Series n/a; standalone
Genre Adult M/M Historical Romance
Publisher Entangled Amara
Publication Date August 24, 2020
Perrin deVesey knows pain. As a member of Crimson Rose, a secret club for men who love men, he’s taken the vow “to stand and shield.” Standing together during these perilous times is the only thing keeping their necks from the guillotine. Now their leader is using the club to rescue wrongly accused traitors. After losing a past lover to an unjust execution, the decision to support this treasonous cause is easy…until a devastatingly handsome Committee Officer complicates Perrin’s whole world.
Officer
Henri Chevalier hates aristocrats. But the man he finds while investigating
Crimson Rose is more than just wealthy and fancily clothed. He’s a rogue that
could take him to the heart of the uprising and stop it before it starts. His
plan to get close to Perrin and steal his secrets backfires, though, when Henri
finds himself falling for the damned aristo and his dangerous smile. His heart
is even more conflicted as he learns the truth behind their cause…and the truth
his own people have been hiding.
Together they must make the choice—to stand and shield at any cost—and their love might be the deadliest weapon in all of France.
CHAPTER ONE
Perrin de Vesey hastened his steps on the slick Parisian cobblestone,
wondering if this nighttime endeavor was a terrible mistake. He raised the
crinkled missive in his gloved hand nearer to his eyes. Not that it was easy to
read in the low-lit street to begin with, but the thick fog looming around him
only worsened his ability to make out the words. Though it was just a bit of
folded paper with a crimson wax seal, its contents ignited a newfound spark in
his chest.
Perrin de Vesey,
There’s nothing more pitiful than a man who has everything yet does
nothing. Open your eyes to the plight of the city. Innocents are slaughtered
daily—not unlike your lost lover. Yet you hide in your aristocratic fortress.
Grief is necessary, but when left too long inside one’s heart, it becomes a
dangerous toxin.
Would your beloved Julien have wanted this existence for you? On this
anniversary of his death, consider embarking on a greater mission. Join us at
Crimson Rose tonight.
It’s time to chisel meaning out of the pain.
Your friend,
The Scarlet Crest
Placing the letter in his waistcoat pocket for safekeeping, Perrin
couldn’t shake the sensation that the worn parchment—written by an unknown
sender—would somehow save him from the bleak pit that had engulfed his soul.
The question was, who’d sent the mysterious letter and why?
Given the personal details, the sender had to be a close acquaintance
of one of his friends. Furthermore, the requested meeting place, Crimson Rose,
was a discreet club that he and Julien had frequented. Within its walls, they’d
enjoyed camaraderie with others who shared their inclinations. In fact, this
Scarlet Crest had to be one of the club’s members. Only those with a particular
silver signet could gain access.
He traced his finger along Julien’s ring, following the raised ridges
of the club’s seal—a shield with a single rose. Perrin’s only prized
possession, the ring stood as an engraved reminder of the man he’d lost.
The Scarlet Crest’s words lingered in his mind, urging his every step
forward. True to the sender’s warning, the city had changed. Perrin could
barely recognize one street from the next. Had the Parisian tenements always
been so tightly crammed together?
Blast. He began to think he might have lost his way. This was the first
time he’d attempted the journey to the club on his own. In the past, he’d
always relied on Julien to guide the way. Perrin slowed his steps. A hollow
void cooled his insides, an icy ache far worse than the wintry breeze on his
cheeks.
With a huff, he rested his shoulder against a nearby wall and drew the
trim of his wool cloak more tightly across his chest. As he’d feared, this
evening’s outing was utter madness. But he wasn’t about to turn back now.
Something inside him, perhaps Julien’s spirit, told him he was meant to do
this. He’d meet this Scarlet Crest person…or people…and see what their call to
action was about. Afterward, Perrin could either return to being miserable, or
maybe—perhaps—he’d find more of this spark inside of him and start to live
again.
Overhead, the familiar arched doors and carved blades of the salle
d’armes with its crooked green sign sang to his murky memory. Only a few blocks
remained before he’d reach his destination.
As if to spite him, a splatter of sleet cascaded from the thick,
overcast sky. Perrin fixed his cloak and pushed off the wall, covering his head
with the brim of his cocked hat. Within two steps, his foot landed in a puddle.
Wet muck clung to his toes. Just his luck.
Kicking the mess from his left shoe, Perrin continued toward the alley.
