Dreamingby Jill Barnett
Romantic Times hails Jill Barnett as "a true new star of the genre!" Unfailingly engaging and original, she now concocts another winning tale wherein a stubborn lord and a high-spirited lass are locked in a battle of wills...and on a collision course with love.
Most English girls meet their heart's desire across a crowded ballroom or in a genteel/b>/i>
Romantic Times hails Jill Barnett as "a true new star of the genre!" Unfailingly engaging and original, she now concocts another winning tale wherein a stubborn lord and a high-spirited lass are locked in a battle of wills...and on a collision course with love.
Most English girls meet their heart's desire across a crowded ballroom or in a genteel parlor. Letitia Olive Hornsby finds hers when she knocks him into a river. A curly-haired, blue-eyed hellion of only eleven, she decides even then that Richard, the dashing, handsome, and totally disreputable son of the Earl of Downe, is the white knight of her dreams.
Now fully grown and unexpectedly beautiful, Letty is spinning a plan to save Richard from himself...by marrying him, of course. And he soon has the bruises to prove it. The insufferable, albeit unforgettable, chit has come back into Richard's life with a crash literally falling into his arms. He is struck by her softness, her dizzying scent, and her impossible meddling in his ruinous drinking, gambling, and amorous liaisons. But when fate makes them prisoners of a ring of dangerous smugglers, Richard discovers in his mischievous cellmate a pure, romantic, questing spirit that sparks a flame in his own shadowed heart. If only they can escape, a wondrous passion can blaze free...and they can find a lifetime's adventures in each other's arms.
- Pocket Books
- Publication date:
- Product dimensions:
- 4.25(w) x 6.75(h) x 1.00(d)
Read an Excerpt
Devon, England, 1815
The earl of Downe was known for his horsemanship which was fortunate because it was harder than hell to stay on a horse when one was drunk. It was even harder at night, and this night was darker than a rake's past.
But Richard Lennox and his mount knew these dank moors. Over the years, they had ridden hell and hounds to the cliffs and on to the small cove below, where he'd found solace away from a house that had never been a home.
He rode across those moors now, away from his estate, until he couldn't taste the stale air of the past, only the briny scent of the sea. He could breathe again.
Horse and rider slowed as they neared the cliffs, and Richard relaxed. Two years before things had been different along this coast. England had been at war with France. Yet now all appeared quiet on the Channel. No storm-swept seas, no dark clouds, no French navy lurking off the opposite shore, nor the frequent sight of British blockade ships zigzagging through the water.
Until a month before he, like everyone else, had thought the war was over. Then Napoleon had escaped Elba. Most recent rumors had the Emperor marching through the French countryside on a campaign to gather support.
Richard stared out at the Channel until it dawned on him that he was behaving like some idiotic dreamer who fancied for one instant that he could see what was happening on the opposite shore.
He saw only black an expanse of dark water and the night sky. It was that one time of the month when the moon turned coward and its back was all one could see. A smuggler's moon.
He shook his head in derision and guided his mount along the cliff. Smugglers' moons and French armies. He must be bloody drunk, prattling on like one of those superstitious old fishermen from the village. He gave a humorless laugh. Dreamers and fools, the whole lot of them.
He stared off at the southern cliffs, where lights glimmered dimly from the neighboring Hornsby estate. An instant later his mind flashed with the image of a young woman's face framed in a wild mane of curly brown hair.
God...there was a thought. He blanched slightly and rolled his shoulder, the same one she'd accidentally dislocated. Instinctively his hand rose to his right eye, the one she'd once blackened with a cricket ball. His foot twitched as if it suddenly remembered the pain she'd inflicted dancing on it, and more recently when she'd driven over it with his curricle. After that incident he'd been forced to use a cane for two months.
Leaning on his saddle pommel, he watched the manor lights flicker and wondered if she was rusticating in one of those lit rooms. No sooner had the notion crossed his mind than he felt a powerful, instinctive, and self-preserving urge to put a vast number of miles between them.
