Ten years ago, my first historical romance novel was published. Ten years! It hardly seems like any time at all, and yet I feel as if I have been writing and publishing forever.
As the first is series, Farewell to Kindness is permanently 99c in US dollars. If you haven’t read it, buy it today. I hope you’ll be glad that you did.
As a governess, Ruth Henwood has always put her pupils first, sometimes sacrificing her own interest. The choice facing her now could become the highest sacrifice of them all.
Two men want her as their mistress. The Spanish war hero, the Duque de la Sombras, plans to wed the Princesa Isabella, Ruth’s fourteen-year-old pupil, but promises not consummate the marriage if Ruth will come willingly to his bed. The English rake, the Duke of Richport promises help her and Bella to escape Isabella’s tiny Pyrenean kingdom, but his price is the same.
Ruth’s decision must be guided by what is best for Bella. No matter that one man repels her, and one man is a risk to her heart.
Richport lost his heart to his wife when he was seventeen, and had it broken and trampled on. He has managed very well without a heart in the twenty-six years since, gaining the nickname Duke of Depravity. His offer to Ruth is a heartless joke—he always intended to help her and her charge. But if she takes him up on the offer, he will be happy to school the governess in the ways of the flesh.
Little does Richport realise that his heart is back on the line once more.
But love is not their worst risk. The duque is in hot pursuit, and is determined to take back what he believes to be his own.
Published on 1st April. https://books2read.com/u/4A0gGK
This is the last work-in-progress excerpt from The Duke’s Price. By next Wednesday, it will be a published book!
Ruth was responding to him. She might not realise it, but Perry did. Physically, the signs were obvious, but emotionally, too, she had softened towards him as he told his stories, ably supported by Walter, who had been with him through it all.
He had not intended to mention Lockswell or the young man’s mother. He never spoke of them, but Bella’s faintly hostile attitude, at first amusing, had begun to grate. Clearly, Ruth had told her pupil what the price was for his assistance, and she was indignant on her mentor’s behalf. Polite, but ever so slightly scornful. When she mocked his age, he had responded without thinking.
If he was not mistaken, the fact he’d been a widower for more than half his lifetime had softened the girl’s attitude, though he had not been seeking her pity. No doubt she’d invented a whole romantic story about the poor duke grieving for the love of his youth.
What would she think if she knew the truth? What would Ruth think? She would probably pity him more than ever—yes, and despise him too, the weak innocent ignorant creature he had been, a dupe of his uncle and his faithless wife.
There was a reason Perry never spoke of the youth he had been and the mistakes he had made.
Ruth, he was pleased to note, did not take it on faith that he was a pitiable widower, pining for his long-dead wife. She was warier than ever. Whatever she thought of his personal revelations, she was not allowing it to overwhelm her good sense.
It was already too late for her, did she but know it. He had her hooked, senses and emotions. Only by the most careless of mishandling would he lose her now. And Perry was far too experienced to mishandle a seduction.
He had already planned the next step, and when they arrived in Toulouse, he set about putting it into action. Once again, they walked to another inn after leaving the hired carriage and team. Perry ordered a suite of their best rooms, and it was perfect—three bedchambers, a single dressing room, and a shared sitting room, which included among its furnishings a dining table. The bill had used up almost the last of his gold, but tomorrow he would sell a couple of jewels and they would be in funds again.
Since Bella clearly knew that Ruth had agreed to be his lover, he did not have to disguise the sleeping arrangements, so he assigned Bella to the middle-sized room, Walter to the smallest room, and him and Ruth to the largest. Bella opened her mouth on what was, by her expression, going to be a complaint. Ruth waved her to silence.
“I have ordered a bath for you ladies to be brought to Bella’s room,” Perry said, “and one for me and Walter in the dressing room. Once we have bathed, our dinner will be served in the sitting room.”
Ruth looked relieved, which was ever so slightly insulting. Did she think Perry was so inept that he’d insist on bathing with her when they had never done more than kiss? Nor would he do more than kiss tonight, even though his inflaming touches had left him as aroused as they had her. Perhaps more aroused, for he knew where the amorous journey led.
Coming Autumn 2025
Travellers, a house party, smugglers, spies–and a mysterious highwayman. Who is the infamous Captain Moonlight? And how many lives will he change–for good or for ill?
Preorder now: https://books2read.com/u/mqx0W6
Another excerpt from The Duke’s Price
Ruth was responding to him. She might not realise it, but Perry did. Physically, the signs were obvious, but emotionally, too, she had softened towards him as he told his stories, ably supported by Walter, who had been with him through it all.
