Wednesday, August 25, 2010

So many great reviews! WHENEVER WE MEET & LORD STANHOPE are on a roll

Yesterday, LORD STANHOPE got a smashingly great review from NIGHT OWL and today, WHENEVER WE MEET got one from Happily Ever After Reviews.
May I indulge and share with you and then send you to he sites for the full monty?
Please, permit me. (She danced in joy.)
From Night Owl, for LORD STANHOPE's IMPROPER PROPOSAL ( ), we get:

"This novella showcases the best of regency romance! Adam Stanhope is a bachelor at heart. Felice is a woman ahead of her time. Together, they work well together, when given the chance. I liked how they pushed the comfort zones of each other both in and outside of the bedroom.

The mysterious "Miss Proper" added a great depth to the novella, giving both motivations for the characters as well as conflict. Also, the Stanhope family "curse", where the men are unable to be happy in love, adds a bit of intrigue. Although the curse is played up repeatedly, generally this plot device does not benefit the story much except giving Adam excuses for his bad behavior.

I really enjoyed Lord Stanhope's Improper Proposal and the novella is everything a great regency romance should be: hot, intriguing, and the epitome of not stuffy. This novella begins a new quintet of stories and I eagerly look forward to the next additions! Definitely give this one a try."
And this morning we get 5 Cups of Tea for WHENEVER WE MEET over at Happily Ever After! ( )

Here's your nibble of that review:
"This is one of those stories you just have to tell your friends about. I absolutely loved this book! Author Cerise Deland’s characters are realistic and the storyline offers great dialogue.
Angela Reynolds is a 27 year old, widowed woman from Seattle, Washington. She accepts an offer to become head decorator for hotel magnate Stephen Montoya’s new hotel chain. She is chosen over two of her colleagues when they fail to please him. Stephen Montoya is a 38 year old alpha male. He’s suave, sophisticated and secure in his own skin and he wants Angela for more than her decorating skills.
The chemistry between Angela and Stephen sizzles from the beginning. Angela is reluctant to become involved in an affair with Stephen, and after she advises him of this fact he offers her a challenge:
“Every time you enter the same room with me you must do two things.”
“You will kiss me hello”
“And kiss me goodbye.”
Wow! What a challenge! I loved the way it started and ended with these two. “Whenever We Meet” is a novella that has it all, romance, great dialogue and hot and steamy sex.
I look forward to reading more books by Cerise DeLand and recommend you give this book a try. "
5 Tea Cups! (which for some odd reason are not showing up here! boo.)

Monday, August 23, 2010

Nibble on my new cherry, WHENEVER WE MEET

A nibble of my new cherry!
Lovely young widow Angela Reynolds doesn’t need a gorgeous older man pursuing her while she asserts her independence professionally and personally. But hotel magnate Stephen Montoya will not permit this sweet vibrant beauty to escape his desires. When he demands she kiss him each time she enters a room and each time she leaves it, the two of them discover that some passions cannot be denied—or tamed. So when Stephen asks her to marry him, Angela knows that she wants his tantalizing body inside hers for heart-pounding intimacies she has only imagined. Will she surrender to this dominating man and challenge her newly found freedom?
(copyright 2010, Cerise DeLand, All right reserved.)
“I have wanted you since the first moment I saw you.” She kissed his dimple and pressed herself nearer. “I think I have wanted you forever.” She put her mouth to his then, a light touch, a prelude to all she craved from him.

He moaned and bound her close, his hand in her hair, his lips seizing hers, and in his ardor, he bent her back over his arm. His mouth was warm, his tongue swift and insistent as he cherished her. His arms were steel, his torso her only support in a world topsy-turvy.

She dug her nails into his shirt as he kissed his way across her cheek and down her throat. She felt her breasts bead with hunger, her pussy cream in demand.

“I have needed to taste you, my angel, for months.” He caught her up in his arms and strode to the bedroom where he laid her gently across the satin comforter.

