An Unseemly Lady Novel Spoiler Novels & Stories

The silk robe she wore over it rustled softly as she squared her shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. ​"It was my grandfather's journal," Maya said, her amber eyes flashing in the dark. "I have more right to read it than the man who used a secret trust to manipulate me into a wedding ring." ​Julian stepped closer, closing the distance between them with slow, silent precision until he was standing bare inches away. The scent of cedar, warm skin, and dark chocolate wrapped around her, hot and suffocating. He lifted the leather journal, tapping the corner of it lightly against her collarbone, right over her racing pulse.

Her fingers traced the pages, her cheeks flushed with a secret pleasure as she lost herself in the smutty tale. She was a woman of curves and contradictions, her shy demeanor contrasting sharply with her voracious appetite for literature that pushed the boundaries of propriety. Suddenly, the creak of a chair echoed through the empty library. Laila's heart pounded as she looked up, her eyes meeting those of Dante, a tall, dark and handsome man with a mysterious aura. His gaze was intense, his expression unreadable. He was a man of sharp angles and shadows, a villainous figure in the quiet sanctuary of the library. He had caught her in her most intimate moment, and the power dynamics between t

I don’t know why but I think I need to speak to her. Isla finished reciting the oaths and vows and then the Old straw-skinned lady stepped forward towards her with a small and weird-looking plate in her hand. Why do her possessions always have to look so weird? Isla noticed the lady and seemed surprised by her presence. Maybe, like me, she wasn’t expecting her to be here too? Nevertheless, Isla didn’t react and just stood straight as the creepy Old lady poured a slick liquid on her hands and a bit on her head.

On the day she miscarried because her mate chose his ex, Rae's wolf went completely dormant from the trauma. That killed every ounce of love she had left for him. She was done playing his pathetic doormat. No more running his family's empire. No more grilling him about staying out all night. He left her locked in a freezing pack holding cell for nine whole days. Why? To baby-sit his childhood sweetheart through a "full moon panic attack" in a luxury mansion. Rae didn't cry. She didn't scream. She didn't even bother making a phone call. Then came day ten. Colton finally rolled up in his custom black Cadillac. He looked down at her with those golden wolf eyes, calling her dramatic. Rae just pu

What was your inspiration to write The Lady and the Scoundrel? I am a writer and full-time editor for many different projects, including a short story magazine. I wanted to write a contemporary romance inspired by my favorite romance novels as an exercise in discipline, to see if I could take on longer writing projects. There are several winks to what once was one of my favorite romance novels sprinkled throughout the story, so you can say it’s very loosely inspired by that one. If any of you figure out which one it is, let me know in the comments! While the historical setting, characters, and plot are completely different, it draws on the famous concept of the strong female lead that has

Emily felt Leo would finally treat her right and give her the love she deserved. However, after arriving at his place, looking all smiley as though she just won a lottery, her eyes threatened to fall off its socket at the sight of what greeted her. Through the half-open door, she could see Leo getting intimate with an unknown woman. Emily could tell they had done this countless times given the way their bodies rhymed, as if they recognized each other. A strong ache came to her chest just before her legs gave up on her, causing her to stagger backwards.

I sat beside her, and she immediately stretched her legs back out, her feet landing in my lap. "What are you reading?" She held up the book without looking away from the page. "A mystery novel. A detective in Victorian London." I caught sight of the cover. A woman in a low-cut dress leaned against a man in a top hat, their faces inches apart in the fog. The Scarlet Letter Murders. I grabbed the book from her hands. "Hey!" She sat up, reaching for it. I flipped through a few pages. My eyes landed on a passage. His mouth found the hollow of her throat as his fingers worked the laces of her corset…

"Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" The second my fingers brushed his, there was a soft knock at the door. "Elias, can I come in?" Right on cue, the barrage of comments popped up again. [Maisie is here! Time for the best part—the love triangle showdown!] [Maisie's loyal male lead is in position.] [Elias, hurry up and slap the villainess in the face!] [That's what you get for trying to steal Maisie's man. Die, you bitch!] I watched as the worry in Elias' eyes vanished, only to be replaced by that all-too-familiar chill. He yanked his hand out of mine and looked at me with open disgust.

She arrived at the part where the main character in the story failed from an imminent wedding ceremony, which only needed to say the wedding vows and was crushed by an unexpected reality. So that's a secret that is the answer to all the mysteries implied from the beginning of the novel. This is the surprise Diana told her to anticipate. Kat placed the novel in her lap and smiled faintly, suddenly feeling awe at the novel in her hands. This is an eighteenth century novel, but the story is truly extraordinary. Suddenly her cell phone rang. Kat glanced over and frowned. There was Adrian's name flashing there, complete with a photo of the two of them, embracing each other for the camera in a lau

“And with what she ensures they never question.” A small pause. “Which, I think, is far more telling than any rumour.” When I finally sat back down, the room seemed unchanged—still filled with laughter, still steeped in polite society. And yet, everything felt different. Four ladies. Four versions of the same woman. A scandal. A devoted wife. A woman returned from France. A woman who revealed only what she chose. I lowered my gaze to my tea, now gone cold in my hands. Lady Penbury was not simply a mystery. She was a contradiction carefully maintained. And that, I realised, was far more dangerous than any single secret.