Newsletter

June 2007

*** Please feel free to forward this newsletter to friends and/or post at romance-friendly places such as bookstores and on the Internet. Thank you for your support! If you wish to subscribe or unsubscribe, visit http://www.laurenroyal.com/3.0/contact.ml ***

Dear friends and family~

I am amazed and delighted to announce that TEMPTING JULIANA has been named a finalist for two more awards, the Beacon Award and the Bookseller's Best Award! That makes five in all, which is very exciting (almost as exciting as the Anaheim Ducks winning the Stanley Cup :-)). In other fun news, I was interviewed this month by the Historical Romance Club. If you're interested in reading the interview, go to http://www.historicalromanceclub.com/index-I.html and click where you see my picture.

My May contest winner is Deborah Oller from Rochester, New York. Congratulations to Deborah! There are four more opportunities to win the quizzing glass pictured on the back of TEMPTING JULIANA, so if you haven't entered the giveaway for June yet, visit http://www.LaurenRoyal.com and click where it says "Contest" on the menu. This month's question is "At what time do the foundlings go to bed?" and the answer can easily be found in the excerpt.

It was wonderful chatting with many of you at the L.A. Highland Games last month. Thank you so much for brightening my day! This weekend I'll be signing books on two days (both in California): Saturday, June 23 at the San Diego Highland Games in Vista, and Sunday, June 24 at the Irish Fair at the Irvine Meadows Fairgrounds. You'll find me in the Tea & Sympathy booth both days, hoping people will come by to say hi. :-) For more information, including addresses and links to the festivals' websites, visit my Calendar page at http://www.laurenroyal.com/3.0/lauren/calendar.

Beginning with this newsletter, each month I'll be sending a preview excerpt from my upcoming book, THE ART OF TEMPTATION, which will arrive in stores later this year. You'll find the prologue below...I hope you'll enjoy it!

Happy reading!
~Lauren
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EXCERPT #1
(from THE ART OF TEMPTATION by Lauren Royal, due in stores October 2007)

PROLOGUE

IRISH WHISKEY CAKE
Take butter with sugar and put in this eggs and flour and a bit 'o coffee to make a nice flavour. Put in your pan and bake in your oven. Make a syrup of coffee with much sugar and a wee dram 'o whiskey and pour this into your cake. Bring to table with sweet whiskey cream and a sprinkle of nuts.
*My mother used to caution, "Who gossips with you will gossip of you." Nonetheless, she surely did love to gossip. She used to serve this cake when the womenfolk came for tea. She claimed it loosened ladies' tongues.*
—Deirdre Delaney Raleigh, 1819

*Kilburton, Ireland*
*November 1807*

On a damp Tuesday shortly after he turned eighteen, life as Sean Delaney had known it ceased to exist.

First he received a letter, an event in itself. All of Sean's acquaintances lived in the village of Kilburton—nobody ever had reason to write him a letter. A very official letter it looked, too. As he watched the lad who had delivered it retreat down the lane, Sean's mother came in from the sitting room where she'd been serving tea to some womenfolk from the parish.

"Was it not Mary McBride, then?" she asked. "She's late."

"It wasn't Mrs. McBride, no." Sean shut the door and turned to her, the single folded sheet clutched in one hand. "It's a letter. For me."

"For you?" Her pleasant, guileless face looked as surprised as he felt. "Well, open it, then, will you?"

He nodded and broke the seal.

"Who is it from?" she asked impatiently.

"A solicitor." Below the imposing engraved letterhead, he scanned down the page. "'On behalf of Mr. Patrick Delaney—'"

"Who is that?"

He shrugged. "One of Da's relations, I expect."

"Your father has no living relations." She frowned. "What is he wanting, then?"

"He's wanting . . ." He read further and gasped. "He's not wanting anything. He's dead. And he left ten thousand pounds. To me."

"Ten *thousand* pounds?"

To a vicar's wife like Ma, the number was all but incomprehensible—enough to support a villager and his family and a servant or two for fifty years. Staring at Sean, she slowly lowered herself to a plain oak chair. Muffled feminine voices tumbled from the sitting room—her guests were gossiping, no doubt. Uncharacteristically, she ignored them.

"Ten thousand pounds, Sean. Whatever will you do with so much money?"

"I don't know," he said.

But he did know. He'd known instantly. He just didn't want to tell her.

He didn't want to disappoint her, not yet.

"I'm after going for a walk." He grabbed a heavy wool cloak from the peg by the door. "I shan't be gone long," he promised softly before slipping outside.

It was raining, as usual this time of year. As usual all year, for that matter. Tucking the letter under the cloak where it would stay dry, he hurried down the lane.

Such a vast amount of money, more than Ma had seen in her entire life. She would want him to do good with it. Charitable works or some such. She was a vicar's wife, after all, and a very kindly one at that.