“Stephen,” she whispered as he straddled her and absorbed the sight of her naked body. His smoldering regard made her arch, her breasts rising with her rapid breaths, her core pulsing. “I can’t wait any longer.” She sent her hands down his torso, tugging at his shirt and his trousers. “Take these off.”

“No, mi corazon.” He bent, his lips to her own. “Now that you are mine, I have an eternity to love you.” With one open palm he traced her hair, her face, her throat, one breast, her belly and cupped her core. Two fingers slid along her seam.

She arched and quaked with expectation.

“I will show you what bliss can be,” he told her, his words more breath than sound.

“Si, si, please.”

His fingers sank inside her. She writhed upward, his molten caress along her channel making her groan and spread her thighs wider.

“You are hot to have me.” He smiled wickedly at her as he delved deeper and made her twist to get closer to him. “How lucky I am.”

She tipped up her hips. “I’m the lucky one, darling. I had no idea…um…no idea a man like you could wait.” She clutched at his shoulders as he dipped to run his open mouth along her throat and find one nipple to kiss and lick.

“I have waited years and years to find you, my sweet,” he told her as he paused to look into her eyes. “But now,” he whispered as he cupped her other breast and sucked her into his mouth, “we wait no longer. We will have all there is from the other.” He slid lower to put his lips to her belly. As he trailed kisses down to her core, the memory came that Wade had never kissed her there. Never wanted to.

She arched, ravenous to have more of Stephen’s attentions, wondering how she could be so fortunate to find him.

“My angel,” he crooned, “I knew there was beauty here.” He threaded his fingers through her pussy hair and she purred. “I knew there was sweetness here,” he spread her labia wide with two hands and bent to lick her clit with the tip of his tongue. She caught her breath, understanding that this fierce tenderness of his was what she craved. “I knew here was a woman I could possess—” He nipped her clit and then sucked it into the hot cavern of his mouth.

Fearing to move and break this luscious delight of his mouth on her, she clutched at his shoulders.

“I knew that here,” he whispered as he pinched her clit and laved her lips with fierce devotion, “was a woman who could possess me.” He crawled up to push back her hair from her cheeks. “Let me make love to you as I wish. When I wish. And in return, you must promise to tell me what you want from me.”

“I will. I promise.” That kind of sharing, that kind of freedom was new to her too. She traced the outline of his lips, then sent her hand to his hips and the hard high erection that strained the fabric of his trousers. “Show me.”

He rose and divested himself of his clothes, returning to her like a darkly sculpted god from some fable.

She ran her hands over the hard planes of his shoulders, the arch of his pectorals, the sweet taper to his waist and the sinewy definition of his loins. His cock stood tall and red, proud and oh so appealing. She caressed his turgid length and thumbed his slit in fascination until he snorted.

“We will finish before we begin!” He clamped his hand over hers.

She teased him. “You have more self-control than that. I have seen it.”

He put his cock to the entrance to her channel. “That man is no longer here.” He slid inside her, a scalding sensation of liquid fire.

Her eyes drifted closed. Her mouth opened. Her pussy pulsed around his shaft.

He circled inside her warm depths. “In his place is this man.”

“I know him,” she whispered. “He is my husband.”

“He is your lover,” he declared. “And you, my darling, are mine.”

Thursday, August 19, 2010

WHENEVER WE MEET--thoughts on Mexican men & locations for novels

WHENEVER WE MEET (out tomorrow at is the result of many delightful vacations in Mexico. At one time, my significant other and I even had plans to build a house there and live in the ex pat community.
Reality struck and said, hey, it's a bit of a trek, kiddo, to all you know! Like libraries and bookstores! Family! Friends! And so here we remain in Texas.
BUT before 9/11 when the travel was much easier across the border--and before the cartels made life hell for the border towns on both sides of the Rio, we often went south to Neuvo Laredo and beyond. Often to Cancun, the coastline cities and the joys of gloriously beautiful Guadalajara.
WHENEVER WE MEET is my ode to the glories of Mexican men. Strong. Handsome. Charismatic. Enthralling.
See if Stephen Montoya fits your idea of a compelling lover. He certainly does for me!

