Book series

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Meeting the neighbours – a Farewell to Kindness excerpt

Miss Pinkertons AcademyAnother Farewell to Kindness excerpt. Rede sees Anne for the first time:

The service wound to its final blessing, and the congregation followed the Rector from the church as the bells pealed.

He moved towards the door, through a rippling sea of bows, curtseys, touched foreheads, murmured ‘My Lord’s’. Out in the churchyard, the villagers and gentry stood in groups, exchanging greetings and enjoying the warm spring sunshine. Children ran in and out of the shrubbery in the adjacent Rectory garden, in a game of chase. Some had the look of the Rector, who introduced Rede to his wife. Mrs Ashbrook had a no-nonsense manner, direct light-blue eyes, and the well-padded shape of a matron with a growing family and a healthy appetite.

A trio of prettily dressed young ladies—the dark-haired girl from the Ashbrook pew, the Saxon-blonde Redwood and a remarkably attractive girl whose face was framed in brown curls—strolled arm and arm up and down the path to the church gate, as bright as butterflies in their light dresses and their charming bonnets, chattering away like starlings.

Rede stayed for a while, shaking hands with those who came for an introduction, catching up with those he’d met during the week, and generally making himself pleasant.

Several times, he met eyes as blue as his own, fringed like his with dark lashes. His predecessors had certainly left a mark on the population. Many of the poorer members of the community bore the certain sign that a female ancestor had caught a Redepenning’s fickle attention.

Mrs Forsythe, the tenant who lived unaccountably rent free, wasn’t introduced. He had been hearing her name all week. His tenants spoke of her warmly, and with respect, listing her good deeds, and praising her kindness. From what they said, she was a lynch pin of village life. Listening to their stories, he’d formed a picture of a mature widow; a gentlewoman of private—if straightened—means; a bustling matron with a finger in all the charitable activity of the parish.

The trio of young ladies on the path broke up, two coming over to be introduced as the daughters of the Rector and the Squire. The third young lady collected a child and another young woman from the Rectory garden.

The child was a little older than his Rita would have been; perhaps the age Joseph would have been, had he lived. She studied him curiously as she passed; meeting his blue gaze with her own. Indeed, he could have been looking at one of his own childhood portraits, cast in a more feminine mould.

She didn’t take her colouring from the two young ladies with her. And a quick glance after her showed that bonnets masked the faces of the two ladies they joined.

“Once my cousins arrive, we’ll invite the local gentry to dinner,” he told Mrs Ashbrook. “I’ve met some of them. Could you perhaps introduce me to others?”

As he’d hoped, she launched into a list of all the gentlemen and ladies in the neighbourhood, starting with those present. He listened impatiently as the objects of his interest moved further and further towards the gate.

At last, just as they passed under the arch, Mrs Ashbrook said, “and Mrs Forsythe and her sisters, the Miss Haverstocks. They were standing right there by the church… oh dear, you’ve missed them. They’ve just left.”

The slender figure hurrying away down the road with her sisters and daughter did not fit the picture he’d formed of the busy Mrs Forsythe. Not at all.

He continued listening to Mrs Ashbrook, commenting when appropriate, murmuring pleasantries to the people she took him to around the churchyard. And with another part of his mind he planned a change in the order of his tenant visits.

Meeting Mrs Forsythe, owner of the trimmest pair of ankles he had ever noticed and mother of a Redepenning by-blow, was suddenly a priority.

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My hero disports himself in a brothel

house of sinTime for another excerpt? Here’s the hero of my current work in progress, Encouraging Prudence. David is visiting a brothel in the course of his investigation.

He arrived at the Admiralty steps just as Captain Talbot passed the guard on the front door.

“Sir,” he said, putting on his persona of eager disciple, “I cannot thank you enough.”

Talbot smiled, expansively. “Ready for a night on the town, young Walker, eh?”

Their first stop was, predictably, a brothel – an expensive brothel, by the youth of the workers and the quality of the fittings, but with the same sickening smells of cheap perfume, sex, sweat, and despair as the others his work had taken him into. He allowed himself to be introduced to Fanny, a statuesque redhead who was considerably older than she was made up to appear, and followed her to one of the rooms.

He looked longingly at the bed. He was beginning to feel the loss of a night’s sleep.

“Don’t bother,” he told the prostitute, as she began to unbutton her blouse. “When were the sheets last changed?”

