Excerpt: 'The Lady Hellion' by Joanna Shupe

HEA loves Tuesdays — so many new romances to read! And we love it even more that we get to share excerpts from some of the ones we're most looking forward to, such as Joanna Shupe's The Lady Hellion, the latest in her Wicked Deceptions series.

Here's the blurb about the book (courtesy of Zebra):

Lady Sophia Barnes doesn't take no for an answer. Especially when she's roaming London's seedy underground…dressed as a man.

A rabble rouser for justice, Sophie's latest mission is to fight for the rights of the poor, the wretched—and the employees at Madame Hartley's brothel. She's not concerned about the criminals who will cross her path, for Sophie has mastered the art of deception—including the art of wearing trousers. Now her fate is in her own hands, along with a loaded gun. All she needs is instruction on how to shoot it. But only one person can help her: Lord Quint, the man who broke her heart years ago. The man she won't let destroy her again…

The last thing Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint, needs is an intrusion on his privacy, especially from the beautiful, exasperating woman he's never stopped wanting. A woman with a perilously absurd request, no less! For Damien is fighting a battle of his own, one he wishes to keep hidden—along with his feelings for Lady Sophia. Yet that fight is as hopeless as stopping her outlandish plan. Soon all Quint knows for certain is that he will die trying to protect her…

EXCERPT

The ballroom door stood ajar, light spilling into the corridor. Quint's butler, Taylor, must've instructed one of the maids to set the candles. Quint wasn't sure how to feel about his staff rushing to do Sophie's bidding. Though, to be fair, his staff likely relished any activity to fight the tedium of the Beecham household.

He entered, ready to give her what for, and stopped short at the sight that greeted him. Long legs—long, shapely legs—encased in buckskin breeches. Tall, black boots. A short military-style jacket that women favored for riding. All the breath left his chest, instinct swiftly taking over. Sweet, merciful cadmium ...

When he recovered enough to speak, he noticed her amused half-smile. A hundred questions leapt to mind—starting with why?—but what came out of his mouth was, "Did Taylor see you like this?"

"No, I kept my cloak on until he left. Though I hardly see why that matters."

The idea of anyone witnessing her so ... so revealed did not sit well. The outline of her lithe body clearly visible, it was a sight to make any man lose his mind with lust. And Quint realized, gut churning with possessiveness, that he didn't want any man to see her. Any man save him, of course.

"Why are you here?"

She pulled her arms from behind her back to reveal two foils. "I thought you might like some exercise."

Fear replaced the stirrings of desire. Since the shooting, he hadn't intentionally raised the rate of his heart for worry of another fit. What if exercise worsened his condition? Granted, each fit had been triggered by a specific event or thought, like an attempt to go outside or the sound of gunfire. He doubted fencing would hurt, but how could he be sure?

"I don't think—"

"You are not allowed to refuse." She executed a single feint with her right arm. "It will do you some good, in my opinion."

He rubbed the back of his neck and contemplated his research. If it was hereditary, as he suspected, then nothing would prevent the impending madness. Not to mention, if he fell ill, he could leave or order her from the room.

You just want to ogle her arse in those breeches.

Without dwelling on that last thought, he closed the distance between them, held out his hand. "Where did you get these swords?"

"I borrowed them," she said with a lift of her shoulder and handed him a foil.

"And what about those clothes? Did you borrow them as well?"

She glanced down at herself. "No, they are mine. The breeches are unbelievably comfortable. Dresses are impractical garments, especially for fencing."

"A duel, scuttling about the mews after dark, not to mention all the excursions with Julia over the years ... I swear, you court danger at every turn. Has anyone the vaguest idea what you're about?"

She sauntered away, hips swinging, providing him with the precise view he wanted—and he froze. Saint's teeth, his imagination had not done justice to the perfect, high roundness of her buttocks.

"I do not require a keeper, if that is what you are implying. Now, shall we?" She spun and lifted her arm into correct position, weapon pointed at him with her front foot forward.

"Have you fenced before?"

"I've taken a few lessons. You'll not have an easy time besting me."

