A Viscount’s Tender Dilemma (Preview)

Chapter One

Waterworth House, Harrogate, February 1818

“Please, Sister! Please, hurry! Poor Gabriel will suffer an apoplexy if we do not return before luncheon!”

Anne paused at the doors to fasten her bonnet, her fingers fumbling with its blue ribbons. She had been unsettled from the moment she had awoken that morning, tingling with unusual anxiety at the prospect of their earliest appointment. 

The wind coiled around her as she looped one end of the ribbon through the other, near choking as she pulled the strands too tightly together, and her auburn hair was caught within. Cecilia was nonplussed, halfway hanging out of the carriage and begging Anne to work faster for the sake of their brother—though Anne knew it was not worry that besieged Gabriel but an obsession with order.

To his dismay, Anne had been heralded as the ton’s great agent of chaos by their late father, leaving a trail of heartbroken suitors in her wake. She played the part of a decent lady too well. She was an accomplished reader and musician. She spoke French and rode with the best of them. She had memorised The Mirror of Graces word for word. As the first daughter of a baron, she had no other choice. Year after year, the men of North Yorkshire descended upon her like a plague of locusts, hoping to dethaw The Honourable Miss Anne Dormer and find within her a wife. Year after year, Anne eschewed her womanly duty, wanting at five-and-twenty, not to be conquered, but to be loved.

Brambilla, their butler, came around with Anne’s shawl and draped it over her shoulders, patting her as if to imbue her with courage. Anne sent him off with her earnest thanks and shot a final look at the Waterworth foyer before forcing a smile and descending to the carriage, where Cecilia and their chaperone awaited.

Thumbing back the carriage curtains, Anne cast a glance out of the window as they rolled away from home, watching as the fields around her family’s property undulated green and grey, like the waves of a barren sea. Cecilia scooted closer to her on the bench and propped her chin on Anne’s shoulder, ready to whisper mischief in her ear.

“If we should be allotted some time after our visit to East Ripley Hall, might we take a promenade down the esplanade? Cold Bath Road lies just beyond, as you well know, and Miss Adelaide tells me the haberdasher has imported some new fabrics from India.”

Suddenly, Mrs Bleakley made a contrarian noise, causing Anne to arch a brow. The lady’s maid resumed her needlework, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, speaking only when prompted by Anne.

“It seems to me that Miss Cecilia knows full well the rules of propriety. She should not be urging you to break them, Miss Dormer.”

“There is nothing improper about shopping,” Cecilia countered meekly. She drew away from Anne and folded her hands in her lap. “In fact, I have heard ladies say that shopping is one of the pillars of propriety.”

“I should be curious to know why, Miss Cecilia.” 

“Well, is it not proper to be appropriately dressed? And does one not meet so many nice friends in town, therefore making shopping a proper avenue through which to socialise? And if we are to travel to London soon for the Season as Brother Gabriel intends, shall we not need both clothes and friends in ample supply?”

Mrs Bleakley’s stern expression melted into a smile. Anne had divined long ago that Cecilia was Mrs Bleakley’s favourite Dormer sibling, which seemed at once a blessing and a curse. The woman had been their wet nurse first, promoted to a lady’s maid when the girls came of age. She had watched Cecilia and Anne come out into society; they had watched her husband die and her hair speckle with grey. It came as no surprise to Anne that Mrs Bleakley favoured Cecilia, who would not hurt a fly, who was a diamond of the first water, especially when compared to the common chits of the ton. Anne considered her sister with just as much affection, if not more.

“I see no harm in popping into the haberdasher’s once we have completed our task at East Ripley,” Anne said. “But to spare Mrs Bleakley’s good heart, we shall skirt the promenade and head directly for the high street.”

“Oh, thank you!” Cecilia beamed with tempered joy, giving a little clap of her gloved hands. “Perhaps we might invite Mr Cavendish to join us?”

“I cannot imagine he will be inclined to say yes.” Anne tried and failed to stifle a laugh. “Though I encourage you to ask him regardless. He could do with a good laugh, our poor Mr Cavendish.”

There was nothing inherently poor about Mr Cavendish, though everyone always titled him as such. Anne supposed it had something to do with his lack of a wife and children, which they said were symptoms of a life poorly led. Anne was unconvinced, merely repeating what she had heard out of habit. While Mr Cavendish was well into his middle age, he was the most decorous of all gentlemen and always had something interesting to speak about. He had been the best friend of their late father, existing in the periphery of Anne’s life for as long as she could remember. Along with all of Mr Cavendish’s other qualities, he was the safekeeper of North Yorkshire’s most expansive library, which was the reason for their visit that morning.

