The Golden Redepennings

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First kisses

Someone I know is publishing a collection of first kisses. I love the idea, so here are a few of mine!

Farewell to Kindness

the kiss 3“I think your brandy may be ready to drink.”

Anne started to lift it to her mouth.

“No. Wait,” Rede said. “Swirl, sniff, and then sip. Here, let me show you.” He leaned forward and cupped his hand around the glass over hers.

“Swirl.” He moved her hand gently in a small, tight circle.

“Sniff.” He held the glass several inches from her nose and again swirled it slightly, then shifted it closer.

“Now sip. Just a small amount, slowly. Let it slide over your tongue.”

The kissAnne followed his directions, not taking her eyes off Rede. This time, the brandy seemed a lot smoother. The flavour filled her mouth, the fiery liquid warmed her throat.

Rede had not removed his hands, and now he leaned forward still further, his eyes holding her motionless.

He came closer and closer, slowly. He would stop if she protested. She should protest. She would not.

The first brush of his lips on hers was brief, and light as a feather. He drew back enough to look into her eyes, then leaned in again. This time, his lips landed and stayed, moulding to the shape of her mouth. After a moment, he began to move, cruising along her upper lip with tiny pecks and then along the lower. He settled again, this time his mouth slightly open. Was that his tongue, sliding along her lips? How odd. How… pleasant.

She opened her own lips, and was rewarded with a hum of approval before he dipped his tongue into her mouth. Tentatively she touched his tongue with her own, which sent a tingle down through her breasts to her belly.

He hummed again, this time almost a moan.

So he liked that, did he? She began to copy, doing to him what he was doing to her. At some level, she was conscious that he had removed the brandy glass from her hands and set it to one side. With that out of the way, he came to his knees before her chair, and she found herself widening her legs so that he could press up against her.

She was aflame with sensation, barely aware of all the ways he was touching her; his hand on the curve of her waist, pulling her into his body; his lips, teeth and tongue teasing and tasting. His other hand had somehow found its way inside her robe, and was lightly stroking its way up her breast, ever closer and closer to the nipple, which had pebbled so hard it was almost painful.

Candle’s Christmas Chair

the kiss 2And then she pressed her sweet lips to his and he was lost. With a groan he enfolded her in his arms, slid his hands up behind her head, and deepened the kiss.

It could have been a minute; it could have been months. Time ceased to exist as he explored her mouth and she followed his lead. Her tentative movements, bold and shy at the same time, intoxicated him and he was conscious of nothing but the burning need to sink into her softness. Until a piece of gravel on the path turned as he shifted his knee, and dug into his skin.

He drew away from her with a groan.

Had he done that? Her lips were swollen and red, a sleeve was pulled down baring her shoulder, and one glorious breast was nearly tipped out of her dress. Another nudge, and he’d see…

He blinked, and shook the idea out of his head. “Min, my own dearest love.” He had to be calm. She looked as dazed as he felt. Probably more so, given her innocence. If his world was shaken, hers must be reeling.

“I would help you put yourself to rights, beloved. But I don’t dare touch you.”

She straightened her dress, repinned the lace cap she wore in her hair, rewrapped her shawl around her, all the while sneaking peeks at him and colouring each time their eyes met.

Before they left the succession house, he put a finger on her now clothed arm.

“Min, will you accept my apology, beloved? I meant no disrespect, I promise you. I should never have kissed you. I know how powerfully I react when we touch.”

To his surprise, she suddenly grinned. “Ah but Ran, you forget. I kissed you first.”

Encouraging Prudence (wip)

the kiss 4“Prue?” He lifted on hand to gently stroke the side of her face, his own eyes suddenly unguarded. She responded to the concern and, yes, the yearning, leaning towards him as he moved to meet her lips with her own.

She had come home. Except for that one night five months ago, Prue had been a stranger, an outsider, living hidden in the margins all her life, but here in David’s arms she was known; she belonged.

For a long moment, she let herself revel in the feeling, but she knew it wasn’t true. She had no home. She had to remember that if David knew all, he would reject her. But — as he shifted himself closer to her chair to deepen the kiss — at least she had been wrong about his indifference to her. This close to him, she couldn’t doubt that he wanted her physically.

