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Not quite a proposal on WIP Wednesday

The two older women were so absorbed with one another that Pol and Jackie might have been alone in the house. Pol constantly fought the temptation to touch her, to kiss her. More than that, he would not do until they were wed, or at least until she accepted the proposal he had not yet made. With his future so uncertain, it would be unfair, possibly even dangerous. He shuddered to think what Oscar might do to Pol’s wife. That is, if he had been told that Pol was the rightful heir to their grandfather.

Should he kiss her, though? She was attracted to him, he was certain. He was not the rake his cousin was, but nor was he a complete innocent. She wanted him, unless he was imagining the signs of her desire—the way her body tilted towards his, the husky tone when they were alone and she spoke to him, her habit of touching her tongue to suddenly dry lips, her enlarged pupils.

As for him, he yearned to hold her, to kiss her, and everything that followed. In his dreams, they enjoyed the greatest of intimacies. He slept restlessly and woke hard and aching. Would kisses make it all worse?
Surely not. He had learned self-control in a hard school. He could kiss her, and do no more. Day by day, he became more certain that a private kiss or two would do no harm. More than that, it felt inevitable.
In the end, though, there was no question. He stepped out of his little bedchamber off the kitchen just as she hurried past, and suddenly she was in his arms. He made no conscious decision to lower his head and press a kiss to her lips. One tender but gentle kiss became another, the heat building in him as she responded.

“Jackie,” he murmured.

“Pol,” she replied, or tried to, for as soon as she opened her mouth, he slipped his tongue past her lips to explore her mouth. It was clear she’d never been kissed before, but she was a fast learner, as he might have guessed she would be. Everything he did to her, she did in return to him, stroking his tongue with her own, brushing her tongue along the inside of his cheeks and pressing it far into his mouth and then retreating so that his tongue followed hers into the warm cavern of her mouth.

They were pressed together as tightly as two people could be with clothes on, he with one hand on her buttock and one in the middle of her back, and she exploring his chest and his back with hands that stroked and caressed.

His own hands stayed where they were, though it took every ounce of self-control he still possessed not to use them to shape her breasts, to reach for her feminine core. Not here. Not yet. Not in the kitchen where her mother might appear at any moment.

The thought was enough to slightly temper his ardor, but rather than step away, he backed into his bedchamber, bringing her with him. He wouldn’t close the door, because even in his current state—especially in his current state—he didn’t think it wise to be kissing Jackie in a room with a bed in it.

“Beloved,” he said to his dear delight. “Jackie, my heart, my love. You cannot know how much I want you.”

“Perhaps nearly as much as I want you,” she replied, which made him chuckle. Trust Jackie to challenge him.

“I’ve no right to ask you to marry me when my future is so uncertain,” he admitted, taking the leap towards his heart’s desire—if only part way.

But half a leap was never going to satisfy his intrepid darling. “The future is never certain, Pol. I’ve learned that. Anything can happen. We should snatch what happiness we can.”

“Then you will promise to marry me?”

“Ask and you will find out,” she retorted.

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Tea with guests

In the novel I am writing at the moment, the Duchess of Winshire is pleased to help an old friend.

“We are fortunate that the duchess is in town and remembers Gran fondly,” Pol commented.
“She has been very kind,” Jackie said.
The duchess said that Gran had been kind to her, when she was a young bride and still finding her feet as a duchess. It was hard to imagine that the commanding grand lady had once been unsure of her place. Now, said the duchess, she could return the favour.
“She has been very helpful,” said Pol. The four of them had agreed not to disclose the details of why they were in London to anyone but the enquiry agent, and even then, they had intended to be judicious about what they said.
Gran must have forgotten, for within ten minutes of her reunion with the duchess, she was spilling out everything. Her belief that Pol was the real heir to his grandfather and that her daughter-in-law had hidden the truth. The terrible treatment Pol had suffered in what should be his own house. How Oscar and his mother terrorised the neighbourhood, with the connivance of the local magistrate. The trumped-up charges against Pol and Jackie.
When Pol, Jackie, and Madame de Haricot had joined the two older ladies, Her Grace knew everything. She had asked how she could help. “I will, if you have no objection, ask Wakefield and Wakefield to send an enquiry agent to discuss your case. I am familiar with the firm, and agree they are a good choice.”

