Guest authors

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Tea with Aventis, daughter of Chronos

Her Grace shifts a rose a fraction of an inch in the display on the side table, and steps back to see the effect. The sound of door opening has her turn, to see Barlow, the butler, in the doorway.

“The Lady Aventis,” he announces, and checks the piece of paper in his hand before continuing, “daughter of Cronus, Father of Time.” He steps aside to allow today’s guest into the room.

She is a beautiful young woman in a flowing red and white dress. In one hand, she holds a trident, with the symbol of a red rose. Her beautiful cocoa skin sparkles, and her blue eyes gleams brightly.

Barlow’s usual unruffled air is slightly disturbed by the trident.

Aventis nods slightly, and moves forward. She hands the trident to Barlow, who takes it, looking at it with wonder and curiosity.

The duchess hopes her own discomfort is well hidden, though etiquette bothers her more than the trident. What sort of beverage does one offer to a daughter of the gods? “Would you care for tea?” she asked, “Or can I send for something else?”

“Tea is fine – Earl Grey would do,” says Aventis.” I am happy to make your acquaintance, Duchess. You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. Milk? Sugar?

“Some milk, no sugar” Aventis replies, settling herself on the sofa that Her Grace indicates. “Are you acquainted with my father, Chronos?”

“I am not. I think, perhaps, we come from different parts of what my biographer calls the fiction-o-sphere.” She hands Aventis a cup, and begins to prepare one for herself. “Your father is Cronus, Father of Time, the invitation said, and it was addressed to the Realm of Wyrniverdon. Can you tell me more?”

Aventis nods. “Yes. The Realm Wyrniverdon is a collective — a Magical Force — that guards over the universe — a universe –— that has within her many different worlds. Angels, faeries are part of it, but also star goddesses, and so on. We all work in conjunction to defeat the darkness.”

“Defeating the darkness. That sounds important, essential, even.”

Aventis leans forward, her eyes intent. “But there is an impending evil, of a force so threatening that we have to galvanize our forces — including human beings — to defeat them.”

Her Grace’s hands still. For a moment, her eyes look at some inward thought, and they are bleak when she replies. “I have known evil. I work against it when I can.”

Aventis takes a sip before she continues. “There is one, Racine, who will be instrumental in this fight. She is not only human, but also has mystical origins. Soon, she’ll know part of that story – herstory – and more. There is not much time, but my Sisters are working on that front. Books, those papyrical friends, will help us. They are the Spark. They will also be the key. It will all manifest, and all my Sisters are working on this score.”

Her Grace ponders this, and asks, “Tell me what humans can do to support a fight that is waged by gods and angels?”

Aventis has a small smile as she replies. “We have to come together, and show kindness. We have to show empathy, and compassion. We have to uphold the values of community, the collective. We also have to lift up, and hold dear places of community, the public sphere, such as libraries.”

“In my time, and in my universe, libraries are not public spaces, but it is an interesting idea. I must give that further thought.” Her Grace, a well known supporter of education for the masses, looks into her tea as if the answers float on the surface.

“They will also be key in helping to defeat the darkness,” Aventis assures her. “Technology will be an enemy, and humanity will have to decide – is convenience more important, or holding on to what it means to be human? These decisions will have to be made – if not, further disasters will be looming.”

The duchess shivers, as if she can feel the disasters drawing nearer, and Aventis assures her, “Racine will learn about all these things. She will be up to the task. She doesn’t think she will be, but she will. My Sisters will see to that.”

Her Grace seizes on the new subject. “Tell me more about your sisters, Aventis.”

Aventis is only too happy to oblige. “Angelaes created the community, The Collective. She is also a Guardian Angel, watching over those who are in despair. She created the Realm Wyrniverdon, for those who feel like outsiders, who feel like they don’t belong. She is on a mission to make the world a more welcoming place. She has keen insight, understanding, and intuition, all aspects of being an angel.”

“So the Sisters are angels?”

Aventis shakes her head. “Some are. Some are faeries –  others are selkies. Some are both human and mystical – which is the line that Racine is descended from. Many are part of the Realm Wyrniverdon, and whoever asks for assistance, whoever asks for aid, whoever has a heart that is breaking, the Sisters from the Realm Wyrniverdon are there to help. They are all strong – in one way or another. The Word for them is powerful, and is also the Key to answering the mysteries, the questions of the Universe.”

“Then you are prepared for the fight to come,” Her Grace says.

“I am gravely concerned about what is coming,” Aventis tells her, “But, if we all prepare, there is nothing we can’t handle. I am happy that you will join us in this fight. It gives me hope, in this dark hour.

Racine: The Sisterhood Stories

In a world divided by fear, hate, and prejudice, Racine embarks on a journey to discover who she really is. After a life time of alienation and rejection because of the colour of her skin and her Black heritage, she discovers the ultimate truth of good is wrapped up in the magic of the Story. Stories have the power to change the world, but first, the stories need unlocking.

https://www.amazon.com/Racine-Sisterhood-Stories-Alison-Clarke-ebook/dp/B0719TWJZ9/

Meet AC Clarke

www.twitter.com/mythologist200

https://instagram.com/monetlover200

https://www.facebook.com/Alison-Clarke-749948061789271/

 

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Tea with Parsifal Keazund

The teapot, tea set, and tea service have all been set up in the private sitting room of Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford. All is ready for the mysterious guest. Steampunk? Eleanor wonders what steampunk might be. Steam, she understands, but isn’t punk something to do with tinder?

A light cough alerted the Duchess to Barlow’s entrance.

“Your Grace,” he said. “Lord Keazund is here.”

Lord Keazund entered, dressed all in drab black, tweaking at his cuff. He didn’t look like a lord. He couldn’t have been very old. Sixteen or so, with sun-bleached blond hair and intelligent eyes that harbored a strange sadness in their blue waters.

Her Grace hid her surprise at her visitor’s youth, while wondering whether he had a taste for tea or whether she should send for something else. “Lord Keazund, you are very welcome. Please, come and take a seat.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Parsifal said, sitting down on the divan opposite the Duchess.

“I can offer several varieties of tea, or I can send for a chocolate, if you wish. Indeed, Haverford House can provide most beverages, so do not hesitate to state a preference.”

“Tea will be perfect, thank you,” Parsifal replied with a smile. “I do love a good cup of tea and I’m sure yours will be excellent. I thank you again for the invite, it was most kind, although a bit surprising, as I haven’t been back in England long.”

“I should warn you, perhaps, that your England might not be precisely the same as my England,” Her Grace said, calmly. “The invitations to my Mondays at Home go, rather mysteriously, to what my author calls ‘the fictionsphere’. Do you take milk, my lord? Sugar? Lemon?”

