About the Author
With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today’s bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance’s hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.
A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, she currently resides in St. Louis, Missouri, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.
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Sample Chapter: All A Woman Wants by Patricia Rice
From Chapter One
Wearily, Beatrice Cavendish pulled out a volume on agricultural production and attempted to make head or tails of the lengthy lists of which counties produced which crops and when, but it was meaningless to her. She felt as if she’d been stranded in a foreign country with no coins and no means of speaking the language.
What she needed was someone to teach her by doing, as men were taught. Of course, that meant she would require a knowledgeable man who was not only willing to teach her, but also believed she was teachable.
Better to ask for a miracle.
The pounding of the door knocker resounded so loudly in the hall, she jumped and almost dropped the book. No one in the village knocked so forcefully.
Fear clenched her insides as she waited for the servants to answer the door. A bill collector? She should have instructed the servants to say she wasn’t at home.
James was in the privy. Mary was helping Jemmie chase the escaped hounds. Had the dogs caused some dire accident in the lane that had caused an emergency?
The knocker rapped again, with a slamming authority that would not be denied.
Shelving the book with a shaking hand, Beatrice smoothed her skirts again. Just the angry sound of the knocker immobilized her.
She had to grow a backbone.
When it became obvious that no one would answer, she clenched her teeth and swept out of the study as if she were master of all she surveyed.
She was master of all she surveyed. That was the problem. She was an incompetent master.
After fumbling with the massive door bolt, she cautiously swung the huge door open on the gloomy, threatening day. Amazingly, a dark green waistcoat and rumpled white neckcloth blocked her usual view of the lawn.
Being as large as she was, she didn’t think she’d ever looked a man in the waistcoat before. Gaping, she tilted her head back. Green eyes narrowing in grim resignation studied her as if she were the last thing on this earth that the visitor wanted to see. A lock of golden brown hair fell appealingly over a wide, furrowed brow, and, without thinking, Beatrice took a step backward.
A whimper extracted her from a survey of clenched lips and square jaw, and her gaze dropped to the bundle the man held. A growing wet spot on the green waistcoat and a glimpse of wispy golden curls wrapped in a man’s short box coat so startled her, she almost closed the door in their faces. Rain began to pour.
With a whoop and a burst of energy, a small muddy form bolted past her skirts, skidded on the Oriental rug, and raced for the stairs. Tousled curls above a blue velvet coat disappeared around the landing.
“Excuse me, madam.” The stunning giant dumped his burden into Bea’s arms, shoved the door open, and, taking the steps two at a time, raced up the stairs after his small charge, leaving damp footsteps in his path.
Utterly distracted, Beatrice gazed down at the bundle she held, into beatific blue eyes in a cherub’s face, and almost forgot the savages invading her upper story.
She’d never held a baby before.
They stared at each other raptly. The infant popped a thumb into her rosebud mouth, but her gaze never left Bea’s. Caught in the study of tiny fingers and chubby cheeks above a lace-bedecked smock, Bea didn’t register the dampness spreading across her bodice until shouts overhead intruded upon her reverie.
A man’s roar followed by a childish scream of outrage abruptly brought her head up, and she grimaced as moisture sank through the fabric of her bodice and her chemise and chilled her skin. Heavy boots pounded down the stairs, coming into view first, followed by dirt-streaked trousers over massive... thighs. Bea gulped, flushed, and tried to look away.
It had never occurred to her to look at a man’s… limbs... before.
Narrow hips, a wide chest beneath an unfastened waistcoat and twisted neckcloth, and a squirming, shrieking toddler clasped under one masculine arm appeared next. The look of mixed resignation and rage on broad, chiseled features should have sent her fleeing. Instead, curiosity compelled her to remain, clinging to the smelly, sopping child in her arms.
If she did not mistake, a stranger and two children had just arrived on her doorstep on the brink of a rainstorm. In novels, did it not tend to be an abandoned mistress arriving with babes in arms during a howling snowstorm?
“I’m here to speak with Miss Cavendish,” the man said peremptorily, heaving the toddler over his shoulder. The boy loosed his bandaged arm from its sling and tried to climb down the man’s back, but his captor’s big hands firmly wrapped around small ankles, preventing escape.
Dressed as she was, he probably thought she was the housekeeper. She could say Miss Cavendish wasn’t at home and send this terrifying apparition away.
She could tell from his stance that he was entirely too certain of himself. His restless energy permeated the room and would stampede right over her if she admitted to her existence. His massive size reduced her elegant foyer to the size of the closet. But he had the most fascinating green eyes, and a bronzed, windswept look that no gentleman crossing these portals had ever possessed....
She could almost feel the hurricane winds of change sweeping through her cloistered walls.
She didn’t have a clue as to who he could be.
“My lady!” an effeminate male voice squeaked from the depths of the interior. “Shall I show this motley lot to the door?”
Bea closed her eyes and sighed as James finally appeared.
The stranger’s eyes narrowed again as her bewigged cousin, in a scarlet coat and gold buttons, hovered behind her. A growling terrier would offer more protection.
Donning her haughtiest demeanor, Beatrice raised her eyebrows in the stranger’s direction. “I am Miss Cavendish, sir. I believe you have mistaken me for someone else.”
Expressively, she held out the child for him to retrieve.
He glowered at her, glowered at her cousin, and holding the squirming boy firmly beneath one muscular arm, refused to take the babe. “I’ve been told you can tell me of Nanny Marrow.”<
br />
The bottom dropped out of Beatrice’s heart at this mention of her lifelong friend.
“Nanny Marrow passed away last week.” To hide a fresh spurt of tears, she swung on her heels and marched into the formal parlor.
We hope you have enjoyed this sample of All a Woman Wants, by Patricia Rice
Copyright & Credits
All a Woman Wants
Copyright © 1992 Patricia Rice
First published: New American Library 2001
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
First published by New American Library, New York. This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dash of Enchantment Page 31
