Book series

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Tea with Lia and Percy

They met in the little park opposite the confectioners, The Pot and Pineapple. The Duchess of Haverford had brought her two sons, as promised. The Marquis of Aldridge, a boy of eleven, bowed in proper form and followed that with a brilliant smile.

He has his father’s–our father’s–charm in full measure, Lia thought. He looked like His Grace, too. Fair hair, hazel eyes, a figure that was still lean young boy but that bid fair to be as tall and well formed as his–as their father’s one day.

The duchess presented her younger son Lord Jonathan, a sturdy toddler who would look like his brother and father when he grew, and a youth of about her age with dark curls but the same hazel eyes. “And this is David, Lady Aurelia,” Her Grace said, when she introduced him. “Half-brother to my sons and to you.”

Lia had, she supposed, been fortunate to take after her mother, with her dark brown hair, but where the grey eyes came from, she did not know. Her father also had dark hair, and fair locks might have raised more than a few eyebrows.

The young marquess must have been thinking along the same lines. “I expected you to look like him,” he said. “We all do, except that David has black hair.”

“Lady Aurelia looks like her mother did at that age,” said the duchess, “or so I have been told.”

“Mama says that I cannot acknowledge you as my sister,” Aldridge announced. “Which is stupid, because everyone knows. But we can be friends, can we not?”

“Of course, we can,” Lia agreed.

“Good,” Aldridge agreed. “For your husband and I shall be dukes one day, and it is hard to have friends when you are going to be a duke, Lady Aurelia, Lord Thornstead.” He sighed, his eyes far too world-weary for an eleven year old. “Everyone wants something from a duke’s heir.”

“Friends then,” said Percy, holding out his hand. “I am Percy and my wife prefers family to call her Lia.”

The smile flashed again, even more brilliant. “Percy and Lia,” Aldridge repeated.

“Jonathan wants cake,” announced the toddler. Which, since The Pot and Pineapple was just across the road, Lord Jonathan was able to have. In fact, they all enjoyed some of the confections from the famous shop, and had a comfortable coze in the park.

Percy’s close relationship with his brothers and sisters had made Lia–not jealous, exactly, for they had welcomed her into their warm arms. Wistful was the right word. Her own family was broken–her mother and the man she had always thought to be her father at constant war, her brothers taught to regard her with suspicion and scorn. Now, perhaps, she had a family of her own. Brothers who wanted to be friends. It was a good day.

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(Percy and Lia are hero and heroine of The Sincerest Flattery, coming in April 2024.)

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Nasty families on WIP Wednesday

I do write nice parents. Honest. Spen’s father, in Weave Me a Rope, isn’t one of them.

Chatter proved to be nearly as gentle a nurse as Spen’s housekeeper. He set Spen’s broken arm, bound up his cracked ribs, and provided poultices for the bruises. Spen had tried to defend himself from the earl, but the men the earl had brought with him held Spen’s arms, and Spen had been handicapped by being chained in one place.

He seemed to recall that his own head guard intervened to stop the beating, but perhaps that was just a dream. Certainly, he had no memory of being carried from the room, and he had not seen either peer again since. Chatter told him they had left, but the little lady remained.

He spent more than a week of very uncomfortable days. On the third day, he insisted on the binding being removed from around his ribs. A good deep breath hurt, but was not the stabbing pain Chatter warned him to watch for.

“You’ll do, my lord,” Chatter had assured him.

Spen certainly hoped so, because he still felt like one enormous bruise, quite apart from the sharp pain of his arm and ribs. But filling his lungs helped his general malaise. For the rest, it was just a matter of time.

The footman who served him was a little more forthcoming about what had happened after Spen was knocked unconscious. He confirmed Chatter had rescued Spen, intervening when it became clear the earl was not going to stop just because Spen was unconscious.

“Lord Deerhaven was right peeved with Lord Yarverton,” he confided. “Said he’d gone too far. Lord Yarverton stormed off. Lord Deerhaven went this afternoon, when he knew you hadn’t taken an infection, my lord.”

“Did they beat Lady Daphne?” Spen asked, and was relieved to hear the lady was unharmed, but locked in a suite of rooms just a little farther along the passage. “What is the name of this place?” he asked the footman. “Where are we?” But the guard on duty growled and the footman had paled and stopped talking.

Cults in history
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Cults in history

Let’s define the term cult. I’m using it to mean a relatively small group led by a charismatic and self-appointed leader.

