Take it away, Megan!
I Am Quirky, Hear Me Roar
When I first started writing, some of the people to whom I showed my work commented that my writing didn’t sound much like me—that I needed to allow more of my personality out to really make the writing stand apart.
I took that advice to heart, and then some. Now my books are infused with my personality, from the meanderings of the heroine on why she absolutely shouldn’t be thinking about the hero’s arms (but she totally is) to the hero feeling like a lummox when he can’t communicate what he’s feeling to the heroine.
Until I started getting more reviews of my books, I didn’t realize not everyone thought like I did. My brain is constantly filtering things out and around in a Venn Diagram of connections, weighing certain options against others, keeping up a steady debate as to a certain course of action versus another.
In other words, my brain is weird. I guess. And I’m okay with that. I am very pleased when a reviewer says that the characters think too much (and don’t do enough), because that means that my writing personality really came out to play, and I imagine that for someone who hates how circuitous the characters think, someone else is delighting in their frequent internal monologues.
Quirky is a pejorative to some, but to me, it’s an honorific.
Put up Your Duke
Dukes Behaving Badly #2
June 30, 2015
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He was once happily bedding and boxing, but in the newest DUKES BEHAVING BADLY novel, Nicholas Smithfield has inherited a title and a bride…
To keep his estate afloat, the new Duke of Gage must honor an agreement to marry Lady Isabella. Stunningly beautiful, utterly tempting, she’s also a bag of wedding night nerves, so Nicholas decides to wait to do his duty-even if it means heading to the boxing saloon every day to punch away his frustration.
Groomed her whole life to become the perfect duchess Isabella longs for independence, a dream that is gone forever. As her husband, Nicholas can do whatever he likes-but, to Isabella’s surprise the notorious rake instead begins a gentle seduction that is melting every inch of her reserve, night by night…
To his utter shock, Nicholas’s discovers that none of his previous exploits were half as pleasurable as wooing his own wife. But has the realm’s most disreputable Duke found the one woman who can bring him to his knees-and leave him there?
“And then what will you do to me?” Nicholas didn’t care so much for the particulars of the response—he knew the woman currently sitting on his lap would do what he wanted her to, and he would be gentlemanly enough to ensure she found enjoyment as well.
He was a very egalitarian lover.
“What do you want me to do to you?” she countered.
Clearly, she did not know that when he asked a question, he wanted an answer, not another question. He suppressed the feeling of irritation and, yes, boredom, and concentrated instead on placing a strawberry between her breasts, then lowering his mouth to capture the succulent fruit. Of the strawberry, not her breast. That appetizing treat would be for later.
He put his mouth to her ear and spoke, so that neither of the two ladies, one on either side of him, could hear. “I want to keep your mouth busy so you can’t speak. And when you are able to speak, you’ll be screaming my name.”
She wriggled on his lap, her plush arse riding his cock, which had already jerked to attention. She leaned her head back on his shoulder. “I’ve heard about you, m’lord, and I am very eager to find out if what they say is true.”
Nicholas wrapped his hands around her waist and slid his thumbs up so they were in the soft crease under her breasts.
This was his favorite part of being with a woman—the anticipation, wondering what her face would look like as she came apart, wondering how her body would feel under his hands, how she’d want him to take her. The actual doing of it, well, that was pleasurable as well, but none of the women he’d been with had lived up to his expectations.
But each time, with each new woman, he hoped this would be the one. This female would be able to send him to a new height of ecstasy, of wanting, of being able to lose himself, forget thinking just for a few moments of bliss; would be equal to him in bed, in conversation, in life.
Not that he thought he’d find that kind of woman here, in a house of ill repute, no matter how well it catered to men of his class. But he wasn’t particularly interested in courting a young lady of his own class only to find, once he was married, that she was no true companion to him in bed or in conversation, but that he was now married to her—for life.
He’d considered it very seriously when he’d met a lady a year or so ago—but she’d entered into another engagement before he could figure out if he actually wanted to or not. So he remained single, and singly determined not to be wed, at least not unless he was absolutely certain about the wife in question.
Megan Frampton writes historical romance under her own name and romantic women’s fiction as Megan Caldwell. She likes the color black, gin, dark-haired British men, and huge earrings, not in that order. She lives in Brooklyn, NY, with her husband and son.