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Courtship rituals on WIP Wednesday

This is an excerpt from Maryanne and the Twelfth Knight, which is my story in the Bluestocking Belles seasonal collection A Christmas Quintet. Newsletter subscribers might remember this story–I’ve more than doubled it for this collection, but the essence remains the same. The father of the Versey family, who appear in various of my novels in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale, is not on the hunt for a bride.

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“Are all of your gowns the colour of mud?” Dell, fell into step beside Miss Beckingham and frowned at the offensive garment. It was a robe a l’anglaise, well made, well fitted, and not too distant from the current fashion. But it was all in shades of brown—although he supposed he had to conceded the cream of the underskirt and trim.
Dell would take it out and burn it if he could. If he had the dressing of her, he would pick jewel tones—a luminous setting for her porcelain skin and her dark curls.
“I thought you were playing bowls,” Miss Beckingham said. Scolded, rather. Her tone was discouraging, but she had known where he was. That must be hopeful, must it not?
“Your grace! Yoo hoo, your grace!” Bother. It was the sister, arm in arm with one of the other debutantes, both hurrying to catch up with him and Miss Beckingham.
“Were you looking for me, your grace?” Miss Lucette cooed, her smug smile suggesting she was certain of his answer.
“I was not, Miss Lucette,” he informed her, his irritation making his voice curt. “I was attempting to hold a private conversation with your sister, in fact.”
The girl gaped at him and then laughed as if he had made a joke. “Silly,” she commented. “Never mind. Miss Tollworthy and I will amuse you.”
Miss Beckingham took a step to the side to allow her sister to grasp his arm and Miss Tollworthy boxed him in on the other side. “I shall leave you, then,” Miss Beckingham said, her face suitably grave but her eyes dancing as they met his.
“You shall not,” Dell demanded. “Your sister requires your chaperonage.”
“Not when I am with you,” Miss Lucette cooed. “I am certain, your grace, that my Papa would have no objection to me strolling with you. And with Sarah, of course.”
Sarah Tollworthy giggled, which was her usual response to everything. In London, he had taken it for a pleasant nature, had perhaps that was true. But he was depressingly certain that another week of her giggles would drive him to homicide.
“Miss Beckingham?” Dell said. “If you abandon me now, I shall be forced to ungentlemanly measures.” He raised his eyebrows and gestured with his head in the direction of the lake. She fell into step beside her sister, and he gave an internal sigh of relief. He was not quite certain where he was with Miss Beckingham.
“I suppose you can come too, Maryanne,” Miss Lucette said, unwillingly.
Maryanne, Miss Lucette called her. A pretty name, and it suited her. Miss Lucette prattled and Miss Tollworthy giggled. Dell paid only sufficient attention to keep from committing to something he did not want to do. No, he did not think Miss Beckingham should take Miss Tollworthy back to the house to fetch a better bonnet. There would be shade enough under the trees, or alternatively, they could all go back together.
Yes, Miss Lucette’s gown was a pretty shade of blue, but no, he had not noticed that it matched her eyes.
No, he would not demand all of Miss Lucette’s dances at this evening’s New Year’s Ball. He must leave some dances for the other gentlemen, and besides, Miss Lucette needed to make allowances for his extreme age.
Miss Lucette assured him that he was not to mind being old. She thought older gentlemen were more interesting, and besides he was very fit, even if he must be all of forty.
Miss Beckingham was struck by a fit of coughing and Dell stopped to wait for her to recover, but every time she caught his eye she collapsed again, stuffing both hands over her mouth and coughing until the tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Really, Maryanne,” said Lucette. “I hope you are not unwell.”
“I must have accidentally swallowed something,” Miss Beckingham managed to say. “An elderly insect, perhaps.”
Minx.