No, he thought. Not miles...continents.
The Hornsby hellion his recompense for every black sin he'd ever committed. Her London season had been one of the most disastrous in recent history, and her unflagging infatuation with him had been partly to blame.
As vividly as if it were yesterday, he could see her standing in a corner during the first ball of the season, trying to look comfortable and failing miserably.
Gallantry was one of those moral attributes Richard usually eschewed. With good reason. Being gallant, civil, or moral hadn't lit a fire under his father. Through years of rebellion, he had acquired a certain expertise at patrimonial arson.
But the night of that ball, he'd asked the hellion to dance. The motive for his doing so still escaped him. Logic had naturally dictated that, by the age of seventeen, the chit would have outgrown her childhood affection for him. But she hadn't. If anything, that one dance had only made matters worse. Every time they met, at every social event they both attended, some catastrophe happened.
It didn't take long for malicious word to come of her banishment with only half her season done. Society thought her a joke and had laughed cruelly. He remembered the brief twinge of guilt he'd experienced when, on a fluke, it had been he, the object of her unwelcome affections, who had won two thousand pounds in a tasteless wager on the exact date of her season's failure.
He looked away from the lights of the manor house just as a man's shout, startlingly loud in the silence, echoed up from the cliffs behind him. Turning suddenly, he faced the sound and paused for an instant, then rode toward it, stopping at the edge of the north cliffs, where he used a thicket of gorse bushes and a huge granite rock as a shield.
An outcropping on the cliff beneath him blocked his view of the cove, so he eased his mount toward a narrow dirt path that cut along the cliffside and led to the shore below. About halfway down, just past the outcropping, he stopped.
In the cove, dim lanterns moved like fireflies in the darkness. Again he glanced out toward the sea, searching for some sign of a ship, but still seeing little. He scanned the shore and spotted two skiffs beached below.
A small group of men was unloading crates of contraband, more than likely brandy, Belgium lace, and salt. More dark-clad men moved out from the cave beneath the cliff, lugging long wooden boxes to the boats.
Odd that they would be loading
A twig cracked above him. He stilled.
A sudden commotion thrashed in the bushes overhead. He tensed, and his mount shifted slightly. Slowly he slid a hand inside his cloak and drew a pistol, then tightened his thighs and nudged the horse forward. Looking upward, he leaned back and took deadly aim.
Another loud rustle...and the bushes parted.
The Hornsby hellion peered down at him. Their gazes met.
He looked at her in horror. She looked at him as if he were the sugar for her tea.
Groaning, he closed his eyes and lowered the pistol.
"Richard..." She whispered his name like a prayer.
With her anywhere near him, he needed a prayer a long prayer.
There was another rustle and a vicious growl. Richard stifled another groan as a huge and droopy canine head poked out of those same bushes.
Forget the prayer. He needed a benediction.
The animal took one look at him and snarled. His horse shied. He struggled to control his mount on the narrow path. Dirt and rocks tumbled down to the beach below.
The beastly dog barked.
Quickly he turned in the saddle, scanning the cove. The smugglers must have heard it. Hell, Napoleon could have heard it.
A lantern had stopped directly below him, then another, and another. Richard froze. The men below stared up at the cliffside.
He was caught between two evils the smugglers and the twosome from hell.
Her blasted dog barked again.
His horse sidestepped, nearly sending them both over the crumbling edge of the path.
"Oh no!" Letty called out and reached toward him, her face stunned, then horrified. "Richard!"
Naturally, the dog growled.
His horse reared. With an odd kind of resigned horror, he felt the reins sliding through his hands. And Richard slipped off the saddle, his graphic swearing the only sound as he fell.
His last conscious thought?
He'd be better off with the smugglers.
Letitia Olive Hornsby believed in fate, in hearts destined, in love at first sight. And she had loved him forever.
Well, perhaps not quite forever, but at nineteen, eight years was nearly half of her life. She could barely remember a time when her heart had not belonged to Richard Lennox, her neighbor and, of late, the earl of Downe.
