Title: Euphoria
Series: The Thornfield Affair #1
Author: Amity Cross
Genre: New Adult/Contemporary Romance
Release Date: October 11, 2016
Blurb
No one cared to give her a name.
And his came with the weight of the world.
Orphaned as an infant, Jane Doe has nothing, but desires everything life has to offer.
Orphaned as an infant, Jane Doe has nothing, but desires everything life has to offer.
When she’s offered work at Thornfield, a grand English manor turned hotel, she meets her match in the dark and brooding proprietor, Edward Rochester.
He’s arrogant, moody, and hurtful, but as Jane’s attraction grows for this strange and powerful man, so does her spirit. Soon enough, tensions rise to breaking point, and they become embroiled in an illicit affair of the mind and body. An affair that neither is strong enough to turn from.
But Edward harbors a dark secret, one he is reluctant to share, even with his new confidant Jane. It’s a secret so dark and shocking it could tear them apart forever.
Can Jane choose between what is right and her one chance at true happiness?
Welcome to Thornfield where two lost souls are destined to love…no matter the cost.
From International Bestselling author Amity Cross, comes Euphoria, the first novel of The Thornfield Affair, a modern reimagining of Charlotte Brontë’s classic Jane Eyre.
From International Bestselling author Amity Cross, comes Euphoria, the first novel of The Thornfield Affair, a modern reimagining of Charlotte Brontë’s classic Jane Eyre.
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Excerpt
Chapter One
The sky had darkened by the time I reached the lane.
The ground was hard underfoot, the air was still, and the road was lonely. I walked fast along the broken asphalt, my boots slipping on the occasional patch of black ice, increasing my pace until warmth seeped through my bones. Then I slowed my footsteps to enjoy the freedom and nature, which I now found myself in.
It had been a long two months locked within the walls of Thornfield. The old manor was falling down around itself, and though it was a fine place, it was dreary in the midst of winter’s chill. The grand house had been turned into a hotel some fifty years before, but it scarcely saw any guests in summer, let alone in the icy months of the year.
I was wanting for adventure, for conversation and action, my situation calling for a change of scenery lest my anguish devour my soul. That was how I found myself on my way to the village, an escapee of the confines of Thornfield, no matter how terrible the weather outside was.
The lane inclined uphill to the village. Having reached halfway, I leaned against an old bluestone fence that bordered an ancient farmer’s field to catch my breath.
The moor stretched out around me, the copse of trees I took shelter in making every sound feel closer than it actually was. Fog had begun to descend, and below, the battlements of Thornfield sliced through the mist marking just how far I’d come.
On the hilltop above my perch, the moon was rising, pale and low in the sky, and beyond that, the lights of the tiny village appeared hazy through the weather. I had about a twenty-minute walk until I reached the limits of civilization and the pub, which was my ultimate destination.
The longer I sat and listened, the more I could piece together the sounds of life ahead. The rumbling of a lorry on the motorway beyond, the bark of a dog, the slam of a door…all carried farther afield by the dense air.
Then, as if out of nowhere, a harsh noise broke through the beautiful stillness. The roar of an engine farther down the lane whipped me out of my state of calmness, and I leaned back against the fence lest I be flattened by the approaching vehicle.
The windings of the narrow road hid it from view for quite some time even though the noise increased the farther it came along, and I stilled to allow it to flash past.
It was so dark and unsettling, and my mind mulled over the ghost stories Alice had been regaling me with while at the lonely hotel bar the last few nights. She’d taken great delight in telling me about the black hound, which prowled the lonely roads and would catch unwary travelers by surprise. Much like the approaching vehicle. But it was silly of me to be afraid since Jane Doe was afraid of nothing, especially not a walk through the moor in the dark!
A light flashed around the corner, and I was illuminated and blinded all at once, then there was a cry. It was a big chrome and black motorcycle approaching and as the rider saw me and swerved, the rear wheel hit a patch of ice and slid.
The whole thing veered to the side of the road, barely scraping past me. The wheel spun in the gravel, turning the entire motorcycle on its end, and the rider lost the last ounce of control they had over the beast. The machine fell, landing heavily on the road, the clang echoing across the lonely moor.
I pressed back against the bluestone fence, my heart pounding wildly, and for a moment, I was fixed in place, shock setting in. I’d almost been squashed!
The rider scrambled away from the motorcycle and pulled off their helmet with an audible curse. The word was spoken with so much vitriol that I recoiled lest it be turned on me.
