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Monday, April 13, 2015

Wash Line Monday!

Our Monday meme shines a light on apparel. From Regency to Steampunk, and everything in between, we dress our characters to reflect the story we want to tell.

In comments, and in 300 words or less, give us a snippet from your novel that describes what your heroes, heroines, or bit players are wearing. Don't forget your buy link and website/blog link. Have fun!


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Come see my snippet on Exquisite Quills' Wash Line Monday!    

9 comments:

E. Ayers said...

This is from my upcoming book A RANCHER'S DREAM

Set in the late 1800's, it's a fictionalized story of the real American west and the people who settled it.

A RANCHER'S WOMAN
by E. Ayers

In the morning, Adie came to Cora’s with several things for Ingrid. She tried them on and was pleased with each one. The blouses were beautiful - each done with tiny tucks, and one was cut with a bib and gathers below.

Adie passed another to her. “This is a skirt. It needs a belt.”

Ingrid tried it on. “Yes, I think I will need a skirt or two, but for now I need pants. I’m riding so much. But tomorrow, Tiago was hoping to go to church and a skirt would be more appropriate for such events.”

“I had enough left to make a few things extra for Alma, but I haven’t finished her last two dresses. I thought you might want to try them on her.”

Alma smiled up at Adie and she handed over the things she had sewn. Two of the dresses had pinafores, and two more were plain. “Ja. She could use some pants, too - ones like the boys wear. Virginia often wears pants that belonged to her brothers. On a ranch, Alma will need them.”

“I’m not certain Tiago would approve. I did buy her a pair when we first reached Wyoming. He was not happy with me.”

“Tell him you know what is best.”

“Maybe ones such as mine?”

Adie shook her head. “No. Pants. I will make her overalls. They will protect her clothes.”

“What are overalls?”


Zanna Mackenzie said...

This snippet is from Precious, a romantic comedy mystery set in the world of celebrities:

“You know what I've been wondering all evening?”
“What?” He leans back a little and eyes me wearily.
“Are you being a true Scotsman and wearing nothing underneath your kilt?”
A deliciously cheeky smile flickers on his lips. Lips that I know I want to kiss. “Want to find out? Maybe that’s something you should get on with investigating right now,” he replies.
My hand snakes up from his knee towards his thigh. “See there are some advantages to wearing a kilt,” I say. “Such as easy access.”
“That’s the only one though as far as I can make out. It’s too draughty and this feeling of fresh air and fabric moving around your legs, it’s all a bit unnerving. I feel a bit vulnerable to be honest.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The great Charlie Huxton feeling vulnerable? Not possible.”
“It’s possible,” he replies softly. “In more ways than you’d ever believe.”
“Oh?” Are we still talking about him feeling vulnerable for wearing a kilt and getting a draught in private places or is he about to reveal some emotional vulnerability?
“Come on let’s get out of here,” he says, slipping an arm around my shoulders and instantly lightening the mood.

Please find the book on Amazon via this link: http://getbook.at/Precious

Have a great day!

Rosemary Gemmell said...

From one of the short historical chapters in The Highland Lass, set around my own area of Scotland in the present and past.

Risking another glance, I see he has turned away to look at the preacher. His dark hair is smooth and curls in below his neck, and his profile is strong. He is smart in jacket and neckerchief and he has not the air of a farmer. Just as I remember I’m still staring, he looks up and our eyes meet again. This time I smile shyly and briefly before returning to my open Bible. He must not think I admire him too well. I’ll not become one of the silly lasses who
cast longing glances at him in the hope he will dally with them. I have too much pride for such behaviour. However, I cannot help one final glance as we stand to end the service. He smiles. And my heart tells me it is too late. But I still do not realise that this man, Robert Burns, will have anything to do with my destiny.

http://www.amazon.com/Highland-Lass-Rosemary-Gemmell-ebook/dp/B00TOTER6Q

Website: http://www.rosemarygemmell.com

Susan Macatee said...

From Civil War time travel romance, Erin's Rebel.