“Milk and sugar, if you please,” said Parsifal. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Not wildly different, I trust. I believe it may be said that certain technologies and political boundaries are rather different, or at least differently advanced, in my ‘my’ England. I’m not altogether unfamiliar with the concept of…how to put it…other-worlds? I have just returned to ‘my’ England from one, after all.”

She passed him a tea made to his specifications. “You have been travelling, then? How I would love to travel. Where have you been, Lord Keazund?”

“Yes…” Parsifal replied. He paused as he sipped his tea and then continued, somewhat hesitantly. “I’ve just returned from an extensive expedition. My uncle—the late Lord Keazund—set out to find a forgotten city in the wastes of Siberia. Tragically, he was lost under the ice. I came back by way of the Siberian Skyrail. That’s the official story, anyway.”

Eleanor Haverford frowned. “The Skyrail? I don’t understand. My condolences on your loss,” she added.

“Thank you, your grace,” Parsifal said. “I’ve had to explain the Skyrail so many times. There was a newspaper story a while back about the Russian airship that crashed in the North Sea…sort of a long balloon that could be steered. The Skyrail is like a cross between an airship and a train…but the trains from ‘my’ England might be a bit different than yours?”

“Trains.” Eleanor considered for a minute, her mind full of long lines of donkeys or carters. Then her face cleared. “Ah, yes. My son Aldridge has mentioned the term. A row of carts pulled by a steam engine. It runs on rails, and they use them in the mines. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” Parsifal said, frowning a little. “Yes…you’ve never ridden one? Never mind. This is excellent tea, your grace!”

“But—you say the official story. Tell me if my curiosity is unwelcome, my lord, but if you can share the unofficial story with an inquisitive lady from another world entirely, I would love to know more.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Parsifal said. “No one in ‘my’ England would believe the truth, and it could cause problems with the Prime Minister…but in reality, the expedition found a…a doorway into another world, I guess. One connected with my own, a place that myth calls the Sea. People and ships sometimes slip through from our normal waters into this other, land-less place. They are lost at Sea. Anyway…it’s a very long story, but I went into that Sea and I came back in a storm…a Weather Caster made it, they can send the weather wherever they like, on the Sea or Land. It’s quite outlandish, I know. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

Eleanor closed her mouth, which had dropped open in a most unladylike manner. “I have never heard of such a thing,” she said. “How fascinating. And how fortunate that you were able to find your way home.”

“Not really,” said Parsifal. He looked out the window and bit his lip. “I left a friend there.”

Meet Parsifal Keazund, from the Weather Casters’ Saga

Parsifal Keazund, recently having inherited the title of lord, has already been through the adventures of books one and two in the Weather Casters’ Saga, and stands on the brink of book three, A Hole in the Air, coming in late February.

A Hole in the Ice (Weather Casters Saga, book One):

A Hole in The Ice is an epic historical fantasy sweeping across time, myth and nineteenth-century Europe. A decadent cast of characters embark on a mysterious journey in pursuit of a mythical lost land said to be inhabited by beautiful but deadly mermaids. As the reader sweeps across the story under the glimmer of chandeliers and falling snow flakes, they are taken on a beautiful adventure to the very limits of the imagination. Each character in this extraordinary tale has their own personal treasure they are hunting and each one will pay a price higher than they ever anticipated.

Amazon link: http://amzn.to/2v2oS1I

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/2vgjkkP

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2uL1AL0

A Hole in the Sea (Weather Casters Saga, book Two):

As the chase continues into the extraordinary seascape of a mysterious ocean, where sea monsters reign, deadly mermaids hunt, and pirates skulk, Parsifal learns that staying alive on the high seas is no easy task; especially when being hunted down by the vengeful and determined Lady Vasille. As beautiful, deadly, and driven as ever, Lady Vasille will stop at nothing to retrieve the compass and the power it contains. In this fantastically wrought, nautical fantasy adventure, McCallum J. Morgan transports the reader into a truly magical realm.

Amazon link: http://amzn.to/2uHR4o3

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/2tLjbS1

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2uL1AL0

 

Meet McCallum J. Morgan

McCallum J. Morgan is a twenty-two year old author who also dabbles in the dark arts of painting and costuming. His books include the steampunk fantasy, The Weather Casters Saga, and the horror-comedy, Ambulatory Cadavers. He lives and writes in North Idaho, where nature and music inspire madness while he dreams of times long past.

Website: http://mccallumjmorgan.weebly.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mccallumjmorgan

Blog: http://mhablas.blogspot.com/

Publisher: http://www.littlebirdpublishinghouse.com/

Youtube: http://bit.ly/2v2N2cc

Twitter: @McCallumJMorgan

Instagram: @mccallumjmorgan

Amazon Author Page: http://amzn.to/2vRR1pG

 

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Tea with the Chathams

“The Earl and Countess of Chatham, Your Grace.”

Having made his announcement, the footman withdrew. Mary slipped her arm through John’s and they entered the drawing room together. John was missing a cabinet meeting for this; he said one did not turn down invitations with Duchesses, and that William wouldn’t even notice if he didn’t turn up anyway. Mary had considered arguing with him on that point, but he so rarely agreed to go into society since his disgrace she had not liked to press the point, and she had to admit she was curious about meeting the Duchess of Haverford.

Their hostess awaited them with a generous smile. John bowed; Mary curtseyed. “Your Grace. Many thanks for your kind interest.”

“Lady Chatham, how kind of you to come and visit me. Lord Chatham, you are very welcome. Please, be seated.”

Mary settled into her chair with some relief; standing for long periods did little good for her lame hip. “We are happy to meet you at last, Your Grace. I have heard so much about you from my friend Lady Macclesfield. I trust you are well, and your family?”

She immediately knew she had blundered, for she had not meant to steer the conversation into dangerous waters so soon, even in the name of politeness. She slanted a look across at John; he was stirring his tea, and seemed not to have noticed. To her relief, the Duchess seemed equally alive to the delicacy. John’s rift with his famous brother, prime minister Pitt, was well known, and Her Grace’s response – delivered after a slight, but barely noticeable, hesitation – was a general one, with no specific mention of brothers, ministerial or otherwise. “My family is well, I thank you. My sons keep robust good health, I thank God.”

Mary breathed a small sigh of relief. She had been afraid the Duchess might bring up politics, particularly John’s recent demotion from the post of First Lord of the Admiralty to a comparatively insignificant post. This still rankled, for it had left him open to criticism, which William had been oddly reluctant to refute. But Lady Macclesfield had been emphatic about Eleanor Haverford’s discretion, and Mary could see her friend had been right in her assessment. She began to relax.

“Do you stay in town for the summer, Lady Chatham?” the Duchess asked.