Monday, August 16, 2010

WHENEVER WE MEET video for my new cherry!

Hoping you are ready for another devastatingly scrumptious cover, man, and story! WHENEVER WE MEET debuts August 20, launching the new line at Ellora's Cave, BRANDED, stories about marital heat.
My two lovers marry early in the book...and you must come read what happens to them, how they grow and change and what happens whenever they meet!

Wednesday, August 11, 2010


More nibbles of my newest cherry for you!
This morning we have LADY FEATHERSTONE'S FERVENT AFFAIR out today at Resplendence Publishing, including a Free Read inside, LADY RAMSEY'S RIBALD CHOICES!
Hope you give them a go!
The story? 1809, Lancashire.
Willful Lady Lacy Featherstone knows how the lack of love can warp a person’s life. When her dashing fiancé, Colonel Wesley Stanhope retreats to his hunting lodge after a devastating cavalry injury in Spain, she sweeps into Wes’s hideaway with a scandalous proposal. Wes will make her his wife or she’ll make him her lover. But if Lacy cannot conquer the Hero of Talavera with logic and kisses, how risqué must she become to prove that she is his equal in fortitude…and the only one worthy to grace his bed?
A titillating taste, perhaps?

“No! No!” he would yell as her rat-like minions scurried round him, rolling him to his back, while he screamed in the torment as they took his body up, up, up, his left arm hanging useless as the pain careened through his body and tore his mind to shreds. “Let me be!” he would yell to no avail. “Let me die!”
Wes bolted upright.
His heartbeat pounded a tattoo.
Perspiration dripped down his temples.
“Oh, Christ!” he muttered, wiping his brow. He glanced around, felt his arm in the sling. Safe. Yes, safely on the armrest. “The nightmare.”
“Sir?” his sergeant and servant, Charles, stared into his eyes, the man’s hands on Wes’ shoulders. “Tis the dream again, sir. Are you recovered?”
“Yes,” Wes grumbled, hating how his voice quavered. “Yes, yes! Brandy.”
“Here, sir. A hefty draught.”
Wes grabbed the glass as if it were ambrosia then gulped it down.
He coughed, the damn strong stuff burning all the way down his gullet but inspiring strong affirmation that he was indeed alive.
He sank backward in his old wingchair, the one he had inhabited now for nigh onto thirty days. Ever since they had brought him home from the Peninsula in a hospital bay, he’d sat in a goddamn chair. At Jack’s house in Grosvenor Square. At Adam’s in Berkeley Square. Here. Like an old man. A cripple.
He cursed. He’d left both brothers’ homes, knowing, seeing, seething at their understanding—aye, their pity---for his infirmity. Riled, he had come north to this old hunting lodge and sat in this chair.
His sergeant had come with him. Charles Brighton was a loyal sort. From childhood, Charles had been a servant at their father’s Stanhope estate in the Cotswolds. Charles had been Wes’ body servant since Wes was five, and he had followed Wes into the Hussars. Promoted by Wes four years ago, the older man probably had never thought he would need to play nursemaid to the illustrious cavalryman, Wesley Stanhope. More like, Charles would have thought to care for his horse and his kit until Wes pensioned him off at sixty.
Instead of any such banality, Wes found himself here in this drafty old place his father had given him on his twentieth birthday. He sat here day after day in this big ugly chair, recovering from a broken left arm, a broken left ankle and the loss of his left eye. A scar long and ragged as sin ran across his left cheek.
No thanks to a French corsair and the muck of the Spanish plain outside Talavera, Wesley Hamill Curruthers Stanhope had fallen in battle during a charge of his own cavalry brigade. Days later, in a medic tent, his commander had informed him that his maneuver had won the day for the British, but Wes rued the praise. What good was a man fallen in the pursuit of his duty? What joy in that? What recompense were words of praise when his body was broken and ripped? He could only ponder his own mortality, which now he expected would have a sad and lonely ending.