Some of them grow, develop, transcend the need for the single leader, and become religions. Some of them make no particular impact on society as a whole and fall quietly apart when the leader dies. Some explode spectacularly when their beliefs lead them to break laws. My cult is based on historical precedent.

As to the reactions of my cult members to the corruption of their leaders, that, too, is based on historical precedent. Those who have been forced to see that their cult beliefs are untrue will, according to their natures and the reactions of those closest to them, go down fighting, adopt the beliefs of their invaders or rescuers, give up all beliefs and become determined cynics, or choose to die.

Whatever support is offered, whatever the evidence that they have been lied to, ultimately, each person makes their own choice about how to respond.

My cult might appear extreme on the surface, but a brief examination of cults in history will show cults with far more bizarre beliefs—and practices—than those adopted in Famberwold’s “Heaven.”

Were there cults in Regency England? I’m sure there were, just as there were in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century England. By the definition above, we could include the Quakers (mid-17th century) and the Shakers (mid-18th century), both of which sects went on to become religious sects within Christianity.

In 1837, not many years after this book is set, John Humphrey Noyes wrote to a friend, “In a holy community,” he wrote to a friend, “there is no more reason why sexual intercourse shall be restrained by law than why eating and drinking should be, and there is as little occasion for shame in the one case as in the other.” This was in the United States, and he went on to found a religion that included, among its beliefs, that John Humphrey was perfect and without sin.

And the rest of the nineteenth and the twentieth century produced many other cults, some even more bizarre.

We cannot expect to know how many charismatic leaders preached in their own backyards, developed a small group of followers, and were never heard of beyond their neighbourhoods.

As for violent or abusive cults, I cannot point you to solid evidence. Lots of gossip and even court cases, but at this distance, we don’t know how much was lies by critics for political gain—or neighbours for straightforward social or financial gain, for revenge or out of mass hysteria.

The Hellfire Club of the 18th century also doesn’t quite qualify. Their quasi-religious ceremonies (if they really happened) were theatre, not something the men involved really believed. The Cult of Reason (the Marquis de Sade was a proponent) and the Cult of the Supreme Being (Robespierre’s personal favourite) in post-Revolution France certainly had true believers, but they, too, don’t quite qualify, because even their believers knew they were manufactured religions.

The Marquis de Sade certainly taught a cult of the body, a veneration of the physical, and the sexual as channels of transcendence, and may well have been an influence on a young Famberwold.

None of these are as compelling as actual court, newspaper or survivor accounts and I cannot point you to any. However, absence of evidence is not necessarily evidence of absence. We know that violent or abusive cults in modern times have only come to light when someone in their ranks speaks out, often after many years of abuse.

And that is in recent times. We are talking about early nineteenth century England, before the birth of the investigative journalist, at a time when the Government feared revolution and had the power to quash reports, and when any survivor who spoke of what they had been through was likely to face social exclusion.

So why not? My cult is possible.

I choose to believe that my cult is depressingly likely, but that its downfall is equally likely. And in that, this is a hopeful story. If such evil exists, it will ultimately overreach, as evil inevitably does. And then, if those who value goodness band together, evil can be overcome. The darkness will end. The sun will rise again. And in the morning, life—and love—will be worth having.

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Arranged marriage on WIP Wednesday

An arranged marriage is a fairly common historical romance trope, and one I’ve used before. Apart from The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle, I haven’t attempted the challenge of turning an arranged marriage with a very young couple into a love match. Most couples of mine who find themselves in that situation are immediately separated and have to find their way back to one another again. Could I write a naive but reckless young woman and her somewhat more experienced but equally young husband, and make it fun for modern audiences? Challenge accepted. Here’s my hero of The Sincerest Flattery, a story inspired by the Goose Girl.

“Ride on ahead, Lance,” Percy begged. “Let them know I have been delayed.” At least, that is what he intended to say, though his stuffed up nose and raw throat garbled the words.

His brother apparently understood, for he shook his head. “I shouldn’t leave you, Percy. I won’t leave you, at least until after I’ve spoken with the physician.”

“Can’t keep a lady waiting,” Percy insisted, but he might have saved himself the trouble. Lance might be nearly five years his junior, and mostly content to go along with his old brother’s plans and schemes, but when he dug his toes in, there was no moving him.

A knock on the door. Perhaps it was the physician? It was the innkeeper’s wife, with a tray. “Some chicken soup for the young lord,” she offered.