He was the first to draw back.

“Prue.” Just her name, but with a wealth of longing in it.

Her defences down, she spoke what she thought, “Not just friends, David,” and was rewarded by the flare in his eyes.

“Friends… and lovers too?” His voice was tentative, as if he expected to be rebuffed.

She reached for him, answering his question with a kiss, stopping only when the turnkey knocked.

David crossed the room to the door before saying, “Enter!”

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The Gingerbread Bride

Here’s a sneak preview of my Christmas novella, to be published in a Bluestocking Belle box set. Usual disclaimers apply: I’m still writing the first draft, so later ideas might mean rewriting this bit, and it needs editing and proofreading. But I’m loving Mary, and Rick is another nice guy. I do enjoy writing nice guys.

renoirIt was Richard Redepenning. What on earth was he doing in a field in Surrey? It was as if her running away conjured him up! She almost smiled as she thought of the number of times he had appeared out of nowhere to rescue her when she was young, and then frowned when she remembered finding out that he had been in London for two months, and hadn’t called on her once.

Today, she was rescuing herself, thank you very much.

Good manners, however, prompted her to say, “I was sorry to hear about your wound. I trust you are recovering?”

He was dismounting, and she could see for herself that the wound had left him lame. His boot hit the ground and he lurched, catching his balance against the saddle. She almost dropped her bags and put out a hand to help him, but she could hear her father’s voice saying ‘let the man keep his pride, child’.

Instead, she put the bags down gently, and surreptitiously eased her shoulders. The bags had not felt nearly as heavy when she strode away from the others at the coach, after a short argument with the coachman about the merits of following the road versus trusting her navigation skills.

The coachman insisted that sticking to the road was a much better idea, since who knew what barriers might appear on the path she could see cutting down the hill. “I know what I’m doing, miss,” he insisted. If he thought that she was going to trust a coachman who had finally ditched them after multiple near misses, he was soon disabused of the notion.

As soon as she struck out on her own, she questioned whether it had been wise. Even the silly coachman would have been protection from the three men who had been leering at her for most of the afternoon. She was, of course, duly grateful to Lieutenant Redepenning for happening along before they caught up with her. But she had a pistol. She would have managed perfectly well had he not happened along.

“I have some rope here,” Lieutenant Redepenning was saying, as he looked through his saddle bags. “Ah. Here it is. Pass me the carpet bag, Miss Pritchard, and we’ll let the horse carry it the rest of the way to the village.”

She rather thought he needed the horse more than the carpet bag did. But arguing with Richard Redepenning had always been an exercise in futility. He was the only person she knew who could outstubborn her. Though that was at least in part because of the pointless tendre she had held for him since the first time he had rescued her.

She had argued with her nurse; the Spanish nurse, or maybe the French one. There had been three in quick succession the year she was nine. She didn’t even remember what the argument was about, but she did remember deciding there was no point in taking an appeal to Papa. Papa would not countenance insubordination within his family any more than within his crew.

Mary, convinced she was right, had taken it into her head to go looking for something. That’s right, apples. They’d fought about apples. She had passed an apple seller in the market earlier in the day, and had asked for an apple for tea. The nurse had told her the country grew no apples, so she had waited till the silly woman went to sleep, then crept out of her cabin and set off to find the market.

Which was not at all where she expected it to be. She soon became lost in a maze of little streets, and her red hair and fair skins attracted a forest of locals, looming over her and making incomprehensible sounds, while she stood at bay against a wall and prepared to fight for her life.

Then the crowd melted and Midshipman Redepenning was there, smiling at her and holding out a hand, while all the time talking to the village people in their own language. At 14, he had been a beautiful boy, tall and slender, with a crop of golden blond hair and intensely blue eyes.

He didn’t growl, or complain about nuisance girl children. He didn’t offer to suggest that her father beat her (not that Papa ever did). He escorted her home to the ship, and helped her sneak back into her cabin. He even took a detour through the market and bought her an apple.

Mary had fallen in love that day, and stayed in love as the boy grew to the handsomest, kindest man she knew. No other man had ever measured up. Not that Lieutenant Redepenning cared. As far as she could see, he still thought of her as the child he kept having to rescue.

