Beverley, an author I met on my journey, has a blog tour running right now.
Let's check out the details, shall we?
About the Book:
Forsaking Hope, Fair Cyprians of London, Book 2:
Forsaking Hope, Fair Cyprians of London, Book 2:
Felix, Lord Durham's eldest son, has been in love with the
vicar's wild and willful daughter, Hope, for as long as he can remember.
When he learns that Hope is to be sent to Germany to become a
governess, he arranges a romantic rendezvous.
But Hope fails to appear.
Two years later, Felix’s friends arrange a ‘special birthday
gift’ for him: a night with notorious brothel owner Madam Chambon’s most
sought-after girls.
When Hope appears in his bed, Felix is horrified to discover that
the passionate, ambitious girl of his dreams has been replaced by a world-weary
prostitute who treats him like a transaction.
But while love appears to have forsaken Hope, there are chinks in
her armor.
Can Felix unravel the mystery surrounding Hope’s
terrible transformation in time to prevent an even greater tragedy?
Purchase Links:
Universal Amazon link: https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0751VWVF1
B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/forsaking-hope-beverley-oakley/1127001396?ean=9781537857398
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/au/en/ebook/forsaking-hope
iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/forsaking-hope/id1274219782?mt=11
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Beverley_Oakley_Forsaking_Hope?id=7T8yDwAAQBAJ
Nice cover! Congratulations on your upcoming release!
Here is an excerpt from Forsaking Hope.
Wilfred Hunt.
If there was a name to tip Hope into the abyss of despair she
was hearing it spill from Madame Chambon’s lips now as the older woman directed
Hope to take a seat in the reception room, presumably so Madame could loom
oppressively over her.
With her hands on her ample, expensively padded hips, Hope’s
benefactress—procuress, employer and gaoler were other monikers—sent Hope a
beetling look that needed no interpreting: Regardless of Hope’s true feelings,
Hope must project the required show of warmth and delight at being the chosen
one.
Madame patted the side of her faux curls. Years of hot irons had
reduced her hair to the texture of wool but her crowning glory these days was
supplemented by the lustrous locks of those girls who dared cross her – before
they were thrown back into the street from where most had come.
Nevertheless, Hope had to make her resistance clear. Surely
Madame who knew her history would understand her loathing for this man, above
all others. “I shan’t do it,” she whispered. There was little evidence of the
willful child and wild adolescent who’d been the despair of her family. “I
won’t—”
Outside, the noise of the traffic rumbling over the cobbles and
the shrill calls of competing vendors settled upon the tense silence. Madame
Chambon’s other girls, ranged around the sumptuously appointed room on red
velvet upholstered banquettes, watched the exchange with prurient fascination.
Hope knew it had been a calculated ploy of Madame’s to conduct her interview in
public so that Hope would serve as an example to them.
No one crossed Madame Chambon.
The shrill cry of a fishmonger caused Madame to look pointedly
out of the window. With something between a smile and a sneer, she smoothed a
Marcel wave. “Is that where you plan to return, Hope? The gutter?” Her nose
twitched and in the sunlight that filtered into the room, the grooves chiseled
between mouth and chin were thrown into harsh relief, highlighted rather than
hidden by the thick powder she used to conceal her age.
Madame Chambon’s comfort, now and into retirement, depended on
obedient girls. Hope knew that as well as anyone. She’d had to bury her
rebellious streak just to ensure food in her belly.
The Frenchwoman raised a chiseled brow and began to pace slowly
in front of her girls. A painter with an eye for beauty would have been
ecstatic at capturing such a spectacle on canvas. The discerning young man
about town who visited 56 Albemarle Street was frequently rendered ecstatic by
the range of delights Madame Chambon's girls offered in addition to the visual.
“You forget yourself, Hope. I put a roof over your head and deck
you out as handsomely as Mr. Charles Worth ever did for his most discerning
customer.” There was acid in Madame Chambon’s tone. “But for me, you'd be
starving and glad of the pennies you could trade for a grubby stand-up
encounter in a dark alley.” Madame Chambon thrust out her bosom and breathed
through her nose, her response a calculated warning to the other girls arranged
in various languid poses about the ornately decorated reception room that
intransigence would not be tolerated.
“Mr. Hunt has requested you.” She paused and when Hope remained
silent, though her stance and expression left no one in any doubt as to her
horror regarding this enforced assignation, went on. “Remember what I told
you—what I tell all my girls when they first come here? The past must be
forgotten the moment you step over my threshold. You are reborn, remodeled,
refashioned into the most exquisite delectation of womanhood. A marquess, a
prince, is well recompensed for the tidy sum he hands over in order to enjoy
your sparkling wit, to converse with you in French, or if he chooses, on
philosophy…to enjoy your charms…and,” she added significantly, “your gracious
hospitality and tender ministrations to his needs. That is our agreement and
you are no different. If Mr. Hunt wishes you, Hope, to attend him at his
residence then you will go.”