In spite of the late hour and the dismal weather, numerous citizens gathered
about the isolated street. Unusual indeed, given that the club was located in a
secluded alcove far from the main thoroughfare. In fact, the closer he ventured
to his destination, the more boisterous the crowd grew.
He drew his cloak more tightly over his waistcoat to hide the fine
embroidery of his attire. Oh, this crowd would not respond kindly to
aristocratic flourishes. Not one bit. He quickened his stride, aiming for the next
corner. When he reached the entrance to a narrow alley, Perrin staggered to a
halt. Illuminated by the blaze of torches, a lurking mob raised sharpened pikes
in accented beats to booming chants.
Perrin lowered his head and crept a few tentative steps away from the
alley, fearing he’d made a horrendous mistake. He’d have to find another route
to Crimson Rose. And soon.
Retracing his footsteps to the crooked sign of the salle d’armes, his
dry shoe met the same icy puddle that had accosted his left foot. As he kicked
the grime from the ruined brocade toe, a cluster of spirited citizens shouted
in his direction. Perrin’s pulse quickened. The Scarlet Crest’s message
thrummed through his mind.
Open your eyes.
These men and women dressed in mere rags, their skin filthy with muck
and grime, had once fought for their freedom from the rule of the aristocrats.
Yet here they were, years after the fall of the Bastille, and still they
suffered. The citizens stomped toward him, their patriotic tricolored cockades
spotting the street like angry stars. The round red, white, and blue ribbons
were a chilling reminder that the Revolution hadn’t ended. He wondered if it
ever would.
Perrin ought to have heeded Philippe’s advice and accepted the
manservant’s offer to escort him. He always had the right of it, even when
Perrin was too stubborn to accept the truth. He could already hear Philippe’s
insubordinate chastisement ringing in his head.
Always acting before thinking. My lord, you’d do best to listen for
once. You’d save yourself a great deal of pain.
A chorus of hooves struck the ground at a brisk tempo. Through the
thick mist, the boxy form of a cart barreled toward him. The driver’s frantic
pace swayed to the left before nearly toppling to the right. Perrin swatted
sleet from his cheeks, narrowing his gaze. The crowd suddenly parted as the
driver continued to navigate through it like a madman.
Though armed citizens struck at the wheels with their lengthy pikes,
the driver plowed through the weapons. The cart’s cargo of barrels bobbled and
nearly plummeted over the sides.
Perrin knew he had to move, yet he remained frozen in place. Visions of
Julien’s last moments haunted him. Perhaps it was best to end it like this. So
very near to the street where his Julien had been taken from him. Helpless.
Alone.
“Move!” A dark figure dashed at him. A firm pair of hands gripped
Perrin’s shoulders with brute force, thrusting him toward a nearby wall. Perrin
looked back just as the cart broke free from the crowd. With a loud whinny, the
horses trampled the exact spot in which he had stood.
In a series of huffs and stumbles, the stranger continued to push
Perrin away from the crowd. His captor’s firm body collided against his with a
thud as the man pressed Perrin into the wall. The air burst from Perrin’s
lungs, and his ribs burned from the impact.
“Stop that cart!” A crone’s vociferous call pierced through a storm of
shouts. “Aristos! Catch them!”
The stranger planted his hands at either side of Perrin’s head, caging
him into place. Though the street was wild around them, the corner of the
building hid them from view. Even if he wanted to cry for help, no one would
hear over the noise of the crowd.
Heat thrummed from the man’s heavy breaths, his chest expanding and
contracting like a bellows against Perrin’s back. The crumbling dust and debris
of the stone scraped Perrin’s cheek. Ignoring the sting, he tried to push free
from his captor, but to no avail. He strained to glance over his shoulder.
The cloaked figure towered over him.
Fear stabbed Perrin’s throat, stripping the sound from his voice.
“Whatever you want, it’s yours.” He struggled against the man’s hold, aiming to
turn around so he might meet his captor’s gaze. But Perrin only provoked the
man to press closer. It was confirmed. Perrin never should have stepped foot
outside of his house.
“Hold still.” His heavy breaths scratched across Perrin’s right ear as
the man’s iron stance held Perrin in place. “I’m not a thief, you fool. I’m
helping you. Unless you were hoping that mob would trample you.”
“I wasn’t…” Perrin clamped his lips together. For yes…yes, he had been
waiting to be put out of his misery.