Percy didn’t want food, but Lance said the innkeeper’s wife insisted that he would recover more quickly if he kept up his strength. So he succumbed to having his pillows plumped so that he could sit up, at least enough to have the tray put on the bed.

But his head hurt to much to lift it, and the spoon felt as if it was made of granite and ten times the size. In the end, Lance fed him, a spoonful at a time, until he covered his mouth after the sixth spoonful. “Enough. Let me lie down, Tris. There’s a good chap.”

The innkeeper’s wife, who was hovering, asked, “Did you understand him, my lord?”

“He has had enough, and wants to lie back down,” Lance explained. “I daresay your head hurts, old chap.” He had picked up the tray and handed it the woman, and was supporting Percy with one arm, while rearranging the pillows with the other. “You should let me stay and nurse you, Percy.”

Percy shook his head, a slow and tiny movement from side to side, so as not to burst his pounding head right open.

Another knock on the door, and this time it was the physician. Lance hustled the innkeeper’s wife away and fetched Martin while the doctor did his examination. That was a relief. If he had brought Martin to listen to instructions for Percy’s care, then Lance intended to follow his brother’s instructions.

The brothers were on their way to meet the girl to whom Percy was betrothed. It would be rude to keep Lady Aurelia waiting, and Percy could already tell—was unsurprised to hear the physician telling his brother—that he would be a week or more in bed with this wretched cold.

This ague, rather, which is what the doctor called it. It didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did except for the wretched head, the throat, the blocked nose, the cough that seemed to twist his ribs inside his chest and tear his muscles.

The doctor droned on, and Percy heard bits and pieces in between bouts of coughing and musings about Lady Aurelia. Her miniature was pretty. His father had met her and said she was a comely chit. She had never had a Season, but then she was only seventeen, just a few months younger than Percy’s sister Gwen.

Their parents had signed the marriage agreements. The wedding was to be in six months. No one seemed to think it necessary for the two principals to the marriage to actually meet before the betrothal was announced, which would be before Lady Aurelia arrived in town with her parents for the Season.

And once the betrothal was announced, of course, the wedding must follow, or there would be scandal.

When Percy came up with the scheme to ride north and introduce himself to the lady and her family, the duke his father did not object. All he said was, “Comport yourself like a Versey, Thornstead. And take young Lance with you.”

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Tea with the Duke of Dellborough

 

“Your Grace,” said the Duke of Dellborough, the deep inclination of his head showing his respect for his peer’s estimable wife.

“Your Grace,” replied the Duchess of Haverford, with a polite curtsey, equal to equal.

He offered his arm. “May I purchase you a cup of tea?”

The duchess checked the whereabouts of her intrepid sons. The oldest was sailing a boat on the pond, with his tutor watching indulgently. The youngest was currently feeding ducks under the supervision of a nursemaid, but was as likely as not to take it into his darling but stubborn little head to leap into the pond after either a duck or his brother’s boat.

“Yes,” she said to the duke once she was reassured the tutor and nursemaid had all under control. “That would be pleasant. But if you would, Dell, not out of sight of my son.” An innovative street peddlar had set up a little booth with a pot-stove to boil water and little round tables with chairs. Undoubtedly the park authorities would move him on before long, but in the meantime, Eleanor would enjoy a cup of tea.

“Of course.” His smile was for a memory, distant and sweet. “My beloved duchess was similarly concerned with our brood, though we had nursemaids and governesses and tutors galore. Tell me, Eleanor, as an old friend, how are you? And how is that husband of yours?”

Trust Dellborough to tread into such fraught territory. Nobody else in Society dared to mention the Duke of Haverford to his duchess or vice versa.

“I could not tell you, Dellborough,” she replied. “I have not seen  him in nearly a year.” Not since he had attempted to revisit his duchess’s bed despite the state of his intimate health and in breach of the agreement they had made for two sons, and she threatened him with documented evidence of lèse-majesté.

Dell sent her an amused glance, his eyes twinkling. “Dear me, I am Dellborough again. Do I owe you an apology, Your Grace? Or is it not me you are cross with?”

Eleanor swatted his arm with her fan. “You are far too perceptive, you impertinent man. And what is this I hear about you marrying that young man of yours to an even younger bride.”

“Tit for tat, Eleanor? But as it happens, Thornstead and his Aurelia are what I wanted to talk to you about. Aurelia in particular. She has the makings of a good wife and a magnificent duchess, but she is only seventeen. I am concerned about the pair of them. The marriage seemed like a good idea at the time, and once Thornstead met Aurelia he was besotted.” He sighed.