“Maybe three days.” She looked uncertainly at the bed and back at him. “How do you want me then?”

David explained. “What I’d like you to do is sit in the chair over there, and wake me in half an hour. Before we leave this room, I’ll give you double what I gave your mistress. And when we get back out there, you’ll pretend to everyone, especially my friend, that we’ve coupled.”

The prostitute frowned. “You’ll pay me. Just to sleep in the bed.”

“On the bed, but yes. Miss Fanny… or is it Miss Frances… you’re very desirable, but I’m very, very tired, and I’d rather nobody knew…”

She nodded. “It’s Dorothea, really. But Old Hatchet-Face, her as owns the place, she said that weren’t a good name for a whore.”

“Do you have a way to tell the hour, Miss Dorothea?” He’d removed his coat, but he laid it on the bed and stretched out beside it. No point in putting temptation in the woman’s way. He’d wake in an instant if she approached the bed to check his pockets.

She nodded. “I can hear the clock tower down the street. Chimes the quarters, it does. It’ll be just on the half I wake you.”

“Good. Thank you.” His nose wrinkled, but he’d slept in places more rank. Willing his body to relax, he closed his eyes, and Mist was suddenly there stretched out beside him. No. He was here to sleep, not to fantasise about the only woman he desired.

“Mister? Mister Walker?” He woke to the woman’s whisper. “It’s been half an hour.”

Yes. He could hear the half still chiming. Half an hour was not enough, but it took the edge off his weariness. He’d cope.

In the main sitting area, Dorothea poured him a glass of wine, and perched on the arm of his chair, leaning against him while he waited for Talbot. Her silence money safely in the pocket she had tied to her waist under her skirt, she had obviously decided to throw herself fully into her part.

Talbot arrived some minutes later, buttoning his pants. His companion was smiling admiringly up at him, but David caught the contemptuous grimace she passed to her companions behind Talbot’s back.

“That’s the ticket,” Talbot said to David, grinning at the way Dorothea was draped over him. “Can’t get enough of you here, can they? They should pay us for servicing them, eh? Hah! That’s a good one. They should pay us, eh?” And he slapped the bottom of his companion with expansive glee.

“You want another round, Walker? Or what about an exotic dance, eh? I know a place where the girls…” he gestured expansively, shaping improbable globes in the air.

“That sounds very exciting, Sir,” David said, back to being suitably grateful. “Is it a place we could get something to eat, Sir? All that exercise…”

“Good lad. Worked up an appetite, eh? Oh, to be young again. Come on, then, lad. The night is young, eh? We’ll stop at a coffee house and then go on to Sultan’s Palace.”

David saluted Dorothea with a kiss on the cheek and received a warm smile in return. “Best half hour I ever spent in this place,” she told him loudly, “and that’s the truth.”

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Farewell to Kindness releases in 78 days

fredericksoulacroix_the_tea_party_thumbI’ve promised to send Farewell to Kindness to the proofreader by the end of next weekend. Still lots to do. Pressure. Pressure. Here’s another snippet to be going on with. My heroine has just talked my hero into donating prizes for the children’s races at the village fête.

He would have liked to continue their private conversation a while longer, a realisation that startled him. What was it about this woman that made him want to spend time with her? She was, of course, delectable. But many women had faces and forms as lovely.

Since Marie-Josèphe died, he’d felt the stirrings of lust from time to time—and more than stirrings. Acting on those stirrings always felt like too much trouble, though.

In his private desires, as in all the rest of his life, he saw the world as if through a thick blanket that numbed feeling. He went through the motions of looking after his business interests and the Earldom, of acting appropriately in social occasions, of charming his tenants and his neighbours—but all the time, he was acting a part, as if he had been buried with his wife and children, and was reaching from the grave to operate his own body like a puppet.

Except when he woke each morning with his grief still raw. Except when he was planning how to make his enemies pay. Except when he read the reports David sent him every week.

And now, something beyond his vengeance was reaching through the blanket of unfeeling and bringing him back to life. Or, rather, someone.

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Adventures in self-publishing, episode 2

over-the-moonI wrote Candle’s Christmas Chair for several reasons, not least of which was that I wanted to trial the self-publishing tools on a novella before I tried them on the novel, which is more than five times as long.