As the carriage jostled down the curved pebbled drive to East Ripley Hall, Anne felt her nerves multiply.

“Are you all right?” Cecilia asked, laying a hand on her sister’s arm.

“How you always know when something is wrong with me, I shall never understand. I feel as though…” Anne cut herself off, feeling silly. “Never you mind. I shall be right as rain once we are inside.”

The pebbles ground underfoot as Anne alighted from the carriage. East Ripley Hall towered in front of her, a sixteenth-century wonder against the provincial slate of Northern England. The grounds were perturbingly symmetrical, never failing to make Anne feel small and woozy. The main building was square-shaped, with a red brick face, palisaded on either side by rows of burgeoning hawthorn trees. 

The sun had come out since they had departed from Waterworth. Anne shielded her eyes ungraciously as the doors to the house yawned open. Taking Anne by surprise, Cecilia threaded her arm through her sister’s elbow and led her up the steps.

The entrance hall was cool and dizzyingly dark, but otherwise familiar, with marble floors and matching columns. Anne relaxed as Mr Cavendish appeared at the top of the staircase, thanking the butler for having greeted his guests and apologising for his tardiness.

Mr Cavendish was hardly the pink of the ton, always dressed modestly in browns, blacks, and greys. His hair was just as colourless, curling around his ears in a way that soothed Anne’s soul. He made Anne think of her late father, who had been similar in age, but not in height and weight. Mr Cavendish was thin and wiry at six-foot tall, if not more, with a face that reminded Anne of an old friend—whom she forced herself at present not to consider. 

He greeted the Dormer sisters and their chaperone warmly, patting Anne on the back like she was a boy. They were led into the nearest drawing room, where the sun poured in from the windows. Tea was on offer for the women, and pleasantries were shared, and Anne’s stomach roiled as Mr Cavendish took on a strange air. He tapped his weathered fingers against his lips as though wanting to say something but not having the courage to do it. Meanwhile, Mrs Bleakley was discussing the importance of a well-balanced diet with Cecilia, who had piled high her plate with sweetmeats. Mr Cavendish snapped his fingers, and his hand fell to his side like a plumb. 

“Tell me, Anne…” Mr Cavendish began awkwardly, stalking toward her with legs like a grasshopper. “How are things progressing between you and the young Hodge lad?”

Anne almost spat out her tea. The young Hodge lad was Mr Christopher Hodge, the twenty-six-year-old son of Sir Richard, who lived a stone’s throw away from Waterworth House. The things of which Mr Cavendish spoke pertained to the fledgling courtship between Anne and Christopher, though Anne was reluctant to call it anything more than a friendship. For all intents and purposes, Christopher had never asked to court her officially, despite Gabriel’s repeated choice words to them both about the matter. 

“You have been acquainted your entire lives,” Gabriel had argued the year prior, after another unsuccessful London Season for Anne. “Hodge is a decent man with a decent income, and more than that, he is my friend. What more could you want from a husband?”

Anne composed herself and regarded Mr Cavendish seriously. He had never seemed concerned about her singlehood before. She offered a one-shouldered shrug and asked, “Have you heard something about Mr Hodge?”

“No, not in the slightest,” he protested. His white eyebrows shot into his hairline. “If I had, I would not be asking you about him, but recommending you to stay well away. Should I have heard something?”

“We will not get very far if I ask one question, and you reply with a question of your own. However, I suppose I am equally complicit in that regard, talking us in circles.” She gestured for Mr Cavendish to sit down, but he continued standing. “You seem awfully distracted this morning, if you do not mind my saying.”

“Distracted? I suppose I am.” He took a deep breath, as though preparing to launch himself into a speech. “My dears, I am most pleased, as always I am, to host you this fair Friday morning,” he declared in good nature, before his expression plummeted. “But I do so wish you had received my note before coming, which I sent early this morning, though perhaps not early enough.” 

“A note, Mr Cavendish?” Cecilia inquired.

“Indeed.” He circled the twinning set of sofas and lowered himself into the seat beside Anne, who shared a look with her sister. “I am expecting guests, you see, and they are not long for the coming. While it breaks my heart to cut our teatime short, I shall have to ask Anne to be quick about her tour of the library this morning.”