Before Mary could reply, John cut in. “I suspect we shall stay longer than usual. It will be tiresome, as I have so little business nowadays.”

The Duchess sipped her tea in silence, possibly trying to think of a diplomatic answer. Mary said, a little too brightly, “My husband is being modest. In times of war, being a cabinet minister hardly leaves one time for anything. We can only pray for an honourable peace with France, and then perhaps I will have my husband back.”

John snorted something into his teacup about the French having executed honour on the guillotine some time ago. Mary ignored him. At least he wasn’t thinking about his own obsolescence any more.

Lord Chatham, Courtesy of the Commando Forces Officers’Mess, Royal Marines, Plymouth

“This General Bonaparte appears to be achieving great success,” the Duchess said. “His Grace the duke says he is a commoner of no significance, and that, in any case one Englishman is worth a dozen French. I trust he is correct.”

“He is right about the Englishman,” John replied. “I am not so sure he is right about Bonaparte. The man either has a great deal of luck, or a great deal of talent. If we are truly unlucky, he may have both. If only my brother would allow me to re-join the army, I would…”

He left the sentence unfinished, then drained his tea.

It was all Mary could do to stop herself rolling her eyes at him. The Duchess sent her a compassionate glance and said, “I thank God that those dearest to my heart are too young for battle. Surely this war cannot continue long enough that I must send my Jonathan off to war? Yet other mothers, other wives have their hearts so torn. And the poorest have to shift for themselves and their babies, without a man to stand between them and the world. We send them off to fight and die for King and country, and never give a thought to the families that need them.”

“I for one am pleased Lord Chatham will not be going off to fight,” Mary observed firmly, accepting some more tea. “I understand you are doing your part to assist those wretched women of whom you speak. I have heard about your work, and admire it very much.”

Lady Chatham

Mary had finally lit upon a safe topic. The Duchess’s face brightened at that, and the two women settled down to discussing Eleanor’s latest project to raise donations among the ton of clothes, food, and supplies. Even John unbent enough to make suggestions. offering his friendship with the King and Queen as a way of assisting the Duchess’s schemes to reach the very highest circles. Mary was delighted to see him so forthcoming, for he badly needed to believe in his own worth once again.

It was hard being the brother of the prime minister, harder than anyone else seemed to realise. Mary wondered whether she would ever forgive William for taking John’s closeness and support for granted. She only hoped he would come round before irreparable damage had been inflicted on her proud, but vulnerable, husband.

______

Excerpt

‘I hardly need remind you the convoy to Gibraltar departs in a few days.’

Harriot dropped her mother’s hand. William stepped back as though John had struck him. ‘You cannot intend still to go?’

Lady Chatham, too, was startled. ‘John, you are head of the family. I grant you much of the work to be undertaken can best be done through Mr Johnson and Mr Skirrow, but the estates must be examined, the servants paid, the funeral arranged—’

John felt his breath constrict more and more with every word. He cut in desperately. ‘Parliament has voted for a public funeral. The arrangements for that are already out of my hands.’

‘But who will be Chief Mourner?’

The memory of his brother pushing him aside in the Prince’s Robing Room to take Papa’s hand cut into John’s mind unbidden. ‘William can do it,’ he said, more bitterly than he had intended, and his brother flinched.

Harriot’s hooded blue eyes, so similar to John’s own, turned to her older brother in contempt. ‘William is 19. You cannot expect him to take your place.’

‘I don’t,’ John protested, trying to remain calm. ‘I know I have responsibilities to you, but I am under orders—’

‘General Boyd would have released you from them!’ William finally found his voice. John had not seen so much emotion on his self-possessed brother’s face since their father had fallen ill. ‘Many disasters might befall you in Gibraltar, should Spain join the war. You may never come back. Your first duty now is to your family … to us.’ John said nothing, silenced by William’s uncharacteristic outburst. ‘Papa took the Earldom of Chatham as a gift from a grateful King and a loving populace. For God’s sake, be worthy of it. It is the one thing Papa asks of you.’

Stung, John said unevenly, ‘Papa is dead. He asks nothing of me.’ William’s face drained of colour and John cursed his clumsiness. ‘I only want to make my name.’

‘You are Earl of Chatham! You have the greatest name in England!’

‘No,’ John shouted, giving in at last to his anger and fear. ‘You have received England’s most famous name. All I have inherited are debts.’

His words echoed in silence. Harriot braced her hands on Lady Chatham’s shoulders, her face tense. William’s grey eyes were wide. Suddenly his gaze hardened. ‘How could you be so selfish? But then it has always been that way, has it not? Always late, always unreliable. You never think of how others might feel. I will not allow you to load your troubles onto my shoulders. You cannot abandon us all because you are jealous of me.’

‘I already told you,’ John insisted, white-faced. ‘All I want to do is make Papa proud.’

‘As you correctly observed,’ William hissed, ‘Papa is dead.’

______

Earl of Shadows

Two brothers are locked in a life-long struggle to fulfil their destinies.

John and William are the elder and younger sons of 18th century political giant William Pitt. The father is a man of great principle and a great orator. Twice Prime Minister, he accepts the title Earl of Chatham in recognition of his services to the British nation. But his death on the floor of the House of Lords deals a devastating blow to the family.

Forced to forego his military career, John inherits the title and a debt-ridden estate. William inherits the gilded tongue that will make him the brilliant rising star. John sees the problem looming, but the little brother cannot succeed without the big brother’s support. At the most critical moment John runs away from his responsibilities and his brother. It proves to be a fatal mistake.

Can John ever make amends and find forgiveness? Or will he continue to hold onto a pain that has almost become part of himself? Can he escape the long shadow of destiny?

Earl of Shadows is a meticulously researched and moving account of sibling rivalry in a world of duty and honour at the heart of one of Britain’s most iconic political families. It brilliantly underlines the notion that history is about more than just the winners – that there is another, more human, story to tell.

‘Absorbing, historically accurate portrayal of family conflict, soaring ambition, and redeeming love. An impressive fiction debut by a highly talented author.‘ — Margaret Porter, bestselling author of ‘A Pledge of Better Times‘

Jacqueline Reiter has a PhD in late 18th century British history from Cambridge University. She has been researching the Pitt family for many years, focusing particularly on the life of the 2nd Earl of Chatham, whose nonfiction biography she has also written. She lives in Cambridge with her husband and their two young children, both of whom probably believe Lord Chatham lives in their house.

Buy the book at: –mybook.to/earlofshadows (universal buy link)

Talk to Jacqueline at:

–twitter.com/latelordchatham (twitter)

–facebook.com/latelordchatham (FB)

–thelatelord.com (website)

 

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Spotlight on The Viscount’s Seduction

Alina K. Field has joined me today, with book two of her series, Sons of the Spy Lord. It’s on sale at 99c from 26 November to 4 December everywhere except Google Play — Links below. The Bastard’s Iberian Bride, book one, is at 99c until 26 November, so get it today.