I also had two other reasons. I wanted to give readers a free chance to find out whether they liked my writing style, in the hopes that will encourage more of them to buy Farewell to Kindness. And I had Candle and Min telling their story inside my head, and writing it down was a way of moving on. Except that telling their story has started me thinking about two more. So much for reason number three.

Many people have Candle (and some have even read it)

Reason number two is working out well. Candle has now been published for three and a half weeks, and I’ve been stunned by how many have been distributed, and by the nice reviews I’ve had. At the time of writing, it’s ranked at number 269 in the Kindle Store for all free books, number 2 for Holiday ebooks, number 4 for Kindle Short Reads 65 to 100 pages, and number 7 for Regency historical romance. Wow! Unbelievable!

I’ve had 20 reviews on Amazon, with a 4.3 star average rating, and 28 ratings on Goodreads with an average of 4.18. And three Goodreads members have added Farewell to their to-read lists.

Many of the distributors don’t report numbers of free books downloaded, but the four that do report a collective total of more than 15,000 downloads. And I’ve invited people to share it. And it has been loaded onto at least three pirate sites that I know of.

Will this reception translate into readers for Rede and Anne’s story when I publish it in April? It remains to be seen, but meanwhile, I’m one very happy novice novelist.

The ebook tools were easy to use, and I’m now trying CreateSpace to produce a print book

So back to reason one.

I found the Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing tool easy to use, and I was happy with the results. Smashwords needed a completely different file setup, but that was fine, too. Their infamous Meat Grinder compilation tool turned my first paragraphs with no indent into unindented paragraphs one point size larger than the rest of the text, but I can live with indented first paragraphs.

I’ve been working on the other possibility today. I’m using CreateSpace to provide a print version of Candle’s Christmas Chair, which I’ll be able to sell at somewhere about US$4.00 (to cover the print costs).

I’ve created an account, laid up and tested the inside, and made a cover. I should be able to publish in the next day or two. Again, it has been relatively easy. This time, I’ll have to wait on international postage to see the results, but I’ll let you know how it turns out.

If all goes well, I’ll be able to offer Farewell to Kindness in print. While I don’t expect to make many print sales and (to keep the price realistic) I’ll need to shave the royalties to the bone, it’s another service to readers.

Now on with the hunt for reviews

I’m very grateful for the reviews and ratings I’ve had. You guys rock. But in the spirit of using Candle as a Kindergarten for Farewell and its successors, I need to get cracking on seeking some feedback from the blog and online magazine reviewers. I have a little list. I need to stop resting on my laurels (and chatting with people on Facebook), and start working my way down it.

Expect me to get very excited it if it works out!

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Embracing the darkness

Regency hussarI do enjoy writing villains. I got a fan email yesterday. (Yes; I know. So exciting.) The writer said: “I loved everything except the super vile Lady Norton!!!!… I loved hating her and her brother!” I loved writing her. And I loved creating the villains in Farewell to Kindness, especially the super creepy Baron Carrington, who — as one beta reader said — was so bad that she felt sorry for his nasty, horrible wife.

Now I’m into the second novel, and the villains are just crawling out of my keyboard. What does this say about me? I’m consoling myself with the thought that the darkness is better out than in!

Here’s the scene I wrote on the train this morning, where my heroine has a close encounter of the nasty kind with one of a gang of five so-called gentleman. (Prue is working undercover as housekeeper in the house of a courtesan. Her assailant is a hussar.)

Prue, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, retreated up the stairs. As she passed the first floor and continued upwards, she heard someone bounding up behind her, and on the next landing, the soldier grabbed her by the waist, spun her around, and shoved her firmly against the wall, trapping her with his body.

Before she could react, he had ripped at her neckline, popping buttons and exposing her corset and the curve of her breasts.

“Well, well,” he said. “You are a delicious little thing, aren’t you?”

Prue managed to keep her voice calm and level. “If you’ll wait downstairs with your friends, Sir, I will let Lord Jonathan know you are here.”

“Oh, let the others wait. I’ve an appetite, and you’ll do to satisfy it.” He was pulling her skirts up as he spoke, and the hard shape pressing into her belly left no doubt about his intentions. “You’ll do very nicely.”

“No, thank you, Sir,” Prue said. “That is not part of my duties.”

“Don’t think about it as duty, little darling. Think about it as pleasure,” then, as she tried to twist sideways to escape him, “No, no, no. Naughty. Keep still or I’ll have to hurt you.”