“Miss Pritchard?” There was she lost in memories of some far off sunny shore, while Lieutenant Redepenning stood in front of her with his piece of rope at the ready.

“Thank you,” she said, and she hoisted the bag up and balanced it on the saddle while he tied it, with quick efficient sailors’ knots. The band box went up next, tied in front of the bag.

“If you would see to the gate, Miss Pritchard,” he suggested. “I can walk well enough, but I’m not as spry as usual.”

They slowly sauntered down the hill path, Mary holding the proffered arm but attempting to put no weight on it.

Mary’s anxiety made her cross. He really shouldn’t be walking. Idiot man. He should have stuck to riding, and the road. If he was sore tonight, it would be his own fault, not hers. She didn’t ask him to come after her.

They came to another gate, and on the other side a seat that looked over the village, now almost close enough to touch. They were level with the church roof and the top floor of the inn, and looking down on the cottages.

The last stretch of path, though short, was going to a problem. It was steep and narrow. How was Mary going to get the lieutenant down it without injury?

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Introducing The Teatime Tattler

Tittle-Tattle2The Bluestocking Belles have started a gossip rag. On The Teatime Tattler, we plan to have character sketches, interviews with characters, scenes with characters, and gossip about characters. What makes this different is that the entries won’t be excerpts. They’ll be original pieces, written especially for for The Teatime Tattler.

I put up the first article – a little scene set in Longford, where one of the local ladies is snooping to find out whether her competition for the fete pastry prize is instead competing on the preserves bench. She finds a tasty bit of gossip she doesn’t expect when the earl’s man knocks on the back door.

Click on the link above to read the sketch, and come back each Saturday and Wednesday to find out what the Belles and our guests have written for your delight.

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Release party for Farewell to Kindness

11075296_437105299772375_6593635496114302649_nThe people of Longford on Nidd wish to invite all gentry, the middle sort, yeomen, and working people of all levels of society to a day of fun and frivolity at the Longford Whitsunweek fete.

Rumour has it that the new Earl of Chirbury, the wild trapper earl himself, will be in attendance, along with his handsome cousin, Major Alex Redepenning. Major Redepenning is recovering from wounds at Longford Court, his boyhood home and now the seat of his cousin the Earl.

We thank the ladies of the Women’s Altar Society for their hard work in putting together the fete. There will be something for everyone. In particular, look out for the children’s competitions, organised by lovely widow Anne Forsythe. We understand the Earl has given some rather fine prizes. Do Mrs Forsythe’s current suitors need to be jealous?

And, of course, Mrs Forsythe will be competing in the archery competition, a proud Longford tradition. We expect her to be among the finalists.

Or, if you want it in 21st Century terms, please join me on Facebook for the launch of Farewell to Kindness.

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A Chat with Our Characters by Sherry Ewing and Jude Knight

PeterThis is Peter Pritchard of Regency Morning Gazette, and I am reporting today from the Crock and Bull Inn, a mysterious accommodation house that has appeared in a number of counties simultaneously, and that is currently providing lodging to a vast cast of characters written by the eight Bluestocking Belles and their guests.

Part 1 of my report will be on Sherry Ewing’s blog, and part 2 on Jude Knight’s.

I am with Amiria of clan MacLaren and wife to Lord Dristan, first Earl of Berwyck, and Anne, Countess of Chirbury, wife to Stephen Redepenning, eighth Earl of Chirbury. Lord Dristan is also known as the Devil’s Dragon, and Lord Chirbury as The Wild Trapper Earl.

The two noble ladies normally inhabit different fictional worlds and different eras. Lady Amiria is normally found in the twelfth century and between the pages of If My Heart Could See You by Sherry Ewing. Lady Anne is from the early nineteenth century, and Farewell to Kindness (to be published 1 April) by Jude Knight.

Thanks to a magical time-spanning ever-expanding coaching inn, and a shared adventure in the nearby woods, the two ladies have found much in common and have become friends.

See Bluestocking Belle Sherry Ewing’s blog for Part 1.

PART 2

medievalI understand that you, Lady Amiria, were able to assist Lady Anne during the unpleasant episode involving her sons.

