Items related to Secret Hearts
He was everything she ever wanted--and could not touch...
By day she was Claire Montague, prim, demure housekeeper of Partington Place. By dark of night she wrote the wildly popular dime novels that had made frontiersman Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee a household name. Suddenly her new employer, the heir to Partington Place--and the real-life hero of her novels--stood before her in the flesh. Claire had transformed Tom Partington into a legend, but never in her wildest dreams had she conjured the real man, who melted her resolve with his blazing blue eyes and knowing smile. With one look, Tom Partington had penetrated Claire's secret, passionate soul.
She yearned to be in his arms, yet she held him at bay. He'd never forgive her if he learned that she was Clarence McTeague, author of his unwanted fame. She couldn't tell him the truth any more than she could deny the passions that risked exposure of her double life. But how long could she continue this charade now that Tom had issued the ultimate challenge: to strip off her dowdy disguise and surrender to her hungry, yearning heart?
By day she was Claire Montague, prim, demure housekeeper of Partington Place. By dark of night she wrote the wildly popular dime novels that had made frontiersman Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee a household name. Suddenly her new employer, the heir to Partington Place--and the real-life hero of her novels--stood before her in the flesh. Claire had transformed Tom Partington into a legend, but never in her wildest dreams had she conjured the real man, who melted her resolve with his blazing blue eyes and knowing smile. With one look, Tom Partington had penetrated Claire's secret, passionate soul.
She yearned to be in his arms, yet she held him at bay. He'd never forgive her if he learned that she was Clarence McTeague, author of his unwanted fame. She couldn't tell him the truth any more than she could deny the passions that risked exposure of her double life. But how long could she continue this charade now that Tom had issued the ultimate challenge: to strip off her dowdy disguise and surrender to her hungry, yearning heart?
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
From the Publisher:
He was irresistible. Handsome as sin. And he filled her nights with dreams no proper lady should enjoy...
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Bullets whined through the still morning air, striking with alarming accuracy the boulder behind which Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee hunkered. War whoops and vicious curses rent the air. The woman cowering next to Tom wept piteously.
"We know you're there, Tuscaloosa Tom!" a whiskey-voiced malefactor exclaimed.
"Ah, but goodness and right are on my side," Tom declared stoutly. "You, villains, are the devil's spawn!" He punctuated his declaration with a volley from his trusty firearm.
"Oh, Tom!" the woman sobbed.
"Fear nothing," the heroic man assured her. "I will rescue you!"
"I know you cannot fail me," Miss Abigail Faithgood choked out, flinching at each new auditory assault upon her senses. Oh, my, she was frightened! Yet she knew--she knew--Tom would not fail her. He had never failed in his life.
Suddenly, with a bloodcurdling howl, an Indian brave leaped from the boulder above them to confront Tom, the feathers in his headdress bristling, his war paint vivid in the noonday sun. Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed.
Without flinching, Tom . . .
"Tom what?" Chewing on the end of her pen and patting at the hair coiled over her left ear, Claire Montague stared at the paper on her desk. "Botheration. And how can it be a clear morning if it's noon?"
"Miss Montague?"
Claire jerked in alarm, and the pen dropped from her fingers to clatter on the blotter. She hadn't heard the door open. Well, why should she? She herself had oiled those hinges faithfully every single Monday of her life for ten years now.
"Good heavens, Scruggs, you frightened me to death."
The butler's lugubrious expression lengthened. "I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. But he's here." Scruggs sounded as though he were reporting the arrival of doom. "His carriage just drew up outside."
Claire's hand flew to her throat. She didn't need to ask who he was. Her palpitating heart thundered so violently that for a second she feared she would lose consciousness. She pulled herself together. This reaction was absurd; she knew it.
"Thank you, Scruggs. I shall descend immediately."
"Very good, ma'am. Mrs. Philpott is preparing refreshments." Scruggs's face, which Claire often thought more nearly resembled that of a morose moose than anything else, disappeared.
Mrs. Philpott was the cook, and Claire suspected she was at this moment weeping into her teakettle. With a big sigh she rose from her desk, slipped her work in progress into its special drawer, and locked it away with the key she kept on a chain around her neck.
Composing herself with some effort--after all, it wasn't every day one met the man of one's dreams, the man who haunted one's every daylight hour and filled one's nights with alluring fantasies--Claire stood up straight and tall, entirely too tall, in fact. For at least the thousandth time she regretted her unladylike inches. Oh, well, there was nothing she could do about them. Patting her severe hairstyle once more to make sure no unruly strands poked out, she adopted her best housekeeperish expression.
Then, gulping an enormous breath for courage, she walked out of her room and prepared to greet the new master of Partington Place.
