Hi Becca, thanks so much for having me here today.
If I could write with an English accent that's what you'd be hearing. Although I was born here in NYC, I moved to the UK and have spent most of my life on the other side of 'The Pond.' They did their best over there to hammer out the Yank in me, teaching me to eat sausage sandwiches with Branston pickle, drink Earl Grey tea and gargle with TCP (a liquid antiseptic) when I have a cold. I spent years bringing up my baby and writing, editing a poetry magazine and teaching. Then, horror of horrors, the baby grew into a lovely young lady with ideas of her own, one of which was to come to the USA for university. She was hooked. She decided to stay on after college, and I was forced to follow. Yep, they dragged me back to the good ol' USA and are now trying to iron out the kinks, getting me to say 'parking lot' instead of 'carpark,' spell words like 'realiZed' with the Z instead of an S and eat—OMG—hot dogs.
So how did this transplanted English Rose come to write a western historical novel? That, as they say, is a turn-up for the books! Well, all that time we were living in Britain we had long holidays—vacations to you Yanks—with thanks to the English school system which gives the children a month at Christmas and Easter and two months in the summer. Avoiding the unpredictable English weather, we chose to holiday out west on ranches where the weather was equally unpredictable but somewhat warmer in the summer—with the bonus that the riding was good. Did I say "good?" No, it was great. To date, the baby and I have been to some seventeen ranches throughout the western states, always searching for some new scenery and some new experience. I don't know how many miles we've clocked up on our road trips but we've certainly covered a good few. Soooo, all that western experience had to lead to something. What better than to write a book that encompasses both the West that I love and the English Rose?
When I learned that British aristocrats owned most of the large cattle companies in the late 1800s, the stage was set for LOVELAND. The Americans at the time, you see, could not borrow money so readily as the British in order to start these companies. The English and the Scots, therefore, moved in, foreseeing the fortunes that could be made. Smart bunch! Only thing they didn't count on was—that unpredictable weather I just mentioned.
Well, if I continue, the Loveland story will be spoiled and I'd obviously prefer it if you went out and read the book. So let me end here with my sincere thanks once again, Becca, for having me here today. As we say out west, "Much appreciated!"
I am very pleased to have you here, Andrea. I'm a country girl to the core so Loveland sounds great.
When Lady Alexandra Calthorpe returns to the Loveland, Colorado, ranch owned by her father, the Duke, she has little idea of how the experience will alter her future. Headstrong and willful, Alex tries to overcome a disastrous marriage in England and be free of the strictures of Victorian society --and become independent of men. That is, until Jesse Makepeace saunters back into her life...
Hot-tempered and hot-blooded cowpuncher Jesse Makepeace can’t seem to accept that the child he once knew is now the ravishing yet determined woman before him. Fighting rustlers proves a whole lot easier than fighting Alex when he’s got to keep more than his temper under control.
Arguments abound as Alex pursues her career as an artist and Jesse faces the prejudice of the English social order. The question is, will
live up to its name? Loveland
She sat on a stool and pulled off first one boot, then the other and kicked them aside, then she stood and put her leg on the stool to roll down her stockings one by one.
He marveled at her wantonness, her lack of propriety. “Alex, stop,” he said, laying his hand on hers. “Stop. You know...”
But he was lost; she took his face in her hands and pulled him to her, kissing him so any resistance he had had was now shattered. His heart beat faster at the sweetness of her mouth, the softness of her tongue, the lack of air as they sought each other. His hands moved over her feeling the outline of her body, knowing its curves, its gentleness, its yielding. “Are you sure?” he asked at last.
“I want you so much, Jesse, I want you so much, I’m not waiting three years. And if...if anything happens, so what? We’ll get married, that’ll be it.”
“Yes, but Alex, you can’t... I mean, it’d be a shotgun wedding, it’s not how—”
“Shh.” She put her finger to his mouth and then turned for him to unhook her gown. He ran his hands gently down her exposed back, feeling each scar, then kissed her neck.
“You have nothing on under...”
“It’s how the gown is made. Monsieur Worth builds the undergarments into the gown.” Her voice was at barely a whisper, a tremor showing her nerves. She turned and still held the gown up to her, then, looking at Jesse, let it drop to the floor.
Find and connect with Andrea Downing
Website and blog
Website and blog
The Wild Rose Press
The Wild Rose Press