Revenge and Romance—can she find both with one determined Viscount?

Searching for the Truth

Lady Sirena Hollister has lost her family, her home, and even her fey abilities, but somehow the fairies have handed her an unexpected chance at a Season in London. From her place on the fringes of high society, she resolves to find the truth about her only brother’s vanishing, and settle her family’s score with the wily English Spy Lord, the Earl of Shaldon. Soon enough, her schemes stir up an unknown enemy…and spark danger of a different sort, in the person of the Earl’s handsome heir, Viscount Bakeley.

Seducing the Beauty

The impertinent hoyden Bakeley met years earlier was as wild as her Irish roots, and just as unlucky. And she’s still an Irish traitor’s sister! But Lady Sirena has grown into a beauty whose charm and courage intrigue him. When danger threatens, Bakeley comes to her rescue, risking scandal, the ton’s disapproval, his interfering father’s ire…and his own heart.

Buy Links for The Viscount’s Seduction

Amazon   ♥  Kobo   ♥  iBooks   ♥  Nook  ♥  GooglePlay

Excerpt: First Kiss

He snatched up her hand. “You look lovely tonight. Stay. Keep me company.”

She tried to pull away but he reached for her other hand.

“Do not do this, sir.”

The anger was giving way to fear, though whether it was real or feigned he couldn’t tell. He drew her closer to the light. Her eyes glowed with that same luminosity he’d noticed at Hackwell’s ball, her lips were plump and inviting, and gold highlights bounced off her dress and her hair. She was a beauty in daylight. By candlelight, she was a goddess, a golden siren. No wonder she’d had to run away from her cousin.

And that thought brought him up. He didn’t ravish women, unless they wanted it. This girl didn’t want it.

Unless he convinced her she did.

He eased in a breath. No. At least, no, not tonight.

“You and I, my lady, we’re looking for the same thing.”

She swallowed hard, her lovely throat jumping. “You are mistaken.”

“Am I? What do you think I’m talking about?”

She pursed her lips. Opened them. “A liaison.”

“An improper one?”

Her brow furrowed. “You’re mocking me now. Let me go.”

“First we should search together.”

“I don’t know what you mean, and we’ll be missed. Both of us gone? Together?” Her eyes became shiny. She’d drummed up some tears. “I’ll be…on the street. I’ll be fortunate if I’m sent back to serve as my cousin’s, my cousin’s—”

“Files, Lady Sirena. Files that say Hollister on them.”

A tear ran unchallenged down her creamy cheek and her mouth dropped. “Oh.”

He swept the tear away with his finger. So soft her skin was, as he dragged the moisture down to her lips and traced a path over them. Her chest rose, her breasts straining the modest bodice of the yellow gown.

He yanked her closer and settled his lips on hers, and a sharp gasp escaped her before she clamped her mouth shut.

“Just one kiss,” he whispered. He nibbled around her locked lips and stroked the line of her jaw until she shivered in his arms and her lips parted, allowing him entry.

He kissed her then, sweeping his tongue against hers, for long minutes, then tasting her skin, following the path of his fingers along her jaw and down to her neck, inciting a sharp gasp and a moan, and more wriggling. He wanted her, and she wanted him, and—

“Stop.” Her hands locked on his shoulders, pushing.

Heart pounding, he froze. He was a gentleman. Even if she had been no lady—which she most definitely was—he would have stopped. No matter how hard his cock screamed for release, as it did now. “Right.” He stepped back and straightened his neck cloth.

Sirena’s heart pounded so wildly she could barely find breath to speak. “The files,” she said finally.

“Yes. He wouldn’t keep them here in so accessible a location.”

Oh, he was lathered, she could tell, almost as much as herself. This was what was meant by seduction—not the graspy, slobbery, forced thing her cousin had attempted. If not for the housekeeper and butler and a strong dose of laudanum…oh, this was very different, and this man a far more powerful lord than her cousin.

She’d be lucky to survive this night with her maidenhead intact. But she wanted that file. She needed to know what happened to Jamie. “His study then? My father had a room like that.”

“Yes. We’ll look there.” He gazed down that bored nose, straightened his neck cloth, though not so much as a hair of the man was out of place, while inside herself, every nerve was dancing a jig. She pressed a hand to her throat and hoped her heart hadn’t pounded her bodice askew.

Meet Alina:

Award winning author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature, but her true passion is the much happier world of romance fiction. Though her roots are in the Midwestern U.S., after six very, very, very cold years in Chicago, she moved to Southern California and hasn’t looked back. She shares a midcentury home with her husband, her spunky, blonde, rescued terrier, and the blue-eyed cat who conned his way in for dinner one day and decided the food was too good to leave.

She is the author of several Regency romances, including the 2014 Book Buyer’s Best winner, Rosalyn’s Ring. She is hard at work on her next series of Regency romances, but loves to hear from readers!

 

Visit her at:

http://alinakfield.com/

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by

Tea with Dorothea

Miss Dorothea Horatia Wythe stared at the elaborate invitation in stunned surprise. No matter how many times she read it, the sentiment was still the same:

An invitation to tea.

With the Duchess of Haverford.

The Duchess of Haverford.

Not a relation.

Not a friend of a distant cousin.

Not a person she’d bumped into in the park on accident whilst trying to hide from Lord St. Vincent.

Not a friend of a friend, unless one counted Aunt Harriett who knew simply everyone. Or they her.

No…a duchess. A stranger.

Royalty.

Royalty who wanted to take tea with plain ole Dorothea Wythe—a bluestocking too opinionated to take in society.

Dory didn’t know whether to jump up and down in her stockings or dive beneath the covers and hide for a few years. The entire idea of tea with the Duchess of Haverford was impossible with a view to the absurd.

Did Aunt Harriett have a hand in this? Or worse, Lord St. Vincent?

Dory glanced over at her desk which was littered with page after page of notes from the writing she was translating: coded messages written in the margins of a small bible—one she’d borrowed from Lord St. Vincent. She was nearly finished, which was fortunate for she needed to return the bible before its absence was noted.

The fact that she’d stolen into Lord St. Vincent’s room to borrow it in the first place was telling of her character was it not?

Dory raced to the desk, dipped her quill in ink, and penned her acceptance to tea.

She was far too curious for her own good.

The Umbrella Chronicles is a story in the Never Too Late collection. Every Monday for the next little while, one of my fellow Bluestocking Belles will bring their hero or their heroine along to meet the Duchess of Haverford. I hope you’ll join us to learn more about them and their stories.