He had not intended to mention Lockswell or the young man’s mother. He never spoke of them, but Bella’s faintly hostile attitude, at first amusing, had begun to grate. Clearly, Ruth had told her pupil what the price was for his assistance, and she was indignant on her mentor’s behalf. Polite, but ever so slightly scornful. When she mocked his age, he had responded without thinking.
If he was not mistaken, the fact he’d been a widower for more than half his lifetime had softened the girl’s attitude, though he had not been seeking her pity. No doubt she’d invented a whole romantic story about the poor duke grieving for the love of his youth.
What would she think if she knew the truth? What would Ruth think? She would probably pity him more than ever—yes, and despise him too, the weak innocent ignorant creature he had been, a dupe of his uncle and his faithless wife.
There was a reason Perry never spoke of the youth he had been and the mistakes he had made.
Ruth, he was pleased to note, didn’t take it on faith that he was a pitiable widower, pining for his long-dead wife. She was warier than ever. Whatever she thought of his personal revelations, she was not allowing it to overwhelm her good sense.
It was already too late for her, did she but know it. He had her hooked, senses and emotions. Only by the most careless of mishandling would he lose her now. And Perry was far too experienced to mishandle a seduction.
Another passage from The Duke’s Price, now on preorder.
“We did not have much packing to do,” Bella told DeAth, when they were settled in a comfortable carriage and on their way to the next town. “Ruth and I shall need to go shopping, DeAth. Or should I call you ‘Papá’?”
Ruth found herself sharing an amused smile with the unaccountable man.
“DeAth will do,” he said. “I hope to reach Toulouse tonight. I am certain that city will have shops to supply suitable clothing and other items for a wealthy merchant’s ladies.” He turned questioning eyes to Ruth. “If we are delayed on the road, will you be able to manage for one more night?”
“We will,” Ruth assured him.
“Why not ‘Papá’?” Bella enquired. “Do you feel too young to have a daughter of nearly fifteen, DeAth?”
He didn’t allow Bella’s impertinence to ruffle his equanimity. “I know I am old enough to have a daughter of your age. I do not, as it happens.” He grinned. “At least, as far as I know. But I do have a son, Bella. My heir, the Marquess of Lockswell.
“He will be twenty-five this year.”
“Goodness!” Bella said what Ruth was thinking. “You cannot have been more than a boy!”
DeAth laughed outright at that. “Are you asking my age, young lady? I am three and forty, and yes, that means I was married at the age of seventeen.”
“You are a widower, then, excellensia? DeAth, I mean?” Bella asked.
Ruth should really remind her that such personal questions were impolite, but Ruth also wanted to know.
“These twenty-three years. And that is enough, senorita. No more questions.”
He started telling them a story about his last trip through France, making an amusing tale of being chased out of town by burghers who had been treating him as one of their own until a Frenchman he’d met in London recognised him as the Duke of Richport.
When that episode had reached its end, with a lucky escape thanks to a sympathetic barmaid, Walter mentioned another escape, this time in Greece, and that led to a further tale and then another, so that Ruth was surprised when they rolled into a village and stopped at an inn for the first change of horses.
“It is very hard, Ruth,” said Bella when they had a private moment while the men were busy. “To lose his wife when he was not yet twenty. I wonder that he has not married again. Perhaps he loved her very much, and cannot bear to see another in her place. Perhaps that is why he is a rake. Do you not think that is possible, Ruth?”
Ruth thought it was more likely he had been a wicked youth, and that his wife had died of a broken heart. Ruth was going to take it as a warning. Don’t let his charm, his storytelling and his kindness fool you into thinking he is a good person. He reinforced the lesson repeatedly over the course of the day, letting his hand linger as he helped her in and out of the carriage, or ushered her through a doorway at one of the inns they visited on the day.
Next Saturday, March 15, 2025, The Bluestocking Belles will hold their 10th Anniversary party. The party takes place in the Brigade FB group (link at the bottom). We have Twelve hours of guests, fun, prizes and conversation about books. I’ve included the list of guests in the photo above.
NOTE: Daylight Savings time happens in the US on March 9th. The time is 10AM EDT. It is easiest to remember the party is at the same time as in New York (NYT). So, 10AM in New York is when the party starts.
Come! Stay or pop in and out. Come the next day; the posts will be there. Invite your friends.
Here’s the Brigade: https://www.facebook.com/groups/BellesBrigade
In the first draft of The Secret Word, I used the term “top hat”. Then I looked it up and found I was too early for the name. Though the first top hat was made in the 1790s and they quickly became popular, they were not called top hats until Victorian times. In 1810, they went by several names, depending on the variety. Isn’t research fun.
