand folded over hers, and though she knew it didn't cause his heart to accelerate at all, she suspected he could feel her pulse. No doubt he wouldn't notice the difference. She was certain the heart of every women he touched took up a staccato beating.

He eased her into the rhythm of a waltz. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. As lulling as a lullaby, the dance. She could hear him breathing softly. She could smell the starch of his shirts and his soap. She was lost in his eyes. She suspected he didn't quite see her.

And after a moment he hummed, faintly, a tune she didn't know. She sensed he was somewhere in his memories again, and if he was pretending she was another woman altogether, she decided her silence would be her gift to him. She felt very noble and martyred about it, but that was what one did for those one loved.

The deck of the docked ship moved like a great beast breathing softly. And around and around they went. And she decided rotating in the captain's arms was a bit like sailing over the sea. She once thougth she could will him into loving her with the sheer force of her personality. She knew a moment of torment when she admitted to herself that she would likely she would never conquer or fully come to know his depths. But damned if she wouldn't try.

And damned if she wouldn't savor every moment of the journey.

She might look like an angel...

The moment orphaned American heiress Titania “Tansy” Danforth arrives on English shores she cuts a swath through Sussex, enslaving hearts and stealing beaux. She knows she's destined for a spectacular titled marriage—but the only man who fascinates her couldn't be more infamous...or less interested.

...but it takes a devil to know one...

A hardened veteran of war, inveterate rogue Ian Eversea keeps women enthralled, his heart guarded and his options open: why should he succumb to the shackles of marriage when devastating good looks and Eversea charm make seduction so easy?

...and Heaven has never been hotter.

When Ian is forced to call her on her game, he never dreams the unmasked Tansy—vulnerable, brave, achingly sensual—will tempt him beyond endurance. And fight as he will, this notorious bachelor who stood down enemies on a battlefield might finally surrender his heart...and be brought to his knees by love.

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