“What can I do to help, dear friend?” Eleanor asked, though in truth, it had been Dell’s duchess who was her friend. Still, for Maryanne’s sake…

“Just keep an eye on her, if you would, and I know I can trust you for a word in time, if needed.”

“Whether it will be heard is another matter,” Eleanor warned, “but of course I will do what I can.”

***

The Duke of Dellborough is a character in my current work in progress, The Sincerest Flattery. The year is 1791. Dell’s son and heir, Percival Versey, Marquess of Thornstead, is the hero, and the heroine is Aurelia Moreland, the daughter of the Earl of Byrne.

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Questions are all that stand between us and the abyss

The Great Day of His Wrath 1851-3, John Martin

My beta readers are split on their opinions of The Darkness Within. Three think it is amazing. Two have been made deeply uncomfortable. They all agree it is not a traditional Regency, but I knew that.

The comments are all helpful, particular those about what people didn’t like. I’ve been rewriting the blurb to warn those who probably shouldn’t read this, and writing an author note to address some of the questions raised.

The question the process left me with was why I wrote this, and why now and why this way?

As you know if you’ve been following me for a while, I write by the seat of my pants, following the idea that next occurs to me. I can blame the plot elves, but the truth is that my muse responds to what is happening around me, in my own life, that of my friends, and in the world at large.

The Darkness Within takes place largely within a cult that isolates itself from the world, where the leader and his most senior disciples practice mind control, where dissension and doubts are socially unacceptable, and where happiness is mandatory.

On the surface, everything looks fine. Bland, as one of my beta readers pointed out, but fine. But underneath? The darkness within, as the title says.

When everyone agrees about everything, some of the people are either lying or having their minds controlled. It’s unhealthy. It’s scary. It’s not sustainable.

I was not aware, while I was writing, that I was making a social comment on the condition of a world that appears to be fracturing into disconnected realities, some of them less fact-based than others. Looking back, I see that I was.

I was also talking about what happens when a reality that has become divorced from the world at large collides with unpalatable facts. Some people need to be held accountable. Some can change. Some simply can’t live without the reality they believed in.

We can’t afford to become so rigid in our thinking that we are threatened when others believe differently, especially when our sense of community and the respect of our friends and family depends on a belief that is plain wrong.

We need to remain curious, to ask questions, to keep learning. And if, like the people in my fictional community of Heaven, asking question is likely to get us into deep trouble, there’s another question we should be asking.

Who is profiting from keeping us ignorant and obedient?

In The Darkness Within, it is the One. He is the best dressed, the best housed, and he’s making a mint. Even more, he is in command. Everyone believes him. Everyone adores him.

No wonder he doesn’t want anyone asking questions.

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Family on WIP Wednesday

I am rather enjoying my hero’s father in The Sincerest Flattery. Here’s a sample.

“I believe our children are in here,” Lord Byrne was saying, as he walked in the door. A step behind him was His Grace, the Duke of Dellborough.

Both young men shot to their feet, and bowed. “Your Grace,” they chorused.

“Here are mine,” His Grace said to Lord Byrne. “Yours appears to be missing. What have you done with your betrothed, Thornstead?”

“You missed her by a few minutes, Your Grace. Her mother sent for her.”

“I shall have her fetched,” Byrne announced, and disappeared back out the door.

His Grace approached his sons. “So. You are both here. Thornstead, you are back on your feet, if not quite as hale and hearty as a fond parent might hope. Lancelot, you have also been ill, from the look of you. Sicker than Thornstead, one might even guess.”

Lance blushed and Percy felt a stab of guilt. “Did my letter not reach you, Your Grace? I wrote to let you know what happened at the inn, and that I was better.”

The ducal eyebrows lifted halfway. A sardonic remark was on its way. “Your letter was—I shall not say appreciated, Thornstead. One struggles to summon appreciation for a letter that explains one’s eldest son and heir has been robbed and left for dead by a villain one selected oneself to be that young man’s most trusted servant.” His Grace their father held it as an important tenet that a gentleman never showed emotion, but apparently even His Grace made exceptions, for cold anger edged every word.

“I survived, sir,” Percy pointed out. “Thanks largely to the innkeeper’s wife.”

“Yes,” the duke drawled, “and you will no doubt be gratified to know that that part of your message pleased me. Especially since the previous mail had brought me no fewer three other messages that left me in doubt about that agreeable fact.”