Tom Partington wished it weren't so blasted dark. He'd love to get a glimpse of his new home. But it had been twilight when his rented coach barreled him through Marysville. The night was black as pitch now and raining fit to kill as well. A couple of his many old wounds had begun to ache earlier and now throbbed in earnest. Tom was used to pain, though. Besides, nothing could subdue the excitement bubbling within him tonight.
Oh, he knew life was what one made of it. And he certainly didn't expect to be handed anything else on a silver platter anytime soon. Once was plenty, more than life generally offered a fellow, in Tom's experience.
Excitement gripped him, though. There was something about this place that made one dare to dream, an atmosphere of unrefined excitement. Confidence bubbled in the air. This land wasn't so much raw as it was untamed. The clinging vine of civilization had yet to choke the life out of California, and the climate fairly vibrated with energy.
Tom felt a liveliness here, had felt it as soon as his ship docked in San Francisco. The atmosphere wasn't like that of the cities back home: stifled, stuffy, lifeless. There was something in the wind here that felt like a promise, if not of hope fulfilled, then at least of hope eagerly pursued. It was a promise that assured him that if he couldn't achieve his dream, he could damned well chase it for all he was worth. Tom had never felt so optimistic in his life.
Staring into the impenetrable night, he couldn't keep the smile from his face. It had been there ever since he'd learned the terms of his uncle Gordon's will. Tom still couldn't believe the old buzzard had left his entire fortune to him.
When the carriage slowed, he couldn't even wait for the horses to come to a full stop before he pushed the door open and jumped out. His bad leg gave a tremendous throb when he landed on the graveled walkway, but Tom didn't care. He took the steps to the grand double doors of his new house--house, hell! It was a damned mansion!--two at a time and yanked the bellpull with an exuberance he hadn't felt in years.
Several minutes had passed, and Tom was on the verge of tugging on the pull again, when the door creaked open. A man who looked as though he'd walked straight out of an Edgar Allan Poe story peered at him. Tom figured him for the butler.
Silence reigned for several seconds before Tom broke it with a broad smile and said, "Hello, there. I'm Tom Partington."
The ghoulish man took a step backward and pulled the door open. "Please come inside, sir."
So Tom did. In spite of the butler's gloomy demeanor, Tom's sunny mood prevailed. "Thanks. It's cold as the dickens out there."
Claire stopped at the top of the wide staircase, the voice at the front door having momentarily stunned her. It couldn't have been better if she'd selected it herself. Deep and resonant, a rich, pure Alabama drawl, it touched Claire in places she'd never dared hope would be touched.
She devoutly prayed the face, frame, and character that went with the voice would not disappoint. After all, she'd often been told photographs did not tell the entire story. Claire had invariably laughed and said she provided her own stories, but tonight was different. She wanted former Brevet General Thomas Gordon Partington to live up to her expectations more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life, barring a genteel background and great literary talent. She already knew those two commodities had been denied her.
Drawing in one more deep breath and exhaling it slowly, Claire put her hand on the polished banister and began her descent.
"Miss Montague will be with you in a moment, General Partington," the butler said drearily. "She will see you to your room."
"Mr. Partington will do quite well," Tom said, trying to keep the acid out of his voice. He looked around the foyer of his new home and nearly laughed out loud when he saw the fancy Oriental carpet and all the polished wood and marble. Great God, this was fantastic! He'd scraped and slaved and saved for fifteen years now, hoping he'd one day be able to afford even a small place to call his own, and now, with a few magnanimous strokes of his late uncle's pen, he'd been handed all this.
"Very good, sir."
Tom thought the fellow sounded as though he were agreeing to commit murder. "And what is your name, my good man?"
"Scruggs, sir."
Just Scruggs? Oh, well, who was Tom to argue? Anyway, it didn't matter. "Just Scruggs" was his butler now. His very own butler. Ha!
"Right, Scruggs. Well, will you please take my coat and hat somewhere? They're dripping onto the carpet." And what a carpet it was! Tom knew absolutely nothing about carpets, but he'd seldom stood on anything this thick. And it was his! With difficulty he checked an exultant laugh.
"Very good, sir."
Shaking his head, Tom watched as Scruggs bore his coat and hat away as though each item weighed a thousand pounds. Good grief, what kind of people had Uncle Gordon employed here anyway?
On the other hand, what the hell did he care? After all, he was rich as Croesus now, thanks to Uncle Gordo. As Tom had been dirt poor all his life in spite of the Fine Old Family Name, the change delighted him. Not even that death's-head butler could blight his happiness.
He heard the stairway creak. Looking up quickly, he discerned a tall, elegant, albeit severe-looking, female making her way down the staircase.
Aha, the housekeeper. Tom had heard about her. According to the letters Uncle Gordon had written to Tom's mother, people in the town of Pyrite Springs had at first been quite scandalized about the relationship between old Uncle Gordo and his housekeeper, Miss Montague. They'd soon gotten over it.