Erin opened the box and lifted out the silver-framed brooch containing dark woven hair and a photo of Erin O'Connell. She gasped as she'd stared at the old photograph. Except for the woman's hair parted in the center with a knot in the back and plumper cheeks, the woman could have been her.

Erin sank to the lumpy cot in her tent and raised a hand to her face. How had this happened? Everything was too real to be a dream. If only she could talk to Grandma Rose again. She'd always suspected Grandma was a mystic, although Mom had scoffed at such things.

When Erin had been a child, Grandma told her she was a descendent of practitioners of a mysterious Celtic sect. But her mother had been far too pragmatic to entertain the old woman's stories of the supernatural, telling Erin her grandmother liked to spin fanciful tales.

Now, she wondered, could Grandma have some kind of influence on events beyond the grave? Maybe the trunk would shed light on the situation.


Kneeling, she pulled the heavy chest out and opened it. A blue patterned dress sat neatly folded on top. She lifted it out and rifled through the other contents — long cotton slips with wide ruffles at the hem, a few aprons, a thick green and blue plaid shawl, and a corset. She held the white cotton garment, decorated with pale blue ribbons, and stretched it out before her.

"All right, Grandma, just what did you get me into?"

http://www.amazon.com/Erins-Rebel-Susan-Macatee/dp/1601545207/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1307644938&sr=1-1

Erin OQuinn said...

From the opening sentences of HEART TO HART, a gay retro romance-mystery:

He was tall—all of six feet, almost as tall as Michael. A black felt bowler hat covered his hair. But Michael knew it had to be as dark as the eyebrows and the growing shadow around his upper lip and chin. Had the man even slept last night? The mouth itself was sulky, arrogant, almost angry.

Michael’s cock set up a slow hammering beneath the stiff leather apron.
He grinned and shifted a wooden match between his teeth. “’Tis help ye need, now?”

Under a fine woolen greatcoat, invitingly open, the man was wearing an impeccably smooth silk brocade jacket, with a neck scarf to reflect the unusual blue of his eyes.

Found on my Amazon page: http://amzn.to/1w8PVgI
Blog devoted to the Gaslight Mysteries: http://caitlinfire.wordpress.com

Veronica Scott said...

From a key scene in DANCER OF THE NILE:
The curtain between the halves of the tent twitched, drawing his attention. A moment later, Nima slipped through the narrow space. Barefoot, she was dressed in an unusual outfit, constructed from pieces of shimmering red fabric, cleverly draped and knotted strategically on her body to show flashes of skin, tantalizing glimpses of her sensuous figure. The costume was accented with filmy scarves. A jeweled sash rode low on her hips, anchoring the slit skirt, golden tassels bobbing with every step. Her jet-black hair was braided tightly in classic Egyptian tradition, waist length, soft end brushing the luscious curve of her bottom.
Inhaling sharply, Kamin leaned back, his cock already rising to strain against his loincloth, balls drawing up tight to his body. Gods, she’s beautiful.
Nima came to the center of the tent, eyes focused on the floor, then chimed her finger cymbals once and lifted her head, eyes seeking his face. Kamin swallowed hard. Raising both arms above her head, fingers cupped as if to catch raindrops, she assumed a classic dancer’s pose, one foot planted solidly, on tiptoe with the other. A moment later, unseen musicians seated in the outer chamber played the first measures of music. Kamin heard a hand drum, flutes, other instruments he didn’t recognize, playing a version of a tune known as a standard in taverns along the Nile. She must have practiced with them on the march, during the day.
Keeping her eyes locked on his face, Nima rose effortlessly onto her toes, signaling the beginning of his private dance. He couldn’t have looked away if the entire Hyksos army had burst into the tent. She undulated her hips in time to the music, swirling two of the scarves through the air in sinuous arcs, now concealing, now revealing.

http://www.amazon.com/Dancer-Nile-Gods-Egypt-ebook/dp/B00FNXXEDE/?tag=verscoblo-20

