Tuesday, August 12, 2014

RELEASE DAY: Teresa Howard "For Love Alone"


Summer Skye Danvers, lovely Southern belle, is promised in marriage to the Lord of the Isle of Man, the royal Duke of Tyndale.  However, since she was but a child, she dreamed of finding happily ever after in the arms of Tyndale’s nephew, Lord Charles Zachery Clayton.

Charles Zachery Clayton “Chaz“ the Earl of Somerset, is so handsome and charismatic that he is sought by every noblewoman in Queen Victoria’s Court.  To his dismay, he is pledged to a cold, unfeeling woman who wants only to enjoy a countess’s station in life.  But since Chaz was little more than a child, his angelic southern coquette, Skye has been the guiding force in his life.   A force he strives to take hold of.  But he fears she will always be just be-yond his reach.

Will these soul mates find a life of love and happiness with one another?  Will they survive against almost insurmountable odds?

Does love conquer all?




Teresa Howard has been a hopeless/hopeful romantic as long as her memory stretches.  As a child, she spent countless hours leaning against the trunk of an old oak tree, imagining love stories of passionate couples set in exotic places.  In her teen years, she helped her male friends write love notes to their girlfriends; some ending in marriage. 

When Teresa’s beloved mother was stricken with cancer, Teresa spent everyday with her, reading romance novels while her mama watched sentimental romantic movies.  The Monday after her mother’s funeral on Friday, Teresa sat down, took pen and yellow pad and began her first novel.  She was blessed to sell it.   It became, CHEROKEE EMBRACE.

Teresa’s  favorite scripture is … faith, hope and love remain; the greatest of these is love. The guiding forCe in her life is that all things are possible with LOVE.



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Chapter One

Crimson Hills Plantation

Clarke County, Georgia


Skye stared blankly at her father's obituary. Her papa had been larger than life, but the Planter's Gazette had summarized his birth, life, and death in one measly paragraph. Tears swam in her eyes as she read:

Bryan Danvers, borne a British noble on the Isle of Man, a southern gentleman from Georgia by choice, died Friday at an undisclosed location of natural causes. His wife, the former Lydia Hampton of Virginia, three sons: Nathaniel, Tyler, and Nicholas; and two daughters, Summer Skye and Nelda Jeanette survive him. A private memorial service was held at the family cemetery on Crimson Hills Plantation.

The pendulum clock struck ten, echoing off the circular stone walls, reverberating from cathedral ceiling to marbled floor. At the last chime, the cavernous foyer grew silent. Two black men, liveried in blue and gold, standing straight as arrows, solemn as bishops, were positioned on either side of the double doors, leading to the Great Salon.

Like a gilded butterfly hovering between towering chestnut trees, Summer Skye Danvers hesitated in the pooling shadows. She smoothed the skirt of her black bombazine and crepe gown, tucked an errant curl into her chignon, pinched color into her cheeks, and wet her lips with her tongue.

Her fingers trembled when they brushed the locket at her throat, the golden oval that contained a lock of her late father's hair. If papa were still alive, this meeting might be avoided. But papa was dead; the world around her had erupted in violence; and she had yet to face her biggest challenge.

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she tucked her grief and fear into a tiny box, closed the lid securely, and hid it in the basement of her heart.

Now was not the time for weakness. She couldn't afford the luxury. It was time for strength, resignation, and acceptance. The die had been cast. Her fate had been decided.

Indeed, the script for the next fifteen minutes had been written years ago when her dear friend, the earl of Somerset, Lord Charles Zachery Clayton, had warned her that memorable day in the Duke of Tyndale's library. She and her mother would but play the scene.

For a breath of a second, she returned to the day she turned sixteen, experienced true love and devastating heartbreak in a matter of hours.

The scene unfolded before her; she watched from a distant corner of the foyer to protect her tender heart.

She saw herself and her best friend, Lady Regina Clayton, holed up in Reggie’s suite at Tyndale Castle. The young beauties were preparing for a birthday party to be given in her honor that very night and excitement bounced off the walls like streaks of lightning.

Reggie fell back onto her four poster bed dramatically. Petticoats obscured her momentarily. Then from beneath mounds of fluff she effusively complimented Skye’s ample bosom. Lamenting her own flat front, she sighed and asked that Skye twirl about the room and model her new Worth gown. To really do it justice.

Made of white silk and gros de suez lace, the gown was sublime. So Skye obediently twirled in front of the mirror. On her second revolution, she halted halfway, her stare pinned on the entrance to Reggie’s room.

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