Never Too Late has its own page on the Bluestocking Belles website, where you can learn more about each story and find preorder links while they are being added. (It’s 99c while in preorder, so buy now.)

If you’re an Amazon US purchaser, buy it here.

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Spotlight on The Demon Duke

Today’s guest is Margaret Locke, and her new release The Demon Duke.

Behind every good man is a great secret.

Banished to Yorkshire as a boy for faults his father failed to beat out of him, Damon Blackbourne has no use for English society and had vowed never to return to his family’s estate at Thorne Hill, much less London. However, when his father and brother die in a freak carriage accident, it falls on Damon to take up the mantle of the Malford dukedom and to introduce his sisters to London Society–his worst nightmare come to life.

He never planned on Lady Grace Mattersley. The beautiful debutante stirs him body and soul with her deep chocolate eyes and hesitant smiles. Until she stumbles across his dark secret.

Bookish Grace much prefers solitude and reading to social just-about-anything. Her family may be pressuring her to take on the London Season to find herself a husband, but she has other ideas. Such as writing a novel of her own. But she has no idea how to deal with the Duke of Malford.

Will she betray him to the world? Or will she be his saving Grace?

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Meet Margaret Locke

As a teen, Margaret pledged to write romances when she was older. Once an adult, however, she figured she ought to be doing grownup things, not penning stories. Thank goodness turning forty cured her of that silly notion.
Now happily ensconced again in the clutches of her first crush (romance novels!), Margaret is never happier than when sharing her passion for a grand Happy Ever After. Because love matters.
Margaret lives in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley in Virginia with her fantastic husband, two fabulous kids, and three fat cats. You can usually find her in front of some sort of screen (electronic or window); she’s come to terms with the fact she’s not an outdoors person.
You can find here here:

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Excerpt

Rexborough Ball, London Early April, 1814

Grace squeezed nearer to the wall, surveying the crowded room from her cramped corner. Bodies moved around each other as everyone jockeyed for position. It was the first grand ball of the Season, a mad crush at the Marquess of Rexborough’s expansive London estate. There was hardly space to dance, though the orchestra played gaily.

If only she could go home. Her sister Emmeline danced by with Lord Everton, a vivacious smile lighting her face. Even Rebecca’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she carefully executed her steps opposite the handsome Marquess of Emerlin.

Why could Grace not feel the same excitement?

Matilda, standing next to Grace, beamed at her other two daughters, delighting in their successes in snagging eligible men so early in the evening.

“They’re merely dancing, Mother. No need to plan the weddings.”

The dowager duchess sniffed. “At least they’re dancing. You have begged off three invitations so far.”

“Lord Oglesby has two left feet, quite possibly three, if my toes have any say. Lord Featherstone is old enough to be my grandfather. And Lord Emerlin only asked because you wished him to. You know he’s had his sights on Becca for waltzing.”

Her mother aired her face with the elaborate fan in her right hand. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad match. Though he is so much her elder.”

“A marquess and the eventual heir to a dukedom. Not such a bad match, indeed. And ten is not so many years. Many a young lady has married a far older gentleman.”

Matilda Mattersley opened her mouth as if to respond when a commotion started amongst the ball goers. They gave a collective gasp as a man entered the room. He was clad entirely in black—black pantaloons, black coat and waistcoat, even an ebony shirt and cravat. Thick black hair tousled wildly over his forehead. Two young ladies next to Grace tittered.

“He is of fine countenance,” one gushed.

“Who is he?” said the other.

A matron broke in, speaking sharply. “Did you not hear him announced? That’s the Duke of Malford.” She made the sign of the cross. “They say he is a devil. They call him the Demon Duke.”

“Really?” the first girl exclaimed.

The older woman slapped the girl’s knuckles with her fan. “Don’t even think about it, Alice. Come, let us seek some lemonade.”

The girl obediently followed the matron, no doubt her mother, through the mass of people.

“The Demon Duke,” Grace murmured.

The man moved farther into the room. His grin was wicked, but his shoulders tight, his eyes . . . sad. Did he notice how people edged away? How whispers raced across the room? How eyes peeped at him while pretending not to do so?

How could he not?

Sympathy flooded through Grace. “He doesn’t look devilish to me,” she said to her mother. “He looks uncomfortable. Like he wishes he were anywhere else but here.” How she could relate.

Matilda sucked a breath. “However he looks is not your concern. The Duke of Malford is not an option.”

“I do not think you have anything to fear, Mother. A man such as that would never be interested in a mouse such as me.”

A smile leaked through the dowager duchess’s pursed lips. “A mouse, indeed. It’s good to see this mouse knows to stay away from a cat. He looks rather feral.”

He is a panther, sleek and black. With the mien of a lion.

“If you’ll pardon me, Mama, I am in need of the retiring room.”

Grace slipped from the room. With everyone’s attention on the Duke, this was a good time to sneak away to the library, as she’d done at Rexborough balls a time or two before.

She pulled a book from the shelf. Ah yes. Aesop’s fables. She settled in near a window, her thoughts on the man in the ballroom.

Hadn’t Aesop said it was the mouse who saved the lion?

by

Tea with Jake

Jake Cohen followed the footman through the manor house as fast as his leg would carry him, so lost in thought he barely noticed the fine art and sumptuous furnishings. When the invitation had arrived from the Duchess of Haverford, his wife had read it three times to be sure it had come to the right person. What on earth would a duchess want with an innkeeper?

Meg had shrugged. “She’s probably seen you fight.”

“Didn’t see a lot of duchesses in Bear Gardens.” He shrugged it off. In the past months he had already done so many things he thought he never would, and tea with a duchess would not be strangest. He had come from wealth, but of course the duchess had no way of knowing that. Or did she? “Do you want to come with?”

“Lord, no. They wouldn’t let me in the door, assuming I’d fit.” She rested her hands on her swollen belly as though feeling the burden of her sensitive state, though her expression was nothing if not serene. “You go, darling. See what she wants. If she’s looking for a different Jake, pinch some cakes and come home. Don’t let her run off with you, now.”

He smirked, flattered in spite of himself. Meg regularly told him he was the handsomest man ever to walk the earth, and he knew she believed it. The fact no one else seemed to share her opinion didn’t keep him from enjoying it. He was a very fortunate man. He’d kissed her on his way out. “As if she could.”

Now, walking through a house finer than any he’d visited, the question bothered him again. In his thirty-nine years, he’s been a goldsmith, a boxer, and an innkeeper. What would a duchess want with any of them?

She waited in a room that seemed to exist for just such a purpose, sunlight pouring through a huge window with panes of glass so fine and clean he could hardly see them. They had finally replaced their broken windows at the inn, but the filth of the street had immediately dimmed their shine.