For her part, Anne had set her teacup down before Mr Cavendish had finished his sentence. “We understand, of course. I will not impose any longer than I must, Mr Cavendish.”

“Oh, you are never an imposition, my dear,” Mr Cavendish said, but he would not meet her eye. He seemed inexorably burdened by the news of his imminent visitors—as anyone would, Anne thought. “Aye, but I do think it is best that you be off before they arrive.”

Cecilia leaned forward to inquire after Mr Cavendish’s guests, but Anne did not stop to listen. She moved quickly to the door, adjusting her eyes as she entered the foyer. It was a short walk to the library from there. Anne knew the way, like the back of her hand. She stopped only to check the time on a nearby wall clock; it was half past ten on the dot, which would give Anne and Cecilia more than enough time to peruse the shops before Gabriel returned for luncheon at twelve.

The library was dimly lit and deathly quiet. Mr Cavendish always kept the curtains slightly drawn to protect his collection of books from the sun. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, two storeys high, laden with all manner of tomes, on every subject imaginable. A thin-railed balcony split the library in two vertically, moulded snuggly around the windows, while hosting the odd reading chair and table. 

Anne ran her hand along the bannister leading up to the second storey, undecided on the genre of book she would be taking home with her on that day. The thought made her remember her last loan, and she quickly dove into the seam of her skirts. Her hand dipped into the embroidered draw bag beneath her petticoat, latching around the book: The Romance of the Forest by Ann Radcliff. Mrs Bleakley often dubbed Anne’s out-of-fashion pockets a mark of barbarism, but Anne, who was always lugging things around with her and collecting things, deemed them a necessity. 

She placed the loaned book in its usual spot, on the nearest of the two wide mahogany tables in the room. The sound it made, a soft thwap against the wood, filled Anne with grief, excitement, and nostalgia all at once. Grief, for having to part with a book she had enjoyed, and for knowing she would never experience anything as tantalising first-hand. Excitement at the promise of discovering something new. Nostalgia, because once upon a time she had…

“Well, that does not matter now, does it?” she completed with a whisper.

Taking in a deep breath, she circled the room. Stopping before the shelf which hosted the rest of Radcliff’s novels, she selected the one titled The Castles of Athlin and Dubnayne. Mr Cavendish had scoffed at the book the Friday prior, when he had been helping Anne choose her next read. 

“A reader as quick as you will not enjoy a book as crass as that one,” he had argued. “This one is the better of hers, for a woman like you,” he had added, handing her The Romance of the Forest.

Considering the novel now, Anne flipped open to the first chapter. “On the northeast coast of Scotland, in the most romantic part of the Highlands…” she read quietly, forgetting all about Mr Cavendish’s haste, “stood the Castle of Athlin.” She mumbled on a little further in a world of her own, her back turned to the door. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh as violence bloomed on the page, then again behind her eyes. “When first we enter on the theatre of the world…young imagination heightens every scene…The happy benevolence of our feelings prompts us to believe that everybody is good, and….”

The words wreathed around her like iron shackles, and Anne trailed off. Swiftly overcome by unease, she stuffed the book back into its slot on the bookshelf and scrambled for another. She didn’t bother looking at the title, wanting only to clear her mind of Radcliff’s words on innocence.

“Mr Cavendish was right. It is crass,” she said to distract herself. Her eyes flitted over the first page of The Mysteries of Udolpho, failing to absorb the words—equally failing to admit the truth about her own misguided youth.

Suddenly, something creaked behind her. Anne gasped and turned around, clutching the book to her chest. The room was empty, exactly as she had left it before she had begun her search. She cursed herself and inspected the novel in her hands, resolving to choose something more palatable than books about brigands and ghosts.

By the time she had selected something different, Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe, which she had read before and trusted, the clock in the hallway read quarter past eleven. She quickened her pace as she reached the entrance hall, slowing as she heard an unfamiliar brouhaha of voices swelling from within.

Mr Cavendish was speaking, and Cecilia was too. Anne couldn’t make out what was being said, standing just out of sight behind the archway, but they sounded happy enough. There was a third voice, a deep tenor that rolled into a gentle laugh, which belonged to a man who was well-spoken and energetic—undoubtedly, a man of the ton.

Whomever the voice belonged to was likely the visitor Mr Cavendish had been awaiting, and it appeared as though Anne had been too busy daydreaming to successfully avoid him. At least Gabriel would be pleased. His sister was fast becoming a spinster. Every new acquaintance of Anne’s was an opportunity to get her out of his hair. 