His enviable title had nothing to do with her devotion. The earldom should not have been his. In fact she'd heard that he held nothing but scorn for his father and the title. Richard was a second son and grossly out of favor if rumor had been true.
But two years before all that had changed with two shots from a highwayman's pistols. His father and older brother had been killed. Richard was suddenly an earl.
No, to her the earldom meant nothing. The man meant everything.
No one tried harder, or with less success, than Letty to make her dreams come true.
But she had hope, and the solid belief that God never closed one door without opening another. The strength of those beliefs and her tenaciousness were what carried her through the times when God slammed that proverbial door in her face.
Her mother had died when Letty was seven. Although her father loved her, he was no substitute for the gentle hand and guidance only a mother could give a daughter.
Not a day of her awkward girlhood had passed that she didn't miss her mother terribly and wonder if perhaps she might have turned out differently better, more refined, less inept, and perhaps less lonely had her mother lived.
Her father spent most of his time with antiquities anything ancient, buried, and Roman, which accounted for her horrid name. Letitia was Latin for "delight," and her parents thought it most appropriate at the time. Her papa christened her with the ghastly middle name of Olive, which was the Roman symbol of peace something he'd also claimed he'd had little of since the day she was born.
The first disaster she could remember happened when she was eight. It had been a difficult and lonely year for a suddenly motherless girl. Her father's attention had become so terribly important to her.
She had practiced talking for hours, until she could cover numerous subjects and thoughts in one breath. Intending to dazzle him with what she considered her oratory skills, she'd plotted a reenactment of a discourse by the famous Roman orator Cicero.
She had donned a toga one of the crisp white bedsheets from the linen closet then painstakingly cut Roman sandals from one of her papa's saddle flaps and ingeniously fashioned the sandal straps from his finely tooled Spanish bridle.
With a pair of dressmaking sheers, she had cut her long hair into a short cap of curls just like that on her papa's bust of Julius Caesar. And she topped those curls with an olive leaf crown that was in truth a wreath of elm leaves.
Confident she accurately looked her part, she gave her newly cropped hair a swift pat, took one last look at her Roman costume, and proudly marched into the great room where her papa was playing host to England's major antiquity society and their honored guest, a renowned archaeologist.
When she was not more than ten steps into the room, her sweeping toga caught on the leg of a candle stanchion, knocking it over into the next one, and it into the next, which tilted toward a line of surprisingly flammable potted palms. The palms rapidly set flame to a wall of velvet draperies.
There was so very much smoke, and when it finally cleared, the only reenactment given her father and his esteemed guests was that of Rome burning.
Then at nine years old she had attempted to build a miniature model of the Roman aqueduct. As it turned out, she was quite the engineer. She drained the entire lake.
Unfortunately, she drained it into the stables.
Next came the incident of Hadrian's Wall, too long and disastrous a story to tell, but one should imagine the worst. All those fieldstones rumbling down the marble staircase. To this day if she closed her eyes she could still hear the clamor.
Thus was her quest for her papa's attention, which continued until the object of her attentions shifted from her papa to their neighbor's son, Richard Lennox.
Most young Englishwomen meet their heart's desire across a crowded ballroom, on a casual drive in the park, or through an arranged marriage. Not Letty. But she had ever been one to march to a different drummer.
She was eleven when she first clapped eyes on Richard Lennox. It was one of those bright English days when the sky above Devon was as blue as a hedge sparrow's egg, and the clouds seemed as white and fluffy as goose down.
Her papa's hounds barked gaily at the chattering birds, and the stable cats chased fluttering butterfly shadows. She and her cousins fled the stuffy confines of the schoolroom to the fresh freedom of the west pasture, where the only eyes upon them belonged to the dairy cattle.
It had all started on a dare. Her obnoxious cousins, Isabel and James, had challenged her to ride a cow. The delighted gleam in their eyes should have warned her that something was afoot. But pride can make one blind.