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Spotlight on The Trials of Benedict

The Trials of Alaric

To wed her, he’d do anything. Even lose his heart!

When Alaric Redhaven is shipwrecked on the Isle of Claddach in the Irish Sea, he finds himself attending a most unusual house party. The Earl of Claddach is holding a set of trials to discover a worthy man to marry his daughter.

Lady Beatrice Collister, only child of the Earl of Claddach, is committed to choosing a husband who will be her consort when she is the island’s countess. But not one of the eligible gentlemen selected to enter the trials makes her heart race.

As Alaric strives to win the trials, and with them, everything he has ever wanted, he also faces a brother bent on revenge, a drunken villager, and a cousin with a mountain-sized sense of entitlement.

But only the man who uncovers the Heart of Claddach can win Bea as his bride.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DJ9WB9WQ

Meet Bea

Lady Beatrice Collister is the only child of the Earl of Claddach, an ancient earldom that comprises the Isle of Claddach in the Irish Sea (and several other smaller islands). Bea is heir to his title as well as his lands, and her father is ill. It is time for her to marry, yet she does not wish to leave the island, and she has met no one she might consider as husband and consort. Including (and especially) her horrid cousin, her mother’s nephew.
Her father proposes a series of trials in which would-be suitors can show their worth. Bea agrees, and her sense of honour and duty oblige her to keep her word. But once she meets Alaric, she wishes she was free to choose for herself.

Meet Aleric

Alaric Redhaven is a second son, and estranged from his family who exiled him to Brazil for something he didn’t do. On his way back to England, he is shipwrecked on the Isle of Claddach and taken to the earl’s castle to recover. There, the earl’s wife invites him to join the trials for the hand of her daughter.
At first, Alaric is simply obliging his hostess, but he soon falls in love with Bea, and undergoes the trials in earnest. Can he win the hand of the lovely heiress? Some of the tasks seem impossible and the arrival of his older brother complicates matters. But Alaric will do anything to win Bea’s heart and her hand.

Excerpt from The Trials of Alaric

Alaric Redhaven’s brief eighteen months as a diplomat had been a disaster. From his arrival in Rio de Janeiro, he had not distinguished himself in any desirable fashion, and the litany of his accidents and mistakes was far too depressing to think about. When he had inadvertently insulted the Spanish Ambassador at a reception in Rio de Janeiro, it had been the last straw. He, his uncle and sponsor, and the British envoy to the Portuguese court in exile had been in agreement for the first time since Alaric had arrived.

Alaric had been dismissed and found a berth on the first ship leaving Rio de Janeiro with England as its destination. Now that ship was stuck in a rising storm while the experienced crewmen ran around in a panic, arguing about which sails to reef and who was going to do it.

To make things worse, the captain was nowhere to be found—probably lying in a hidden corner in a drunken stupor. They were without the first mate, too. He came up on deck when the weather first turned foul, was struck by a flying belaying pin, and knocked out before he could take charge.

Which meant they were trying to stay afloat in an unexpected storm, with a minimal crew and the two most senior officers disabled.

Drowning in the Irish Sea was a more permanent disruption than the arrest of their captain in Fortaleza and the shortage of supplies that kept them for two extra weeks in Jamaica. Not to mention the desertion of a good third of their crew in Dublin.

Alaric felt he should do something, but what? He knew nothing about how to sail a ship. Telling the crew to stop bickering and do their jobs was likely to get him hurled over the side. And suddenly, it was too late. First one mast broke, then another, then the third.

And then it got worse.

“We’ve lost the rudder!” shouted the man on the wheel.

“Rocks!” screamed someone else.

Some of the sailors leapt into the sea. Others clung to the nearest solid object as the ship pitched and yawed with every wave and gust of wind. Alaric tossed a mental coin, shrugged out of his coat, and jumped overboard. He would take his chance with the sea.