Anne inspected herself quickly, smoothing down her stubborn baby hairs, shoving her book in her pocket, and she braced for the worst. 

But the man standing beside Cecilia was worse than the worst. And when he saw her, she knew he felt it too.

Chapter Two

 “Say what you like, good man, but I still wager we would be better off in London. This country malarkey is all well and good for gentlemen of your disposition, but we modern men wither in places such as this. Yes, come with me to London while the Season is underway, and review the estate from there. If I see one more spa or teahouse, I will likely lose my mind.”

James cast a long-suffering look at Edward, who had done nothing but complain since they had docked in Dover. Slowing his gait, he allowed Edward to walk ahead of him and continue his tirade about the slowness of country life, seemingly forgetting he had free will to go wherever he pleased.

It had been four years to the day since James had set foot in Harrogate, and he was surprised to find the town much unchanged since his departure. He and Edward had arrived at East Ripley Hall the night prior, after three arduous days of travel from the coast. His uncle had greeted them as expected, looking relieved to find his nephew returned to him, though he had been adamant on seeing James and his friend out of the house that morning, for reasons that yet eluded the both of them. 

James did not mind. He would permit Oliver Cavendish his few foibles, given how dutifully he had been managing the Sinclair properties in James’ stead.

They had been walking down the River Nidd for the better part of the morning, trailing through Harrogate along the water’s edge. A Roman aqueduct came into view up ahead, shooting out of the glistening river below, fractured down the middle. There were plans to construct a new waterway. The men in town had said as much since James was little. It would not be built in his lifetime, he knew. Loath as he was to admit that Edward was right, life in Harrogate tottered on at an alarmingly slow pace.

James paused to admire the sight. He had once thought that England was the most uninspiring place on earth, but his travels across Europe had done nothing but make him long for home. He had been gone for so long that, over time, he had forgotten why he had left, but the great empty welcome of East Ripley Hall had soon helped him remember.

“I say, are you listening to me, Jamie?” Edward asked from nearby. He had doubled back to urge James forward. He swung an arm around James’s

shoulders, who was only a few inches shorter than the absurdly tall Edward Hastings. “Now, what is that look in your eye? Don’t tell me you’re glad to be back.”

“And why not? It is only natural for a man to yearn for his homeland in some capacity.” James clapped Edward on the shoulder and marched forward. “Granted that he should be born somewhere halfway decent.”

“Sussex has done nothing to deserve your ire.” Edward wagged a finger in the air, then raked his blonde hair back from his temples. “You will not tell my father I said that, or else he will think to call me home.”

“Your secret is safe with me, pretender.” James paused, squinting at the clouds overhead. “We could be here a long while, you realise. There is no telling what my uncle should want from me.”

“I could gander a guess.” Edward grinned, baring all his teeth. “The prodigal nephew is returned to North Yorkshire. Your uncle begs of you to dust off that sceptre of yours and rule, My Lord Viscount.”

James chuckled out of politeness, because really, there was nothing funny about his predicament at all. He had become Viscount Sinclair three years ago, but as of yet, the viscount existed in name alone. James didn’t bother telling Edward that there was not much ruling to be done by viscounts anyway because Edward would doubtless ask what the position entailed instead, and James had been away for so long that he hadn’t the faintest idea. 

His father had made it look easy, but he was three years dead and no good to anyone anymore.

The letter from Uncle Oliver had come two weeks ago, while James and Edward had been staying in Sicily. It had been a short and innocuous message, requesting only that James consider a visit when the time was right. Uncle Oliver had never asked James for anything, especially not a family reunion. Something more was afoot, and James was determined to uncover what. 

“Let us head back to East Ripley,” James said. “The time is right.”

***

The time, in fact, was not right at all. 

It took twenty minutes to ride back to the house, but James wished it had taken longer. An unmarked carriage had been parked in the house’s driveway, and James could tell from the look of it that it belonged to a member of the ton. He bristled at the thought of finding a cult of aristocrats waiting for him within the house, ready to assail him with questions about his time abroad and his plans now that he was back.

Ascending the steps gingerly, he crept into the foyer. The room was clear of callers, occupied solely by a lone footman carrying kindling toward the dining room. The boy rushed off to find the butler, but James raised a hand to stall him. 