The duchess’s smile was pleasantly bemused, as if she hadn’t been certain he would come. “Mister Cohen.”

He bowed. Wasn’t one meant to bow at times like these? “Your Grace.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then emitted a sound not unlike nervous laughter. “Forgive me, Mr. Cohen, I confess I am faintly stunned to meet you in person. The engravings did not do you justice.”

His stomach sank with dread. “Engravings?”

“Quite so. They were completed when you were a little older, I believe. Won’t you join me? You’ve come a long way, you must be exhausted.”

Jake frowned. What had she meant by “when you were a little older”? He’d thought his English was fluent, but he’d never heard that particular turn of phrase. As far as he was aware, there were no engravings of him anywhere. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Are you quite certain you have the right man?”

“Oh, yes. Quite certain. Please, come.”

He took the chair she offered and watching silently as she poured two cups of tea from a beautiful white pot covered all over in painted blue flowers. He had never seen a matching set of china before, let alone tea cups with little handles. They must have been designed for ladies; he could barely hook a fingertip through the delicate loop. He smiled at the lovely absurdity of the design.

“You like the tea cups?”

“I do,” he replied. “The pattern is very distinctive, it looks like some I saw back in Amsterdam. Is it Dutch?”

“Danish,” she supplied. “Royal Copenhagen. It’s all the rage.”

“I have not seen these before.”

“I should think not.” Her cheek quirked as she suppressed a laugh. “They are not yet sold in England, and have only been produced in Denmark since perhaps 1775.”

He choked on his tea.

She gave no indication she noticed, but offered a plate of small iced pastries “Cake?”

He coughed to clear his throat. “Thank you.” The cake was light as a dream and tasted faintly of vanilla and cardamom. The orange-scented black tea complimented it perfectly. If this was a dream, the tea tasted very real. “Did you say these cups were produced in 1775?”

“Not this precise set, no, but I believe that was when the factory was founded. Forgive me, I’ve shocked you. What year is it, where you live?”

He almost laughed. “It is 1679, Your Grace.”

“That would make you…?”

He flushed slightly. “Thirty-nine.”

A secret, knowing smile crept across her face. “Still a young man, for all that. Half your life is still ahead of you.”

Who was this duchess, who drank from cups not yet manufactured and seemed to know the future? “Where am I?”

“You are at Haverford House, and it is 1797.”

He felt light-headed as the blood drained from his face. “Impossible.”

“Quite possible, Mister Cohen. I am resolved to hire only the best tutors for my sons, even if that means procuring them from the previous century.”

He was just about to open his mouth to make his excuses and leave the company of this mad duchess when she produced a set of engravings from the sideboard. She passed them to him with no little reverence.

In the first, he was depicted stripped to the waist, demonstrating his fighting stance before a crowd of gentlemen. He did look older, but he knew he was looking at himself—fortunately for them, no one had a face quite like his. The artist had made him enormously muscular and rakishly handsome, with longer, curling hair and a serious expression. He smiled in spite of himself. It was rather flattering.

His smile faded when he looked at the second engraving. He stood proudly next to a handsome young man, as if showing him off. Their hands were wrapped to fight and they were surrounded by an audience.

“I suspected you might not believe me, so I wanted to show you these…”

“When were these done?” he asked, too quickly.

“The date is on the back. I believe they were part of a series published in 1690.”

“1690,” he repeated to himself, eyes on that second engraving. The young man in the picture looked a bit like Tom Callaghan, but less mad. He was younger, softer, and he had his mother’s smile. Tears sprung to his eyes as he realized who he was looking at. “This is Tommy.”

The duchess grinned. “Tom Henshawe, your son. He made quite an impression in his day. Sired by one legend and raised by another. What could he be but a pugilist? Tom Henshawe was undoubtedly the finest of his generation, but you’re the man who trained him. I want you to teach my son the art of pugilism.”

He blinked. “Assuming this is not some fever dream—“

“It is not.”

“—you would like me to come here, to 1797, to teach your son to fight?”

“Quite so, Mister Cohen. You will be handsomely compensated. I daresay your wages will go a bit further in 1679. The inn still needs some work, does it not?”

He nodded. “It does.”

“There you have it. My driver will collect you for one afternoon once per week and bring you here. Would Monday next suit? Aldridge is already seventeen and he is most anxious to begin.”

Jake ran a hand over his face. A duchess was offering to pay him handsomely to go to the future to teach a future duke to box. “I would be happy to oblige, Your Grace, but are you certain this is what you want? Boxing is not a gentlemanly sport. Would he not be more suited to fencing?”

“Things have changed, Mister Cohen. Pugilism is very popular among young gentlemen, and I am resolved my son shall excel at it.” As he excels at everything else, he heard, even though she didn’t say it aloud. “At any rate, he’s been fencing for years. Say you’ll consider it?” 

“I would be happy to oblige, but I am struggling to believe this is 1797. How is it possible I am here?”

“Never underestimate a mother’s love, Mister Cohen.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I do not. Forgive me for asking, but is there any other way you might prove this is real?”

The duchess nodded to a footman who produced a printed broadsheet unlike any he’d ever seen. He was still learning to read English, but he could make the date out clearly enough. 21 May, 1797. He looked up sharply. “What do you know of my life?”

She sipped her tea. “Perhaps men are not meant to know these things. Suffice to say, you live a long, prosperous life and enjoy a good deal of fame in your later years. As you have seen, Tom becomes a boxer, and your daughter—“

“Daughter?” His heart sped up as he thought of Meg at home, mere weeks away from giving birth.

The duchess smiled. “Your daughter will do many great deeds, and will live an exceptional life. I will say no more.”

It was madness, but he knew in his bones she told the truth. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he wanted to believe it. “Very well. If you are correct and my wife gives birth to a girl, I will return and teach your son to fight.”

“Excellent.” She grinned. “I have taken the liberty of packing some cakes for you to take home to your wife. She’ll want them after the day she’s had.”

He accepted the parcel as he rose to leave, wondering what else this mad duchess knew that he didn’t. “What of Meg? Is she well?”

The duchess smiled her secret smile. “Oh yes, but perhaps you ought to hurry back.”

Jake’s heart hammered all the way back to Southwark—back to his time, if the duchess was to be believed—terrified she knew something about Meg he didn’t. Had something happened while he was away?

The inn was in a flurry of activity when he returned. Clouds of steam billowed from the kitchen and Achille, Judith’s odd Frenchman, hurried past with his arms full of clean linen. He broke into a wide smile as he saw them. “My felicitations. You have a daughter.”

Jake almost dropped the cakes in his shock. He gripped the doorjamb with his free hand to keep from fainting. As he looked at his boots, the room spinning around him, a pristine note was pushed beneath the door. He grabbed it and broke the Dunchess of Haverford’s seal. Inside was only one word: 

Monday?