A man without his profession. Without his faculties. Without an income, save what he got as a handout from his roué of a sire. Without hope of the comfort of a woman.
He growled in frustration at the memory of desire. The memory of how he’d made love to a woman. The recollection of how virile he’d once been, fucking as he wished. When. Whom. Never loving. Until two months before he’d left for Portugal, Spain and the terror of Talavera. Then had found a sprite of a woman. Never before had that been his type. But once he’d seen her, talked with her, been amused and enchanted by her, he’d known he was fully caught. Captured. Enraptured. Only that one time in his life had he thought he might brave the family curse on all loving marriages and find more than the temporary slaking of his desires.
But Lady Lacy Featherstone would never want a weak and broken man. His gut wrenched at the memory of her in all her angelic glory. She was a beauty, an accomplished horsewoman, an heiress freshly debuted last Season with family connections and willful as sin. If he had ever considered himself a proper match for the lady, now he was less than suitable. He was a cripple. Deformed. An oddity for any drawing room, let alone a bedroom.
Lacy. He shut his eye now, recalling how she had looked the night he’d met her for the very first time at his brother Adam’s house party in April. In jade green bombazine, she had followed him into the library after the supper.
“You are ignoring me, Wes,” she had accused him as she’d shut the door behind her.
He’d chuckled ruefully. His need to stop eating her up with his eyes was a monstrous thing so gigantic, he’d had to retreat here. Alone. If only just to get his cock down. “Evidently not entirely.”
She’d drifted forward to face him, her startling robin’s egg blue eyes searching his. “I want a kiss.”
He’d raised a brow and chuckled. “We have only just met. Two hours ago.”
She’d glided forward, her pale moonbeam hair a sweet accent to her flawless skin and the perfect roses of her cheeks. “Minutes, hours. What do they matter when you know in your soul what is to be?”
He’d adored her audacity to counter him but had had to show some resilience. “Ha! And what is that, Lady Featherstone?”
She’d tossed him a smile. “We are to be one. Forever.”
“You are so certain.”
“Doubt me? Kiss me and see.”
He could not take his eyes off her as she’d came to stand an inch from him. His fingers had itched to draw her close, feel her delicate curves pressed to his rock hard body. “You are all of what? Eighteen?”
“Nineteen,” she’d whispered and risen on her toes to press her lush lips to the corner of his mouth. “I have debuted. Of age. Open to a proposal.”
He’d hooted. But his hands had gone around her small waist. “We are not suited.”
She’d slid her lips to rest on his. “You are a cavalryman. I am a horsewoman. We are strong, independent and know what we want.”
He’d pressed his palm to her back and against his chest, he felt the warmth of her breasts . “You need a man of wealth and position. I have neither.”
“I have a large dowry, and you have position. You are a colonel in the King’s Hussars.”
“We are at war, my sweet.”
“Ah. I see.” She’d kissed him once, quickly, the fragrance of her perfume fogging his brain. “You fear you will come back an invalid.”
“Or not at all,” he’d corrected her, giving her a small shake.
She’d nestled closer to him. Her breasts, large and supple, had bored into his chest. Her thighs, strong and insistent, had pressed against his own. “Darling, I care not how I have you.” Her voice, soft as a cat’s purr, had enveloped him. “I want you.” She’d run her fingers through the curls as his nape.
He’d snatched her hand away. “That is wrong.”
She’d placed his palm over one breast. “Kiss me and tell me then.”
How could he refuse?
(Copyright 2010, Cerise DeLand. All rights reserved.)

Monday, August 9, 2010

A bite of my newest cherry, FOR HER HONOUR out today!

