When I saw my first book pop up on a website, I was thrilled. But it was so alone. Just one book. Now, my tenth one has been published.
When I'm writing, I can feel the characters' thoughts, but rarely imagine their faces. Then, when a cover arrives, I soon begin to see the characters as the exact image that is portrayed.
An excerpt from It's Marriage or Ruin that tells a bit about Emilie:
‘Miss Catesby. Stay away from my brother. He would ruin you.’
She touched the light wool of his waistcoat, letting her fingers flatten against him. Leaves rustled again as the wind touched them. The breeze strengthened, and the air tingled her cheeks. ‘I would say it’s not your concern.’
‘Miss Catesby. You’re an innocent.’ His fingers pressed into the fabric at her waist and he moved back a whisper.
She trailed her fingers up the waistcoat, touching the cravat, the edge of his jaw, the curve of his lips. She could have been touching a Michelangelo when she felt his face. This was something she’d never imagined before. Her heart pounded from the merest touch of his skin.
To feel a true masterpiece overwhelmed her. She dropped her hand and clenched it, keeping it at her side. She could hardly wait to capture in paint a masculine jawline. One with a hint of darkness in it. In shadows. Such a challenge. To put this image on canvas. A man in the shadows. Darkened features. She could never call it The Dark Angel. Her mother would destroy it. She would call it A Saint In Repose.
She could not calm her heartbeats, but inspiration came at the strangest moments, and one should relish them, hold them close, hug them to one’s heart.
But she could not touch him again. He was the forbidden fruit. The crevasse that could swallow the as-yet-unmade creations that were inside her and turn her into nothingness.
‘Art is my passion.’
His mouth parted. ‘You could have more than one passion, perhaps.’
‘I do. Oils, then watercolours.’
When I'm writing, I can feel the characters' thoughts, but rarely imagine their faces. Then, when a cover arrives, I soon begin to see the characters as the exact image that is portrayed.
An excerpt from It's Marriage or Ruin that tells a bit about Emilie:
‘Miss Catesby. Stay away from my brother. He would ruin you.’
She touched the light wool of his waistcoat, letting her fingers flatten against him. Leaves rustled again as the wind touched them. The breeze strengthened, and the air tingled her cheeks. ‘I would say it’s not your concern.’
‘Miss Catesby. You’re an innocent.’ His fingers pressed into the fabric at her waist and he moved back a whisper.
She trailed her fingers up the waistcoat, touching the cravat, the edge of his jaw, the curve of his lips. She could have been touching a Michelangelo when she felt his face. This was something she’d never imagined before. Her heart pounded from the merest touch of his skin.
To feel a true masterpiece overwhelmed her. She dropped her hand and clenched it, keeping it at her side. She could hardly wait to capture in paint a masculine jawline. One with a hint of darkness in it. In shadows. Such a challenge. To put this image on canvas. A man in the shadows. Darkened features. She could never call it The Dark Angel. Her mother would destroy it. She would call it A Saint In Repose.
She could not calm her heartbeats, but inspiration came at the strangest moments, and one should relish them, hold them close, hug them to one’s heart.
But she could not touch him again. He was the forbidden fruit. The crevasse that could swallow the as-yet-unmade creations that were inside her and turn her into nothingness.
‘Art is my passion.’
His mouth parted. ‘You could have more than one passion, perhaps.’
‘I do. Oils, then watercolours.’
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