Peering at the woman descending the staircase toward him, Tom had a hard time crediting the rumors. Unless his uncle's taste had improved since Gordo had fallen in love with Tom's mother, this woman seemed entirely too majestic a female to have been the focus of salacious gossip linking the two of them. Maybe the citizens of Pyrite Springs possessed lively imaginations.
This creature certainly did not appear to be the stuff of romantic tales. Granted, her features were fine, her nose was small and straight, and her mouth quite prettily shaped. Still, she appeared quellingly rigid. Spectacles glittered across her face in the lamplight, and she wore her hair in a dreadful style, braided and coiled into two tight little knots above her ear...
"We know you're there, Tuscaloosa Tom!" a whiskey-voiced malefactor exclaimed.
"Ah, but goodness and right are on my side," Tom declared stoutly. "You, villains, are the devil's spawn!" He punctuated his declaration with a volley from his trusty firearm.
"Oh, Tom!" the woman sobbed.
"Fear nothing," the heroic man assured her. "I will rescue you!"
"I know you cannot fail me," Miss Abigail Faithgood choked out, flinching at each new auditory assault upon her senses. Oh, my, she was frightened! Yet she knew--she knew--Tom would not fail her. He had never failed in his life.
Suddenly, with a bloodcurdling howl, an Indian brave leaped from the boulder above them to confront Tom, the feathers in his headdress bristling, his war paint vivid in the noonday sun. Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed.
Without flinching, Tom . . .
"Tom what?" Chewing on the end of her pen and patting at the hair coiled over her left ear, Claire Montague stared at the paper on her desk. "Botheration. And how can it be a clear morning if it's noon?"
"Miss Montague?"
Claire jerked in alarm, and the pen dropped from her fingers to clatter on the blotter. She hadn't heard the door open. Well, why should she? She herself had oiled those hinges faithfully every single Monday of her life for ten years now.
"Good heavens, Scruggs, you frightened me to death."
The butler's lugubrious expression lengthened. "I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. But he's here." Scruggs sounded as though he were reporting the arrival of doom. "His carriage just drew up outside."
Claire's hand flew to her throat. She didn't need to ask who he was. Her palpitating heart thundered so violently that for a second she feared she would lose consciousness. She pulled herself together. This reaction was absurd; she knew it.
"Thank you, Scruggs. I shall descend immediately."
"Very good, ma'am. Mrs. Philpott is preparing refreshments." Scruggs's face, which Claire often thought more nearly resembled that of a morose moose than anything else, disappeared.
Mrs. Philpott was the cook, and Claire suspected she was at this moment weeping into her teakettle. With a big sigh she rose from her desk, slipped her work in progress into its special drawer, and locked it away with the key she kept on a chain around her neck.
Composing herself with some effort--after all, it wasn't every day one met the man of one's dreams, the man who haunted one's every daylight hour and filled one's nights with alluring fantasies--Claire stood up straight and tall, entirely too tall, in fact. For at least the thousandth time she regretted her unladylike inches. Oh, well, there was nothing she could do about them. Patting her severe hairstyle once more to make sure no unruly strands poked out, she adopted her best housekeeperish expression.
Then, gulping an enormous breath for courage, she walked out of her room and prepared to greet the new master of Partington Place.
Tom Partington wished it weren't so blasted dark. He'd love to get a glimpse of his new home. But it had been twilight when his rented coach barreled him through Marysville. The night was black as pitch now and raining fit to kill as well. A couple of his many old wounds had begun to ache earlier and now throbbed in earnest. Tom was used to pain, though. Besides, nothing could subdue the excitement bubbling within him tonight.
Oh, he knew life was what one made of it. And he certainly didn't expect to be handed anything else on a silver platter anytime soon. Once was plenty, more than life generally offered a fellow, in Tom's experience.
Excitement gripped him, though. There was something about this place that made one dare to dream, an atmosphere of unrefined excitement. Confidence bubbled in the air. This land wasn't so much raw as it was untamed. The clinging vine of civilization had yet to choke the life out of California, and the climate fairly vibrated with energy.
Tom felt a liveliness here, had felt it as soon as his ship docked in San Francisco. The atmosphere wasn't like that of the cities back home: stifled, stuffy, lifeless. There was something in the wind here that felt like a promise, if not of hope fulfilled, then at least of hope eagerly pursued. It was a promise that assured him that if he couldn't achieve his dream, he could damned well chase it for all he was worth. Tom had never felt so optimistic in his life.
Staring into the impenetrable night, he couldn't keep the smile from his face. It had been there ever since he'd learned the terms of his uncle Gordon's will. Tom still couldn't believe the old buzzard had left his entire fortune to him.