Confident that she could easily accomplish so simple a feat, Letty marched into the midst of the grazing herd, rope in hand, and proceeded to examine each cow, looking for the one with the kindest eyes.
A plump Jersey with eyes like Father Christmas appeared just perfect. She even had a small indentation in her brown back that Letty judged to be the size of her very own bottom.
Now, one would think by looking at them that cows were placid, calm, most biddable animals, content to graze in the fields and chew their cud, their tails whipping up occasionally to swat a few pesky flies.
They are, usually.
Her cousins sauntered over near her as she spoke softly to the cow and slid the noose around its thick neck, not realizing that it was her own neck she'd noosed.
A quick prayer, a deep breath, and she leapt swiftly onto the cow's bone-hard back. Dear Cousin James slapped its rump with a hand that had a nail hidden in it.
She hadn't known cows could scream. The animal bawled and pitched and twisted, landing so hard that Letty's teeth rang together. At the sound of her cousins' cruel laughter she gripped the rope even tighter in her small hands and managed to stay on, her pride being at stake along with her life. The former, however, was most important to her at the time.
One blurred glance at her cousins' surprised faces and Letty knew she would ride that bovine beast as long as physically possible. So with her teeth ringing and her bottom battering the cow's spine, they trotted down the hill at a fast clip, splattered through a small brook, and cantered up a dirt road that led to a splitrail bridge spanning the river.
It was there, on that hollow wooden bridge, atop a bawling, runaway Jersey cow, that Letty Hornsby first met Richard Lennox, who, as divine fate would have it, was returning home from the university.
Even fate must sometimes succumb to cliché, for he was astride a white horse. Richard Lennox; a blond god whose looks could put the angel Gabriel to shame. A knight to slay dragons. An unsuspecting young man whose blasphemous profanity echoed upward as he was thrown over the side of the bridge and into the mossy waters of the River Heddon.
Meanwhile Letty clung tightly to a beam of the bridge and watched the cow trot along after his spooked horse. Two rather vivid curses caught her attention, so she turned back and peered over the side to the river below.
Until the day she died she'd always be able to remember his face as he surfaced to scowl up at her. Oh, it was chiseled classically: high cheekbones, a firm square jaw that carried just a shadow of a dark beard, and a straight, somewhat hawkish nose.
His skin was tanned a deep golden brown and his hair now wet, slicked back, and peppered with green moss was the color of her papa's fine French brandy, only streaked with blond. He had a dark slash of thick male brows over eyes the color of which were impossible to determine from such a height, but they glittered up at her from a face that said he'd love to get his clenching hands on her.
The incident set the pattern for their future encounters. Some were more disastrous than others, but, through the years, through the heartache and the embarrassment, never wavering was Letty's devotion.
With a faith as strong as a disciple, she'd clung to the heartfelt idea that someday Richard would be hers. He was the center of her lonely world.
She'd dreamed her hair would suddenly turn into long red tresses guaranteed to catch his eye which was, by the way, green. She'd discovered the color during an unfortunate incident with a cricket ball.
Actually he didn't have one green eye, for if he'd had only one eye he'd have worn a patch like a dashing pirate. As romantic a thought as that was, Richard Lennox had two green eyes, and they were not the rich green of spring grass nor the bright green of a leprechaun's suit, but the same dark green of the sprawling Devon moors, of the Channel sea just before the sun sets, of a dangerous forest in which an innocent fairy-tale princess could become hopelessly lost.
A green for a lonely girl to weave fanciful dreams about. And dreaming was one of the few things she did well, because in dreams there were always happy endings. In dreams she could imagine anything, no matter how preposterous, no matter how unlikely, without the world outside knowing. In dreams she had a glimpse of perfection that never existed in the real world.
So she dreamed that someday Richard Lennox would awaken with the sudden realization that he couldn't live without her. She fancied their first kiss which she practiced by pressing her lips to her bedchamber door and she remembered every rare smile, every chance meeting, and the one time he'd actually danced with her.