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We cannot choose our family, on WIP Wednesday

“Oscar, before you go out, I would like a word,” Pol said after dinner. The ladies had withdrawn and it was just the two of them and a couple of footmen in the room.

“I’ll have a port then,” Oscar said, waving a hand at one of the footmen.

Pol stood. “I’ll get it,” he said to the men. “Leave us, please. I will let you know when you can clear.”

“Uh oh.” Oscar grinned, mockingly. “I detect a Polly scold.”

The topic Pol wanted to broach had nothing amusing about it. “If you wish to see it that way. I am looking out for your interests, cousin. And they won’t be served by alienating the villagers and your tenants.”

He handed Oscar his port, and the heathen tipped back his head and swallowed the lot. Pol doubted if he’d tasted it.

“If you are going to scold me, I’m leaving,” Oscar threatened.

Right. Straight to the point then. “You’ve been trying to talk John Westerley’s daughter into meeting you in private. She had the sense to talk to her father. He asked me to let you know that any man who touches her, whoever he might be, will lose his ballocks.” Margaret Westerley was fifteen. If Oscar seduced her or worse, Pol might just hold his cousin down for the knife.

Oscar snorted. “Westerley is my tenant. He won’t touch me.”

“Westerley runs the biggest and most successful farm in the district. If he is hanged or transported for gelding you, you will lose not only your breeding equipment but also a third of your income. That is, if he gets caught. I tell you now, Oscar. If you turn up minus important body parts, I will deny we had this conversation, and all of your tenants and most of your villagers will make certain that Westerley has an alibi.”

“She’s ripe for it,” Oscar protested. “You can’t blame me if the tarts lead me on.”

There was no point in arguing that a girl’s appearance was not an invitation to molest her. “You’re an adult,” Pol told him. “If you want to stay whole, think with your brain and not your pecker. Leave the tenants’ daughters alone.”

In a whiny singsong, Oscar repeated the last sentence and added to it. “Leave the tenants’ daughters alone. Leave the villagers’ daughters alone. Leave the maids alone.” His sneer broadened. “You might be a eunuch, Polly, but I’m not.”

“Keep on poaching other people’s women and you will be,” Pol promised, ignoring the insult. “That goes for the dressmaker’s girl, too, by the way.”

Nothing in Oscar’s eyes or his expression hinted that he knew anything about what Pol had heard in the village—that the dressmaker was searching for her seamstress, who had not come home last night. So it probably wasn’t anything to do with Oscar. Pol hoped she was somewhere safe, but he greatly feared that she might have fallen afoul of some of the other predators who thrived in this district. Oscar’s example and the negligence of the magistrate saw to that.

“The dressmaker’s girl is my business, not yours.” Oscar was on his feet and pouring himself another port. “As for the tenants, I’m the highest ranked peer in the district. They won’t touch me. Little mice. Everyone is afraid, and they should be. You should be.”

He tipped his glass up again, swallowing several times as the port ran down his throat. “I can destroy them,” he added. “I can destroy you, Polly. So stop trying to tell me what to do.”

He stormed out of the room.

That went about as I expected. Honestly, Pol should let Westerley loose with his gelding knife. Pol couldn’t think of anything else that would stop the viscount from his indiscriminate rutting.

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Tea with the Marquess and Marchioness of Ellington

Recently, the Duchess had the pleasure of receiving James, Marquess of Ellington, and his wife, the former Edythe Cavendish. The ton was abuzz with her ladyship’s story. You see, my friends, she lost both her parents in a fatal carriage accident and became the ward of her distant cousin Prudence. For ten years, young Edythe survived her cousin’s control of both of her bank accounts, a sizable sum and attempts to eradicate any sign of her independence. She kept telling her she would be a spinster for the rest of her life. But Edythe was her father’s daughter, and if anything, a Cavendish is a survivor. There is a happy ending to this story. As a matter of fact, there are two happy endings. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Our duchess, Eleanor, has become a close friend of the couple and has invited James and Edythe to tea. Oh, wait. I believe I hear their coach arriving. Sit tight, my friends and Eleanor will find out all about their amazing story.