When the carriage slowed, he couldn't even wait for the horses to come to a full stop before he pushed the door open and jumped out. His bad leg gave a tremendous throb when he landed on the graveled walkway, but Tom didn't care. He took the steps to the grand double doors of his new house--house, hell! It was a damned mansion!--two at a time and yanked the bellpull with an exuberance he hadn't felt in years.
Several minutes had passed, and Tom was on the verge of tugging on the pull again, when the door creaked open. A man who looked as though he'd walked straight out of an Edgar Allan Poe story peered at him. Tom figured him for the butler.
Silence reigned for several seconds before Tom broke it with a broad smile and said, "Hello, there. I'm Tom Partington."
The ghoulish man took a step backward and pulled the door open. "Please come inside, sir."
So Tom did. In spite of the butler's gloomy demeanor, Tom's sunny mood prevailed. "Thanks. It's cold as the dickens out there."
Claire stopped at the top of the wide staircase, the voice at the front door having momentarily stunned her. It couldn't have been better if she'd selected it herself. Deep and resonant, a rich, pure Alabama drawl, it touched Claire in places she'd never dared hope would be touched.
She devoutly prayed the face, frame, and character that went with the voice would not disappoint. After all, she'd often been told photographs did not tell the entire story. Claire had invariably laughed and said she provided her own stories, but tonight was different. She wanted former Brevet General Thomas Gordon Partington to live up to her expectations more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life, barring a genteel background and great literary talent. She already knew those two commodities had been denied her.
Drawing in one more deep breath and exhaling it slowly, Claire put her hand on the polished banister and began her descent.
"Miss Montague will be with you in a moment, General Partington," the butler said drearily. "She will see you to your room."
"Mr. Partington will do quite well," Tom said, trying to keep the acid out of his voice. He looked around the foyer of his new home and nearly laughed out loud when he saw the fancy Oriental carpet and all the polished wood and marble. Great God, this was fantastic! He'd scraped and slaved and saved for fifteen years now, hoping he'd one day be able to afford even a small place to call his own, and now, with a few magnanimous strokes of his late uncle's pen, he'd been handed all this.
"Very good, sir."
Tom thought the fellow sounded as though he were agreeing to commit murder. "And what is your name, my good man?"
"Scruggs, sir."
Just Scruggs? Oh, well, who was Tom to argue? Anyway, it didn't matter. "Just Scruggs" was his butler now. His very own butler. Ha!
"Right, Scruggs. Well, will you please take my coat and hat somewhere? They're dripping onto the carpet." And what a carpet it was! Tom knew absolutely nothing about carpets, but he'd seldom stood on anything this thick. And it was his! With difficulty he checked an exultant laugh.
"Very good, sir."
Shaking his head, Tom watched as Scruggs bore his coat and hat away as though each item weighed a thousand pounds. Good grief, what kind of people had Uncle Gordon employed here anyway?
On the other hand, what the hell did he care? After all, he was rich as Croesus now, thanks to Uncle Gordo. As Tom had been dirt poor all his life in spite of the Fine Old Family Name, the change delighted him. Not even that death's-head butler could blight his happiness.
He heard the stairway creak. Looking up quickly, he discerned a tall, elegant, albeit severe-looking, female making her way down the staircase.
Aha, the housekeeper. Tom had heard about her. According to the letters Uncle Gordon had written to Tom's mother, people in the town of Pyrite Springs had at first been quite scandalized about the relationship between old Uncle Gordo and his housekeeper, Miss Montague. They'd soon gotten over it.
Peering at the woman descending the staircase toward him, Tom had a hard time crediting the rumors. Unless his uncle's taste had improved since Gordo had fallen in love with Tom's mother, this woman seemed entirely too majestic a female to have been the focus of salacious gossip linking the two of them. Maybe the citizens of Pyrite Springs possessed lively imaginations.
This creature certainly did not appear to be the stuff of romantic tales. Granted, her features were fine, her nose was small and straight, and her mouth quite prettily shaped. Still, she appeared quellingly rigid. Spectacles glittered across her face in the lamplight, and she wore her hair in a dreadful style, braided and coiled into two tight little knots above her ear...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherDell
- Publication date1998
- ISBN 10 0440223644
- ISBN 13 9780440223641
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages384
- Rating
Buy New
Learn more about this copy
US$ 95.30
Shipping:
US$ 3.50
Within U.S.A.
Top Search Results from the AbeBooks Marketplace
Stock Image
Secret Hearts
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Paperback. Condition: new. New. Seller Inventory # Wizard0440223644
Buy New
US$ 95.30
Convert currency
Stock Image
Secret Hearts
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Paperback. Condition: new. New Copy. Customer Service Guaranteed. Seller Inventory # think0440223644
Buy New
US$ 94.61
Convert currency
Stock Image
SECRET HEARTS
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Condition: New. New. In shrink wrap. Looks like an interesting title! 0.4. Seller Inventory # Q-0440223644
Buy New
US$ 95.29
Convert currency