Well, tomorrow's the big day. "The Desire for Dearborne" will be available from www.dreamspinnerpress.com in both paperback and e-book.

Behind the cut is an except from the novel. While attempting to locate his carriage after a play, Leander is accosted by a street thief. Julien comes to his rescue and takes Leander home in his carriage.


“Why in God’s name didn’t you give him what he was asking?” Julien demanded, and then made an effort to rein in his temper. He really had no right to take the younger man to task for his actions, but he had to vent his emotions somehow.

After dropping off his companion from the theater, Julien had decided to head home--despite the man’s suggestions that he stay for the night. His coachman had merely been cutting across some less-traveled streets to save time, and as Julien looked out his window, he’d seen a gentleman being dragged into the alley. Instinct had him jumping from his coach and rushing to the man’s aid. It wasn’t until he heard the American accent that he realized who the victim was, and suddenly instead of mere concern, icy fear had gripped him.

“He wanted my watch,” Dearborne explained, his voice shaky. “And money.”

“And you thought it was worth being killed for? Why didn’t you hand them over?”

“I don’t have a watch. And I only have a few coins in my pocket. He wasn’t giving me the chance to say so.”

Julien was momentarily thrown by the admission. He’d half-expected some bravado about not giving in to criminals. No wonder the young man seemed so shaken; he’d had no way to prevent the footpad from cutting his throat. “What happened to your coach that you went all the way past Long Acre in search of it?”

“There were plenty of gentlemen who went out looking for their coaches.” Dearborne sounded puzzled.

“And I’ll wager not one of them left Catherine Street to do it.”

“Oh.” Dearborne’s voice was more subdued than ever.

Julien didn’t know when he’d seen anyone so disheartened, not only by the attack, but by his surroundings as a whole. It made Julien wonder what sort of life Dearborne had lived in America--something he’d never bothered considering about someone of so limited an acquaintance. Inexplicably, he felt the need to cheer the younger man. “I suppose this quite ruins your first evening of theater,” he said, hoping the mention of theater would bring a return of the enthusiasm Dearborne had displayed earlier.

“No,” Dearborne said immediately. “Not in the least. My own foolishness is nothing compared to how splendid the play was.”

“I don’t know that you were foolish,” Julien countered, surprising himself. It wasn’t like him to go to the effort of comforting or consoling someone he barely knew. “You’re simply unfamiliar with the city of London.”

“Or any city,” Dearborne admitted with a self-deprecating laugh. “The first time I was in a city was this January when I sailed for London from Boston.”

Little wonder that he was unaware of the dangers of London. “From now on it might be $best if you sent for your coach.”

“I suppose. I just… feel that I should do such things for myself. If I’m able.”

“Too active and independent to be waited upon, are you?”

“Not hardly.” A fleeting smile crossed Dearborne’s face. “In fact, what happened tonight is probably because I haven’t done enough to accustom myself to London.”

The enormity of Dearborne’s situation was becoming clear to Julien. Not only had he left behind his home, but his entire country and way of life.

“Thank you,” Dearborne said.

Julien was briefly startled, and wondered if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “I beg your pardon?”

“I didn’t thank you for coming to my aid. For saving me.”

“There are those who would say that sitting in a coach with the Earl of Blackstone is not a particularly safe place for a young man to be.” Even as the words left him, Julien could hardly believe he was saying them. He didn’t know what drove him to make certain that Dearborne knew about his reputation. If the young earl hadn’t heard already--and he obviously hadn’t because he showed no sign of unease--then it wasn’t Julien’s duty to enlighten him.

Dearborne tilted his head to one side. “I don’t put much stock in gossip.”

So he had heard something, but apparently decided not to believe it. Perhaps Cordelia had told him to disregard rumors about her nephew; Julien wouldn’t put it past her. It was no fault of his, then, if Dearborne refused to heed the warnings he had undoubtedly been given. He was spared from trying to formulate a suitable reply by the coach coming to a halt. “Safe and sound,” Julien said, amusement at his own words twisting up one corner of his mouth.

Dearborne studied him for a few moments, even after the footman had opened the door. “Thank you again.”

There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice and Julien was astonished to feel his face flushing. “Think nothing of it.”

“It will be difficult not to,” Dearborne said in that same serious tone. “Good night, Lord Blackstone.”

“Good night, Dearborne.”

The young earl stepped down and Julien found himself waiting until Dearborne was safely inside before signaling his driver to continue on. He didn’t know why Dearborne’s gratitude left him so disconcerted, but supposed it was a suitable punishment for tempting fate earlier in the evening.

He should have remained in his own box at the theater when he saw Dearborne, but he’d wanted to prove to himself that he could speak to the American without it having any effect. Instead, Dearborne’s obvious enjoyment of the play and friendly regard had captivated him like nothing else seemed to anymore.

After the near miss in the alley, Dearborne’s naiveté and vulnerability were more apparent than ever, leaving Julien with the unfamiliar, but overpowering desire to protect him.

Of course, most would say that the only person Dearborne needed protecting from was him.