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New cover reveal: 'Absolute Surrender' by Jenn LeBlanc

Special for USA TODAY
"Absolute Surrender" by Jenn LeBlanc.

Jenn LeBlanc shares the new cover from Absolute Surrender, her absolutely wonderful Victorian romance, and includes an excerpt of the opening scene.

Jenn: I am thrilled to be here today to share this new cover with everyone! I think it's bold and delicate, just like the heroine of my novel, Absolute Surrender. Amelia has a mental illness that could land her in an institution if she draws too much attention from the wrong people. So she hides for most of her life, far from society. When she comes of age, her father's plan is to have her marry a powerful duke. Her position in the peerage will allow her to hide in plain sight.

While the whole process of coming out terrifies Amelia and exacerbates her illness, she does what her father wishes, even though part of her would simply prefer to live out her life as a spinster in some remote location.

I absolutely adore the strength I found in Amelia as she had to face her fears. It's enough of a struggle to be brave, but when your brain works against you, it adds an entirely new level of difficulty.

It takes two very different men working together to support Amelia and to prove to her through their own actions that she's not just another woman but an incredible human being — someone who is strong and brilliant and wholly worthy of living however she wants, with whomever she wants.

Creating a cover that reflects how Amelia feels wasn't easy. I wanted to show her need to hide from the world, her hope that she could be invisible even in the most crowded ballrooms, but also to show her grace, strength and beauty.

Hopefully, I've managed that. What do you think?

Here's the opening scene from the novel, in which Amelia is attending a ball for the first time after being hidden from society most of her life. It really delves into what it's like to be inside Amelia's head, and I believe shows a side of her that most of us can empathize with …

1881

London, England

Amelia stood. It was the simplest explanation, really. She did nothing else. Her back straight, her hands held gently—not too tight—just below her waist. Her reticule dangled from one wrist, resting just behind her hands. Her skirt did not sway—as she did not twitch.

She blinked.

The room was full.

Nobody looked her way.

She corrected the angle of her chin because it had been too severe. She lowered her chin slightly and tilted her head gently to the left to balance the flowers in her hair because her girl had angled them to the right.

She smiled gently—there's that word again—and shook her head. Gently, she thought. Gentlygentlygently. Amelia's shoulders drooped at the thought, so she lifted and rolled them back gently—no, unnoticeably. Yes, I rolled them unnoticeably, not gently. Well…gently as well, but more unnoticeably than gently. Or perhaps so gently as to be unnoticed? Perhaps that's it.

She twitched.

Amelia wished she knew what was wrong with her. If she could give a name to this malady, perhaps it would lose its power over her.

That's a ridiculous thought. The fact was, to give it a name would be to give it more power—to the people who would diagnose her, to those who would judge her, to the doctors, physicians and others who would determine she was unhealthy, unworthy…unwell. Power to those who would then control her future, and that of her entire family with her. Giving a name to her illness was an impossibility. She had to remain hidden.

"Amelia." Her name rolled across her senses like a heavy fog. He should not be using my common name. I am not common. He is not common. It is not done. What if...what if someone hears?

"You," she whispered, and Amelia's eyes darted to and fro to ensure their conversation was private as he reached for her hand. "Endsleigh," she said just a bit louder to deflect any complaints that she'd not responded to his greeting. That would be improper, unheard of. A terrible cut.

Amelia looked down. Hugh had her hand, and her heart skipped a beat as her breath increased as if to make up for it. It was her right hand that he held, as is proper, and her reticule hung straight down. It did not catch on her gloved hand or her gown. She'd chosen this particular reticule because once she'd chosen one with cute little baubles and shiny beads and the beads and baubles had snagged her gown and—

"Might I have the honor of this dance, my lady?" Hugh interrupted the train wreck of her thoughts.

Amelia's eyes widened as she shook her head quickly to bring herself back to the ballroom, to the man, to the hand on her hand—certainly for an inappropriate amount of time by now. But his hand was warm and as he tightened his grip...she could breathe.

Hugh waited more patiently than he ought. He was regal in his black and white, his broad shoulders enhanced by the stark lines. Amelia took another breath. It was a concerted effort until—cinnamon and rich cigar, perhaps a hint of brandy—the knot in her belly loosened just a touch. She looked up to the all-too-familiar whiskey-colored eyes and forced a smile. "Yes, my lord, yes. The honor."

Amelia's hand slipped from his, and her breath caught. Her eyes drifted as she checked the ballroom to see who was watching, but the answer was simpler than "who." The answer was everyone, and she knew it before she looked, as well as she knew the chill on her skin was caused by the trickle of sweat rolling slowly down her spine, pausing every so often like a tease as the bead of sweat rounded a small bone then continued on its merry way.

She looked past him to see that the eyes of the ton were on her, but were not yet narrowed.

Hugh took her hand, this time her left, which was good, because her left hand was rather cold and the other was a bit warm now. The warmth of his hand on her hand—or rather my hand in his warm hand—called her back to the ballroom.

"Bollocks." Amelia's eyes went wide as she heard the word come from her mouth so softly she could only hope it made it just as far as her own ears. But when she heard Hugh clear his throat—more loudly than was seemly—she knew that was not to be.

He smiled at her gently—yes, gently, it had to be gently—as he turned her and rested his hand, his other hand—that first warm hand—on her back. Very low on her back. The heat sank through the layers of her gown and stays and underthings and straight through her skin to her soul.

Breathe.

Find out more about Jenn and her books at jennleblanc.com.

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