Oh yes, she remembered that time. Every girl remembered the first ball of her season, and Letty remembered hers as much much more than merely a ball. She had been the damsel in distress and Richard, her knight in shining armor.
Such a moment! If she closed her eyes she could still remember his scent. He'd smelled of sandalwood and raindrops...and heroes.
She still had that dance card, hidden in special box along with her mother's pearls, the nail James had used to slap that cow, and a small sampler with which her mama had taught her to stitch. It said: "Speak from your heart."
After the debacle of her London season and the humiliation of her banishment, she had tried to make her papa understand. He, like everyone else, had known how she felt about Richard. It was no secret. But with that came the fact that her papa was also well aware of her disastrous history with the young man, aware of every plan gone awry, of every foolish thing she had done to win the attention of a young man bent on destroying himself without her help.
Love had been her downfall, she had argued when her papa tried to talk to her. Couldn't he even begin to understand? She'd been in love with Richard for half of a lifetime.
Her papa had said that if things continued on as they had, half a lifetime was all Richard Lennox would get.
And here it was a year or so later that Letty was looking down at her love, lying so still, his blond head in her lap, his dark brows flecked with sand, those dark green eyes closed. She hoped her papa's jest had not been prophetic. He had taken quite a nasty fall from his mount.
"Richard?" she whispered.
Her English bloodhound, Caesar Augustus, drew back his lips in a canine snarl and growled.
"Hush, Gus," she scolded. He blinked once, whimpered, then sank his large brown head with its floppy black-tipped ears onto his outstretched paws and watched her through bloodshot hazel eyes.
She turned back and searched Richard's face for signs of consciousness. She saw none. But there was little light only one guttering candle nearby. As she had a hundred times since his fall, she stared intently at his chest.
It rose and fell slightly. She gave a sigh of relief and moved her face just inches from his. "Please wake up, my lord. Please. You've been unconscious so terribly long."
He stirred, then mumbled something unintelligible.
She watched him ever so closely, looking at the strong angles of his face, his square jaw stubbled with a bit of beard growth that was so much darker than the golden streaks in his hair. She slowly drew a tentative finger along his rough jaw, then touched her own jaw.
She sat completely still for a moment, thinking. Deep in her chest, she felt a strange little thrill when confronted with the simple contrasts between a man and a woman.
Unable to stop herself, she slid her hand into his large one, holding it. For the sweetest moment she just stared at their joined hands, looking at the difference in size, the dark hardness of his hand, the pale softness of hers. Then she sighed. "I'm here, my lord...my love."
He slowly peeled open one green eye, then the other. Both appeared slightly glazed, then they cleared and filled recognition. Richard moaned like a man dying.
"Are you in pain, my lord?" She frowned and reached out to gently stroke the bits of sand from his forehead.
"What the hell did you do to me this time?"
"You're flicking sand in my eyes."
She drew her hand back. "I'm sorry."
He blinked for a moment. "I fell," he repeated, as if he had to do so to comprehend. "Off my horse?"
"From the cliff path?"
She nodded again.
He tried to lift his head and winced. "What did I land on? The rocks?"
He raised a hand to his head and appeared to feel around for wounds. "Good God..." He paused on a spot and gave a small groan. "What a knot!" He lay there for a second, his eyes closed, then asked, "Is anything missing?"
He opened his eyes and pinned her with a stare. "Broken?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so, my lord, but I can help you see if anything's broken. You did moan a bit when you first awoke."
"That wasn't from pain." He sat up very slowly and looked straight at her. "Only the anticipation of all the pain to come." He grimaced, rolling his shoulders as if they were stiff. He shook his head slightly, blinked, then took in the dark room. His express fined with dread. Facing her, he gripped her arm tightly.
"Where the devil are we?"
Gus shot up in a stiff protective stance, nose to nose with Richard, who quickly released her arm and said, "Never mind. Now I know where I am." He scowled directly at Gus. "I'm in hell."
"I think you're confused my lord."