Shame crushed his next breath as he envisioned Julien’s disappointment
in him. Perrin had encouraged his lover to seek the sun whenever Julien’s
memories of his father’s cruelty had darkened his soul. These past months,
daylight offered Perrin little more than an icy reminder of all he’d lost.
“Don’t move, if you want to get out of this with all your limbs.”
Urgency clawed under the stranger’s tone. His unwavering strength cast a
soothing balm upon Perrin’s body, and his muscles slowly relaxed.
Closing his eyes, Perrin suddenly became aware of their position, their
bodies melded together from thighs to hips to those impossibly strong arms.
Though likely an unintended movement, his captor’s knee pushed slightly
forward, rubbing Perrin’s legs in a manner that sprouted a hint of longing he’d
thought he’d never experience again—to be wrapped in another’s arms all night.
Protected. Safe.
But it was soon followed by a shudder of guilt. After Julien’s death,
he’d vowed to never love another man. But to be held? Well, that was something
he’d not considered. He’d simply assumed his body would never crave such
contact again.
The stranger behind him stepped back, though his hands remained planted
at either side of Perrin’s head. It was just enough room for Perrin to change
positions and confront his so-called savior face-to-face.
“Catch the aristos! They’re getting away!”
Perrin looked to the raging crowd. Though he shuddered in fear, Perrin
commiserated with their plight. It was no wonder these citizens hated those
with wealth. Their beheaded King Louis XVI had come from a line of monarchs
who’d lived in an overabundance of finery. The luxurious Palace of Versailles,
with its boastful gilding and dazzling crystals, had been built upon the broken
backs of starving peasants.
Perrin’s knees weakened, and his legs wobbled into mush. He leaned
forward into his captor’s embrace. The man whispered soft assurances. Clearly,
he didn’t have a clue that Perrin was one of those no-good wealthy aristocrats.
Though Perrin didn’t deserve the momentary reprieve, he took a deep breath and
melted into the hardened muscles his companion provided. A surprising wall of
support and comfort.
Perrin tipped his head back, his hat tilting to accommodate the awkward
position. The stranger’s build was muscular but not too broad. His height made
it so Perrin’s nose almost grazed the stranger’s lips. It reminded him so much
of Julien. Oh, how he missed the simple press of lips to nose.
“You can’t escape the Terror!” A shrill voice in the distance rattled
Perrin out of his blissful cocoon.
The Terror. Perrin had vaguely overheard discussion amongst the
household staff regarding Robespierre’s latest initiative. Afraid that scheming
aristocrats would raise a foreign army against France, the Committee of Public
Safety’s ruthless leader had turned neighbor against neighbor. According to the
newly decreed Law of Suspects, anyone could be sent to prison for speaking a
single word of doubt regarding the government’s relentless hunt for traitors.
Perrin would be damned if he lost another loved one to Robespierre’s
blasted cockade-flaunting Republicans.
Shifting to sneak a better view of the chaos, Perrin found himself
further imprisoned by his captor’s strong chest. The scent of mint and
something citrus mixed with the heated breaths that tickled Perrin’s cheeks.
Perrin chanced an exhale, the sound like a stormy gust caught under the
brim of his cocked hat.
“Death to aristos!” Several sansculottes emerged, following the tracks
of the mob. Even through the cover of twilight, Perrin could see their
dirt-smeared cheeks and red Phrygian caps. The knit triangular hats sagged from
the weight of round, patriotic cockades. Their ankle-length striped trousers
mocked the short breeches of the aristocracy.
“You’re safe now.” The comforting presence of those strong arms was
stripped from Perrin as the stranger stepped back. “Next time you stroll
through an angry mob, keep your eyes open, eh?” The man shook his head, his
obsidian hair dangling over a set of hawklike amber eyes that struck Perrin’s
soul.
The man staggered a few more steps away and fiddled with the tight fit
of his breeches, his mannerisms a sharp contrast from the confidence he’d
exuded just moments ago. The rough wool fabric appeared to be two sizes smaller
than his frame demanded.
“Citoyen Chevalier. Thought I’d lost you.” A tall, lanky man coughed
into his fist, hurrying toward them. “Damned traitors causing a ruckus. Did you
see the grain they wasted off that cart? Despicable.”
The captivating one called Chevalier whipped his gaze to the
approaching blond-haired man, whose hooked nose accented a scowl. With such
hollowed cheeks, the man’s twisting lips etched a fierce line down his jaw.
