🔥 Die Hard, but make it historical
Oct 16, 2025 11:01 am
Happy October still!
Are you in the mood for Halloween? Is it too early to talk about Christmas?
Well, I am going to talk about Christmas regardless, because, guess what?
A new Christmas anthology is out featuring my novella!
Imagine Die Hard… but set in the Regency era, filled with ballgowns, carriages, a secret passage, and one furious duke who just wants to spend Christmas with his wife.
That’s exactly what you’ll get in How the Belle Stole Christmas, plus more stories!
7 authors, 7 stories, and 7 wildly romantic historical retellings of our favorite Christmas films:
🎄 National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
đź‘» A Christmas Carol
✨ It’s a Wonderful Life
🕯️ Home Alone
đź’š The Grinch / Nutcracker
🎅 Santa Claus Is Coming to Town
đź’Ą Die Hard
The anthology is available now on all major retailers for a limited time — but it’ll soon march into Kindle Unlimited, so grab it now before it disappears from wide stores!
Have you read it yet? I need to know:
Whether you've already finished the anthology, or are not yet in the mood... have you checked out my most recent solo release?
A Marquess of No Importance is out in the world — and I am overwhelmed by your love, messages, and reviews. Thank you for helping this scandalous hell owner, and a grumpy marquess find their readers (and happy ending).
If you haven't read the book yet, here's your chance to grab it on amazon or read in KU. Oh, and the paperback is now available, too!
And here's a preview:
Chapter One
London, November 1821 - Eighty-five Days to Win the Marquess’s Heart…
No one ever came to his doorstep.
Especially uninvited.
Especially early in the morning.
Though it was surprising that anyone would venture out of the house in the deluge that had descended upon London, plunging the city into darkness.
Can't a man be left to wallow in self-pity and brood in peace?
Granted, Nathaniel, the Marquess of Rivendale, had been left in peace for most of his life. And that was how he preferred it. That was the main reason this particular visit caught him off guard. Although any visit at all would have done the same.
The very notion of company felt so foreign to him now that the sound of knuckles against wood seemed almost otherworldly.
He exchanged a surprised glance with his valet, Thomas, as they stepped off the grand staircase at the sound of the knock. Thomas had served him since boyhood, not only as valet but as a friend, and his eyes mirrored Rivendale’s own astonishment.
The knock came again, more insistent this time, loud even through the steady drumming of rain against the windows.
The butler, Mr. Craig, appeared as if out of nowhere, holding a solitary candle in his hand. The elderly man moved slowly but confidently, showing not even a bit of surprise that he might have felt. He placed the flickering candle on the side table by the door and opened it.
A gust of wind rushed inside and immediately snuffed out the candle, plunging the foyer into near darkness, save for the dim glow of the sconces along the staircase.
Lightning struck, illuminating the silhouette of a woman in the doorway.
A woman?
On his doorstep?
This early in the morning?
Was she perhaps in trouble? Had her carriage overturned, or had her horse thrown her? Those were the only reasons Rivendale could think of why someone—let alone a woman—would approach his townhouse. Certainly, no lady of proper breeding would venture out in such weather without dire circumstances, and certainly not to his residence.
The woman unceremoniously stepped inside, shaking her skirts and spreading rainwater across the marble foyer, creating small puddles on the previously pristine floor.
"Miss—" Mr. Craig attempted to stop her, but the woman stepped farther inside instead, paying him no more attention than she might a piece of furniture.
"Oh, this place is truly like the lair of a beast," she whispered under her breath, loud enough for everyone to hear as she lifted her head and looked around.
The light from the walls illuminated her face, allowing Rivendale to see her clearly for the first time.
She was utterly magnificent.
Her hair was as black as a raven's wing, cascading in sodden waves past her shoulders, with rebellious tendrils clinging to her pale cheeks and the elegant column of her throat. Her eyes were the most striking shade of green he had ever witnessed. Not the gentle green of spring grass, but the deep, penetrating emerald of precious stones—sharp, knowing, and thoroughly unsettling in their directness. Her lips were perfectly shaped, like the curve of a ripe peach, but colored the rich red of autumn apples. Even now, dampened by rain and slightly parted in what might have been surprise, they seemed to beckon.
And her figure… Well, it was gloriously accentuated by the soaked clothing clinging to her every curve, outlining the generous swell of her breasts, the narrow span of her waist, and the enticing flare of her hips. The wet fabric left nothing to the imagination, and Rivendale found himself cataloguing every detail with the hunger of a man who had been starved for far too long.
