We were so poor...

On yesterday's blog I mentioned that the opposition party in Australian politics was having a leadership challenge between one silver spooner and another. Anyway, so one of them came out the victor. He is a gazillionaire and perceived as not one of the people. That's very important to be seen as an ordinary bloke or Sheila in Australia. We like to feel that we can have a beer or a decent chat with you. It's pretty doubtful that this man is that type of person. And he knows it. His first speech was to the public. It was basically about how he grew up as any ordinary Aussie did. How he struggled, lived in rented accommodation etc, etc. He was trying too hard to be perceived as one of the masses and it showed. This then spawned a lot of 'we were so poor' jokes on the radio this morning. You know the ones –

- we were so poor we had to shear sheep in winter to use their fleece for warmth
- you were lucky - we couldn't afford the shears - we had to carry the sheep on our backs
- we were worse off than you - we had no sheep. We could only look at them in books
- Books? You were lucky to have picture books - we had to use chalk on cave walls to draw pictures
- You have chalk? We were so poor we had to open a vein and write in blood

You get the picture - it's a Monty Pythonesque sketch. And the thing is while Australia is all about the average bloke and Shelia we don’t care if you have money. Good on you - even better if you worked for it. But don't pretend to be something you’re not or we won’t back you in whatever you do. You can't pretend to understand how anyone feels unless you have been there can you?

Made for Mischief has been released at Resplendence Publishing. It’s the hot new book from Regina Carlysle and yes just for you I have a sneak peak. As always, it’s a click on the cover and buy moment.

The blurb…

All she really wanted was one naughty night before returning to her life as a sheltered country spinster! Crawling beneath a bed in London’s most notorious brothel was beyond the pale, even for known eccentric Arabella Spencer. Little did she imagine that lust, desire, and yes, love was just within her grasp.

When Grayson St. James, Lord Mercer, newly returned from fighting Napoleon, dragged a squirming, dusty bluestocking from beneath his bed, he was…well..aghast! She wanted adventure, did she? She wanted to learn about sex, did she? He was just the man to teach her!

As a vow of vengeance and a case of mistaken identity unite Grayson and Arabella in a common goal, the dour Lord Mercer finds himself laughing for the first time in longer than he can recall but will an unknown threat bring them together or tear their world apart?

The excerpt…

“Let us to bed, love,” he whispered reaching for the sash on her dressing gown.
Arabella jerked away quickly, her eyes widening. To his great surprise, she held up a hand to ward him off. “No. You must wait, my lord. You shall ruin everything if you do not do what I say.”
Do what she says? What? Grayson narrowed his eyes at her and frowned, but before he could utter a word, she took his arm in a death grip. “You must come with me, Grayson. Do you hear? You must do everything that I say.”
Stunned speechless, he let her drag him to a straight-backed chair. “Sit, my lord. Yes, that’s it. Right here.”
She had some great surprise planned, of that he was certain. If she wanted to order him about, he was curious enough to allow it. He sprawled into the chair and looked up at her. She was frowning. Her finger pointed in the direction of his nose. “Do not move.”
He fought to hide his grin, but failed miserably. Lifting his arms out from his side, he presented himself. “I am all yours, my sweet. Do you perhaps think to entertain me? I assure you; I am breathless with anticipation. Do your worst.”
Grayson found himself facing a discreet changing screen in a darkened corner of the room. She scowled at him and rushed behind it, leaving him to stare at the oriental style painting of peacocks with full feathers extended. Had he ever looked at this thing before? Hmm. Very pretty how the painted trees and flowers provided the perfect backdrop for the strutting creatures.
A soft curse came from behind the screen. Grayson shifted in his chair. He heard the rustle of fabric, a huff of breath. “You do not have to seduce me, love. I am all yours,” he called.
Another huff! A curse. “Damnation!”
Grayson chuckled, and then silence fell. Anticipation rose, and his thighs tightened. In the fireplace a log snapped and cracked in half, sending up a shower of tiny sparks. A sudden gust of wind snatched at the sheer curtains at the window, and they flapped once, softly, before settling back in place. He gritted his teeth, watching the blasted screen, as a predatory urge sank claws into his bones. At last, she broke the silence.
“Close your eyes.”
Grayson cursed roundly then obeyed. He felt her presence. She’d moved close enough to touch. Perhaps she was checking to see whether he’d followed her orders. He could smell her, and the scent was so enchanting he started to reach out, but then she moved away. Anticipation curled through his lungs to steal every bit of air. The sound of her rapid breathing reached his ears. He was dying, thought he might expire on the spot.
Passion ripped through him. Intense desire raged. Lust pounded a pagan tempo through his loins and still, the little seductress said not a word.
“All right,” she breathed. “You may open your eyes.”
Grayson opened them and stilled.
Arabella stood splashed against the peacock backdrop wearing a diaphanous gown of white. A clasp at one shoulder was the only thing holding the garment in place. He sucked in a breath at the display. Where had she found such a costume? The Grecian affair was utterly sheer, giving him tantalizing glimpses of her bare torso. Pink nipples pressed against the white veil. One bare arm was lifted up and out to rest against the top of the screen in a dramatic fashion.
He swallowed. She was beautiful.
The other hand was positioned down the front of her body in an attempt to shield the shadowy juncture of her thighs.
Grayson muttered a curse and sat up alertly. Every pore in his body screamed out for a touch, a taste. He damn near whimpered.
“Arabella?”
“No. I am not Arabella tonight. I am Aphrodite come to you to… blast it… do not move, Grayson. A moment please.”
She made a sound of disgust, jerked the spectacles from her face and dashed across the room. He almost swallowed his tongue. Her lovely breasts quivered with every step. When she turned to place the item upon the table at the base of the flower vase, he eyed her delicious little rump. The gossamer teased the firm, pale flesh, and his cock grew hard enough to pound stone. God!
She raced back to the screen with a huff and positioned herself once again. Gray waited. Watched. What would she do next?
“Well,” she began quickly, “As I was saying. I am Aphrodite sent here to please you, my lord.”
“And you have succeeded admirably.” It occurred to him to laugh, but he caught himself just in time. Laughter and lust… what a strange combination

www.amarindajones.com
Go ahead: Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?