“James, Edythe, it’s wonderful to see you both,” Eleanor said, gesturing for them to take their seats.

As they settled, Eleanor’s gaze sharpened with curiosity. “Now, I must confess, I’ve been dying to know more about the infamous Cavendish ghost and its curse. I hear it played quite a role in your union.”

Edythe’s eyes met James’, a smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Indeed, it did. Though a tragic tale, it brought us together in the most unexpected way.”

James nodded, taking Edythe’s hand. “The ghost, Lord Alistair, was denied his love, Isabell. She wasn’t of the correct family. As he lay dying of a broken heart, he cursed the family and Cavendish Hall.”

Eleanor leaned in, captivated. “And how did this curse bring you two together?”

“A series of strange happenings. Mr. Hughes, the prestigious solicitor, had been searching for the heir to the Cavendish estate and fortune for some time.” Edythe held Eleanor in rapture. “Imagine, after ten years of searching, he found me.” Edythe sat back, removing her hand from Eleanor’s. “It was difficult to accept, especially with Prudence telling me terrible things.”

“It’s for me to gossip, my dear.” Eleanor’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “When you were discovered, let’s just say that the way in which you had been treated by your cousin appalled many if not all of us. But enough about her, how did you and James meet?

“We met when he pulled me into a moving train that was leaving the station for Cavendish Hall. He jumped on the train and gave me his hand,” Edythe recounted. “It was quite breathtaking.”

“Oh, dear.” Eleanor was quite taken aback. “Such daring.”

James continued, “I had been documenting the Cavendish family history. As a remote relative, I was interested in finding out if the ghostly hauntings were true or simply stories told to children to keep them away. When Edythe told me she heard the ghostly music in the ballroom, I knew we were close to finding out the truth.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened, her breath held. “And how did you do it, find the truth?”

“It was a combination of things, Lord Alistair needed to know the truth about his love. Isabell hadn’t abandoned him.” James took Edythe’s hand and stared at her. Eleanor didn’t miss the love between them.

“Edythe found the secret that lifted the curse.” James chuckled. “We started our quest when Edythe learned of a missing music box. Not too long after that, she heard ghostly music box playing in the empty ballroom. That was the first time Lord Alistair appeared.”

“We danced to the music. I thought it was a dream, but he left me a small gift, his handkerchief, so I couldn’t doubt our meeting. Ultimately, it was the music box that held the answer. But it took our declaration of love for Alistair and Isabell to reconcile,” James’s voice resolute. “It was All Saints’ Day Eve, at the witching hour. At the stroke of midnight, the ghosts of Alistair and Isabell reunited, and the curse was lifted. We married soon after.”

Eleanor sat back, a smile playing on her lips. “What a remarkable tale. And to think, it led to your happily ever after.”

Edythe squeezed James’ hand, their connection undeniable. “Indeed, it did.”

Tea continued, conversations flowing easily, but the legend of the Cavendish ghost lingered in the air, a reminder of the power of true love and the mysteries that bind the past to the present.

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you helped Lord Alistair,” she said, turning to Edythe. “And I’m thrilled that you found your James. Your story is a great adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “The two lessons I learned from your story are insightful ones. First, in life, one must take responsibility for one’s actions. Second, true love can endure time and distance.”

She hugged Elizabeth and James. “Please, you must visit me again.”

A Wraith at Midnight

When spooky manors and or ghostly specters call,
this stunning collection of haunted Historical Romance novellas
is sure to answer, leaving you breathless with ethereal, romantic tales…

Many of your favorite Historical Romance authors have come together for a collection of never-before published stories inspired by legendary hauntings and ghostly myths. A derelict old castle? A spectral lady wandering the forests? These tales will give you a chill, a thrill, and have you reading them over and over. From the moors of Devon to the ballrooms of Regency London, and far north into the Scottish Highlands, these stories will bring you wistful dreams of legendary and haunting romance. You’ve never before experience a collection like this by some of the very best authors in Historical Romance.