Heat surged inside him despite the cold, and he felt his cock shift in response to the woman before him. He gritted his teeth against the sensation, willing his body to behave with some semblance of gentlemanly restraint.
He stared at her, his hand still curled around the handle of his cane, knuckles white from the force of his grip. "I would very much like to know what you think you're doing inside my house," he said, his voice booming in the empty room and echoing off the high ceilings.
She looked up at him then, her eyes wide, as if just noticing his presence. She was in his house. Why did she seem surprised to see him? She narrowed her eyes, studying his form from head to toe, her gaze lingering on his face with unsettling intensity. Then her attention slid lower, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, his chest, and his narrow hips. Thankfully, she did not linger on the part of him that had stirred to life at her entrance. Instead, she directed her perusal toward his cane, and he noticed something flicker in her expression before she returned her focus to his face.
"You're younger than I imagined," she said, her voice carrying a smoky quality that wrapped around his senses. "The Marquess of Rivendale, I presume?"
"And who might you be?" he asked irritably, his patience already wearing thin. She had entered his house uninvited, dripped water all over his floors, insulted his home, and now she was questioning him?
She was the definition of audacity.
"Perhaps the gossip comes from the young debutantes, to whom anyone over thirty might seem ancient," she continued airily, completely ignoring his question. "I am Miss Melissande Monroe. You must have heard of me."
The name meant nothing to him, though he suspected it should. He had made it a point to avoid society gossip, finding the petty concerns of the ton tiresome and irrelevant to his increasingly solitary existence.
He shrugged. "I really haven't."
A smile finally graced her lips, but it wasn't warm or easy. No, it was calculating. The smile of a vixen who had something up her sleeve, even though her gown was currently sleeveless and her hands were covered by short, black velvet gloves that emphasized the pale elegance of her bare arms. Those arms, now covered in gooseflesh from the cold, peeked enticingly from under the black cloak she wore, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to warm them with his touch.
Rivendale forced his mind away from lascivious thoughts and back to more practical matters. Who could this woman be, dressed in the most expensive silks but wearing no jewelry except for one gaudy ruby ring on the thumb of her right hand?
"Not a problem," she said with that unnerving smile. "You have now, and you will many times in the future. I came here to welcome you to London." She stepped forward, her sodden skirts dragging pools of water behind her, and extended one slender arm toward him.
Rivendale's gaze darted to her hand. She held a card, or perhaps a note or an envelope made of expensive paper that had somehow survived the deluge.
He took it reluctantly, tightening his grip on his cane to keep himself upright as a fresh wave of pain shot through his right leg. The envelope was slightly damp but still intact, crafted from velvety-soft, expensive, perfumed paper.
"What is it?" he asked.
"An invitation. To Hades’ Hell."
Ah. He'd read something about that establishment in the morning paper. Though he wasn't interested in gossip, he perused the paper for the news. He knew that a masquerade had taken place there just a few nights ago, but he had only skimmed past the fact that a massive scandal had erupted during the event, setting the ton abuzz with whispers and speculation.
The scandal involved the unmasking of the infamous thief, The Mist. The thief who had stolen an item of utmost importance from Rivendale a few years ago. The thief who was the sole reason Rivendale had even come to London.
The fact that the thief's identity had been revealed just after his arrival was a fortunate coincidence.
However, unless Miss Monroe was about to hand him the thief on a silver platter, he had no interest in anything else she might offer, and his men were hot on the thief's trail as they spoke.
He nudged the envelope back toward her. "Not interested."
"I'm not here to tempt you, my lord," she said, though her tone suggested that temptation was precisely her specialty. And tempt him she did, without even trying. "Merely to offer you the same courtesy extended to every man of your station: a house credit at Hades’ Hell. Entirely complimentary."
"You must not have heard me the first time," he said with deliberate, slow inflection, as if explaining something to a particularly difficult child. "I am not interested in gambling."
She didn't seem offended by his condescending tone; if anything, she appeared amused. "No one is until they try." Her smile widened, though her eyes remained unchanged.
His gaze betrayed him then, sliding over her rain-dampened form and lingering at the spot where water clung to the hollow of her throat.
God, he felt like a thirsty gazelle finally brought to a watering hole. And even though his thirst wasn't for water exactly, he wouldn't refuse the chance to lick those raindrops off her pale skin.
What madness was this? He was behaving like a randy schoolboy instead of the controlled, disciplined man in his late thirties.