"That usually happens when you and I are together, Miss Hornsby."
He was calling her "Miss Hornsby" and her heart dropped just a bit, because it always did something wonderful to her when he called her "hellion." But he hadn't called her that in so terribly long.
"I've been told I have a habit of creating confusion. I don't try." She gave a small sigh. "I never thought you were confused, probably because you seem quite clear eyed when you shout."
He pinned her with a hard stare for a moment, then flinched slightly.
"Does your head still hurt?"
"I thought so. You look queasy."
With an even sicker look, he studied the dank surroundings of the ship's hold. "I think I might be ill."
"Oh," she said knowingly. "Mal de mer."
"No. Mal de la femme," he said under his breath, then added in a flat tone, "We're on a ship."
She nodded, leaning closer as she lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. "I believe it's a smugglers ship, my lord."
He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. The silence ate at her nerves and she clasped her hands in her lap and nervously tapped her fingers together.
Finally he looked at her. "What were you doing on those cliffs?"
She flushed and stared at her hands. "Following you."
"I haven't been back to Lockett Manor in over two years. How in God's name did you know I was back?"
"I heard the servants talking. One of the kitchen maids saw you leave the tavern and she told Cook, and...I, uh, overheard."
"Hiding in the back staircase?"
Surprised, she looked up. "How did you know?"
He gave a sharp laugh that held no humor. "Lucky guess."
Again there was no sound except the slosh of the waves hitting the side of the ship. She waited for him to say something, anything. But he didn't. There was nothing but slap! whoosh, and an occasional creak. Unable to stand the silence a moment longer, she said, "I think, considering the situation, you and I are rather stuck together, my lord."
He gave a wry laugh. "That, Miss Hornsby, is the ultimate in understatement."
"Yes, I suppose it is," she said with a sigh. "But since we are going to be together, I think we shouldn't worry about formalities. You should call me 'Letty' or 'Letitia,' although I prefer 'Letty,' but not 'Olive.' I cannot abide that name. But 'Letty' is just fine." What she really wanted was to tell him to call her "hellion," but she didn't have the courage to let him know how much that name meant to her. She waited for him to say something.
He didn't say anything, just looked at her the way Cook looked at a fallen soufflé
She cocked her head and said, "Please...my lord?"
He turned away and rubbed his head. "Fine," he said shortly.
She smiled, then waited for him to speak. He said nothing. After her season, short as it was, she had decided that men were not mind readers at all. And ladies were expected to be patient. She was certain that it was a man who coined the phrase patience is a virtue a way of keeping it a man's world by fooling women into waiting patiently for love until they, the men, deigned to succumb.
But patience was not part of her. The times she'd been patient, waiting for something to happen, the world went round and round, but without her. For Letty, patience was the same as allowing herself and her dreams to fade into nothing.
She watched him a moment longer, then gave up and said, "Considering the rules of etiquette, I suppose I should continue to defer to your title and say 'my lord.' But you've hardly been a lord very long, barely two years, and besides which, I heard that you didn't want to be a lord at all." She took another breath.
He shook his head, then gave her look of astonishment.
The perfect chance for her to make her point. "But since you didn't want to be one an earl, that is I shall call you 'Richard.'"
She turned and shook a finger at him. "You be a sweet dog!"
A loud choking snort came from Richard's direction.
She turned back around.
He scowled at Gus, who grumbled and scowled back.
"Gus...it's not polite to growl every time you hear his name."
Gus looked at Richard, barked once, then flopped his head on his paws and just watched them.
Letty turned back to Richard and gave him a tentative smile, hoping he'd return it. She had no idea that her eyes gave away her heart.
His expression was that of a man suffering. He had taken quite a nasty fall. "I'm sorry your head pains you."
He gave her an undefinable look, then turned his gaze on the locked door for long minutes, during which her smile slowly died. Finally, when he turned, his gaze swept over her, then shifted to Gus.