But Sean didn't want to do good. Oh, he'd pay the expected tithe. He was a vicar's son, perhaps not as devout as his father would wish, but no rebel either. The tithe would be an unprecedented boon for the parish, one Sean would be pleased to provide. He'd been raised with all of these folks—spent his entire life surrounded by them, cocooned in their comfortable familiarity—and it seemed right that they should share a tenth of his good fortune.

But after that, he was going to leave Ireland.

He was going to London.

He was going to make a life for himself, something better than he'd ever imagined growing up in wee Kilburton.

It wasn't going to be easy leaving kinfolk and friends, striking out on his own. He knew that. His heart seemed both heavy and light as he turned away from the village, crossed the harvested fields, wandered the age-old riverbank. Touching the precious letter beneath his cloak, he alternately laughed, pondering his immense luck, and trembled, wondering what lay ahead.

Three hours passed—three tense, exhilarating hours—before he took a deep breath and started home. It had stopped raining. When he reentered the village, the sun was setting low on the horizon, its last rays fighting through the cloud cover as he trod the lane toward the vicarage. Just before he reached the squat house, two figures came out of it, dark shadows against the silvery glow.

"You have no choice." The Honorable Mr. William Hamilton's voice came low and angry through the gloom. An imposing man if not a tall one, he was the same height as the son he pulled toward their fancy carriage. "Not this time."

Wondering what was going on but not wanting to be seen, Sean hid himself behind a tree.

"You paid off that village girl without any repercussions." Young John Hamilton sounded sullen, furious. "And that maid—"

"Two. Two lowly maids." His father pushed him up the carriage's steps. "She's not some servant's get, you idiot," he muttered, following his son inside. "I'd lose face should you not—"

The door shut, and Sean heard nothing else. As the carriage rumbled off, he stepped from behind the tree and hurried into the house.

It was warm, welcoming, filled with the soft light of oil lamps and redolent with the scent of the whiskey cake his mother had baked earlier for her guests. A good home, simple but clean and cared for. Sean had a fine family, a sister three years his junior and parents who had always been there for both of them, giving of their hearts although they'd never had much to give materially.

He felt sad, knowing he'd soon be leaving all of this, and also excited about his new life. But mostly, he was mighty curious to learn what had made the Hamiltons leave their huge manor house to pay a call at the modest vicarage.

Hearing voices from the sitting room, he headed there. And stopped short when his sister turned to him with a grin. "I'm marrying John Hamilton."

Sean stared at fifteen-year-old Deirdre. He couldn't have heard her right. "What did you just say?"

Her golden hair gleaming in the firelight, she lifted her chin. "Mr. Hamilton told John he'd have to marry me."

"But why?" His gaze shot from his father's bloodless face to his mother's eyes, swollen from weeping. There could be only one reason they looked like that, one reason John Hamilton might be forced to wed Deirdre. "You're not . . ." As he looked back to his sister, the rest of the sentence stuck in his throat.

Her grin widened as she folded her hands over her deceivingly flat middle. "I'm with child, aye. And I'll be the wife of John Hamilton, the handsomest, richest unmarried man in all of Kilburton."

In all of the county, more like. The Hamiltons' lofty new manor house sat in the shadow of their ancestral home, centuries-old Kilburton Castle. John Hamilton's father was the younger brother of the Earl of Lincolnshire, sent years ago to oversee Kilburton, one of the earl's many lesser estates.

Growing up, Sean and Deirdre had been educated in a chilly one-room schoolhouse, while John had a parade of private English tutors. The boy had always been temperamental, and Sean had thought him haughty, unfeeling, and selfish. But the two had been born the same year, and since there were no other lads their age in Kilburton, Sean's mother had told him to play with John anyway. After all, she'd often said—all *too* often, in Sean's estimation—it was the Christian thing to do.

Being a biddable sort of son, Sean had done what he was told and played with the fellow more times than he could count. But Hamilton had always wanted to stay inside and fiddle with paste and paint, while Sean preferred outdoor pursuits like fishing and building forts. He'd never really liked John Hamilton.

Deirdre, on the other hand, a rather wild girl and the bane of her parents' existence, obviously liked John Hamilton just fine.

Fine enough to let John ruin her.

Still and all, Sean loved his sister. She was pretty and fun, the best of companions, always ready with a smile and a plan for mischief. Looking at her now, her eyes dancing, Sean clenched his fists.

He no longer disliked John Hamilton . . . he hated the rotter. For life.


*** THE ART OF TEMPTATION won't be in stores until October 2, but if you'd rather pre-order than try to remember the release date, there are links to online booksellers on my website at http://laurenroyal.com/3.0/bookshelf/books/at/order ***
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Fall in love with a historical romance by Lauren Royal
TEMPTING JULIANA in stores now! ~ THE ART OF TEMPTATION coming Oct 2
Win a quizzing glass at www.LaurenRoyal.com
Friend me at www.myspace.com/laurenroyal
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