 

Broken Things

By Jessica Cale

Rival. Sister. Barmaid. Whore.

Meg Henshawe has been a lot of things in her life, and few of them good. As proprietress of The Rose and Crown in Restoration Southwark, she has squandered her life catering to the comfort of workmen and thieves. Famous for her beauty as much as her reputation for rage, Meg has been coveted, abused, and discarded more than once. She is resigned to fighting alone until a passing boxer offers a helping hand.

Jake Cohen needs a job. When an injury forces him out of the ring for good, all he’s left with is a pair of smashed hands and a bad leg. Keeping the peace at The Rose is easy, especially with a boss as beautiful—and wickedly funny—as Meg Henshawe. In her way, she’s as much of an outcast as Jake, and she offers him three things he thought he’d never see again: a home, family, and love.

After Meg’s estranged cousin turns up and seizes the inn, Meg and Jake must work together to protect their jobs and keep The Rose running. The future is uncertain at best, and their pasts won’t stay buried. Faced with one setback after another, they must decide if what they have is worth the fight to keep it. Can broken things ever really be fixed?

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Meet Jessica Cale

Jessica Cale is a historical romance author and journalist based in North Carolina. Originally from Minnesota, she lived in Wales for several years where she earned a BA in History and an MFA in Creative Writing while climbing castles and photographing mines for history magazines. She kidnapped (“married”) her very own British prince (close enough) and is enjoying her happily ever after with him in a place where no one understands his accent. She is the editor of Dirty, Sexy History and you can visit her at dirtysexyhistory.com.

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Tea with Lady Gwendolyn

Lady Gwendolyn Marie Worthington made her way through the richly appointed manor home of Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford. Why she had been summoned at such a time was beyond her understanding. She had more important concerns, like her unfortunate wedding days from now, but one did not easily dismiss an invitation, no matter how untimely, from Her Grace.

She continued following the footman, largely ignoring paintings of several generations of Haverfords upon the walls. The house and its furnishings were no different than the ones she herself grew up with. being the daughter of a duke. Even so, she could still appreciate several unique pieces of artwork that caught her eye as they continued through several hallways to meet Her Grace.

Gwendolyn began to wonder just how large the house was when they at last rounded a corner and stopped before an open doorway of a salon. The servant announced her as she entered the room, and she saw the duchess sitting behind a desk attending to her correspondence.

“Lady Gwendolyn, so nice of you to join me,” Her Grace said, placing her seal upon her letter and then giving Gwendolyn her full attention. “I do so admire promptness in my guests.”

Gwendolyn curtseyed. “Thank you for receiving me, Your Grace.”

The duchess stood and came to sit in a chair near the hearth just as a trolley cart was wheeled in by another ever-efficient maid. She motioned to the vacant chair. “Do be seated and join me for a cup of tea, Lady Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn sat as the duchess began to pour and offered her a cup of tea. She gave a nod of thanks and they sat in silence for several minutes, leaving Gwendolyn concern as to what this meeting was all about. She took a sip of her tea and waited.

“Gwendolyn, my dear, I will get straight to the matter of why I have invited you here today,” Her Grace began.

“I was concerned about why you wished to see me,” Gwendolyn replied setting down her cup. The duchess focused on her and Gwendolyn swallowed hard. Those eyes. She seems to know my deepest secrets, she thought.

“I would be remiss in my duties as a friend to your mother, if I did not voice my concerns about your impending nuptials to Lord Sandhurst.”

“My marriage was decided upon years ago before my father passed.”

“I understand you had given your consent.”

Gwendolyn gave a heavy sigh trying not to shiver at the thought of being wed to a man she would never come to love. “Being a dutiful daughter, I would not go against my father’s wishes. For reasons known to him, he favored Lord Sandhurst’s suit.”

“And your brother continues to honor the commitment.” Her Grace took another sip of her tea.

Her Grace looked none too pleased with her brother’s decision. “I attempted to plead my case to Hartford but was unsuccessful at changing his mind. I have no idea why he was so adamant we honor the contract.”

The duchess tapped a finger along the brim of her cup. “So your mother has informed me. I thought if anyone would be able to persuade your brother, it would be her. There must be some underlying reasoning behind his decision.”

“I am afraid that still does not get me out of a marriage to a man I loathe.”

“If Hartford will not agree—and I understand you have no money of your own. Very improvident of your father.”

Her Grace’s comment did not require an answer. Gwendolyn stared at the hands holding the cup, blushing a little.

“If you are willing, my dear, I will help you run away. My friend Lady Grace Winderfield provides a—what can I call it—a refuge for women suffering from the power that men use so carelessly.”

“A refuge?” Gwendolyn had never heard of such a thing.

“Indeed. I must warn you, it would not be what a duke’s daughter is used to. You would be encouraged to find another name. You would need to work.”

“And– and leave my family?”

The duchess’s gaze was compassionate.

“It would need to be a complete new beginning, my dear. Those my friend helps rely on no one discovering their whereabouts. Everyone who joins the group must cut all ties with the past.”

Gwendolyn’s heart sank. She could not do it. Never see her mother again? Or Brandon? Or even Hartford, annoyed though she was with him at the moment?

“I cannot,” she replied. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I cannot. Surely things are not that bad?”

“Yours will not be the first marriage to start off under such circumstances. But you are your mother’s daughter and shall make the best of a horrendous situation,” Her Grace informed her, setting down her cup.

“Yes, of course, Your Grace.” Gwendolyn finished her tea and could tell her meeting with the duchess was at an end. “Thank you for receiving me today.”

“Thank you for coming,” the duchess replied before leaning over to take Gwendolyn’s hand. “These things have a way of working out, my dear. Somehow, I have the feeling life will throw you an opportunity when you least expect it and did not even see coming.”

Gwendolyn rose, curtseyed, and excused herself. She began mumbling to herself as she left about the injustice of her life and being married to a man she could not love. How she could look forward to some unknown opportunity in her future was beyond her. Two days later, she was a married woman and her descent into hell had just begun.

Nothing But Time: A Family of Worth, Book One

They will risk everything for their forbidden love…

When Lady Gwendolyn Marie Worthington is forced to marry a man old enough to be her father, she concludes love will never enter her life. Her husband is a cruel man who blames her for his own failings. Then she meets her brother’s attractive business associate and all those longings she had thought gone forever suddenly reappear.

A long-term romance holds no appeal for Neville Quinn, Earl of Drayton until an unexpected encounter with the sister of the Duke of Hartford. Still, he resists giving his heart to another woman, especially one who belongs to another man.