Faith, one of the kinder girls, patted Hope’s arm in silent
solidarity. Hope didn’t expect any of them to speak up in her defense. Not when
they all relied on Madame Chambon as much as she did to provide them with the
necessities of life. Anything more than that was part of a strict contract that
indentured a girl for life unless she was able to secure a generous benefactor
to settle Madame's severance bill. The fine clothes were part of the charade,
necessary to entice a more elite clientele. Hope’s exquisite wardrobe did not
belong to her, though she'd have forsaken all the Dupion silk and Spitalfields
lace for the freedom of the gutter and to be mistress of her own destiny – and
her body - if she could only be sure of a plate of gravy and potatoes every
second day.
Closing her eyes, she hung her head, the carefully coiffed curls
that fell forwards brushing against her tear-streaked cheeks. It was as well
that they not be in evidence. Tears, weakness, vulnerability were like a red
rag to a bull where Madame Chambon was concerned.
“How long…do I have to prepare myself?” She was not so stupid
she couldn’t admit defeat when there was no alternative. Obduracy was beaten
out of one, but tears ensured a girl got the very worst next assignment. Their
clients weren’t all marquesses and princes, though they did require a very fat
pocket book.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” Hope repeated it in a leaden tone, and stared at her
hands, clasped in her lap; white-knuckled. As white as the rabbit-fur that
edged her fashionable black-and-white striped satin cuirass. Hope had the tall,
slim figure suited to the scandalously tight tie-back skirts that were all the
rage, the back flowing into a train adorned with elaborate swags and trimmed
with bows. She'd turned heads the length of Oxford Street as she’d promenaded
along the pavement following a walk through Hyde Park earlier that afternoon.
In fact, for the first time in two years, she’d almost felt happy as she’d
pretended a sense of freedom in the afternoon sun, blocking her mind to the
prison to which she was returning.
She drew in her breath and forced herself to be brave, knowing
the punishment she’d invite for daring to speak her mind. “Please tell Mr. Hunt
I will see him again under sufferance.”
Madame Chambon’s voice was surprisingly caramel. “Well then, now
that you have made your objection clear, Hope, you will be pleased to hear that
Mr. Hunt’s desires are not only motivated by fond memories of your no-doubt
mutually satisfying congress. I believe he wishes to acquaint you with news of
your family.”
Hope hid her shock. “I have no family.” With care, she modified
her tone so it was as leaden as before though emotion roiled close to the
surface.
“Not even a sister?”
Hope raised her chin. Here was the chink and Madame knew it. The
woman did her research.
Aware that the other girls who surrounded her were tense with
anticipation, Hope struggled not to respond. Camaraderie existed at surface
level but one never knew when it might profit one to have the dirt on a fellow
prostitute. It was, clearly, another reason Madame Chambon had chosen to make
this conversation public.
“Mr. Hunt will see you at nine tomorrow evening,” said the
so-called Frenchwoman who, it was whispered, was from the gutters of Lambeth,
not Paris. “At his apartments in Duke Street. Now go and prepare yourself for
Lord Farrow. Married to a monolith like the venerable Lady Farrow, he likes his
girls vivacious and free-spirited. There’ll be less coin in your pocket if you
sully the transaction with that long face, Hope.”
Wow! Definitely an interesting tale here! ;)
Readers, you'll have to check out this book! It comes out next week, but you can pre-order it now!
☆.•°☆ GIVEAWAY ☆°•.☆
Beverley is giving away a $10 Amazon gift Certificate to a randomly drawn winner via Rafflecopter during the tour. Please use the Rafflecopter below to enter. Remember you may increase your chances of winning by visiting the other tour stops. You may find those locations here.
Rafflecopter Link
Woo hoo! Thanks, Beverley!
Let's also give kudos to Beverley's sponsor:
Grab a copy of this new release! And don't forget to participate in the awesome giveaway!
Thank you, Beverley, for letting us know all about your historical romance! It sounds great! :)
About the Author:
Beverley Oakley was seventeen when she bundled up her
first 500+ page romance and sent it to a publisher. Unfortunately, drowning
her heroine on the last page was apparently not in line with the expectations
of romance readers, so Beverley became a journalist.
Twenty-six years later, Beverley was delighted to receive
her first publishing contract from Robert Hale (UK) for a romance in which she
ensured her heroine was saved from
drowning in the icy North Sea.
Since 2009, Beverley has written more than thirteen
historical romances, mostly set in England during the early nineteenth century.
Mystery, intrigue and adventure spill from their pages and if she can pull off
a thrilling race to save someone’s honor – or a worthy damsel from the noose –
it’s time to celebrate with a good single malt Scotch.
Beverley lives with her husband, two daughters and a
Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy the size of a pony opposite a picturesque nineteenth
century lunatic asylum. She also writes Africa-set adventure-filled romances
starring handsome bush pilot heroes, and historical romances with less steam and
more sexual tension, as Beverley Eikli.
Author Links:
Website: www.beverleyoakley.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorBeverleyOakley/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/BeverleyOakley
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Beverley-Oakley/e/B01HOFCS8K/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/list/5989577.Beverley_Oakley
Google+: https://plus.google.com/106643093417321292361
Pinterest: https://au.pinterest.com/beverleyeikli/
Beverley's Books:
Coming Soon:
Available Now:
Writing as Beverley Eikli:
Writing as Beverley Eikli:
Thank you so much for sharing
ReplyDeleteMy pleasure!
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