Out today at is the second in my medieval romantica series, FOR HER HONOUR, starring a hunky Crusader turned diplomat for King John of England.
Problem for Will Dunwick is that the widow he must take to her new husband is a luscious piece he craves for himself.
What is a loyal king's man to do?
Here is a nibble for you:
1210, The Western Marches, England
Men did not mesmerise her. Ever.
Yet, William Dunwick, the Earl of Greystone, was so much more man than Blanche Bergeron had been told to expect that she had to snap her mouth shut at his appearance. Indeed, he was so huge, so much more handsome than the rumours of his glory that she found herself agog at his appearance here in her great hall. To collect her dignity, she had to sit taller, smile like a gracious hostess and bid him approach her. Amazement—she scolded herself as she settled back into in her dais chair—was not the emotion she wished to convey to this emissary from their ruthless King John. True, she’d heard it said that their regent’s loyal adviser was tall and broad. Blond and ruddy. Impaired by the loss of his left eye. Yet suave as a troubadour with men, and seductive as an oriental sultan with women. Blanche had steeled her mind against him. After all, he was sent by that tyrant John to carry her off to marry a man she was too wise to want and too old to need.
But to gaze upon John’s emissary—this legendary Crusader and adviser—was to admit to herself that, in some things, her assumptions could be wrong. And her tactics to save herself from Greystone’s charms, she knew now, must change from obstruction to some other course that might escape this wise man’s piercing sight and perception.
“Good day, my lady.” Greystone walked forward with the magnetic self-possession that truly powerful men exuded. Clad in his black tabard emblazoned with his own stag crest and Crusader cross on one shoulder, he wore on his chest the Anjevin leopards rampant to denote the sovereign he served. He filled her vision with the breadth of his shoulders, the symmetry of his jaw, the black leather patch over his left eye and a dancing light in his remaining sea blue one. “You do us honour.” He bent a knee to her.
“My lord, you are welcome,” she lied as she extended her hand.
He took her fingertips with his warm ones and led them to his mouth.
Debonair bastard.
At his familiarity, she held her breath as he reverently brushed his soft lips upon her nails. She shivered in the warmth of September. Such frivolities are for younger women, Blanche. Women who sigh at a comely man’s regard and know not how boring they will be in bed.
He smiled up at her, his one blue eye assessing her as if she were a sweetmeat. “I am most grateful for your kind reception of me and my men,” he told her in a voice so low she felt her breasts bead in silly long–dead desires.
She tore her gaze from him towards the four men arrayed behind him. Like their lord, they were of enormous size. Meaty hands and arms, they had impossibly huge chests in black tabards bearing only Greystone’s chest and, underneath, chain mail. With tree trunks for thighs, they flanked their master, standing astride like giant Norsemen. Surely, she could not allow the five of them to carry her off to London for she would never escape their strength. Or their determination.
“I am happy to welcome you, Lord Greystone. We are simple people here in the marches but we do try to match the etiquette of London.”
“I have been told of your hospitality, my lady Bergeron.” He rose to his full height. Even now, one step below her, he was taller. Such presence she had never seen in a man. Her dead husband had been a head shorter than she. Shorter still in other myriad ways. An unsatisfying collection of skinny bones, thin intellect and tiny wit, Mortimer Bergeron had also possessed a penis of such insignificant size that she marvelled she had conceived two children. What does your cock measure, William of Greystone?
His mouth curved into a knowing smile. “May my men be shown to their accommodations?” he prodded her from her reverie in a hushed voice.
“Aye!” She raised her right hand to summon her steward form the back of the hall. “Alfred, take Lord Greystone’s retainers to the knights’ quarters. Forgive us, we are not quite ready for you. We expected you to arrive in a fortnight or more.”
Her serf hastened forward and beckoned to the four men. Only when Greystone nodded his consent at their leaving, did they turn, prepared to go.
Blanche stopped them by calling to her steward. “You may also show Lord Greystone to his room.”
“Nay, my lady,” Greystone pivoted to fix her with his one good eye. “I wish an audience with you.”
The breach of protocol was novel, too. To kiss her hand was one pretty thing, but to counter her in her own home was a bold opposite.
She brought herself up into her full imposing stature. “You should rest, my lord.” Her gaze descended over his splendidly fit body. His pale gold curls dipped over his brow, framing his face and scraping his collar. His chain mail and short breeches bore the dust of the roads he had travelled. His boots were worn and caked with mud. “And you must wish a bath and a bed.”