“It is not too late to turn around and pretend we were never here,” Edward whispered conspiratorially behind him. “The horses are likely still tacked.”

James considered their egress for a moment too long, and the opportunity slipped away. Footsteps sounded from the eastern hallway, and soon a solitary young woman appeared in the archway. 

She was short and shapely, with a gentle countenance and dark hair. Her eyes were strikingly blue and oddly familiar, but for the life of him, James could not assign her face a name. The girl gave a quick gasp and stepped forward, her fingers laced before her mouth, just as Uncle Oliver entered with another strange woman. 

“Merciful heavens, it really is you!” the girl cried—no my lord, no curtsy. “When did you return?”

The greying woman behind his uncle looked horrified, but Uncle Oliver gave a sheepish smile. He said something to the girl that was too quiet for James to hear, then escorted the women into the hall, effectively trapping James. 

“Forgive me,” James said, looking directly at his uncle but speaking to the girl. “I believe we are yet to be introduced.”

“You will remember Miss Cecilia Dormer,” his uncle said, gesturing between the two of them. He stepped around Miss Cecilia almost protectively. “The second daughter of Baron de Markes.”

James reeled inwardly. It seemed impossible that the woman standing before him was Miss Cecilia. She had been half as tall when last he had seen her—a child, terrified of the world. In that moment, she looked at him with confident awe, like she wanted to ask him a thousand and one questions but didn’t know where to begin. James tasked himself with answering the most obvious of them once his daze had passed.

“Yes, of course, I remember Miss Cecilia.” James wondered whether he should introduce himself for the sake of the woman he supposed was her chaperone. Was that the done thing? He turned to Edward, hoping his friend would have the answer. Instead, Edward looked like he was ready to burst out laughing, and James turned back with a shoddily concealed sigh. “Allow me to introduce my good friend and travelling companion to you, Mr Edward Hastings, out of Sussex.”

“Charmed,” Edward supplied, stepping forward to give Miss Cecilia a bow. 

She smiled in turn and parted her lips to speak. Uncle Oliver stepped forward, cutting off whichever question Miss Cecilia was preparing. “You said you would not be back before noon, Nephew. Has something happened?”

“Nothing happened, which was precisely our problem,” Edward retorted.

“Suffice to say, Mr Hastings was not impressed with Harrogate,” James explained. “We thought to find some manner of entertainment here instead.”

“Yes, I was about ready to jump in your river.”

“Thankfully for you, Mr Hastings,” Miss Cecilia interjected, “the water in this area is said to have healing properties.” Just like that, Miss Cecilia and Edward entered into a sparring match of sorts, discussing the virtues of her home, or lack thereof, while the rest of them listened. 

James followed along as attentively as he could, all the while trying to catch his uncle’s eye. Once he was successful, Uncle Oliver came to stand beside him. 

“Was this a planned call?” James whispered with thinly veiled irritation.

“Of course, it was not planned. Had I known earlier of your coming, to England, to the house, I would have stalled this moment for as long as possible.” His uncle lowered his head in shame. “I could not thwart their visit in time. We have made a ritual of it, you will understand. Every Friday morning, they come for tea. You have my apologies. It could not be stopped.”

“You said, their call?” James glanced at Miss Cecilia, who was too absorbed in her joking with Edward to notice him. He suddenly realized what his uncle was implying. “Ah, I understand. She is here as well.”

The thought did not cause James as much dread as he had expected it might, though he was careful not to reveal as much to his uncle. 

“Lord Sinclair,” Miss Cecilia called suddenly, and James looked up. “Mr Hastings is suggesting that you are staying in the country to take up husbandry.”

“Is he now?” James gave an exasperated laugh. “Our Mr Hastings is prone to gross exaggeration, I am afraid.”

“You are not staying, then? Nor are you becoming a farmer?”

The questions did not stem from Miss Cecilia, but from another woman entirely. The group turned their attention to the back of the hall, where Miss Anne Dormer was stood with her hands crossed over her front. 

James’ breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Where Miss Cecilia had transformed in his time away, her older sister had stayed the same, magically frozen in time. She drifted towards them with poise, tall and proud, her hair as vibrant as ever. The blue eyes he had recognised from Miss Cecilia were twice as bright upon Miss Dormer’s countenance, sparkling like two pools of Harrogate spring water—and full of indifference for him.

