Here's the blurb: Life can change in an instant. A carriage accident, a case of mistaken identity, and a couple of not so little white lies transform maid Phoebe Lawson into Lady Violet Woodlawn, fiancee, and later, loving wife, of Lord Braxton Marlowe. How long will Phoebe be able to keep up this charade? And what will Lord Marlowe do when he learns the truth? Can a lord love a maid? This book contains spanking, sexual intercourse, anal intercourse, oral sex, and ginger figging.
Here's a little snippet for your enjoyment. Braxton and Phoebe are on the verge of consummating their marriage.
I had spent many hours fretting over this event. Braxton's kisses and caresses had lit a fire of curiosity and longing within me. The fire was sometimes squelched by the apprehension which accompanies the unknown.
I also feared revealing my horrible secret in the throes of passion. I had been raised under the belief that the wealthy were better, brighter and clearly just plain different from their servants. Surely such a distinction would become evident in the marriage bed.
Since I had no specific notion of what happened between a husband and wife, I could hardly prepare in advance, so I decided to simply do my best to enjoy myself. If my deception came to light and Lord Marlowe sent me away in shame, so be it.
If Lady Violet's death had taught me anything, it was that life was fleeting. I refused to live with regret.
My husband placed me carefully in the center of his bed. "I have laid you in a bed once before. Do you remember that?"
I shook my head, wondering at his meaning.
"When I pulled your body from the wreckage of the carriage, I refused to allow any of the other men to touch you. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were mine and the thought of any man, even a rescuer, with his hands on you sent me into a fit of jealousy."
He loomed over me as he spoke, his dark eyes flashing as he recalled our first encounter. My tummy fluttered at his possessive tone.
In the candlelight I watched as he removed his jacket, loosened the collar and cuffs of his shirt, placed his hands on either side of me as I lay in the bed and lowered his mouth to cover mine.
By that time I had become an enthusiastic kisser. I slipped my hands around his neck and buried them in the thickness of his hair, preventing him from moving away. Spurred onward by my zeal, Braxton pulled me into his arms and joined me on the large, soft mattress.
The flavor of champagne lingered on his tongue as he kissed me deeply. I arched my yearning body against his.
His hand slipped beneath the layers of my dress and stroked my womanhood. I moaned deep in my throat and bucked against his hand.
“Ah, my sweet little maid,” he said.
Maid? Did he know? Despite the heat generated by his touch, I stilled beneath him, not daring to breathe.
My lack of participation caught his attention. Withdrawing his hand he braced himself above me, concern etched on his face. “Did I hurt you, my dear?”
Wide-eyed, I studied his face. “Y-you called me a maid.”
The tension left his expression and he smiled down at me, the corner of his eyes crinkled. “Silly girl. I was not calling you a servant. You are untouched, so that makes you a maid, does it not?”
I released the breath I had been holding. “Of course you are correct. I-I am just nervous, that is all.” I glanced down at our bodies, still fully clothed but entwined upon our marriage bed. “It is important for me to please you, my lord.”
“It will please me most if you would stop calling me my lord, particularly when we are about to engage in marital intimacies. It does make me feel like you are a servant girl when you address me in that manner.”
“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?” Nervousness bubbled inside me and I feared I would begin to babble. To prevent that from happening, and because I liked it, I reached up and pulled his face down to mine. “I do not wish to be a maid any longer, Braxton.”