Hello Dear Readers!

I just sent Bring a Boxer to His Knees, book 3 in the Cavendish Family series, to my line editor this week. 😬 There was a lot of fun research that went into writing it, especially surrounding Astley's Circus and its various performers, including strongmen!

I've put together a list of some of the sources I used to write this book on my blog this week.

Otherwise, how about an unedited excerpt from Boxer? In this scene from chapter 2, our hero Max is interacting with a woman he only knows as Miss Smith. We know, however, that she's actually Nora Cavendish. :)

~~~

The princess swanned in as she always did, with the bearing of a bloody queen. Acted like she owned the place. Likely would, soon. He’d seen her shoot. That Cassandra had nothing on her. 

‘Cept he knew Cassandra. Had known her since her tiny knees were dirtied with the courtyard dust as she crawled around after her Ma.

What he knew about the Mysterious Maiden could be fit on one hand. Miss Smith was a damned good shot. She had the bearing of a lady born and raised. And if he had to bet, her name wasn’t Smith.

Mysterious indeed.

And annoying. She swept across the courtyard and set that box of hers on a table near the backstage door. She lifted her hands to her ears and removed bobs that sparkled in the dusky evening light like the hottest blue embers of a fire and slipped them into her cloak pocket. Sapphires, likely. And she treated them like paste. Not a care in the world if one jumped out of her pocket.

Careless with gems while his own belly growled at its almost eternally empty state. 

With a groan, he hauled the hand weight through another set. And he couldn’t help himself. 

“You’re late,” he grumbled.

She whirled around, and he could see the whites of her teeth across the courtyard. “I’m here now. Best not chat. Don’t wish to be even more late than I already am.” 

He grunted. Threw the weight down. It pounded into the earth like Boyd Lachlan’s fist had pounded into his skull some three hours earlier. His head still rang.

Worse. He had nothing to show for it. He’d lost the bout. And the purse.

He dropped to his knees and placed his palms flat into the dusty ground then lifted his knees up so his weight balanced at a flat angle between his hands and his toes. Then he bent his elbows until his chest hit the ground. He pushed back up. Then down. Then up. Again and again.

“Mr. Brooks.” Her voice deep like the dusk ripped grooves in his skin.

He ignored it. What was one more flesh wound?

“How many of those have you done?” she asked. She’d crept closer.

He ignored her, though he couldn’t help but catch a whiff of her. Clean. Like soap. But she also smelled like… like an explosion. Somehow.

“It’s quite impressive,” she said, her dusk-filled voice close enough to topple him over. 

He concentrated on his exercise. Up and down, up and down. 

“Do they have a name?” 

He grunted. Not for her. For his ribs. And his right shoulder Felt like it had been ripped from the socket.

“You’re very good at them. How many do you think you’ll do? Do you do them every day? You must, to have developed such an impressive physique. Your act is quite rousing. The audience always enjoys it. You are, in short, a marvel.” She gulped in a lungful of air. 

He’d give her no satisfaction.

A sigh as heavy as a coming storm. “Mr. Brooks, I have pushed so many compliments into that little soliloquy, I’ve left little room for myself to breath. Everyone loves compliments. Why, then, do you not respond?” She groaned. “Why am I doing this? I promised myself to grin and bear it, but… I suppose it’s the domino, the costume. Makes one do and say what one would usually not do and say.”

Muscles burned. Rioted. Threatened to snap. Better that than her. Up and down. Up and down. Up—

She sat on him. When he rose to his highest point. As if he were a bench in a park or a pew in a church. 

And he let her sit. Shock could freeze a man. And the soft ass of a well-formed woman wiggling in the middle of a man’s back could make him harder than ice, warm enough to melt a damned tundra. 

She chuckled, wiggled her ass again. “You’re quite comfortable. Sturdy.”

He buckled under her weight and crashed into the ground with a thud. 

She lurched backward, about to fall and threw her arms out to steady herself. “Whoa!”

“If you fall,” he grumbled, his voice a gravel pit, “it’s your fault. Get. Off. Me.”