“This citizen was about to be trampled.” Chevalier’s eyes met Perrin’s.
For a moment, the moonlight breached the fog and shone on his high cheekbones.
His olive skin held a satin sheen.
A sharp wind lifted the heavy wool cloak from Perrin’s body, revealing
his attire. Perrin’s heart stopped beating as Chevalier’s gaze trailed
downward, pausing on his satin breeches. A twitching snarl formed on that
lovely face, and Perrin knew immediately there’d be no companionship shared between
them.
“An aristocrat? You’re one of them?” Chevalier spat at Perrin’s feet.
Perrin opened his mouth and shut it, unable to contradict the
accusation. He ought to have been more guarded.
“You thought you could hide your blackened heart behind that cloak
forever?” Chevalier’s brow furrowed into a tight ridge.
“Excuse me?” The sheer hatred in the man’s curse lit a fire in Perrin’s
chest, a mixture of shame and fury warring within him. He tugged the thick
fabric over his fanciful attire, unable to explain the sentimental significance
of his chosen suit.
“I’d wager your servants suffer moldy bread while you prance about in
satin breeches and gold trim.”
“You’d judge me by my breeches? I’ll have you know I supported your
Revolution.” Perrin clamped his mouth shut, thinking it was best not to rile
the man further—not when he was so close to a frazzled mob. “I’ve no quarrel
with the Committee. I readily support their efforts. And my household staff
eats better than I do.” Which was all the truer now that the mere smell of his
favorite dishes sickened him. Even the sweetest flavors failed to bring Perrin
satisfaction when Julien wasn’t there to enjoy them with him.
“I doubt that’s true. Aristos are terrible liars and thieves.” The
other man scratched at a rather large pockmark on the side of his nose. “You
flaunt your wealth on the street in those ridiculous clothes of yours when good
men and women suffer.”
“I… It breaks my heart to see the struggles on the street. No one
should have to suffer.”
Something like shock and maybe regret glimmered in Chevalier’s gaze.
The lines on his face softened for a moment. “Open your eyes, aristo.” He
gestured toward the waning crowd. “Suffering is all around us.”
Open your eyes. The Scarlet Crest’s message shot to the forefront of
his mind. Perrin narrowed his gaze, wondering if this enraged citizen could
possibly know the sender of that message.
“I’m suffering just listening to your lies.” The other man picked
something out of his teeth and flung it to the street.
“My companion here is right.” Chevalier swatted his hand toward Perrin
in a lazy sweep. “Your lies mean nothing.”
“I hadn’t realized it had gotten this bad.” Perrin winced, knowing he
ought to have kept quiet and let the men go along on their way. Could he have
spoken anything worse? He sounded exactly like the sort of rich, arrogant prig
they accused him of being. Perhaps if he’d mustered the strength to leave his
house months ago, he might have done something about the misery around him.
Lord knew he had enough priceless paintings crowding his hallways.
“Exactly my point.” Chevalier lifted his chin in defiance. “Your kind
lavishes in comforts, eyes closed to the peril of others.”
“That’s hardly fair. You’ve no idea what I’ve suffered.” Perrin bit his
tongue before mentioning his lover had been unjustly guillotined. Perrin would
only reveal himself to be tied to a traitor and therefore just as guilty as
they’d accused Julien of being.
Chevalier’s lip twitched, and he puffed out a heavy breath. “Yes, I’m
sure your inability to procure affordable silk and satin is a mighty hardship.”
“You cast slander against my attire like it’s a crime to wear fine
clothes, yet our leaders dress quite well. Consider Robespierre and his fine
silk stockings. I doubt those are easy to come by these days.”
Chevalier’s lanky companion squawked. “Watch your words.”
“Ah, but you didn’t counter my statement.” Perrin kept his gaze on
Chevalier’s. “How can you respect one man clad in fancy garb yet shun another?”
“Be careful, aristo. Madame Guillotine awaits you.” Chevalier’s friend
cackled.
Chevalier nodded in agreement. “Indeed. I’ve had enough of your
insolent accusations. Your sort can’t be trusted. You squandered our country’s
wealth while great men like Robespierre fought to earn it.”
To Perrin’s disappointment, he wasn’t given a chance to respond.
Chevalier, that self-righteous accuser, grabbed his companion’s arm and walked
past him with dramatic huffs.
Perrin opened his mouth to defend himself, then thought the better of
it. There’d be no reasoning with a man like Chevalier.