My Heart’s Song
by Ruth A. Casie

In the melody of a haunted past, romance unfolds, revealing a tale of love,
spirits, and a song that transcends time.

In 1850, tucked away in the heart of Northumberland, Edythe Cavendish’s life is upended by the inheritance of a manor shrouded in mystery and whispers of a bygone era. The sprawling estate, with its rolling hills and ancient woodlands, harbors secrets that echo through the manor’s corridors, watched over by the ghost of Lord Alistair, its last lord. His ghostly warnings speak of an enduring curse, a narrative of love forsaken and a legacy shrouded in darkness.

Lord James Ellington, heir to the Duke of Northumberland, shares Edythe’s passion for unraveling the past. Together, they discover a music box whose haunting melodies are intertwined with the manor’s troubled history, revealing their intertwined fates. Their journey through the archives uncovers letters and relics that draw them closer to the truth and to each other.

Yet, as the curse’s grip tightens, a near-fatal accident threatens their future, and a heated argument pushes them to the edge of despair. In their darkest hour, a hidden letter from the past holds the key to their salvation. Will Edith and James’s love prove strong enough to break the silence of centuries and herald a new beginning?

Buy Link: Amazon

Chapter One

September 12, 1850
East Coast Main Line

Miss Edythe Cavendish’s heart fluttered with a peculiar blend of trepidation and exhilaration as she boarded the train, her shoulder brushing against a gentleman’s arm in the chaos of the boarding crowd. She offered a quick, apologetic smile to the stranger whose startling summer blue eyes lingered in her mind as she settled into the velvet seat of the train compartment. A half-hour later, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the tracks echoed her own restless thoughts. Her hand instinctively reached for her reticule. She withdrew a crisp and formal letter from Mr. Hughes, the solicitor. She had read it and reread it at least one hundred times. The document informed her of an inheritance most unexpected—a manor house, no less.

The correspondence arrived three weeks ago at her cousin Prudence’s home, where she had lived for the last ten years since her parents’ passing. Mr. Hughes’s letter set off a flurry of activity. By the end of the week, preparations and farewells were set into motion. Yet, amidst the bustle, a shadow of Prudence’s discontent cloyed the air like a pall, along with vivid descriptions of a haunted decrepit house. It was clear, in the tightness of Prudence’s smiles and the sharpness of her gaze, that her cousin resented her good fortune, or was it her loss of control over the modest inheritance left to Edythe by her parents? To her relief, Mr. Hughes saw to that as well.

With her solicitor’s assurance, the house was not decrepit, and with his help, Edythe settled her affairs in London and made the necessary travel arrangements. Prudence, ever the matriarch, had deemed Edythe’s solitary journey inconceivable and insisted a seasoned chaperone was required for a young lady such as herself. As a result, Prudence condescended to go with Edythe; after all, who else would go with her? Edythe quickly reminded her while young ladies indeed needed a chaperone, spinsters, the word Prudence used to reference her, did not. So here she was, on her own, aboard the train to Sommer-by-the-Sea and Cavendish Hall.

As Edythe settled into the rhythmic sway of the train, she once again unfolded the letter from Mr. Hughes. The words “rightful and true heir to the Cavendish land and all its holdings” stood out, evidence of the solicitor’s thorough decade-long research and the unexpected turn her life was about to take.

“While the Cavendish legacy allows for female heirs, the lineage has been meticulously traced to ensure that only a direct descendant, who embodies the true spirit and virtues of the Cavendish name, can claim the estate. It appears, Miss Cavendish, that you are the first in a century to meet these stringent criteria. Furthermore,” the letter continued, “it is important for you to be aware that Cavendish Hall has been without a resident Cavendish for the past 100 years since the passing of Lord Alistair, the last recognized lord of the manor. The estate has been maintained through a trust established by your ancestors, ensuring its preservation until such time as a direct heir could be located and take rightful ownership.”