With considerable effort, he averted his gaze, but she seemed to notice his momentary lapse—or at least, she noticed something—because she let out a low, coquettish laugh that sent heat coursing through his veins.
"No need to answer now," she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Just keep the invitation, and if you find yourself…" She paused deliberately, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips in a gesture that was either unconscious or masterfully calculated. At the same time, her gaze slowly moved down his body with bold appreciation. "Bored. Or lonely one night." She met his gaze once more, and he saw something predatory flicker in those emerald depths. "You might want to indulge in our services. We provide more than gambling, you understand?"
The implication was clear, and Rivendale's patience was wearing thin. She wasn't truly interested in him; a woman like her never would be. She was simply trying to entice him into losing a considerable sum of money in her gaming hell and to sample the brothel services that were undoubtedly part of this establishment's offerings.
But to him, it all felt like… well… hell.
"Your concern for my boredom and loneliness is much appreciated," he said drily, "though I am certain it has nothing to do with your need to acquire more customers. However, I must graciously decline." He nudged the envelope back to her, barely concealing his irritation. His patience wasn't the only thing waning—his strength was failing him as well, the familiar ache in his leg becoming more insistent with each passing moment.
He hadn’t anticipated being involved in a sparring match at the bottom of the stairs. All he had wanted was to retreat to the small patio overlooking his private gardens, where he could sit in solitude and enjoy the sound of rain on the leaves while sipping his morning coffee. Was that too much to ask?
Apparently it was, because instead of taking the envelope back into her gloved hand, Miss Monroe deliberately stepped back, her lips forming a pouty moue.
"Why, good sir, no need to be rude," she chided with mock disappointment. "You don't have to visit my den of iniquity, but surely you'll keep the invitation? As a courtesy, if nothing else."
Rivendale let out a long-suffering sigh, recognizing that his continued refusals would not deter her. The woman was as stubborn as a mule, and as beautiful as the devil herself. "Very well, I shall keep the damn paper,” he gritted through his teeth. “Now leave me the hell alone."
Miss Monroe raised one perfectly arched brow at his language, her smile taking on a decidedly mischievous quality. "How ungentlemanly of you, my lord."
That did it. The last thread of his carefully maintained composure snapped like a twig.
"You are not a lady, Miss Monroe," he said, his voice rising with each word. "And even if you were, you would be breaking about a hundred etiquette rules by showing up on my doorstep alone, outside of visiting hours, soliciting me to visit your place of business, and refusing to take no for an answer!"
His tone might have been sharper than he intended. In fact, he hadn't meant to be sharp at all. He had prided himself on controlling his temper in recent years, viewing it as one of the few victories he'd managed over himself. However, the throbbing pain in his leg was becoming unbearable, shooting up his thigh in waves that blurred his vision at the edges. The last thing he wanted was for this infuriating, beautiful woman to witness him tumble to the ground like some helpless fool.
A muscle twitched violently in his right cheek, his eyes burned with unshed tears of frustration and pain, and he tightened his grip on his cane until the carved handle bit into his palm. His entire body began to shake with the effort of remaining upright.
Miss Monroe took another step back, and he could have sworn he saw a genuine glimpse of fear flash across her face.
So what? Let her fear him. Let her run screaming from the beast of Rivendale's townhouse, as long as she left him alone to suffer in the privacy he had so carefully cultivated.
She quickly composed herself, so swiftly that the brief glimpse of fear could have been nothing more than an illusion cast by the flickering shadows. That calculating smile returned to her face as she executed a mocking bow.
Not a curtsy, as any proper lady would have done. A bow. Like a man.
"It will be a great pleasure to see you in…" She paused dramatically, purposefully, making him wait. "My hell."
Then she turned around with a flourish of wet skirts, her head held high like a queen commanding darkness, and walked back toward the door.
She stopped by the exit and waited expectantly for Mr. Craig to appear and open the door for her, as though she were far too important, too regal, to lower herself to put her elegant fingers around the common doorknob and push the door open herself.
As the door swung open, the wind whipped her skirts, revealing her trim ankles and strong, beautiful calves, which were tightly hugged by what appeared to be the finest silk stockings. She paused on the threshold, throwing him one last glance over her shoulder before disappearing into the rain, leaving Rivendale alone with his bewildered servants and the lingering scent of sweet feminine perfume.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, the invitation still clutched in his hand, wondering what in God's name had just happened to his carefully ordered world.
Cheers,
Sadie