“I do, Madame.” He leant towards her and she caught a scent of manly sweat that made her nostrils flare in rare appreciation for male musk. “But nothing is more important than that we talk.”
“We shall this evening over supper.”
“Nay.” He took a step towards her. Again, his personal odour swept over her and added to the imperious effect of his demand. “Now.”
Her serf watched. So did his men.
She had never been so countered in her own home. Not since her husband died eleven years ago and she became the lady who controlled the largest fief on the western marches of John’s kingdom. Power had its privileges. It also had its responsibilities. And proprieties.
“We shall talk then. Briefly.” She waved her man Alfred away with Greystone’s four and rearranged the fine azure linen she had donned when she’d been told the Earl of Greystone stood at her gates. “What will you, my lord?” she asked him when the thick wooden doors to her hall finally thudded closed.
“May I sit, my lady?” he asked, tipping his head towards a chair at her left hand.
She inhaled. “Nay. This interview will not be long, my lord. I have a harvest to direct. I pray you, say quickly what you wish to me. We know what it is you want, without the conversation, don’t we?”
“There is no need, my lady, for rancour between us,” he offered in a voice that flowed over her like warm honey.
Her nipples chafed against her gown. Then rose to reach out to him. Her mind rebelled at the attraction. “You think not?” She flung out a hand. Licked her lips. She was letting her temper rule her—and she despaired her loss of control. What was wrong with her? “I apologise, my lord. It is my nature to command here. I find it rare that I am contradicted.”
“So, I see,” he said with earnest commiseration in his tone. “I wish not to make your life more difficult.”
“By your very nature, you turn my life to rubble!” She rose from her chair, her long red hair escaping her netting and spilling over her shoulders. “You come to me early. You come with four giants as your guard. And you come demanding an audience in my own home in front of my own servants.” She bent over, her face so much closer to his damn handsome one, that she sensed his minted breath and even white teeth. She pulled away, astonished at her attraction to him even amid her outrage. “I will not brook your impertinence again like that, my lord. Tonight, you will become a grateful guest. Compliment our food and our fine beer. Talk gaily with me of nothing consequential. And as days go on, we will speak of substance.”
He nodded, flowed closer and fixed her with his eye. “Forgive me, Madame, if I seem an ungrateful guest in your domain. I will repair what I can in that regard. I do not wish to tarnish our relationship with any such behaviour. Nor do I wish to damage your reputation with your minions. My goal here is to accomplish my king’s intent and to do so quickly.”
Her natural fire consumed her. She was mistress here! “Without regard to me and what I want!”
He frowned. “Not entirely true.”
Fists on her hips, she leaned over him, closer still to the power that attracted her and frightened her with its strength. “Tell me, please, what say I have in this plan of your lord and master, John Plantagenet? Bah! He’d do me the dishonour to wed me to a man twelve years younger? A mere child with less land and weaker blood bonds to his majesty’s royal family than I own?”
“I understand your anger, Madame,” this diplomat offered with equal parts compassion and finesse.
“Do you?” she challenged him with rough despair. “Have you any idea what I have done here?”
He tipped his head once. “I have heard the tales.”
“Really? Of what? A red–haired harpy who flogs her serfs to plant and sow and reap with regularity?”
“Nay. That is not you.”
But she was in high dudgeon. “A witch who uses herbs and plants to tend her serfs, heal them of their boils and headaches, their childbirth and the frailties of their aging bones?”
“No witch does that.”
“Aye! I wager you have not heard of the fifteen–year–old who came here as a bride to lie down in a bed of filthy straw because her father and her king demanded it. Nor have you heard how I improved this aged keep with demands for cleanliness and warm fires. How I fought my husband’s slovenly neglect. How I developed the wheat and barley crops and made the best beer in the marches. How I bore with his whining and gambling.”
Greystone stared into her eyes, his countenance serene. “Aye, my lady, I have heard all that of you and your husband.”
“And still you think I will come willingly to marry a pimple–faced youth of eighteen?
A boy who is reputed to prefer wine to work and men to a woman?”
“I am not here to ask what you prefer, Madame.”
His composure had her seething. Not the way to dissuade him from his course, Blanche. She whirled away and ran her fingers through her hair. The netting came loose and in a fit, she tore it off and cast it to the rushes. She ticked off a minute’s time to chill her blood. She was getting nowhere with this man, so cool, so controlled in all his glorious containment. She squeezed her eyes shut to find some resolve and once more faced him.