Amiria: Indeed. When my new friend Anne’s twin sons were kidnapped, I could not stand idly by and do nothing when I could be of some use. ’Tis a good thing I brought my sword and crossbow so I could assist the dear lady. I am an excellent swordswoman.

Do all women of the twelfth century carry such weapons of war?

’Tis most unusual, but I have been practicing with my brother since I was but a child. My father indulged me, since I seemed to thrive in the lists. Then, Dristan himself presented me with this very sword as a wedding gift. He is quite sentimental in offering me presents that are more useful to my skills and talents. I am not one to sit in a solar with needle and thread, you see. (Amiria leans forward to whisper softly) But do not mention that I said such about my husband. He has a fierce reputation to uphold, after all.

And, Lady Anne, I am told that you did not sit idly by.

Anne: I am not the warrior that my new friend Amiria is. But when those at love are at risk I will not stay at home weeping and wringing my hands. Happily, I had my archery equipment with me, and was able to make a contribution to the task of bringing my little boys safely home.

This is not the first time you have drawn your bow in the cause of your family’s safety. The Battle of Abbey Farm? The incident with your guardian?

You have been talking to the servants, I see. I cannot discuss those past matters, Peter. Archery has been my hobby since I was a young girl. And, yes, I have had cause in the past to… defend those I love. And will do so again if their safety is threatened. Or, Peter, their reputations. Let us say no more of that.

Were the kidnappers apprehended?

Amiria (with a scowl): I do not have much patience with those who would steal children to retrieve a ransom from their parents. I, too, am a mother so I know how I would feel if someone dared such an offense with mine. Dristan would not be so lenient as to just let someone who took his children wallow in our dungeon. Nay…he would have their heads sitting on a pike outside our gates as a warning to any with such foolish thoughts.

Dristan and Riorden were not pleased that they were not allowed to kill off at least one or two of the villains who were involved with the escapade. Even a bit of torture to glean information would have made them happy, but times are apparently more civilized here than where we come from.

Anne: I was well satisfied to have my children back and the kidnappers imprisoned. I believe that even their leader, who was injured in the rescue, will live to go on trial. Indeed, (here Anne looks down at her hands and colours slightly) I discovered once again that the veneer of civilization is thinner than we care to think. I hardly like to think of what I said and did to get the information we needed to find the villains and my babies.
But make no mistake. I would do it again.

Were the kidnappers given a ransom?

regency ladyAmiria: Bah! Another annoyance for me. Anne’s husband handed over a fair amount of monies to Mrs Angel. I know she was more involved with the taking of those children than she let on.

Anne: My boys must have been fed, for they were in good spirits. Whatever her sins, she looked after them. And she returned them safe and sound. I am grateful that they were not at the apprehension of the villains, where they may have been hurt.

Amiria: Since Mrs. Angel had a daughter, Connie, I can only pray she will use some of the coinage in taking better care of the young girl and show her a better life. I may live my life in hose, boots, and tunic on most days, but I am still a lady and my mother’s daughter, and I am able to show a fair bit of compassion now and then.

Anne: Her Grace of Wellbridge invited mother and child to stay at the inn, and will undoubtedly help the woman to find respectable work, should she want to do so. My husband suspects that she is seeking work of a quite unrespectable kind, but we shall hope for the best.

At this point, a servant comes to tell the ladies that their husbands are waiting for them to join the wedding party, and they leave.

So this is Peter Pritchard, signing off from the Crock and Bull inn.

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Bedazzled Reading review of Farewell

farewell to kindness RGB2Bedazzled Reading is the next spot on the Enchanted Book Tours blog tour, and they’ve posted my very first public review:

Rede and Anne are two very different people but somehow they do match well together. Rede is on the hunt for the people who killed his family. Anne had to change her identity, and must stop Rede from finding out who she is. The historical setting works well. I liked Anne. She’s an interesting and engaging character. Rede was a little more difficult to connect to.

The book is quite long, a little less than 400 pages. It didn’t drag though, instead it moved along nicely. Historical romance fans will love it.

I’m delighted that they liked Anne, and pleased with the reaction to Rede. He was so focused on his own purpose that he couldn’t see what was under his nose. I liked him, because I knew what he would become; but I got quite cross with him, even so.