Leigh Michaels is a bestselling author of category romance with 35 million books sold. She is breaking into single title with her Regency romance trilogy, each installment of which intertwines three fascinating, sensual love stories for a triple happy ending. The Duke of Somervale's sister's wedding brings together three couples who must sort themselves out to avoid scandal. Lady Reyne's friend Kate discovers how much she has in common with adventurer Andrew Carlisle, and Lady Penelope Townsend discovers new love with her estranged husband. But the men who support her rival Stephen do not know the iron will that drives her.
But Adeliza, born with a strength that can sustain her through heartrending pain, knows that the crown belongs to a woman this time. How long can Matilda fight for the throne that she has struggled so bitterly to win?
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Still looking around, as if her gaze were caught in a web of invisible threads, Matilda paused at the door. She could still recall the fear she had felt and all the pressure of being sent out of the nest to a foreign land and a betrothal with a grown man.
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It could have been a disaster but, instead, it had been the making of her: the frightened, studious little girl had been moulded into a regal woman and an able consort for the Emperor of Germany. Matilda dropped her hand and straightened her cloak.
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He was her bodyguard and leader of her household knights: strong, dour, dependable. As a child she had thought him ancient because even then his hair had been white, although he had only been thirty years old. He looked little different now, except for a few new lines and the deepening of older ones. Her entourage awaited her in a semi-circle of servants, retainers, and officials. Most of her baggage had gone ahead by cart three days earlier and only the nucleus of her household remained with a handful of packhorses to carry light provisions and the items she wanted to keep with her.
Her chaplain, Burchard, kept looking furtively at the gelding laden with the items from the portable chapel. Matilda followed his glance, her gaze resting but not lingering upon a certain leather casket in one of the panniers, before she turned to her mare.
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The salmon-red saddle was a sumptuous affair, padded and brocaded almost like her hearth chair, with a support for her spine and a rest for her feet. While not the swiftest way to travel, it was dignified and magnificent. Matilda mounted up, settling herself and positioning her feet precisely on the platform. Seated sideways, looking both forward and back.
It was appropriate. She raised her slender right hand to Drogo, who acknowledged the signal with a salute and trotted to the head of the troop. The banners unfurled, gold and red and black, the heralds cantered out, and the cavalcade began to unwind along the road like jewels knotted on a string. The dowager empress of Germany was leaving the home of her heart to return to the home of her birth and a new set of duties. Adeliza gripped the bedclothes and stifled a gasp as Henry withdrew from her body. He was approaching sixty years old, but still hale and vigorous.
The force of his thrusts had made her sore inside, and his stolid weight was crushing her into the bed. Mercifully, he gathered himself and flopped over on to his back, panting hard. Biting her lip, Adeliza placed her hand on her flat belly and strove to regain her own breath.
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Henry was well endowed, and the act of procreation was often awkward and uncomfortable between them but, God willing, this time she would conceive. Thus far no amount of prayers, gifts, penances, or potions had rectified her barrenness. Henry had a score of bastards by various mistresses, so he was potent with other women, but only had one living legitimate child, his daughter Matilda from his first marriage. His son from that union had died shortly before Henry took Adeliza to wife.
He seldom spoke of the tragedy that had robbed him of his heir, drowned in a shipwreck on a bitter November night, but it had driven his policies ever since. Her part in those policies was to bear him a new male heir, but thus far she had failed in her duty. Henry kissed her shoulder and squeezed her breast before parting the curtains and leaving the bed. She watched him scratch the curly silver hair on his broad chest.
His stocky frame carried a slight paunch, but he was muscular and in proportion. Stretching, he made a sound like a contented lion. Their union, she thought, even if it brought forth no other fruit, had released his tension. His sexual appetite was prodigious and in between bedding her, he regularly sported with other women. He poured himself wine from the flagon set on a painted coffer under the window, and on his return picked up his cloak and swept it around his shoulders. Silver and blue squirrel furs gleamed in the candlelight. Adeliza sat up and folded her hands around her knees.
The soreness between her thighs diminished to a dull throb. He offered her a drink from the cup and she took a dainty sip. Adeliza could tell from his expression that his thoughts had turned inwards to the weaving of his political web. I have instructed them to burn incense and put out bowls of rose petals to sweeten the air.
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They hung new tapestries on the walls this afternoon and the furniture is all assembled. However, it is not a laugh fest, although his wry humor is present throughout the novel.
The story is ultimately optimistically melancholic. His later writings are about a maturing gay man so they come with "issues" of an older man rather than the young guys who populated his earlier books. It may not be as "fun" a ride as Object Of My Affection, but it is fun and funny in its own way. Maybe I like it because we are about the same age so he always speaks to MY issues.
What makes the story so repulsive to me is that the victims of these people's self-indulgences are the two most vulnerable characters, both of whom deserve better than McCauley's despicable protagonist and other people in charge deliver. My complaint is not that I insist upon a happy ending, but that McCauley spent the entire novel making me care about his people and believe in their innate worth, and then in the last paragraphs revealed that they and his book were not worth the time I spent with them.
I felt like the author double-crossed the reader, as if it were a surprise knife in the gut from someone I'd grown to trust. As of course the author of Blue Heaven and a contributor to all those episodes of Frazier and Desperate Housewives would have to be.yoku-nemureru.com/wp-content/spyware/151-hangouts-spy.php
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Anyone else remember these fondly? Yes indeed, we too use "cookies. I know we do! You can thank the EU parliament for making everyone in the world click on these pointless things while changing absolutely nothing. Otherwise, you'll just have to find some other site for your pointless bitchery needs. Books With Gay Humor? Apparently, the death of humor went unnoticed by the multitudes. Why it hasn't been made into a movie is a mystery. How do you fit four gay guys on the same barstool?
Are you 12? Seconding Joe Keenan. Stephen McCauley is sometimes wistfully funny but his later books have been morose. Another vote for David Sedaris. David Rakoff is also very funny. Darkly humorous. Another vote for Blue Heaven. Seinfeld is the best. Dykes to Watch Out For. End of thread.
Nope, r17 beat you. What makes Sedaris so good?