Her mirthful apathy poisoned him, and immediately he wished he had never come back to England. Anne looked at him like he was a stranger, and in many ways, he was. Gone were the halcyon days of their shared childhood, spending summers in each other’s company, perusing his uncle’s library together, bathing in the pond behind East Ripley Hall before either of them knew why that was improper. 

She was a woman now. She had been a woman when he had left. Her womanhood had been one half of his problem; his unreciprocated love for her, the other half. 

How was it possible that the mere sight of Miss Anne Dormer should summon all those ill feelings within him and more? That he should realise only in that moment how terribly he had missed her?

“Miss Dormer,” he greeted with as much civility as he could.

“Lord Sinclair,” she replied, coming to stand beside her sister. 

Anne must have scared off Edward, as he tactfully manoeuvred around her and returned to James’ side. 

“I take it these are your guests, Mr Cavendish,” Anne said. Her voice had matured in his time away, but he recognised the mischievous bluestocking hidden beneath those dulcet tones. His uncle reintroduced Edward for him, and Anne offered a genteel smile. “Well, I pray that your visit to North Yorkshire is a happy one. With that in mind, how long do you intend to stay?” 

The question was charged, and James understood that she wanted him gone.

“That has yet to be decided,” Edward answered, oblivious to Anne’s games. “How is it that the group of you should know each other?”

“My uncle and Baron de Markes are lifelong friends,” James said. He recalled Anne’s father fondly and found the courage to face her long enough to ask after the gentleman. “How is your father?”

“Dead,” she answered plainly.

“Oh.” James’ chest constricted. “I am so sorry.”

His uncle cleared his throat to break the silence, and the party swivelled toward him. “Miss Dormer was just retrieving a book from my—” he stopped and stammered a laugh, “erm, from your library.”

“I see,” James said. He was in no mood to make small talk but was powerless to orchestrate his escape. “And what did you select, Miss Dormer?”

“An adventure novel.” Anne smiled, but the expression did not reach her eyes. “We little countrywomen must find some way to nourish our imaginations. I suppose you do not have that problem, what with your own adventuring in America.”

“Actually, we are just returned from Italy,” Edward said jovially. “Before then, Valencia in Spain.”

“The continent, then? I see.” Anne inhaled deeply and turned to her sister. “On that note, we should be off before Gabriel begins to worry. If you would have our driver prepare the carriage, Mr Cavendish….”

Uncle Oliver dithered for a moment, then moved to call for the butler. Before James could think to stop her and say more, Anne motioned for her sister and chaperone to exit the house. A footman appeared as though out of thin air with their shawls and bonnets, then opened the door for them to leave.

Peering through the curtains in the drawing room, James watched as the de Markes carriage drove out of sight, not yet recovered from his awkward meeting with Anne.

“There is a story there,” he heard Edward comment from behind him. James glanced over his shoulder to find his friend stretched out in an armchair, mulling over a day-old paper. “Between yourself and the redhead. I should like to hear it, one day.”

“It is not a happy story,” James said.

“Good. I imagined as much. Were you the scoundrel, or was she?”

James let the curtains fall back into place and turned away, not quite knowing what the answer was. 

---

“A Viscount’s Tender Dilemma” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

The charismatic Miss Anne Dormer has it all: beauty, wealth, and a prestigious upbringing. Despite being very eligible over the years, she remains unmarried, after the man she loved left her heartbroken. Yet, when her sister comes of age to seek her own match, Anne will have no choice but to part with her freedom for the sake of her sister’s happiness. Little did she know that she would find herself faced with the last man she ever wanted to see again: the Viscount who left England and broke her heart.

Will she be able to forget the past and move on with her life?

James Sinclair left England five years ago to satisfy his appetite for travel, a need that took away his chance to be with the only woman he ever loved. However, upon his arrival, he hopes to rekindle his connection with the fiery Anne, but old wounds run deep, and Anne has caught the attention of another suitor. As their paths cross during the Season, his old feelings resurface, and James finds himself torn between his own ghosts and what his heart desires the most.

Will he bear the thought of Anne marrying another man or will he fight to win her back?

With scandalous plots surrounding them, Anne and James must choose between pride and love. As Anne cannot escape James forever and James cannot stand watching her with another man, their hearts finally reunite, haunted by pain and doubts. Can they put the past behind them, or will their old mistakes destroy their every chance at happiness? Will the power of forgiveness and love heal their broken souls or are they doomed to live apart in misery?

“A Viscount’s Tender Dilemma” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!