RELEASE DATE: February
14, 2014
GENRE: Historical
Romance/Historical Fiction
PUBLISHER: Black Lyon
Publishing
BLURB:
To
rescue her was to rescue his own soul.
On a cold Parisian night, Vicomte Aleksender de Lefèvre
forges an everlasting bond with a broken girl during her darkest hour, rescuing
her from a life of abuse and misery. Tormented by his own demons, he finds his
first bit of solace in sheltering little Sofia Rose.
But when Aleksender is drawn away by the Franco-Prussian
war, the seasons pass. And in that long year, Sofia matures into a stunning
young woman—a dancer with an understanding of devotion and redemption far
surpassing her age.
Alongside his closest friend, Aleksender returns home to
find that “home” is gone—replaced by revolution, bloodshed, betrayal—and a love
always out of reach. Scarred inside and out, he’s thrust into a world of
sensuality and violence—a world in which all his hours have now grown dark, and
where only Sofia might bring an end to the winter in his heart.
Inspired by the 1871 Paris Commune, The Frost of
Springtime is a poignant tale of revolution, redemption, and the healing
power of love.
MEET RACHEL
Rachel L. Demeter lives in the beautiful hills of Anaheim,
California with Teddy, her goofy lowland sheepdog, and high school
sweetheart of ten years. She enjoys writing dark, edgy romances that challenge
the reader’s emotions and examine the redeeming power of love.
Imagining stories and characters has been Rachel’s passion
for longer than she can remember. Before learning how to read or write, she
would dictate stories while her mom would jot them down for her. She has a
special affinity for the tortured hero and unconventional romances. Whether
sculpting the protagonist or antagonist, she always ensures that every
character is given a soul.
Rachel strives to intricately blend elements of romance,
suspense, and horror. Some common themes her stories never stray too far from:
forbidden romance, soul mates, the power of love to redeem, mend all wounds,
and triumph over darkness. Her dream is to move readers and leave an emotional
impact through her words.
BRIEF
EXCERPT
The heat of their bodies
mingled as one. With each breath, Aleksender drank in the sweet essence of his
beloved ward. His mind swam with unorthodox visions and desires. He inclined
his head, lost to the power of her nearness, entranced by everything that was
Sofia.
“Alek, my Alek …”
Each word infused
Aleksender with a delicious and undeniable warmth. Intoxicated by roses and
wintertime, he found it difficult to speak, difficult to think. Breathless, he
swallowed and met the haunting depths of her eyes.
“Please,” she dreamily
murmured, “I want you to kiss me again…”
CONNECT
WITH RACHEL
Historical Excerpt
Rue de la Paix was packed to its limits. The square was a
perfect viewing spot for such destruction. The Vendôme Column was front and
center, Napoleon’s lifeless stone features etched with blissful oblivion.
Ladies hung out of their balconies and chattered amongst themselves. Days
earlier, they’d coated the windows with paper and paste to help numb the
shattering blow to come.
Down in the street below, newspaper and pastry vendors
rolled through the congestion, handing out goods as if they were party favors.
A multitude of red flags lined the inside of the square, branding Place Vendôme
as a place of liberty and freedom.
The thunder of drums shook the ground. National Guardsmen
from various battalions throughout the city had come together for this
exceptional occasion. They stood at the foot of the column, passing cigars back
and forth as the last preparations were carried out. Workmen drove wedges into
the column’s sawed crevice, loosening the incalculable weight from the base.
Members of the Commune arrived at the scene in heroic
fashion. Propped on horseback, the men stationed themselves in a single-file
line at the front of Rue de la Paix’s alley.
It was Christophe Cleef who gave the signal.
A number of marching bands issued the drum roll. In the
midst of the excitement, a rather courageous man shoved through the crowd. He
came beside Christophe and yelled over the music and jeers. “Can’t you leave it
alone?” His plea was lost to the din. The horse gave an irritated whinny as the
man tugged at its hanging bridle.
Christophe narrowed his eyes and stared down at a face that
wasn’t a day under sixty. “What are you doing? Out of the way! Guards!”
“The column—can’t you leave it alone?” he repeated, a knot
of desperation in his voice. “It has cost us all so much.”
Christophe’s broad shoulders shook with laughter. “Yes—yes,
it has, indeed. It has cost millions of lives. Now step aside if you care to
keep your head.” Defeated, the man hung his face and did as commanded,
vanishing back into the crowd.
Christophe squinted against the blaring sunrays. On all
sides of the monument, ropes were held by over seventy sailors. Muscles
strained beneath the afternoon light as the greatest match of tug-of-war in the
history of the world took place. As calm and as sure as ever, Napoleon gave a
slight sway and glanced down at his executioners.
The drums reached their crescendo and faded into a patriotic
melody. Minutes later, applause erupted as the column gave way and crumbled at
its seams.
The Commune struggled to chasten their horses as Napoleon
Bonaparte met his inevitable doom. He crashed down, smashing the cobblestones
into rubble—lying before his people in a miserable wreck. In the force of his
fall, an arm was amputated and his head cleanly severed from his body.
Women spat upon the heap of stone that once was Napoleon’s
face and cried nasty obscenities.
In a single Monday afternoon, the Commune had sealed Paris’s
fate. And now the entire world was crashing down.
Caught in the excitement and flushed with power, he joined
in the chanted cry: “Vive la Commune! Vive la République! Vive la Résistance!
Death to the Empire!”
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