“Let me go, Sir, or I’ll scream.”

“You think the whore will care? I’ve had her maids before. She growls a bit, but what’s she going to do? Serves her right for teasing us all and only diddling Selby. And that bumptious squirt Gren. She brings it on herself. Now keep still.”

Prue had been keeping her hands flat against the wall, not wanting him to immobilise them. Now she stilled her body as commanded, but let one hand creep carefully towards the cap that covered her hair.

She would need to be quick. He had her skirts bunched almost to the top of her thigh and was fumbling at his pants buttons with his other hand. If he noticed what she was doing… no, he was looking down, focused on the mounds he had exposed..

There. She found the long hat pin, a sharp pointed skewer made to her own specifications for occasions such as this. In one movement, she swept it out of her hair and in an arc, flipping it in her hand on the way, jabbed it point first into his buttocks.

With an eldritch shriek, he let go of her, and she twisted under his arms and retreated up the next flight of stairs, facing him from that vantage point, her weapon at the ready.

“You bitch! You stabbed me!” he shouted.

The weapon he had intended to use on her, disclosed by the unbuttoned flap of his pants, had not yet been discouraged by the sudden attack. She gestured at it with her hat pin.

“One step closer, and this goes into that.”

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First meeting

LosHombresdJaneAusten_Bingley_Darcy rumbo a LongbournAn excerpt from the draft of Farewell to Kindness:

The Earl hadn’t yet proved the danger she feared, though the longer he stayed the harder it would be to avoid him. Yesterday in the churchyard, she had peeked at him from under her bonnet. She didn’t dare go close, but from a distance he was far better looking than his cousin.

She’d had a nasty moment when Daisy walked right past him, but they didn’t speak and he didn’t seem to pay them any attention after that.

Perhaps he would not be a danger. The villagers were still reserving judgement, but he was earning their cautious approval. The people who had met him spoke well of him. They were thrilled that he visited them, listened to him. After decades of neglect by one Earl after another, they’d have liked him for that alone. His willingness to spend money on long-overdue maintenance won him more points. They were not yet convinced, of course. But the general opinion was that he was more like his Uncle Henry, whom they’d respected, than the previous three Earls.

Her reverie was broken by the clopping of hooves in the lane beyond the wall. Daisy called out, “Good day, Mr Baxter!”

Meg rolled off the wall, her eyes wide in fear, and huddled down into the shadow at its base whimpering a little.

“Miss Daisy,” the rider beyond the wall replied, cheerfully. Young Will, from the sound of it. The land steward’s son, who’d come six weeks ago to take care of the estate when Matthew the elder was injured. Meg was always nervous around men she didn’t know, but young Will had visited before, and had spoken to them several times during this visit. Anne had just concluded that he must have company when another voice spoke.

“Please, Baxter, will you not present me to this beautiful young lady?” The voice was deep and compelling, with a slight rasp that somehow added to its appeal.

“My Lord,” Will began.

“No, no,” the Earl—it must be he—insisted. “Fairy queens take precedence, and surely she must be one?”

Daisy giggled, but straightened her back proudly. So much for keeping her daughter from his sight.

“Miss Daisy, may I present Lord Chirbury? My Lord, Miss Daisy Forsythe, queen of Lilac Cottage.”

“An honour, your Highness,” the Earl said.

Anne snorted at the easy charm. She stopped on the path to pat Meg soothingly, before straightening so she could see over the wall.

The ground dropped on the other side; putting the heads of the two horsemen on a level with Daisy’s. Anne met eyes the image of her daughter’s. His hair was like hers, too—a golden blonde. It was trimmed tightly to his nape, but she knew from seeing him outside the inn and in church that the elegant hat disguised curls.

It was the eyes and general colouring that gave the impression he looked like his cousin. The shape of his face, his generous mouth, his broad shoulders—in all these ways he was somehow more than the former Earl. He had, in some ways, a hard face—even grim. But it didn’t look unkind. If he was not such a threat to her family, she would find him attractive, which had certainly not been the case with George.

“My Lord, Mrs Anne Forsythe. Mrs Forsythe, Stephen Redepenning, Earl of Chirbury.” Will did the honours, adding unnecessarily, “Mrs Forsythe is young Daisy’s Mama.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Forsythe.”

She bobbed a curtsey. “Lord Chirbury.”