“I wrote as soon as I could, sir,” Percy protested.

“Yes, my boy. And I am glad you did. The gratifying news that you were alive was, of course, a relief to a father’s heart. I could have wished for slightly more detail before I set off up the Great North Road at a pace not consistent with my dignity nor, I fear, my age. ”

Percy, processing that remark, was touched to think his father had set off north at high speed.

“I am, however, pleased to see you, young Lancelot, since my three letters all mentioned Thornstead, and ignored the existence, or at least the presence, of my second son. And Thornstead’s letter was sparse on the details important to a father, saying only, ‘I am now heading off to join Lance’. But one was left to wonder, joining Lance where? And why were my sons, who left together, in two different places?”

At that point, Lord Byrne reappeared, escorting Lady Byrne and Aurrie. Aurrie looked unhappy. No. Subdued was a better word. As if some vital part of her had been extinguished. Lord and Lady Byrne fussed over the duke, who thanked them politely for their letters. Apparently, they had both arrived on the same day, one calling His Grace north as soon as possibly, for his son Thornstead was seriously ill, and the doctor feared for his life, followed by one that assured the duke that Thornstead was on the mend.

That accounted for two of the duke’s three letters, but Percy realised that they must have left His Grace with the wrong impression.

“Sir,” he said, when there was a pause in Lady Byrne’s assurances that they had been delighted to look after the young lord. “Lord and Lady Byrne did not realise that their patient was actually Lance, and not me. Lance was sick when he arrived, you see, and they found my signet ring and assumed he was me.”

“Thornstead, you have no ambition to become a novelist, one hopes,” His Grace replied. “I would not mention it, except that you seem to be beginning the story in the middle.”

He bowed to the two ladies. “Perhaps, if Lady Byrne and Lady Aurelia would permit, we might be seated to hear what happened in its proper order?”

Aurrie flushed a bright red at the subtle rebuke. Lady Byrne, whose responsibility it was to make guests feel welcome and comfortable, did not even notice she had been reminded of her duties. “Of course, dear duke. Do be seated, please. I haven’t heard this story myself. I wondered why Lord Lancelot was pretending to be his brother, but Lord Byrne said it was all a mistake and I was not to be concerned. It seemed very peculiar.” She frowned. “It was very peculiar. Do you not think so, duke?”

“We shall hear what Thornstead and Lancelot have to say, shall we?” His Grace replied.

Lord Byrne comment, “I have sent for tea and my daughter has ordered a room made up for you, Dellborough. Ah, yes, and here is the tea.”

“I shall pour for us all and the maid shall pass the tea around,” Lady Byrne announced. “How do you take your tea, Your Grace?”

His Grace, who would have preferred a wine, inclined his head in polite appreciation and asked for a cup with tea only, no additions. His sons, who were familiar with his smallest gesture, picked up his impatience from the tap of one middle finger on his thigh, but he said nothing as the lady continued chattering as she poured the tea.

He spoke, however, as soon as Lancelot was served and the maid withdrew.

“Now, if you please, Thornstead, and in order.”

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Tea with Rosa Gavenor

Rosa Gavenor waited for the butler to return and conduct her upstairs to the duchess who had commanded her presence. The double duchess, they called her in the ton, for she had been the wife of the Duke of Haverford for long enough that her son was a man entering his middle years when he inherited the title.

The duchess married again shortly after the end of her period of morning, becoming the Duchess of Winshire.

Rosa had been raised in isolation as the daughter of a gentleman who was librarian to a baron. She had never met even a single duchess, let alone a lady august enough to be chosen as wife by two dukes, one after the other.

This was without a doubt the most scary thing she had done during her visit to London.

She had been nervous about the visit, but determined to be a credit to her beloved husband. She had the wardrobe to look like a prosperous gentleman’s wife. She had purchased several afternoon gowns, two carriage ensembles, and a ball gown in Liverpool, at the same modiste who made her wedding gown and the other clothes that Hugh had ordered for her before they were married.

Hugh said what she had would be inadequate for a month in London, and appealed to the Countess of Ruthford, wife of Hugh’s beloved colonel, whom everyone except his wife called Lion.

Lady Ruthford agreed, and offered to take Rosa to her own modiste. Before the shopping trip was over, Rosa and Dorothea, the countess, were firm friends.