Resuming his trek to Crimson Rose, Perrin placed his hand over the
missive inside his waistcoat pocket. Thank God it was still there.
Open your eyes.
…
That arrogant, aristocratic, good-for-nothing rogue. Henri inhaled
several shallow breaths, eager to purge the encounter on the street from his
mind. Catching traitors—that was what mattered. Not hoity, fancifully dressed
men with uncharacteristically wild hair. Wild hair? Non. He had a duty to focus
on the task at hand.
He narrowed his eyes and studied the red painted door before him but
found his thoughts wandering back to that alluring aristo. Why had the man been
wandering the streets alone at night?
Henri rubbed his jaw in frustration. Tonight was bound to be an utter
disaster. This Crimson Rose club might be harboring traitors within its cream
plaster walls, yet Henri’s thoughts continued to drift.
“This place hardly seems discreet.” His cohort, Luc, jabbed Henri’s arm
with his pointy elbow. “Think that informant of yours gave us a valid
passcode?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” But Henri’s insides clenched out of
fear he might have been handed poor information.
The portal’s vibrant color glowed in the silver moonlight, as if
calling passersby to take a closer look. But there weren’t any passersby, and
he supposed the club’s secret passcode hindered unwanted guests from spying on
its offerings.
“Well, what is it?” Luc asked.
“Hmm?” Henri blinked at him, wondering why they hadn’t knocked yet.
“The passcode. What is it?”
“Ah. Yes, of course.” Henri dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out
the tiny parchment. “I’m ready.” He raised his fist and knocked with a few
tepid taps.
A nervous energy swept through his veins as a brisk breeze stung his
cheeks. The crisp bite of November…or, as the new Republican calendar mandated
they call the month, Brumaire…had settled upon Paris. At least the month was
aptly named for the fog, given the impossible weather this time of year. He’d
only been back in the city for a little over a month, and everything seemed to
have changed. Decimal time? More minutes to track. New calendars? Longer work
weeks.
The names of months or length of weeks hardly mattered when he had more
important things to worry about. Treasonous schemers plagued the city, aiming
to restore the rule of the cruel aristocracy who’d bled their workers dry.
He shivered from the memory of the godawful lettre de cache that had
sealed his father’s fate six years ago. Having worked as a clerk under the
employ of the Comte de Bertram, Henri’s father often went unpaid for lengthy
periods of time. As if that weren’t awful enough, the comte had seduced Henri’s
sister and cast her aside once she was with child. His payment to Henri’s
father? A letter signed by the king that sent him to prison without so much as
a trial. Such were the days of the ancien régime, when the aristos had
controlled everything.
Tonight, Henri aimed to catch another aristocratic villain. The former
Marquis Duclos, a Crimson Rose club member, had recently sent numerous letters
to acquaintances in England. Rumors hinted he was plotting to escape Paris so
that he might rally foreign allies to raise an army against France.
Further denouncements had claimed that under the guise of an artist,
the former marquis used his apprentices to deliver encoded messages to known
traitors who had been in contact with foreign enemies. Each person had fled the
evening before they were slotted for arrest. Henri surmised it was likely that
Duclos had helped coordinate the escapes. But the Committee of Public Safety
still needed firm evidence against Duclos. As they stood now, they only had a
series of denouncements against his apprentices and the Committee hadn’t gotten
its hands on a single message.
“What’s taking so long?” Henri’s partner, Luc Cyrille, coughed into his
fist. “You didn’t knock hard enough.” He pounded on the door with a loud thud
that caused Henri to jump. “Stop fidgeting, or they’ll see through our
disguises. I’m not about to hold your hand.”
Ah, so it hadn’t escaped Luc’s notice that Crimson Rose was frequented
by men seeking the comfort of other men. Though Henri was well aware of the
club’s clientele, he himself had never visited.
When the door cracked open, Henri recited the passcode he’d pried from
his former lover. “Brandy Time—er—Thief. Yes, sorry. Brandy Thief; that’s it.”
Henri grimaced a lopsided smile, hoping the doorman wouldn’t notice his
blunder. That mob had rattled his nerves.
“Damn,” the doorman cursed under his breath before opening the crimson
portal. “Er…damn, it’s cold outside.” The hitch in his words failed to mask an
undercurrent of displeasure as he waved them inside.