“I hope the other charming young lady I saw is not hurt, Mrs Forsythe?”

“Aunt Meg does not like strange men,” Daisy volunteered.

Meg was still crouched at the foot of the wall, hugging herself. At least she’d stopped whimpering. A pleasant conversation between Anne and the gentlemen might be the best way to calm her down.

“She is very shy,” Anne added. Which was not exactly true, but worked well enough as an explanation. “I apologise, my Lord.”

He smiled, drawing her attention back to that generous mouth. “Not at all. I apologise for startling her. Have your dolls been enjoying their picnic, Queen Daisy?”

Daisy lifted her little chin imperiously. “They are at an assembly, sir. Not at a picnic.”

“You say ‘my Lord’; not sir,” Anne whispered.

“Of course they are,” Lord Chirbury agreed, amusement warming that deep voice. “And a fine assembly it is, I’m sure.”

“It would be better if the kittens had not run off,” Daisy confided. “They was going to be the gentlemen, and now the dolls have to dance with each other, and they are both ladies. Aunt Kitty and Miss Ashbrook dance with each other, but only to practice. When they go to an assembly, they will dance with gentlemen.”

Lord Chirbury’s eyes danced, but his voice remained grave as he agreed with the little girl that ladies preferred to dance with gentlemen when they were at an assembly.

As they continued to talk, Meg slowly uncurled, stretching up till she could peep over the wall. She dropped down again, tugging on Anne’s skirt.

“It is the bad Earl,” she whispered, when Anne bent down to her.

“No darling. It is a different Earl. The bad Earl is dead; remember?”

Meg rose again, burrowing into her sister’s side as she did so. This time, she took a long look. Anne could tell the Earl was aware of her sister’s examination, but—apart from a single flick of his eyes—he kept his attention on Daisy and continued talking to her.

After several long moments, Meg nodded, and relaxed a little, though she didn’t let go of Anne.

“It is a diff’ent Earl,” she agreed.

Now Lord Chirbury looked at Meg, then at Anne, with a question in his eyes.

“Lord Chirbury, may I present my sister Meg, Margaret Haverstock?”

“How do you do, Miss Haverstock? I am sorry I startled you.” How had she thought him grim? He smiled at Meg with the same kindness he’d shown to Daisy.

Meg, however, was anxious again. “Chirbee?” She clutched harder to Anne. “A different Chirbury,” Anne reassured her.

The Earl excused himself graciously, claiming that he and Will were expected elsewhere. Did he leave so that Meg would be comfortable? Surely not. An Earl couldn’t be expected to show such sensitivity. Though the Earl wasn’t at all what Anne expected. She’d never imagined that a ton gentlemen would talk about dolls with a little girl.

Charm and kindness did not make him trustworty, of course, but it certainly made him very appealing.

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Adventures in self-publishing

journeyI’m now officially an indie publisher of historical romance. Candle’s Christmas Chair hit the e-shelves a fortnight ago today, and has since been downloaded more than 4,500 times. (I’m hoping for 5,000 by 6pm this evening, in 7 hours time, because I really like round numbers.)

And, yes, I’ve reached those figures because the book is free (or 99c to some Amazon buyers, but Amazon has been very responsive in making it free to US purchasers when I asked them to do so).

So why am I giving Candle away? In a post a couple of months ago, I commented that, to sell, I needed to write a good book and I needed to be noticed by people who wanted to buy it. By delivering a free novella three months before I release my first novel, I give readers the chance to see whether they like the way I write for the investment of a couple of hours of their time. And I make it easy for them to share their pleasure in the book (if, indeed, they like it) with other people.

In theory, this should help sales of Farewell to Kindness, which will go on pre-release at the special price of 99c on 1 March (and up to $3.49 a week after its April release date).

So, to quote the man I adore: “What have you learned from this experience?” (Not, incidentally, what you want to hear when you’ve just bumped your toe or broken your heart. But I love you, darling.)

I still have a great deal to learn, but here are my top five lessons from this first venture into the wild and wonderful world of Indie.

Lesson 1: Romance writers are a wonderfully generous and supportive community

Since joining various Facebook groups for Historical Romantic Fiction, I’ve ‘met’ many wonderful authors. My to-read list has expanded at an alarming rate, but I’ve also been privileged to share their insights, tidbits from their research, and their encouragement as I’ve dipped my toes into the indie publishing water. Without their retweeting and sharing, far fewer people would have heard of Candle’s Christmas Chair.