“Hear me, my lord. You and your retainers are welcome here to rest and repair. My serfs are at your convenience. My larder is open to your appetites. My stables, too, for your horses. But you will leave here as you came. In two days’ time. Without me.”
Greystone got a hard gleam to his eye. “You think to thwart the will of his highness the king of England?”
“I do.”
“My lady Bergeron, ‘tis folly of the highest order.”
“I will not let you take me from my own home. To marry me to another who will squander what I have built. To shame me with his decadence. For what? To please a man who dares to call himself king?”
“John aligns you with a family who has been loyal to him.”
“And I am repayment? Absurd! Let John pay his own debts.”
Greystone set his jaw. In the move, a cleft in his chin appeared and she stared at his face, overcome with a mad need to press her lips to his perfection there. Was she mad? She dared for fight here for her life and livelihood with a man whom she’d known for five minutes. A Norse god whom she coveted between her thighs.
“My lady,” the man crooned to her, “you must know that John cannot pay his debts. He has fought too many wars.”
“He has coveted too many women and plied them with jewels and silks.”
Greystone pursed his lips. “My lord king is in constant need of money. He can only gratefully acknowledge service to himself by using what rights he does have as a sovereign.”
“He is not sovereign here,” she pointed out.
“But he is your sovereign, Madame. By right of inheritance from your husband, you are John’s liege. He will have you marry Hugh de Morency and do so in six weeks time. You are to come with me with whatever baggage and your household serfs you wish to bring.”
“And did your noble lord also decree who will administer my estate while I make my way with you to London and wed this child?”
“Nay, Madame. He said you would know best whom to place in charge.”
She blew a gust of air out of her mouth. “The one true thing John can mutter.” But there was no one here who could replace her. No one with the knowledge. Or the dedication. Or the power. Everything she’d built here, every convenience, every prosperity, would wither with her departure. Her serfs were good folk, but lazy left alone. Without her prodding to tend the fields, without the profits from the sale of Bergeron’s good beer, they would soon die for lack of food and money with which to buy from others.
She fisted her hands at her sides. She surveyed once more William of Greystone, diplomat, courtier, earl and wealthy landowner. Loyal to a king who had proven how disloyal, how ignoble he could be to his subjects. Including, and especially, women. “My lord,” she whispered in a beseeching tone, unnerved by Greystone’s implacability and her own attempt to bribe him, “what may I offer you to excuse me from this curse?”
His features fell to a lax sorrow. “Nothing, Madame.”
She expected that answer. Still, it riled her. “Noble lord Greystone, who has never been bought. Never been false to his king. Never been left idle from the performance of another and yet another errand of John’s perverse mind. Do you not find service to him beneath your vaulted honour?”
He blinked, his lush mouth thinning at her persistence. “Madame, were I able to loose you from this marriage, I would. Trust me, I have tried. My liege is adamant. You shall wed de Morency. With haste, if not with grace.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I vow you will.”
“I must find a way,” she murmured, caught like a mouse in a trap.
“None exists, Madame,” he said with sorrow. “Have you heard the tale of what happened to his niece the heiress, Lady Esme Montague?”
Blanche rubbed her upper arms. “Aye. She refused to marry John’s choice and ran off with her lover.”
“John caught the man and had him castrated.”
“Then John put Esme into a dungeon at Corfe, where she withered and, five years later, died.”
“Blanche,” this man seemed to be pleading with her, “do not underestimate John’s resolve. Marry the boy. Return here with or without him. Resume your duties. Live your life.”
“Or lose it.”
“My lady, we are all creatures of our circumstances.”
“Even you, my lord? The most honourable man to serve his king will do his will despite the dishonourable nature of it?”
Greystone seemed unpricked by her barb. “Aye. My work for eleven years has been to bring my king to a just rule. I work where and when I can for justice for all. But in some instances, I am powerless to change his mind.”
Her gaze locked on his and in that moment, she knew the truth of what he declared.
“I have argued for you, Madame. To no avail. I know when to concede. And when to press. In this matter, I have failed to change my liege’s thinking or his dictum. And you will become the Countess de Morency within six weeks. Prepare yourself. We leave in two days’ time.”
(Copyright 2010, all rights reseved to Cerise DeLand.)
CIAO, Bella!