Another excerpt from The Secret Word.
***
“Yer young fella’s gaffer came by to threaten me today. Me! At my work! Happen I’ll lurn him that Bertram Wright ain’t to be pushed round by a useless blot of an upper crust snot rag. Says that scoundrel of a grandson is already betrothed!” Father was furious. His careful speech, much like that of the class he aspired for his grandson to join, had been slowly and thoroughly learned. It was very seldom that he slipped back into the words and accent of his youth.
Another sign of his anger was the way he was pacing, to and fro across the parlor rug.
Fortunately, Clemmie had already heard from Chris the probable topic that had so upset her father. “Our Mr. Satterthwaite was angry with his grandfather when we met this afternoon, Father. Apparently, the man turned up in Chr— Mr. Satterthwaite’s office this morning, demanding that Mr. Satterthwaite stop courting me as the older Mr. Satterthwaite had already signed a marriage agreement for Chris. Of course, Mr. Satterthwaite told him where he could put his plans.”
That stopped Father’s furious pacing. “He did? Yes, I suppose he did. Though the man is his grandfather.”
“The man abandoned our Mr. Satterthwaite sixteen years ago, when he was a child. To turn up now and dare suggest Chris owes him anything? Chris told him in no uncertain terms that whom he marries or does not marry is not the business of Mr. Satterthwaite senior, and he wants nothing to do with the man.”
“Is that right?” Father had taken up station in front of the fireplace, rocking back and forth, his hands in his pockets, and a smile on his face. His temper was gone as if it had never been.
“When are you seeing ‘Chris’. Tonight, is it?”
Father had not missed her slip of the tongue, then. It was too late to unsay it. She could do nothing more than hope he wouldn’t find a way to turn it to her disadvantage. Hers and Chris’s.
Honestly, why did the pair of them have to be cursed with such conniving selfish vicious old men?
“Yes, Father. He is escorting me to the Sutton ball.”
“Sutton as in the Earl of Sutton? That’s the Duke of Winshire’s heir.”
At her nod, he whistled. “Sutton, eh? You are flying high, Clementine, my girl. When Satterthwaite arrives, tell him I want to talk to you both before you go out.”
Clemmie could do nothing but agree, and wait with as much patience as she could muster for Chris to arrive.
Hours later—it seemed much longer—evening rolled around and with it came Chris, looking incredibly desirable in his black evening coat and silver-grey breeches and stockings, this time teamed with another waistcoat—this one in a dark blue silk brocade.
He must have chosen it to co-ordinate with her gown, which he had asked about during their afternoon drive. It was silver grey embroidered in dark blue, and was one of two new gowns she had had made. Father had reluctantly agreed to pay for a single new ball gown, but Clemmie had taken a leaf from Chris’s book and gone off Bond Street. The modiste was so reasonably priced compared to the Bond Street shop that Clemmie was able to purchase two.
“Father had a visit from your grandfather,” Clemmie told Chris.
“The vile old villain,” said Chris. “I should have expected it. What did he want?”
“Do you know? Father never said. I just assumed it was that you couldn’t marry me. I told him about Mr. Satterthwaite’s visit to you, and how you dealt with it. He cheered up, then. He wants to talk to us before he goes out, Chris, but he didn’t say what about.”
“We are about to find out, then,” Chris said, “for here he comes.”
The Duchess entered her parlor, and stood in the entrance. “My word. Who pray tell, are you?”
Bronwyn fidgeted. She knew not where she was exactly, only that one moment she was working in the castle kitchens at Lincoln Castle, and the next moment, she was here.
She gazed about the room. Strange furnishings, yet of brightly coloured materials, silks and such rich fabrics, she’d never seen the like of before. But the grand woman who stood in the entrance had spoken, and she hadn’t understood a word the woman had said.
The duchess repeated her question.
Bronwyn gave a hasty curtsey, poorly done, and bowed her head meekly. “Forgive me, mistress, but I know not where I am. Where are we?”
The duchess cocked her head a moment. “My dear girl…” She clapped her hands and began to speak in a different tongue. “If I am not mistaken, you are speaking an old tongue, what we today would call ‘MIddle English’, I believe.”
Bronwyn’s eyes lit up. “Yes, mistress. You’re right. But where I am?”
“You’re in my parlor. How did you get here? Did the servants let you in?”
