We are absolutely thrilled to bring you the Release Week Blitz for Heather Lyons’ ROYAL MARRIAGE MARKET! ROYAL MARRIAGE MARKET is a brand new standalone contemporary romance by Heather Lyons due to be released on December 15, 2015! Grab ROYAL MARRIAGE MARKET now for a limited time special sale price of $1.99! Price will rise on December 23rd.
“Heather Lyons has officially charmed me. Royal Marriage Market is an indulgent read that will have you flipping pages until the very end.” – R.S. Grey, USA Today bestselling author.
Heather Lyons’s ROYAL MARRIAGE MARKET – Release Week Blitz Schedule:
December 14th
I Love Romance
The Talking Bookworm
December 15th
December 16th
Every decade, the world’s monarchs and their heirs secretly convene to discuss global politics and social issues—and arrange marriages between kingdoms.
Elsa may be the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia, but she finds the entire situation archaic and unsavory. While she wants what's best for her country, she isn't about to jump into an unwanted relationship—let alone a marriage—with a virtual stranger. Of course, her feelings matter little to her parents, whose wheeling and dealings over trade pacts and alliances achieved at her expense begin the moment they set foot in California for the Summit. So when a blindingly handsome royal runs into her, she doesn't hesitate to tell him there's no way she's marrying him.
Christian is all too happy to agree: no marriage. As the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland, his main goal is to get through the summit without a bride being foisted on him. Which is why he suggests they help each other field potential intendeds. As Christian slowly gets to know Elsa, though, he realizes they have a lot more in common than just their feelings about the Royal Marriage Market. Only he can't fall for her, because royal or not, they're not meant for each other.
Elsa and Christian will have to evaluate matters of the heart verses those of state and crown, and decide whether or not tradition trumps love.
"The perfect royal romance." - Nichole Chase, New York Times bestselling author.
"The perfect royal romance." - Nichole Chase, New York Times bestselling author.
Grab Your Copy of ROYAL MARRIAGE MARKET today for just $1.99 now through December 23rd!
“I denied myself the éclairs earlier and then resolved, as I stared up at the ceiling for a good hour, that life is too short to not indulge in things that bring about small joys.”
I wander over to the island, positioning myself on the opposite side. “Éclairs bring you such?”
His grin grows. “Hell yeah, they do. Want one?”
Three éclairs rest upon his plate. “Will it bring me joy?”
“Have you ever eaten an éclair in the middle of the night, Els?”
I blink at the nickname he bestows upon me. No one has ever called me Els. Not a single person. It’s bizarre, because one would think such a derivative would be natural, but Her Serene Highness was strict about such things during my childhood. My name is Elsa. I ought to be called Elsa. Nicknames are common, and she claimed she wanted more for me.
Whatever that meant.
Despite our earlier conversation concerning his own, though, I happen to like nicknames. “As a matter of fact,” I say, absurdly pleased at the bestowment, “I have not.”
“Then this shall be a first for you.” He shoves the plate my way. “Don’t worry. Éclairs eaten in the middle of the night have no calories. If they did, I’d be at least five pounds heavier already.”
It is impossible to not grin like a fool. Are we really standing here in the kitchen, in the dead of night, sparring with one another again? And why is it so bloody entertaining? Small joys, indeed. “Is that so? Well then. This will be more than just a first for eating an éclair in the middle of the night. It will be my first time consuming a calorie free dessert, too. Who knew such things existed?”
“Shall I make you some warm milk, too?”
I blink again, abruptly unsteady.
“You were rooting around in the fridge for milk to heat up, weren’t you?” He motions to his own mug. “As it helps with snoring parents?”
I counter with, “Why were you sitting here in the dark?”
“I’d had my cell’s flashlight on, but switched it off when noises sounded outside the door. I suppose I wasn’t too keen on being caught rummaging around the kitchen in the middle of the night.” He touches the ceramic in front of him once more. “Yes or no?”
I gingerly select one of the éclairs, shivering at its coldness. “Actually, yes. I would very much like that. Do you know how to heat up milk?”
The room may be dim, but there’s no mistaking the comical yet wounded look he proffers. “Everyone knows how to do that.”