She squared her shoulders, crossed her feet at the ankles and swung her legs to the side then folded her hands primly in her lap. And she did not remove her person from his person. “I realize this is quite indecorous, Mr. Brooks, but it does seem to have gotten your attention, which acheives my intent.”

“I’m ‘bout to roll over. Get off.” 

“Roll over? An attempt to dislodge me? You truly do not like me.” She stood, smoothing her skirts, shaking her head, a tsk sound clicking in her throat. “But why? I’ve been quite patient. And pleasant. But I find I cannot stand it any longer. I may be a permanent figure here from now on, and I cannot have my presence causing issue. I must know. Why do you hate me so?” 

He rolled to his back and folded his hands behind his head, managing to keep his breathing even though even that elementary of a movement caused him pain.

Her breath hitched, though, and he caught the corner of his lip perking up. He squashed it. Only natural to enjoy the appreciation of a beautiful woman. He didn’t have to let her know, though.

She sighed. “Please tell me. I’ve been perfectly nice to you, to everyone, but you scowl and scowl. You smile at Meg, but she’s a contortionist and all men smile at her for some odd reason. You smile at the triplets, and even when they aren’t juggling knives about. I saw you give a recipe to Madame Garrison. For what I do not know, but you smiled when you handed it over. And you and Mr. Webster are quite cozy.”

Max grunted, turned his head to the side. A sharp pain shot down a tendon of his neck and he swallowed it away.

She held her arms out wide. “And I simply do not know what to do next.” 

He swiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirty cuff of his thin shirt. “Why’s it matter?” 

She squatted down beside him, peeking into his face. Soap and gunpowder. He tried not to breath. 

“There are shadows under your eyes.” She fidgeted with the hemmed split in the skirt of her costume, running her fingers up and down it. “If I’ve done something wrong, I wish to know so I can correct it.” 

He reached up and covered his face with his hands. 

“Your hands… they are hurt.” A soft touch on his battered knuckles. 

He ripped away from her and surged to his feet with only the hit of a flinch though every muscle screamed. Who was she to call out his weakness? 

“You don’t belong here,” he said. 

“Pardon me?” She jumped up, crumpling the split of her costume in her fist and shortening the already short skirt by an inch or two more. “What do you mean I don’t belong?”

“You’re here for a lark. A lady. Pretending.” He pushed his feet toward the door. He needed to dress for his act. 

She scrambled after him. “You do not know me, Mr. Brooks. You know nothing about me.”

“Don’t have to. Can tell everything I need to know by looking at you.”

“And what is it you’re doing, strongman? If not pretending?”

“Making a bloody living, Princess.” 

She gasped and stumbled away from him. “I’ll have you know I take this quite seriously.”

He rolled his eyes and left her behind. “I’m sure.” He knew women like her. They enjoyed the thrill, the secret scandal of running away to the circus. They were nothing but a spectacle to her.

She ran after him. “Do you laugh at me?” He flinched. Each of her words hit him like one of her impeccably aimed bullets.

He reached the backstage door and swung toward her. “Listen, Princess. These people work to feed themselves. You walk away. You don’t starve.” He stabbed a finger toward the backdoor. “They do. Go back to your ballrooms.” He opened the door with a muffled groan. Then he bent his huge frame to enter the building and slammed the door behind him. 

But not soon enough to block out the sound of her soft cry. Nothing hit a man so close to the heart as a woman’s distress. And he’d caused it. He didn’t like her. Everything he’d said was true. But he should have kept his peace. Let her have her fun and leave them be when she bored.

He would have had he not been quite so hungry. And aching. Bones, soul, and all.

~~~

We'll there's a lot there! Class difference, enemies to--hopefully--lovers, and hidden identities.

It's a long time till august, though! So in the meantime...

Ready for some book recs?

Why not try Violet Malvik's highlander romance? Gotta love a hero in a kilt.

And if you've not tested Melanie Rose Clarke's series, try this!

Looking for sizzling summer romance? This promo has you covered!

Need a lighthearted beach read? Look no further than this promo!

I hope your TBR is bursting at its seams!

Happy reading!

Charlie Lane