Promo Blitz Spotlight incl Exclusive Excerpt: Fearne Hill – To Beguile A Banished Lord (Regency Rossingley #3)

In most ways, the drawing room was unremarkable, much in keeping with the interior of the rest of Goule Hall. It seemed a little dated, perhaps, compared to stylish London drawing rooms, yet the heavy furniture and rich carpets still spoke of centuries of Ashington money. Uninspiring oils adorned the walls—portraits of ancestors in the main, though he spied another peculiar animal disembowelment hidden amongst them, probably by the same inept artist. Feeling bold, Rollo took a pace forward. Though neither hot, cold, nor draughty, the room smelled of stale alcohol and used lamp oil. In anticipation of the last of the daylight, someone had lit a couple of oil lamps, and the embers of a fire burned in the grate. In all, it was reassuringly familiar. As a boy, Rollo had whiled away many an interminable hour in similar spaces belonging to his father’s wide circle of acquaintances. One feature, however, drew his eye and held it: A man, sprawled on a low settee and facing away from the doorway. His booted feet rested on a worn pouffe, and a tumbler of dark liquor clung precariously to a narrow armrest. Rollo jerked his head around, hoping Greaves might be hovering to perform the introductions, but the servant had vanished. If the man occupying the settee was aware he had a visitor, he gave no sign. Frozen to the spot, Rollo found himself caught in a dilemma. Did he retreat and postpone presenting himself to his host until tomorrow? Or take another step forward and boldly announce his arrival? “You’re either in or out. There’s no in between.” Rollo jumped with a little squeak of shock. He clapped his hand over his mouth so another didn’t escape. “Make a decision, boy. I don’t care what. Just stop standing there like a bloody simpleton.” Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons, Rollo presumed. Pritchard hadn’t been wrong about the ill temper. “My lord,” he responded, voice quivering. “Eh?” The man gave a vulgar sniff. “Speak up.” Rollo dug his fingertips into his palms and gritted his teeth. To beat a retreat now would look rather like cowardice. He was the son of a distinguished earl, for heaven’s sake! A Duchamps-Avery, no less. Time to begin acting like one. “My lord,” he tried again, a fraction clearer. In place of acknowledgement, Lord Lyndon brought the tumbler to his mouth and drank deeply. “My lord,” Rollo repeated. Much better. “Good evening to you. I’m…” “Rossingley’s pup.” The words spilled over one another, thickened with whatever was in the glass. “Welcome to purgatory, pup.”