I particularly want to thank Helen Hollick for organising the Christmas Party blog hop at which I officially launched the novella (with a little prequel story), and the other 24 great authors who joined the blog hop and enthusiastically promoted it on Facebook and Twitter. If you haven’t read their blog hop stories and posts, please do so.

And huge thanks, too, to Mari Christie, who featured Candle on her blog. Explore her website, folks. She has some very thoughtful articles about indie publishing. And, as Mariane Gabrielle, she is the writer of Royal Regard, which is a lovely book.

Three of the people on a Facebook Group volunteered as beta readers, and gave me great feedback (and seven are beta reading Farewell to Kindness). Thank you, all.

And I’ve had some generous reviews on Goodreads, Scribd, and Amazon from some of the online community.

Lesson 2: 20 December is a terrible date to launch a new book

The 1st; maybe the 10th; maybe the 30th.

The 20th was a really, really, bad idea, and very nearly did me in. So many competing demands. We have a habit of giving the grandchildren a craft day, and this year we did two (one full Saturday for the older children, and one for the younger). I work full-time in commercial publishing, and 30 years of experience should have taught me that clients pile on the deadlines in the three weeks leading up to Christmas and the New Zealand summer holidays. And that doesn’t even begin to touch on Christmas shopping and baking.

I’m indie publishing, and this was my first book. I didn’t have money to employ specialists, so I did all my own editing, cover design, proofreading, formatting, marketing, and so on. The week leading up to 20 December was insane, and the next week, as I publicised the book, even crazier. And that week included Christmas Day.

Let’s not do that again, okay?

Lesson 3: Don’t leave the cover till the last week

I’ve done a lot of research on covers, and looked at hundreds trying to work out what I like and what I don’t. I downloaded Pixelmator for the Mac, and my PRH transferred across a heap of fonts from the ancient version of InDesign on our old publishing company’s computer. We experimented with fonts till we found some we liked. But –with final tweaks on the image — the cover I actually used wasn’t completely ready until 12 December, just a couple of days before I uploaded to Smashwords and Amazon.

Okay. Not my fault. I started working on the cover the week I started writing the novella, but I had huge troubles finding the right images. Thanks to a chance conversation on my commuter train, I met the delightful Britt Leveridge, who drew the chair for me, and delivered the day before I needed to put the book on Smashwords.

More pressure than I needed. I’m currently writing an artist’s and photographer’s brief for Farewell to Kindness (the one I have is just a place holder), and aim to have it done and ready to go by mid-February.

Lesson 4: Distribution takes time – preorder is the way to go

I uploaded on 16 December my time. The book began to be downloaded from Smashwords straight away. Somehow, I’d managed not to take that into my calculations, but hey — a download is a download, right? It took several days to filter through to the resellers from Smashwords. Apple finally started showing the book on 27 December, and didn’t really pick up speed for several days. As of today, it seems to be shifting around 100 books a day. Kobo don’t seem to have Candle yet, but I’m watching out for it.

Amazon started selling immediately, too, but didn’t really begin to move until they made it free (see Ask for what you want, next).

I didn’t have the option of preorder for Candle, since I was planning to give it away (and, in any case, it wasn’t ready till the last minute). But I’ll definitely lighten my stress load by putting Farewell to Kindness up for preorder five weeks before release. That’ll mean it is in all the stores and ready to go on release day.

Lesson 5: Ask for what you want; it’s less stressful than waiting

Ask for reviews. Ask for ratings. People can say ‘no’. But you lose nothing by asking. One thing I asked for was a free listing on Amazon. I’d been told that Amazon would price match, and that I should ask people to request price matching. So I did. And nothing happened. I read discussions on forums where authors talked about how hard it was to get price matching. But then I thought ‘why not ask’?

So I emailed Amazon, told them that the novella was free at Apple and Barnes & Noble, that my strategy was to give it away free to publicise the next few books, and that — if they price matched — we’d both benefit in the long term. Within 24 hours, it was free on Amazon to US purchasers, and they’ve since distributed over 2000 copies (at the time of writing). I’ve been either 2 or 3 on their free bestseller Historical fiction > regency list for over 48 hours.

So ask. People just might say ‘yes’.