I now saw the rider was a man, his broad shoulders encased in black leather, his dark hair askew, and his jaw covered in the shadow of a beard that had grown in his neglect to clean shave. He was as wild as the look in his eyes, and when he turned to me, so came his anger.
I was rooted to the spot, partly due to the black motorcycle that had almost run me down and partly to the vehemence, which was now fixed upon me. My usual no-nonsense attitude had been dulled in the aftermath of such excitement, and I was rendered mute.
The man pushed himself to his feet, moving unsteadily on his left foot, the same foot that had been underneath the motorcycle.
The sky had darkened by the time I reached the lane.
The ground was hard underfoot, the air was still, and the road was lonely. I walked fast along the broken asphalt, my boots slipping on the occasional patch of black ice, increasing my pace until warmth seeped through my bones. Then I slowed my footsteps to enjoy the freedom and nature, which I now found myself in.
It had been a long two months locked within the walls of Thornfield. The old manor was falling down around itself, and though it was a fine place, it was dreary in the midst of winter’s chill. The grand house had been turned into a hotel some fifty years before, but it scarcely saw any guests in summer, let alone in the icy months of the year.
I was wanting for adventure, for conversation and action, my situation calling for a change of scenery lest my anguish devour my soul. That was how I found myself on my way to the village, an escapee of the confines of Thornfield, no matter how terrible the weather outside was.
The lane inclined uphill to the village. Having reached halfway, I leaned against an old bluestone fence that bordered an ancient farmer’s field to catch my breath.
The moor stretched out around me, the copse of trees I took shelter in making every sound feel closer than it actually was. Fog had begun to descend, and below, the battlements of Thornfield sliced through the mist marking just how far I’d come.
On the hilltop above my perch, the moon was rising, pale and low in the sky, and beyond that, the lights of the tiny village appeared hazy through the weather. I had about a twenty-minute walk until I reached the limits of civilization and the pub, which was my ultimate destination.
The longer I sat and listened, the more I could piece together the sounds of life ahead. The rumbling of a lorry on the motorway beyond, the bark of a dog, the slam of a door…all carried farther afield by the dense air.
Then, as if out of nowhere, a harsh noise broke through the beautiful stillness. The roar of an engine farther down the lane whipped me out of my state of calmness, and I leaned back against the fence lest I be flattened by the approaching vehicle.
The windings of the narrow road hid it from view for quite some time even though the noise increased the farther it came along, and I stilled to allow it to flash past.
It was so dark and unsettling, and my mind mulled over the ghost stories Alice had been regaling me with while at the lonely hotel bar the last few nights. She’d taken great delight in telling me about the black hound, which prowled the lonely roads and would catch unwary travelers by surprise. Much like the approaching vehicle. But it was silly of me to be afraid since Jane Doe was afraid of nothing, especially not a walk through the moor in the dark!
A light flashed around the corner, and I was illuminated and blinded all at once, then there was a cry. It was a big chrome and black motorcycle approaching and as the rider saw me and swerved, the rear wheel hit a patch of ice and slid.
The whole thing veered to the side of the road, barely scraping past me. The wheel spun in the gravel, turning the entire motorcycle on its end, and the rider lost the last ounce of control they had over the beast. The machine fell, landing heavily on the road, the clang echoing across the lonely moor.
I pressed back against the bluestone fence, my heart pounding wildly, and for a moment, I was fixed in place, shock setting in. I’d almost been squashed!
The rider scrambled away from the motorcycle and pulled off their helmet with an audible curse. The word was spoken with so much vitriol that I recoiled lest it be turned on me.
I now saw the rider was a man, his broad shoulders encased in black leather, his dark hair askew, and his jaw covered in the shadow of a beard that had grown in his neglect to clean shave. He was as wild as the look in his eyes, and when he turned to me, so came his anger.
I was rooted to the spot, partly due to the black motorcycle that had almost run me down and partly to the vehemence, which was now fixed upon me. My usual no-nonsense attitude had been dulled in the aftermath of such excitement, and I was rendered mute.
The man pushed himself to his feet, moving unsteadily on his left foot, the same foot that had been underneath the motorcycle.
Author Bio
Amity Cross is the International Bestselling author of wicked stories about rock stars looking for redemption, gritty romances featuring MMA fighters and dark tales of forbidden romance. She loves to write about screwed up relationships and kick ass female leads that don’t take s**t lying down.
Amity lives in a leafy country town near Melbourne, Australia and can be found chained to her desk, held at ransom by her characters.
Don’t send help. She likes it.
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