This week, I’m focusing on villains. On the Teatime Tattler at the weekend, I’m doing a purpose-written duo of vignettes from the point-of-view of my Gingerbread Bride villain from the Bluestocking Belles’ box set, Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem. I’m also writing a cross-blog post with my Belle colleague Amy Rose Bennett (to be published later in the month) with the Gingerbread Bride villainess.
So I’m inviting you all to post an excerpt of around nine sentences showcasing your villain. Here’s Viscount Bosville, in an extract from Gingerbread Bride.
“Watch where you are going, Ma—Cousin Mary? Good God, it is. What are you doing in this godforsaken place?”
Lord Bosville. Of all the people Mary imagined meeting, he was the last she’d expect to find this far from London. “Cousin,” she replied, giving him a frosty nod. They had parted on unfriendly terms, after he had tried to kiss her and she had, as her father had taught her, punched him in a vulnerable part of his anatomy.
Bosville rearranged his face into a friendly smile that did not reach his eyes. “I do apologize for my language, Cousin Mary. I was startled. How nice to see you. Mother will be delighted to hear you are well. She has been so worried.”
What nonsense. Mary suppressed a snort. Worried to have lost Mary’s money, perhaps.
“If you will excuse me, Cousin, my maid and I are tired.”
But Viscount Bosville turned and accompanied them up the stairs, insisting he would see them safely to their rooms.
Thanks, Jude. Boy, what a slimeball! Bosville sounds like my kind of villain. Rotten and beyond redemption. And—just my opinion—what makes a villain a villain isn’t who he is. It’s what he does. And this guy clearly does a lot!
My excerpt is again from my work in progress “The Weeping Dragon”. The set-up: two medieval chicks are in love with the same knight. And one doesn’t play fair. Most of this passage is internal monologue and in italics in the manuscript. More than nine sentences, but most are very short. Who thinks in long sentences?
Joan dried her eyes and thought, But what shall I do about Dorrit? Poison her? Garrote her? Push her in the river and let her drown? Or find another dagger and cut her throat?
But wait. Who else has any reason to kill Dorrit? Nobody. No matter how careful I might be, I’d never get away with it.
Can I hire a cutthroat? Perhaps, if I knew any. But do I have enough to pay him? And to keep paying him? I’ve heard how such scoundrels work. He would make me pay for the rest of my life for his silence.
Can I accuse her of using witchcraft? Perhaps she did. That would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? Why else would William prefer Dorrit to me?
But accusing her of witchcraft is easy. Proving it would be difficult. Impossible, if she’s good enough at it.
Still, there must be another way. There must!
As always, feedback is welcome.
What a treacherous, self-focused, nasty piece of work she is! Nice work, Mary Anne.
Bosville features in Teatime Tattler, in a purpose-written short story set just before the beginning of Gingerbread Bride.
From ‘Tis Her Season in Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem:
Charlotte looked over her shoulder to make certain her aunt was outside earshot. “Hush, Jeremy Smithson. You will speak not a word of this, or I will put it out you are a card sharp.”
With a slippery smile, he asked her to dance, his voice a statement, not a question. Once settled into the minuet, he spoke into her ear each time the dance brought them close. “You will say not a word except how happy you are to see me in London.” He stepped away before she could respond.
“For if you do,” he continued, the next time he was close enough to whisper, “I will send a letter back to Evercreech this eve with news of your direction.” At her stifled response, he only smirked.
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There you are. 🙂
Yes! Thank you.
From Shipmate, due out Nov. 27.
“I hope, at least, you have agreed he will marry me,” she said in her most high-handed Charlotte voice, “not ruin me in pursuit of his own pleasures.”
The tic on Jasper’s cheek twitched and the throbbing vein in his forehead carried a familiar implication. “I will have none of your tempers. You’ll do whatever he asks of you, vows or no. It is no business of mine why he wants you, nor why he insists on gallivanting all over England with you in tow before you board his ship. Don’t know what he’s about. Plenty of dressmakers and hat shops in Bath.” Jasper continued with a wheezing chuckle, “Not that dressing you up will make you any easier to bed. Better to buy a burlap sack so he don’t have to look at you.”
(I guess I have gotten a bit villain-happy here… the others weren’t WIPs, I suppose… well… you know how I am… 😉
I want one from ‘Tis Her Season, too, Mari!
From Royal Regard:
Having been ushered into his study and made to wait two hours without refreshment, the obsequious woman rose from the Bergère chair upon his entry into the room, curtseying deeply. Taking a seat at the gilded Riesener desk, he ran his eyes up and down his visitor, but did not invite her to sit. Her cheap, grimy, green cotton dress had no place in this elegant room, nor did the smell of weeks travelling by public coach and steerage. The aroma nearly made his eyes water, but he would never rise to open another window. It would only serve to emphasize how few servants he could now afford.
The sound of the waves crashing against his Dover cliffs flowed in through the open casement, not quite obscuring his profound irritation.
“It has been more than thirty years. I had hoped never to see you again.”
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Welcoming!
Also from La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess:
Kali sat quietly before the battered desk, refusing to shiver in the wind blowing through cracks in the walls of the rundown wooden shack. No longer did she meet Mr. Hamish LaRue in his fine office at 17 Bonhill Street. Now, she was only invited to this rickety hovel near the docks, half-hidden between a public house and a livery, where he conducted business with anyone less important than he believed himself to be.
Before the first time summoned here, she had never minded the smell of whiskey and horses on a man, but now, the combination made her nauseous. When mingled with the cheap cologne LaRue wore to cover his pungent bodily aroma, it was all Kali could do not to add the smell of the bile in her throat to his shoes. She refused to shudder at the lecherous look he always wore in their meetings, refused to acknowledge the evidence of his constant arousal when she was near, nor the way he occasionally palmed his erection, as though to give himself relief he was barred from taking with her.
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From La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess:
A knock at her door made her shudder, but she stayed silent. Only one person would be disturbing her now, after the men had gone without winning a personal understanding, and he would enter whether or not she gave him leave. Initially, she had thought he hoped to catch her in dishabille, but he simply had no qualms about disturbing any of the performers. It was his theatre, he rationalized, his right to go anywhere he chose, and his obligation to make sure his underlings always knew it. That he might catch her half-clothed was an only an extra benefit.
Nigel Pate was nothing but smiles for the first few minutes of any conversation, as her dancing brought in more ticket sales and more renown than the Broomstraw had ever seen. Before her, no member of the nobility had ever attended. Now, ticket prices had risen so high they excluded every commoner in London.
The problem was, Nigel’s smiles were so greasy, they soon slid off his face.
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