“Not everyone. There are surely milk virgins in the world.”
He wanders over to the fridge and extracts a carton of milk. “Rest assured, I am no milk virgin. I’m thirty, remember?”
It is my turn to nearly choke as I swallow a far too large bite of éclair.
“No choking allowed. If four a.m. rolls around, the calories will come back.”
I clear my throat. “Is three a.m. a magical hour, then?”
He heads over toward the stovetop, where a small pan rests upon another stainless steel countertop. I angle our phones’ flashlights his way; shadows crawl around his body as a blue flame erupts from a burner, allowing me to ogle silently at a well-shaped arse. Goodness. Will his too-ness ever cease?
“As a matter of fact, it is. All the best firsts should be experienced at three a.m.” He sets the pan on the stove and adds milk. “But it’s a witching hour. The magic only lasts for sixty minutes before turning ordinary once more.”
With the next bite of éclair, pleasure bursts across my tongue. Curse him for being spot on about pastry-based joy.
EXCERPT
I wander over to the island, positioning myself on the opposite side. “Éclairs bring you such?”
His grin grows. “Hell yeah, they do. Want one?”
Three éclairs rest upon his plate. “Will it bring me joy?”
“Have you ever eaten an éclair in the middle of the night, Els?”
I blink at the nickname he bestows upon me. No one has ever called me Els. Not a single person. It’s bizarre, because one would think such a derivative would be natural, but Her Serene Highness was strict about such things during my childhood. My name is Elsa. I ought to be called Elsa. Nicknames are common, and she claimed she wanted more for me.
Whatever that meant.
Despite our earlier conversation concerning his own, though, I happen to like nicknames. “As a matter of fact,” I say, absurdly pleased at the bestowment, “I have not.”
“Then this shall be a first for you.” He shoves the plate my way. “Don’t worry. Éclairs eaten in the middle of the night have no calories. If they did, I’d be at least five pounds heavier already.”
It is impossible to not grin like a fool. Are we really standing here in the kitchen, in the dead of night, sparring with one another again? And why is it so bloody entertaining? Small joys, indeed. “Is that so? Well then. This will be more than just a first for eating an éclair in the middle of the night. It will be my first time consuming a calorie free dessert, too. Who knew such things existed?”
“Shall I make you some warm milk, too?”
I blink again, abruptly unsteady.
“You were rooting around in the fridge for milk to heat up, weren’t you?” He motions to his own mug. “As it helps with snoring parents?”
I counter with, “Why were you sitting here in the dark?”
“I’d had my cell’s flashlight on, but switched it off when noises sounded outside the door. I suppose I wasn’t too keen on being caught rummaging around the kitchen in the middle of the night.” He touches the ceramic in front of him once more. “Yes or no?”
I gingerly select one of the éclairs, shivering at its coldness. “Actually, yes. I would very much like that. Do you know how to heat up milk?”
The room may be dim, but there’s no mistaking the comical yet wounded look he proffers. “Everyone knows how to do that.”
“Not everyone. There are surely milk virgins in the world.”
He wanders over to the fridge and extracts a carton of milk. “Rest assured, I am no milk virgin. I’m thirty, remember?”
It is my turn to nearly choke as I swallow a far too large bite of éclair.
“No choking allowed. If four a.m. rolls around, the calories will come back.”
I clear my throat. “Is three a.m. a magical hour, then?”
He heads over toward the stovetop, where a small pan rests upon another stainless steel countertop. I angle our phones’ flashlights his way; shadows crawl around his body as a blue flame erupts from a burner, allowing me to ogle silently at a well-shaped arse. Goodness. Will his too-ness ever cease?
“As a matter of fact, it is. All the best firsts should be experienced at three a.m.” He sets the pan on the stove and adds milk. “But it’s a witching hour. The magic only lasts for sixty minutes before turning ordinary once more.”
With the next bite of éclair, pleasure bursts across my tongue. Curse him for being spot on about pastry-based joy.
Heather Lyons writes epic, heartfelt love stories and has always had a thing for words. In addition to writing, she’s also been an archaeologist and a teacher. She and her husband and children live in sunny Southern California and are currently working their way through every cupcakery she can find.
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