Richard shuddered slightly, which she attributed to the dampness of the ship, then sat there for a long time, looking at the dark walls of the cargo hold, eyeing the wooden barrels and crates stacked nearby, then staring at the bolted door.
A full minute passed before he glared up at the ship beams overhead and said, "To think they say You are a kind God."
She was unsure how he meant his words. And after a moment, very quietly, she said, "God is kind."
Richard gave her a look of male bewilderment.
She smiled warmly, then added with bright and simple honesty, "Very kind. You see...He gave me you."
Copyright © 1994 by Jill Barnett Stadler
Meet the Author
Jill Barnett is the New York Times bestselling author of fifteen acclaimed novels and short stories. There are more than five million copies of her books in print in seventeen languages. Her work has earned her a place on such national bestseller lists as The New York Times, USA Today, The Washington Post, and Publishers Weekly. She lives in the Pacific Northwest. Visit her website at www.jillbarnett.com.
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I loved "Bewitching" so as soon as I could get my hands on it, I read "Dreaming." The two books are favorites of mine. They have been read and reread so many times now that I've had to purchase new copies since the bindings on the old copies (now at least 15 years old) have begun to fall apart. Reading "Bewitching" and "Dreaming" made me go out and read every story I could find of Jill Barnett's (these two remain my favorites). If you want a read that is funny, witty, and romantic, these two books are for you!
This book is incredibly funny but it is the most romantic book I have read so far...believe me I have read a few. The characters are so easy to fall in love with and it happens to me everytime I read it. I like this one better than Bewitched
This book was very sweet. Letitia first comes across as a nuisance but by the end, she really grows on you.
Loved this book, made laugh,cry,enjoy every moment i spend reading.
The book is really funny in parts, sad in others as Letty and Richard discover each other: The three smugglers are hilarious. A very easy read with well drawen characters and situations: Neil deserved his own story however. Loved Gus Letty' s dog. Well worth the pruce
Jill Barnett is one of the most brillant writings around. 'Dreaming' is a book pack with laughs. Read how Letitia Olive Hornsby affects Richard. She is always causing him to get injured. She got him wet, shot, and knock him out silly. This book is full of surprises at the end. It is a beautiful story and I know you will love it. Enjoy!!! This book it worth more than just 5 stars.
Good book, but not as good as Bewitching. I absolutely LOVED Bewitching and have read it several tims now. Seymour's story in Dreaming seemed too fast, too forced. He should have had his own book, or at least more than just a chapter's worth in this book.
i read bewitching which was pretty good so i read this one thinking it would be good as well. The main character letty is obsessed with the earl and its pthetic. he is so mean to her and all she can talk about is how in love with him she is. she is like a love sick puppy dog. i do not recomend this book.
I like my romances with a lot of wit, a good amount of humor, a bit of sexy, and engaging characters. Dreaming delivers these requirements, along with a charming bit of magic. The main character seems a bit of an obsessive catastrophe at first, but she's really quite endearing.
This is a fun blend of romance and laugh-out-loud, feel good moments. I prefer a female that has a little more iron to her back bone, so to speak, but I'm always a sucker for flawed leads, so I enjoyed this book. I actually highlighted some passages to reference whenever I need a laugh. It's not a favorite like Bewitching, but it was a fun book to read and left me with a big smile over the end.
The most utterly annoying female ever. Pathetic is how I would describe her. Nothing wrong with author's writing or story telling, but Letticia character comes off as... a prior reviewer wrote, an annoying 5 yrs old! Yes, she can be a hopeless romantic, but at least give her some real strength and not a female pining over a man to rescue her.
Not as likable as Bewitching.
I enjoyed reading Downes story after reading Bewitching, but I wish Seymour's story hadn't been tossed into this one. Their story deserved its own book.
This was wonderful
The first time I read this book I did it in one sitting. The book is so funny and you really care for the characters. This book is a fantastic read. ;)
Impulsive female that behaves like a 5 year old. Why on earth would an adult male be attracted to that type of behavior?
Bio at 'supernatural'