GENEVIEVE by B R Peabody by Barry Peabody

Privileged, spoilt, arrogant and violent. Harry Wetherby’s mother engages yet another governess in a last desperate attempt to salvage her only child. Genevieve Archer will educate the boy at the family’s country house. Her track record is superb, but Harry is the ultimate test and they are closely matched in age. Other darkly erotic attractions lurk in the background, and if they should fall for each other yet more perils lie in wait. A former employer will stop at nothing to bring ruin on Genevieve, causing misery to her and those around her. Harry’s fabulously wealthy mother will almost certainly break them apart, and on the horizon looms a war the like of which mankind has never seen before – a war which will claim the lives of multitudes and cripple millions more in the trenches of the Somme and Ypres. This book will hold you, enthral you, take you to the deepest darkest pits of despair then make your heart soar. It is a vivid portrait of the lives lived in Edwardian Britain. It paints a starkly accurate picture of life and death in the trenches and the price paid afterwards by those who came home – and by those who only ever got a telegram back. Praise for GENEVIEVE: xxx ‘In places it will rend you like a knife and in others touches with gossamer care. If you only read one book this year, you should make sure this is it – gripping!’ xxx ‘Compelling, moving, vividly coloured and darkly erotic’..xxx ‘written with love in letters of blood’ xxx ‘thought-provoking – I would lie awake wondering if my grandparents ever got up to these antics!’ xxx ‘truly Dickensian in its scope – the characters will stay with you forever’ xxx ‘beautifully detailed and so evocative – you’re with them in the trench, waiting for the enemy with your heart thumping madly…’ xxx ‘this book takes you there – best read so far this year!’ xxx Click to see inside or search Genevieve on Facebook.

SKU: B014V3ZKJ2 Categories: Historical Romance, Romance Tags: chick-lit, dominatrix, erotica, Historical romance, WW1, WW1 trenches

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About the author:

…..A decade or so ago I escaped the madness and moved to the beautiful north of Scotland, to live on a typical Scottish Highland croft with large fields and a stunning view across the Moray Firth. Between defending the homestead from marauding packs of wild Haggis (Haggises/Haggi?) I write books and poetry – some would say very well, a few would say not so well, but all things are subjective and I bear no malice. They print my tales, and for that I am truly grateful. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them. If you search ‘Genevieve’ on facebook you’ll find my work, feel free to let me know your thoughts, I love to hear comments – even detrimental ones so long as they are thought through and genuine. Salut!

What inspired you to write your book?

This book is a stunner, can’t say more than that. The jacket says it all, couldn’t put it down, reread it twice and now panicking in case theres no sequel. If you only read one book this year make sure this is it – it says it on the label and its true! Emotional roller coaster ride, brought tears to my eyes. Fantastic. Five stars without question.

Here is a short sample from the book:

THE BOY IS BADLY BURNED AND DYING… THE GIRL LOVES HIM AND IS DESPERATE TO SAVE HIM. Will he die? Will all her care be wasted?
‘She moved another wet towel and another and another, deftly trying to take the edge from his agony, to take every ounce of his purgatory she could and put it on herself. She used no salt for fear it would prove too much for him and when she sobbed silently she moved her head away, in case she should hurt him with her salty tears. He was strong, very strong, but his strength was waning under the constant onslaught, the permanent battering that his already broken body was receiving. She could feel his grip loosening and she rallied him, pouring her strength into him, giving of herself freely, without constraint, using her strength and faith and determination; holding him back from the abyss and refusing to let him drop.
His pain was a mighty invading force, on the march, legion; but she was unconquerable in her pride and her love. He cried out, loudly at first, then lower and lower as he sank slowly, yet he never once asked her for release; for the promised ending of his writhing burning hell. He knew she could switch it off and he knew she would if he asked her to. He would never have believed there was such searing pain available in such quantities, or that a body could hold so much of it. He was floating on her love, her need of him, his need of her, their need together, to be together. He would make her kiss him one hundred times, they would be together for a hundred years, if only he could ride this eternity of pain to its end. He held the kiss for her, tasted it in his mouth; held it as tight as he knew how as he twisted and writhed in his agony. When it was unbearable he felt her near, holding him; when he fell she caught him and carried him through the desert across the burning sand. At one point in the darkest part of the night he thought he saw flames coming to claim him again, rising, rising, but she lifted him as if he were a child, high above into the cool clear air. It was so cool and clear for a moment he thought he was dying – was sure it was so – until she caught him again, bearing him off and refusing with nothing but determination and defiance, to let him fall. He didn’t fall that night. The opium stayed in its bottle and he took the hurt, took the agonies and the pain and she felt every single one with him, lessening the shock and helping him. He was brave that long, long night, but she was at least as brave. She had twice relented, ready to give him the relief he craved from the pain and twice he’d stayed her hand: even as he cried out in his agony, he’d forbidden her to turn off the switch. His need of her was the greater and she’d traded on that very fact – relied upon it. When the sun came in the morning she lay utterly exhausted beside him on the pillow, her long hair straggling over his unburned shoulder.’