The doorman ushered them to a small lacquered table. Henri settled onto
a wooden chair, half disappointed the thing wasn’t padded. Given the opulence
surrounding them, he’d have thought the establishment might offer better
seating. Not that he required comfort. Crinkling his nose, he snarled at the
frivolous decor.
Along the walls, thick scarlet drapes swept from ceiling to floor,
hugging decadent carved-mahogany panels with gold-painted moldings. Gold trim,
just like that aristo from the street and his haughty breeches.
Henri tapped the polished wood table in staccato beats. Duclos. He
needed to strategize the former Marquis Duclos’s capture.
“Filthy aristo had better turn up. I’m tired of waiting.” Luc grumbled
as he unfolded a parchment. With a hiss, he jerked his finger back and frowned
at a tiny droplet of blood.
The unsettling image brought forth an acrid taste in Henri’s mouth. He
clamped his hands into fists and set them on his lap. He’d not let his weakness
win by fainting. Especially not in front of Luc Cyrille.
Think of flowers blossoming in a countryside field. With leaping
bunnies. Fluffy, happy bunnies.
When Luc tucked the wound under a handkerchief, Henri exhaled.
“You look a bit green, Chevalier.” Luc snickered as he stuffed the
soiled linen in his pocket, and Henri wondered if the miscreant had nicked his
finger on purpose.
“I’m perfectly all right.” Not even Henri believed the miserable lie.
Luc snapped his fingers and glanced over his shoulder. “Is there no
service in this ghastly establishment?”
Henri scratched his thigh, the coarse wool fabric burning his skin.
Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before Duclos appeared with the rumored delivery.
The moment Henri had learned that Duclos aimed to perform the deed himself,
rather than task one of his apprentices, Henri had pounced at the opportunity
to catch him. Tonight’s delivery likely held something so damning Duclos didn’t
trust it in the hands of his helpers.
An unnerving quiet spread across the room. Henri glanced over his
shoulder, and his breath caught. Merde, why couldn’t it have been the former
Marquis Duclos? Or any other person? Just his luck—in strolled the pest he’d
mistakenly saved on the street. What was that bastard aristo doing here? And
why did Henri’s insides flutter with excitement? Non. Not excitement. Anger.
It hardly mattered that the man had an alluring angular jaw. And that
dreadful, fleshy grimace wasn’t worth kissing. Those mournful viridian eyes
hardly swept Henri’s heart into a twirl. Twirl?
Henri wiped his brow. A damp sheen of sweat coated his skin.
Incroyable. The man wasn’t desirable in the slightest. The atrocious
frivolity of the man’s suit brought the texture of dried bread to Henri’s
mouth. How could he have thought for a decimal second that an aristo, of all
people, was handsome?
The worst part of it was, a miniscule granule of guilt lodged itself in
the depths of his throat. He regretted, a bit, that he’d spat at him.
Whether or not the man was an aristo, Henri held no evidence he’d ever
committed a crime. If he’d learned one thing from his father’s death, it was
that all people deserved the right to defend themselves against an accusation.
Other than rousing Henri’s protective drive—among other things—the only
act the aristo was guilty of was reminding Henri of his loneliness.
“You there. I’m in need of a drink.” Luc scooted his chair from the
table and clapped his hands, startling a server who happened to be passing by.
Henri swallowed back the bile that tainted his tongue. An aristo. Lord
only knew what Henri’s father would have thought of this unfounded attraction.
CONTINUE READING...
Purchase Your Copy Today!
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | iBooks
To
celebrate the release of THE
REVOLUTIONARY AND THE ROGUE by Blake Ferre, we're giving away a $25 Amazon
gift card to one lucky winner!
LINK: https://bit.ly/34kC9nw
GIVEAWAY TERMS &
CONDITIONS: Open
internationally. One winner will receive a $25 Amazon gift card. This giveaway
is administered by BookMojo on behalf of Entangled Publishing. Giveaway ends 9/30/2020 @ 11:59pm EST.
|
BLAKE FERRE writes LGBTQIA+ Inclusive Historical Romance Novels. A lover of the
18th Century, Blake can be found ogling over frock coats, embroidery,
buttons, and velvet.  |
|
Website https://blakeferrebooks.com/
Twitter https://twitter.com/blakeferrebooks
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/blakeferrebooks
BookBub https://www.bookbub.com/search?authors=Blake+Ferre&search=Blake+Ferre
 |
No comments:
Post a Comment