Thursday, August 5, 2010

LAID BARE gets dynamite review at Night Owl!

LAID BARE is a Top Pick over at Night Owl Reviews!

Party time!

I love it when a reviewer gives you (positive) words you can repeat!

Here is the final paragraph on my romantic suspense LAID BARE from their site:

"Tate and Anna are two people determined to find love no matter at what the cost. I loved that Anna is a person lost in the world but determined to make a life. The action in the book was great for you never know who are the ones after Anna. Now Tate I liked somewhat for here is a guy who knows what he wants yet is confused about love. He's had many women but Anna just blows him away. This is the first I have read from Cerise and she definitely knows suspense and action. Laid Bare was definitely an awesome book and fast-paced till the end. It had it all passion, suspense, and betrayal but most of all two people determined to find love even if it mean tearing them apart. Loved it."
THANK YOU NIGHT OWL!!! Go read all of it at:

Monday, August 2, 2010


Back to my Afternoon Delights, today I am offering you a really great pasta dish that is quick, nutritious and can be prepared by 2 people before or after your rendezvous! (Yes, these 2 to the left have a delight definitely going on....)
My Carbonara has no carbonara...and no cream, but oh, wow, will you love the creamy texture! You'll adore the low calories and the togetherness of the dish! (Add 2-3 diced slices of pancetta if you must be rigorous about it all--and cook with the garlic!)
This recipe is for 2 and requires fresh eggs and freshly grated parmesan.
Get your Delight to grate the cheese, while you:

  • beat 2 eggs with salt, pepper and fresh parsely (chopped) and basil (if you wish)

  • add 1/2 cup of parmesan (and have him grate more to go on top!) while you:

  • saute garlic (4-6 cloves) in 2-3 T. good olive oil

  • add 1/4 cup of white wine to that, remove from heat. (wine will boil off leaving superb aroma!)

  • Cook your pasta (for 2 people, 8-10 oz. total for Afternoon Delight yields 2 hearty portions) and most important RESERVE the WATER!

  • Strain, but add quickly two ladels of the pasta water to strained pasta, stir,

  • Quickly add your beaten egg-herb-parmesan mix!

  • And quickly stir!

  • Add your garlic-wine concoction

  • (If you like your pasta creamier, add more pasta water...but do so one at a time so as not to get it watery!)

  • Serve with the rest of your white wine. A nice Prosecco?

  • Add a side dish of sliced tomatoes drizzled olive oil and fresh ground pepper!
Ciao! Oh, yes! The cover above? This medeival romantica FOR HER HONOUR debuts August 9 at , the second in the Swords of Passion series! Enjoy!