Then came the invitations. Hugh was far more popular, and have deeper connections into the upper reaches of the ton, than Rosa had realised. She had her own connection, of a sort, too. The Marquess of Raithby recognised her as a sort of a sister, since her aunt had been his father’s long-term mistress, much loved by both the marquess and his children.

Rosa very quickly found other married women she liked, and soon had invitations that did not depend on Hugh’s connections or those of the marquess. While much of the ton was as standoffish and smug as Hugh always said, he was correct, too, that people were people, no matter their status in life. She could ignore the self-centred and cruel, and enjoy those who were prepared to be friends.

What sort of a contact would the duchess prove to be? It didn’t matter. Hugh was doing business with the Duke of Haverford and with the Earl of Sutton, Winshire’s son and heir. As his wife, Rosa must make a good impression, or at the very least, not make a bad one.

Knowing how important this meeting was did not make the waiting any easier. It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like an age before the butler returned, and invited Rosa to follow him.

The elegant and expensive decor was unusual for an English house, reminding Rosa that the duke had spent many years in the east. She did not have time to examine it, though, for the butler hurried up the staircase and along a wide hallway to an elegant parlour.

As soon as she saw the duchess’s smile, Rosa knew her worries were for nothing.

“My dear Rosa… may I call you Rosa? I feel that I know you, with what my god son, dear Raithby, has said. Come and sit down, my dear. Tell me all about yourself, and how I can help you and your dear husband.”

Rosa’s love story with Hugh (aka Bear) Gavenor is in Grasp the Thorn, free this month.

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First kiss (or at least the preamble) on WIP Wednesday

The Darkness Within will be ready for beta readers tomorrow or the next day. Meanwhile, here is a excerpt.

His hands were stroking her, but instead of being soothed she found herself crying, great noisy gusts of tears. He lifted her in his arms and she found herself sitting on his lap, weeping into his shoulder. He murmured to her, over and over, variations of, “I will keep you safe, Serenity. I will never let him touch you.”

Slowly, the comfort of being held, and by this man, seeped into her and her tears dried. Perhaps he had given her some of his strength and courage. It came to her that she desired him, and that they were alone together. Her wedding would not happen. She was old and scarred. Perhaps no man would ever want her as wife.

Indeed, who knew what the future would hold? If they succeeded in bringing down Famberwold, would the village continue? Famberworld had always told them that his brother protected them from an outside world that hated virtue. Surely, he was wrong, for he was not a man of virtue. And, certainly, Max did not hate virtue. Far from it.

Whatever happened, Max would be gone. He had come to find Reuben, he had told them. Now he was staying to see them safe, and when Famberwold and his brother could no longer harm them, no doubt he would go, too.

She shifted on his shoulder so that she could see his face. I wonder if you would kiss me, Max? If I asked?

The soft expression he was wearing changed. Astonishment. Alarm. Desire? Oh dear. Did I say that out loud?

“Kiss you?” Max asked

I did say it aloud! She could feel her cheeks heat, and she hid her face in his shoulder, taking comfort from the fact he did not push her away. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I know I am too old, and ugly too, with my smallpox scars. Please forget I said anything. Besides, I am sure that a man such as you is popular with the wives of your village. I expect they are far lovelier than I, and they know how to kiss besides, so are able to please you.”

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face so that she was looking at him. “You are not ugly to me, Serenity. Those minor blemishes cannot disguise the beauty of your eyes and your figure, the loveliness of your hair. Though it is your character that draws me to you most of all. Your kindness to a stranger. Your patience with the children. The intelligence that had you seeing through the lies Famberwold told, and the loyalty that had you wanting to believe him. The courage that has you helping me, even though coming here was the last thing you wanted to do.”

His mention of courage had her stiffening her spine. “Then, if your wives would not object, would you kiss me, please? I want to know what it is like with a man I desire. Famberwold has given me several kisses since I became Chosen, and they were horrid, but I have seen kisses that…” She could not think of how to explain what she had seen—two people absorbed in one another, taking and giving in equal measure, separating only to kiss again, their smiles speaking of secrets and delights.

“I have no wives,” Max admitted, “and I am certain your kiss would please me, but Serenity, I am not worthy. I have a dark past. I have done terrible things. I will be leaving here as soon as I know you and the children are safe.”

Serenity stamped her foot, but took courage, because his words pushed her away, but his arms still held her. This fact kept her voice calm as she continued to plead. “I am not asking you to stay. I am asking for a kiss. Just one, Max. Please?”