With the proof of her lineage secured within the crisp folds of the paper, Edythe felt the weight of her new responsibility — she was, indeed, the last of the Cavendish line, bound for a home she’d never known, a home waiting for her arrival.

She glanced at the empty paper cone beside her and sighed. The shrill cry of the steam whistle broke her reverie. The train slowed, and Edythe seized the opportunity to disembark briefly and get another helping of chestnuts at the provincial station. The platform bustled with life, the air filled with the scent of coal smoke and the cries of vendors hawking their wares. She exchanged a few coins for a paper cone of roasted chestnuts, the warmth a comfort against the autumn chill. As she ate her treat, she gazed out into the countryside, thoroughly enjoying the view.

As the whistle blew its warning, Edythe turned to see the train lurch forward without her.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the young man with the summer blue eyes she had brushed against in London striding toward her, concern etched on his brow. “Miss, your train!” he called out.

Panicked, her snack spilled out on the ground as she dashed toward the moving train, her boots pounding the wooden planks of the platform.

The young man leapt into action. He jumped onto the train and then extended his hand. “Quick. Grab my hand.”

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Meet Jude Knight on a virtual book launch tour

I’m doing a virtual book tour on Facebook in conjunction with the launch of Thrown to the Lyon and The Trials of Alaric.  I’ll bring excerpts, introductions to my characters, games, historical tidbits and more. Come and chat with me in the following places and times:

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Spotlight on Thrown to the Lyon

When Dorcas Anderson saves Mrs. Dove-Lyon from being crushed by a passing dray it sets up a chain a series of events she could not have imagined. The grateful lady insists on presenting to her rescuer a tinder box containing three tokens. Each can be exchanged for a favor from The Black Widow of Whitehall herself.

She needs the first sooner than she expected, when her dead husband’s twin, brother to a powerful duke, has her and her four-year-old son arrested for theft.

When Mrs. Dove-Lyon asks him to help rescue a wrongfully arrested widow, Ben, the Earl of Somerford, is glad to aid Mrs. Anderson, whom he knew and respected when he was with the army in the Peninsula.

Dorcas uses the second token to enlist Mrs. Dove-Lyon in catching Ben’s attention, little knowing that Ben is already wondering if Dorcas is just the wife he needs.

Ben is too slow to declare his interest. Dorcas’s brothers-in-law threaten, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon may have the answer: Another marriage, this time to a man powerful enough to stand against a possibly malevolent duke.

The plan is set. A game of cards will decide the groom. Can Dorcas use the third token to change the odds? Anything can happen when a lady is thrown to a Lyon.

https://www.amazon.com/Thrown-Lyon-Lyons-Connected-World-ebook/dp/B0DGMYS3W9/

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The lady with the wheelbarrow

My next newsletter subscriber story is in part inspired by a true story that I read many years ago. A man emigrated from England to New Zealand, and then sent for his wife and children to join him. However, when his wife arrived in Dunedin, New Zealand, her husband was not there to meet the ship.

The place he had settled was 120 or more miles away, through rough country trails, in Southland. Our intrepid wife was not defeated, however. She purchased a wheelbarrow, loaded her luggage and the younger children into it, and set off.

History records that she joined him on the farm he was carving out of the wilderness, went on to have more children, and lived to a ripe old age, matriarch of a clan of children, grandchildren and greatgrandchildren.

The enduring memory I have of her, though, is of the woman who did not allow a small matter of four (or was it five) children and 120 miles to stop her, but simply looked for a solution and put it into action. They were tough women, those pioneers.

Maggie’s wheelbarrow tells the story not of a pioneer but of another type of woman, equally tough–a soldier’s wife who followed the drum with her husband. When my Maggie arrives in Southhampton with two children and a long way to go, she buys a wheelbarrow. I hope my subscribers enjoy her story as much as I enjoyed the original.