Hello there! My name is Jessica Peterson, and I write racy Regency romance with a bejeweled twist. I pitch my debut HOPE DIAMOND TRILOGY as a fun cross between THE THOMAS CROWN AFFAIR and (a sexy!) Jane Austen. I loved the hairy-chested Pierce Brosnan version of the movie growing up (although Steve McQueen wasn’t so bad, either…), and when my agent pitched the idea of writing a series of novels around a gentleman jewel thief, I jumped at the chance!

The third and final installment of the trilogy, THE UNDERCOVER SCOUNDREL, hits shelves on June 2. It’s a delicious combo of two of my favorite things – spies and second chance love. Check out the excerpt below for a racy taste of Henry and Caroline’s story!

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Giveaway: One copy of The Undercover Scoundrel to US or Canada – plus fun author swag! To enter, leave a comment – I’ll pick a winner this weekend.

Heavens, but she was lovely, eyes wide and wet.

Without thinking, Henry reached forward and swiped away a tear with the crook of his first finger. Her skin was damp, and warm; alive.

Caroline froze; realizing what he’d done, Henry froze, too.

Caroline looked up at him, her long, dark lashes wet with tears. He felt wild with the desire to touch her again, but he couldn’t move, and neither did she. The air between them tightened, urging them closer, pulling, challenging, teasing. If he took one step forward, just one more step, he could crush his lips to hers, hold her face in his hands . . .

She was afraid; he could tell by the uncertainty that darkened the wet pools of her eyes. Tears rolled silently down the sides of her face, seeping down her throat as she bent her neck to look up at him.

“My lady,” he whispered. Of its own volition, his traitorous first finger unfurled, guiding the other four to cup her face in his hand. Desire shot through him, tightening the muscles in his legs, his back, and inside his chest.

Her lips parted, slightly. “Please,” she breathed.

“Please what?” His voice was gruff.

Behind them the sounds of the earl’s conversation with Sophia and her mother floated through the door; Caroline and Henry were safe, for a moment at least.
Caroline scoffed, her lips curling into a tiny smile. “Please don’t address me like that. My lady. I hate it.”

“It’s what you asked.”

“I hate it.”

“How should I address you, then?”

Her eyes flicked to his lips. “I don’t know.”

Henry’s fingers moved to her ear, her hair. Caroline didn’t move into the caress, exactly, but she didn’t pull away, either. Her face was tense, pained as she looked up at him.

His eyes moved to her throat. No woman on earth had a more elegant neck; a more enticingly erotic vulnerability there, in the soft sinews that moved against her skin in time to her scattershot pulse.

Henry dipped his head, testing her. Still she did not pull away. Her breath was sweet against his skin.

It was stupid.

It was dangerous.

It was rascally, and unforgiveable.

But he was going to do it anyway.

Before he could think better of it—they were in her brother’s front hall, for God’s sake!—he tucked his hand around her head and coaxed her to him, pressing his lips softly to her throat.

***

Caroline’s eyes fluttered shut.

And in the space of a single heartbeat, she was lost in the tenderness, and the heat, of Henry’s kiss as his mouth moved to cover her own.

She’d sensed his rising desire all evening: across the drawing room, and at the table during dinner. He vibrated with it, his eye darkening in a strangely familiar way that made Caroline’s belly turn inside out.

She recognized his longing in her own. Ever since they’d planted the peonies together in the garden, she hadn’t stopped thinking about him, and how hard they had laughed. She hadn’t had that much fun in an age; really, since she’d climbed through the window of his bedchamber back in Oxfordshire after she’d married him in secret.

There were no more diverting things in England than climbing through windows and secret weddings, after all. Oh, and manure fights.

Those, too.

Caroline had fought the rising tide of her desire for Henry. She’d tried reading, and walking, and replanting half her brother’s garden; but even days spent in the sun, her hands thrust up to her wrists in dirt, couldn’t keep her from thinking about his half smile, the pale skin of his wrist.

She hated him for making her feel like this.

She hated herself for allowing him to. She’d been so careful to avoid moments like these, men like him.

And yet the shiver that darted up her spine when he brushed his knuckle across her cheek was impossible to ignore. The memory of his touch was its own kind of sweetness; but the reality of it was overwhelming, a different sort of sweetness, poignant, unbelievably lovely because it was happening here, now; and neither of them could take it back.

His mouth was warm and soft against her own, possessive. His fingers were moving in her hair, trailing ribbons of fire along her scalp. He kissed her slowly, carefully, as if they weren’t standing in her brother’s front hall, stealing a caress; as if they had all the time in the world.

He backed her against the wall, his legs spread wide to trap hers between them. He surrounded her; even through closed eyes she could sense the enormity of his body, the enormity of his longing.

Caroline tasted the salt of her tears on his lips. His scent, the lemons and the spice, filled her head.

Heat bolted through her, pooling between her legs. Henry’s lips pressed and asked and answered, moving from one corner of her mouth to the other. Both his hands were on her face now, angling her head so that he might kiss her more deeply. His palms felt rough, calloused against her skin.

Where have you been? she wondered. Why did you leave?

And why do I feel this way about you after what you did to me, how stupid you made me feel?

But Caroline knew he wouldn’t answer her questions. She would probably never have the truth.

She did, however, have this kiss. And she couldn’t have given that up if she wanted to.