M. S. Spencer said...

For Washline Monday I give you not one but two snippets from The Mason’s Mark: Love and Death in the Tower. Why? Because they’re fun!
The Mason’s Mark: Love and Death in the Tower
Secret Cravings Publishing (May 10, 2013)
eBook (70,000 words); Print (September 2013): 243 pp.
Romance, Action/Adventure, M/F, 3 flames

Buy Link:
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Lapses-of-Memory-ebook/dp/B00CRJEEKE/
Blog: http://msspencertalespinner.blogspot.com
Snippet One: In which our heroine first sees the lovely Dorcas:

Gideon followed the waiter’s pointing finger, and Claire followed his gaze. A woman sat alone facing away from them. She wore a burgundy Donna Karan suit and three-inch stiletto heels. The matching broad-brimmed hat hid her hair and most of her face. Claire checked the mirror behind the bar and dropped her fork when she saw what she would later describe to her sister as Audrey Hepburn’s doppelganger. A few tendrils of glistening black hair curled out from under the hat. High, aristocratic cheekbones flanked a flawlessly proportioned nose over ruby-kissed lips. The woman swiveled on her stool to face them and Claire nearly fell off her own. Dorcas—for it could only be Dorcas—would indeed easily pass as the twin of the late exquisite actress. Her huge, liquid, brown eyes locked on Claire.

Snippet Two: In which Dorcas shines and our heroine wilts:
At that moment Claire caught a whiff of Shalimar. A slim figure in a white Balenciaga suit took the chair next to hers. In the artificial light Dorcas’s ebony hair shimmered with the opalescence of glossy ibis feathers. Her exquisitely carved face, framed by delicate netting attached to a white pillbox hat, turned a fraction of an inch toward her neighbor. She arched one disdainful eyebrow and said in a brittle voice, “You must be Claire.” Without waiting for acknowledgement, she pivoted gracefully toward the two older women. “I do apologize for being late. Rogers hasn’t quite mastered the maze of Old Town streets yet.” She bestowed a dazzling smile on Gideon. “I expect he will ere long.”
Claire wasn’t sure how she survived the next hour. Dorcas—big surprise—had a good ten inches on her, making her feel puny and dispensable. Every so often her mother would catch her eye and lift her palm up and Claire would realize that she’d slumped so far down her chin almost rested on the table. Dorcas held the floor during most of the meal, relating clever stories in her lilting mezzo-soprano, a slight exotic accent adding a touch of red to the black and white ensemble.

SueBee said...

This is a description of our hero, Reed Sutton, from my contemporary romance, Fall For You, Book 1, Madison Falls Series.-Susan Behon


Of course, Reed looked wonderful. His broad shoulders were perfectly encased in a form fitting slate gray T-shirt. That lucky fabric hugged his well-defined muscles all the way down to his narrow waist. His dark jeans were loose but in no way baggy. The back pockets cupped his butt in a way that made her palms twitchy with a desire to do the same.

www.susanbehon.com
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/fall-for-you/id966283072?mt=11&uo=4
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TDAID0C/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_awdl_PMk2ub0JNZQTZ

lizzitremayne.com said...

A Long Trail Rolling
by
Lizzi Tremayne

She smelled blood. Its metallic tang assailed her senses, before it was overshadowed by the stench of death. Stepping back to scan the sheer wall of the bluff rising before her, her breath caught in her throat, and a sob escaped her. Finally, she’d found him. His scuffed black boot and fur coat showed through the snow, his body wedged into the bottom of a crevice, three feet above her head. She looked up to the top of the bluff, from which he must have fallen, but saw no one.

Finding handholds where there were none, Aleksandra Lekarski scrambled up the wall, while her heart constricted in her chest. She tugged her father’s cold, stiff body free and down onto level ground, giving thanks he’d been out of reach of the wolves, whose tracks abounded in the snow where she now stood. Her world blurred as she dropped to her knees and cradled his lifeless head in her lap, rocking him. Ceaseless tears flowed down her doeskin tunic.

http://lizzitremayne.com
http://lizzitremayne.com/store/