 

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First kiss scene from Farewell to Kindness

The heroine is staying at the hero’s house. When she cannot sleep, she goes to check on the rest of her family, and meets him in the darkened hall. He invites her to sit with him in the old Minstrel’s Gallery.

bluedrink setRede set the tray down, and took the candleholder from her to light candles in a candelabra that sat with others on a shelf just inside the door.

The room was not more than eight feet from where they had entered to the opposite wall, but stretched out to her left for an indeterminable distance. The near corner of the room was lit by the candelabra Rede set on the small table where he’d set the tray. Within the circle of light was the opposite wall, only a few feet high, letting out onto a dark void.

“It looks out over the Great Hall,” Rede told her, motioning to a chair.

Anne sat. She really should not be alone with him. She was sure Ruth and Hannah would advise her to beg a candle and take herself to bed. Alone. Of course, alone.

candelabraRede broke into her thoughts. “Your sister seems very excited about the Assembly.” He passed her the drink he had poured.

She smiled, fondly. “It is a great opportunity for her.” She took a sip, and blinked rapidly.

“What is this? It is very…” She paused, trying to find words to describe how it tasted.

“Your first brandy? Don’t drink it yet. Cup the glass with your hands so that the drink warms.”

He followed his own advice, bending his head to inhale the smell from the glass as he held it in both hands.

Anne, with most of her attention on copying him, said, “It has been hard for her when the other girls are talking about coming out; knowing that she must wait.”

He tipped his head to the side and raised his brow. “You plan a come out for her, then?”

“Just in Bath. Or perhaps Cheltenham? Not this year, though. We hope for next year, but the year after is more likely.”

“She is young yet. You have time enough, surely.”

Anne shook her head. “She is already 18. But she is very lovely. I am certain that she will ‘take’.”

“Ah. You are seeking a husband for her, then.” Rede sounded as if he disapproved.

“Should I not? Someone to love her; someone she can love. And children. She would make a wonderful mother, I think.”

“Wealth and title, I suppose.” He kept his voice neutral, but she could sense the sneer. What right had he to make assumptions and then sneer?

She refused to rise to his baiting.

“A competence is a useful thing for a couple starting life together. I would not like her to be poor. Wealth, however, is not necessary to happiness, in my view.” No need to tell Rede that Kitty would bring wealth enough to any marriage. Indeed, if she could, Anne would like to keep that information from Kitty’s putative suitors.

Rede inclined his head, making no comment.

“I do not hope for a title. Quite the contrary. Those peers I have met are, on the whole, arrogant and self-centred.” She swirled her brandy, absently. The amber liquid glowed where it caught the light. “I dare say it is not their fault. They are raised to think the world owes them respect, and make no effort to be worthy of it. I cannot think such a man would make my Kitty happy.”

“Ouch,” Rede murmured.

She raised her eyes to his, suddenly realising how her diatribe sounded. “Oh, Rede. I did not mean you. You have been everything kind.” Flustered, she sought to change the subject.

“That is an unusual shawl.” In the better light, she could see it was striped, with the occasional broad red stripe and the other stripes woven blue and white, red and white, and yellow and white. The long knotted fringe swung as he moved his legs, twisting slightly as he looked down.

leg-sash“My ceinture flechée? Yes, there can’t be many of them in England. My wife’s people make them.” He ran his hand over it where it fell from the knot around his waist. “Marie Joséphe made this one for me. These are her family’s colours.”

“Marie Joséphe was your wife.”

“Hmm, yes.” He was focused on the shawl.

“What did you call it? Ceinture flechée? Arrow sash?”

“For the pattern. 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 leant 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.”

Anne 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.

Almost_Kiss__in_Black___White_by_AshsAshsAlFalDwnThe 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?

by

Is your trumpeter on holiday?

My mother’s family were old school. Raised during the Great Depression, and tempered by the Second World War, they thought children should be obedient and humble. I grew up with comments designed to help me shrink when I was ‘getting too big for her boots’ or ‘getting a swollen head’, and I was frequently advised that I should not blow my own trumpet.

Well, my darling aunts and uncles, I love you all, but I’m going to share with everyone the latest on Candle. (And, yes, I know that if you were alive you’d make a cutting remark and then go and tell all the neighbours.)

So here it is, folks. Candle’s Christmas Chair, number 2 on Amazon’s Bestseller List for Free Historical Fiction > Regency

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