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Monday, May 3, 2010


Dear Secret Agent:

BITE ME, YOUR GRACE takes place in London in the midst of Western Europe’s vampire craze spawned by the publication of Dr. John Polidori’s The Vampyre.

Angelica Winthrop has big plans to ruin her reputation so she may avoid marriage and become a gothic authoress like her idol, Mary Shelley. Unfortunately, her schemes always backfire and the wedding noose tightens with every escapade. To find inspiration for her next story, she breaks into the home of Ian Ashton, Duke of Burnrath. Ian is the Lord vampire of London and because of Polidori’s story, tongues are wagging and wagers are being made about his nocturnal proclivities.

The duke destroys Angelica’s plans by publicly proposing marriage to her in order to save his reputation and to keep her from revealing his secret. Sparks fly as she attempts every impropriety to dissuade him and he retaliates with his skills of seduction.

After a quirky courtship and a tender wedding night, their rocky marriage is played out before the scandalized eyes of the ton. When Angelica writes a vampire novel, Ian is infuriated and threatens to abandon her by leaving for the continent. She learns that literature can have dangerous effects when she faces a vampire hunter and a pair of misguided kidnappers to save her love.

BITE ME, YOUR GRACE, a regency paranormal romance complete at 75,000 words, is available upon request. I am a member of the Idaho Writer’s League. Thank you for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you.


“Mother, no!” Angelica cried, lunging forward too late. Her stocking clad feet slipped on the smooth wooden floor and she had to grasp the bedpost to keep from falling on her face.

“I cannot have you reading such trash,” Marjory Winthrop said as she threw her daughter’s favorite book in the fireplace.

            Angelica watched in dismay as the pages of “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman,” by Mary Wollstonecraft, was engulfed in flames. It didn’t matter that she had read it enough to recite it verbatim. It broke her heart to see a precious book destroyed. Her lip curled in self-recrimination. She knew she should have waited until after the ball before taking it from its hiding place.

            Her mother’s furious countenance was nearly as red as her curls. “It is bad enough that your father turned you into a blue-stocking, with all the Plato and such he raised you on, but if anyone knew you were a radical, your reputation would be blackened beyond redemption, with all hope of an advantageous marriage turned to dust.”

            “Maybe I want my reputation to be ruined, mother,” she said, unable to hold back her ire. “Maybe I do not want to be a brood mare for some stupid cad while he spends my dowry on his mistresses and… Ouch!” She rubbed the skin on her upper arm where her mother pinched her.

            Lady Winthrop hissed, “If we were not going to the Wentworth ball tonight I would slap you.”