Bronwyn dropped her gaze. “I am a servant, mistress. I’m sorry, I don’t know. I was in the castle kitchen before, and then suddenly I was here. I know not how, or why.”
“Well you look famished, and I am parched. Sit, and we’ll have a spot of tea.”
Bronwyn swallowed. Sit, with a lady? “Mistress, you are most kind, but—”
“But nothing. Sit down and join me. I insist. I long for diverting conversation and you look as if you have a story to tell. Please.” The duchess gave her a pointed look.
Bronwyn sat but instantly jumped up again.
“What is wrong?” the duchess asked.
“Nothing. It’s just… The cushion. It’s so… soft.”
The duchess laughed and pulled the bell for a servant. When one entered a moment later, she said, “We’ll have tea. And whatever scones or biscuits the cook has ready, please.”
Once they were alone, Bronwyn sat, very carefully perched at the edge of the extremely comfortable sofa cushion, and faced her new acquaintance.
“I am the Duchess of Haverford. And you are?”
“Bronwyn Blakenhale, of Lincoln, mistress.”
“And what year is it, pray tell?” the duchess asked.
Bronwyn cocked her head. “Why, it’s the year eleven hundred and forty-one of course.”
“Indeed. Well. Whilst we wait for tea, do tell me your story.”
A moment later, tea arrived, and Bronwyn needed no further urging.
“My Papa and I were in the market when a man came, a nobleman, and he placed an order for bread rolls.”
“Bread?”
“We are bakers, mistress. He wanted an expensive order. Pandemain, nice bread rolls for dinner at the castle.”
“Pandemain?”
“Made from a white flour, we sift the flour two to three times and use more expensive flour than the cheap brown. The nobles like it,” Bronwyn said.
“My word. You do not shy away from giving your opinion, do you?”
Bronwyn took that moment to sip her tea, watching her hostess closely. She said, “But… after that, trouble happened.”
The duchess paused, her cup halfway to her lips. “Oh? What? You burnt the bread?” she teased.
Bronwyn shook her head. “No, mistress. Worse. When we brought them to the castle, I spied a man messing with them, and I raised a fuss but no one believed me. Then a cook got sick, the nobleman who ordered the rolls died, and—”
“Oh my word.” The duchess set down her tea. “Do you mean to say your bread rolls killed someone?”
“Yes.” Bronwyn met the duchess’s eyes. “Poison. But it was not our fault. We weren’t trying to kill anyone.”
“So what happened?”
“The king and queen demanded to see us. They imprisoned my Papa and sent me to work in the kitchens. Now I have to solve this and find out who it was who really poisoned our rolls.”
“Surely someone else can do that. What can you possibly do?”
“I can cook, and look around, and talk to people. And bring my Papa food in prison. I have to find out who is behind this. If I don’t, they’ll hang him.”
“Oh my dear girl.” She rose. “I can feel our time together grows short. Do visit me again for tea, sometime. And best of luck.”
“Thank you, Mistress.” Bronwyn rose and tried to curtsey, but was awkward, all limbs and unfamiliar footing. Her face turned pink.
“And do practice that. It may help if you work with more aristocrats.” The duchess said.
“Yes, Mistress. Farewell.” Bronwyn stepped into the shadows.
As the duchess opened the curtains of her parlor more to let the light in, Bronwyn was gone.
Read more about the murder mystery in Winter’s Poison!
Bronwyn Blakenhale’s world is about to turn upside down. A young baker who wants a bit of independence from her simple life in twelfth-century Lincoln, she gets involved in courtly politics when an expensive order for bread rolls leaves one man dead at the king’s table, and all fingers point at her and her father.
With her father imprisoned for a crime he did not commit, Bronwyn is tasked by the queen to find out who poisoned the rolls and likely meant to kill the royal family. But with her father surrounded by men loyal to the opposing empress, spies afoot in the castle, and a poisoner on the loose, Bronwyn’s time is short. Now, if only she didn’t have young men like the squire Rupert to distract her.
Rupert Bothwell, the squire of a knight, has a friendly smile for everyone, including a beautiful lady at court who admires him, but he insists on walking Bronwyn home at night. Is he just being chivalrous or is there something more? But Bronwyn has more to deal with, as a childhood friend steps in to help her family’s bakery and makes it clear he doesn’t want her friendship, but her heart.
From feuding factions and turncoat knights at court to castle prisons and an invading army on the horizon, Bronwyn must find the killer and prove her father’s innocence—or lose all that she holds dear. In a world dominated by intrigue and murder, Bronwyn might just surprise everyone and prove that she is no ordinary baker.
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