"Is that so?" He hefted the foil, tested the weight in his hand to get a feel for it. "Fencing is a thinking man's—or woman's—sport. You need to plan ahead. Not react rashly." Lifting his arms, he stretched out his back and shoulders. "Can you keep a level head, I wonder?"

"We may never know if you cannot cease stalling."

"Allez!" he growled and lunged at her.

She defended his parry, and returned with a thrust of her own. He soon realized she had skill. What she lacked in strength she made up for with speed, her movements precise and quick. She obviously had not lied about the lessons, and he suspected she'd taken more than just a few. Despite his resolve to go gently with her, he soon found himself perspiring and breathing hard from the exertion. It felt ... exhilarating.

"You're smiling," she said, her breath equally labored.

"Am I? It must be because this is so terribly easy."

Her eyes flashed and she began attacking him with renewed vigor. He nearly laughed. She was utterly predictable.

"Is that the best you can do, Lady Sophia?" He led a charge of his own, driving her backwards as she defended herself with the blade.

"You've been holding back," she accused, the flush on her cheeks deepening as her movements faltered.

This time, he did laugh. "Is your shoulder burning yet?"

"Like the fires of Hades!" she snapped, then flicked her wrist and slid his blade out from between their bodies. She stepped in close, so close he could see the beads of sweat on her brow, the damp tendrils at her temple curling so enticingly—

Her foot shot out behind his ankle, pulling, while at the same time her free hand pushed on his shoulder. Even distracted, Quint saw her intention. Subtlety had never been Sophie's strength. With a smirk, he shifted his weight to counterbalance her effort, which caused her to lose her equilibrium. He wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her from tumbling to the ground.

"A nice effort—for a woman," he taunted, attempting to infuriate her.

He failed miserably. Something sparked in her eyes—but it was not anger. Instead, it was hot and wicked, and her gaze dropped to his mouth.

She was thinking of kissing him. He had no doubt. With her lips parted, the rate of her breathing significantly increased, and her stare locked on his mouth, she had one thing on her mind.

And he wanted nothing more than to oblige her.

They were close, hips aligned, with their legs melded together in a tangle. His body stirred, a purely physical reaction he could not hide, and he itched to touch her. To taste her. The problem was, he didn't want to be a "momentary fancy" this time. If he kissed her, she could still say she hadn't wanted it. He needed her to be sure. Needed her to kiss him of her own free will.

It was the same reason he'd never had a mistress. Yes, most every man he knew kept a woman tucked away in a small house somewhere convenient, but Quint could not see the logic in it. He did not want a woman to pretend, to allow his advances only because she coveted his coin. Not that he hadn't ever paid for a tumble in his youth, but honest passion, true desire between two willing people, was a hundredfold more satisfying.

He wanted Sophie willing.

But what then? A mad husband was a terrible burden for a wife.

Suddenly, she used her free palm to push his chest. He dropped his arm to release her. Springing forward, she wasted no time advancing, her blade high and fast as it slashed toward him, and he convinced himself he'd been mistaken about the interest in her eyes. Perhaps a result of the fencing? She attacked him logically, precisely, and he soon countered with a combination she did not expect. Her muscles shook from the effort, exhaustion on her face. He could nearly taste the victory.

"Wait!" she cried. "There is something in my boot."

Panting, Quint lowered his foil and watched as she turned, presenting him with her backside. She bent over, slowly, and he could not tear his eyes away from those lush, gentle swells encased in tight fabric, not even if the ghost of Newton himself suddenly sprung up from the floor.

They were perfect. Each just the right size for a man's hand. He swallowed. Breasts drew some men, legs others. Quint had always loved a woman's buttocks. Soft, plush, and ideal for cushioning a man's hips. And right now, Sophie's were poised high as she played with her boot.

In a blur, she pivoted, blade up and ready. Before he could blink, the tip landed square on his chest.

He glanced down, frowned, and tried to shake the lust from his brain.

"You lose." She grinned and straightened. "Not bad—for a woman."

Find out more about Joanna and her books at www.joannashupe.com.