Chance encounters lead to intimate dinners, until Neville and Gwendolyn flee to Berwyck Castle at Scotland’s border hoping beyond reason their fragile love will survive the vindictive reach of Gwendolyn’s possessive husband. Before their journey is over, Gwendolyn will risk losing the only love she has ever known.

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Excerpt:

Lady Gwendolyn Marie Worthington strode across the floor of her brother’s study, carelessly threw her bonnet onto a high backed leather chair, and crossed her arms. The missive she held in her hand had driven all thoughts of a trip to the milliner with her friend Lady Calliope out of her head. Her shoe tapped a rapid staccato on the wooden floorboards. Her brother remained indifferent to her demand for his attention whilst he continued writing. The insufferable lout did not even have the decency to acknowledge her presence in his pursuit to finish his correspondence. She cleared her throat, hoping to gain his notice.

He continued whatever business he was attending to without a pause, except to say, in a barely civil and flat monotone, “You did not knock.” His disinterest in her presence served as a reminder of his place within his household, as if she could ever forget she was subject to his directives.

Her brother had had the arrogance to send a servant to deliver his note to her bedroom. He should have come there himself to speak with her, given the news he wished to impart. She tossed the crumbled parchment onto his desk. He, in turn, swatted it aside like it was nothing but a pesky insect.

“You have been given your instructions, Gwendolyn. We have nothing further to discuss.”

“Do not take that tone with me, Edmond. You may hold our father’s title, but that in no way gives you leave to treat me as if I must comply with demands such as these,” she fumed. Where had her carefree older brother of years past gone? Surely some measure of the young man she had adored in their youth lurked behind the expressionless mask of this unfeeling cad before her?

Edmond Gerard Worthington, 9th Duke of Hartford, set his quill down. The blue eyes he at last bothered to turn upon her were just as cold as his voice. Since he had inherited his rightful title of duke after their father’s passing, along with all the responsibilities such a position held, Gwendolyn hardly recognized her brother. She swallowed hard, knowing she could not easily sway this uncaring man. Still, she had to try.

“Mother will hear of this,” she warned. “She will not allow her only daughter to be wed to a man in order to fulfill some business deal made years ago.”

“Mother is fully aware of the obligations that must be met. I should not have to explain how things of this nature are done, sister. Arranged marriages happen every day within the ton. Yours will be no exception.”

“Brandon, then. Surely my younger brother cares what happens to his sister since you have made it painfully obvious you do not,” Gwendolyn retorted sharply.

“He is my brother, too, if you would care to remember.” Edmond sighed heavily. “Both mother and Brandon have been summoned to return to London immediately. The marriage contract was agreed years ago and bears the signatures of all parties, including your own. You would have already been wed, had it not been for father’s death.”

Edmond leaned his elbows upon his desk, fingers forming a steeple as if contemplating his next counter to whatever argument she could muster.

She quickly thought of the first excuse that crossed her mind. “I am still in mourning,” Gwendolyn declared through clenched lips.

His eyes roamed down the length of her pink floral gown and his brows rose in unsuppressed amusement. “Your mourning period is long since over, as your garments surely attest. Resign yourself to wedding Lord Sandhurst.”

She stomped her foot in frustration. “Bernard Sandhurst is a lecherous old man and ancient enough to be my father.” She barely held back a cry of despair. “How can you condemn me to a life with that horrible person, however long the vermin will still remain on this earth?”

“I am doing the best I can to save this family from financial ruin. You should be grateful Sandhurst will still have you, given the limited amount I could spare for your dowry. I will not be swayed in my decision, Gwendolyn, and Sandhurst can no longer be put off. He has all but stated his time waiting for you is over. He has been as patient as one could ask of a man getting on in years. You are now twenty years of age and should have been wed with children of your own by now.”

Thoughts of being intimate with a man who repulsed Gwendolyn made her shudder. The few times she had had the displeasure of being alone in the same room with Lord Bernard Sandhurst, he had mauled her with his cool clammy hands. He reminded her of a fish, and an unappealing one at that.

“Edmond─”

Her brother cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Father made this decision and you must abide by it, along with the rest of us.” Edmond picked up his quill and examined the tip before dipping it into the inkwell.

“You are a duke, Edmond. Surely you can pay the man off so I can find a worthy man to love.” She silently pleaded with him, and, for the briefest instant, she held the smallest measure of hope he would accede to her wishes.

His piercing blue eyes leveled on her but briefly. “Love is for fools. Better to marry for wealth and a decent position in society than to lose your heart to such a frivolous emotion as love.” Edmond returned to his work, the quill scratching across the parchment. The sound echoed in her head as though the missive sealed her fate. “Resign yourself to your marriage Gwendolyn. Sandhurst has made arrangements for the wedding to take place two weeks hence.”

Meet Sherry Ewing

Sherry Ewing picked up her first historical romance when she was a teenager and has been hooked ever since. A bestselling author, she writes historical & time travel romances to awaken the soul one heart at a time. Always wanting to write a novel but busy raising her children, she finally took the plunge in 2008 and wrote her first Regency. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Beau Monde & the Bluestocking Belles. Sherry is currently working on her next novel and when not writing, she can be found in the San Francisco area at her day job as an Information Technology Specialist. You can learn more about Sherry and her published work at www.SherryEwing.com.

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How to be a child in Regency England

Today, I welcome Quenby Olsen to the blog, to talk about her research into Regency childhood. Over to you, Quen.

While writing The Firstborn (a story that features a very chubby, very assertive infant named George) I fell down the frequent rabbit hole of research about how babies and children were regarded in the nineteenth century. The fact that stood about above everything else? If you were a child born in Regency-era England, then your childhood was most likely remarkably different from only one generation before you.

In the eighteenth century, the prevailing belief about children was that they should be treated (and be expected to behave) as miniature adults. The advice we hear today, to let kids be kids? Not something you would have heard in the early Georgian-era of powdered wigs and telling French peasants to eat cake. But round and about the turn of the nineteenth century, there was a tremendous change in not only how children were brought into the world, but how they were raised.

Obstetricians began to take the place of midwives, and women were encouraged to “lie in” for at least a month after giving birth, taking on help from neighbors and family. Many households still sent their young children off to be cared for by wet nurses from about the age of three months (poorer households would most likely not have this option) presumably to give the mother freedom to re-enter society and also to bring about the ability to have more children quickly. (Jane Austen, for instance, was sent to live with another family from the age of three months to two years. As dire as this sounds, she was visited by one or both of her parents every day. Though this practice was looked down on by the generations immediately followed.)

The tight, constraining swaddling of an infant that had been the norm in the eighteenth century was pushed aside in an effort to give babies more freedom of movement. Swaddling had also been used in an effort to keep babies calm and quiet, as if the crying of a child was a bad thing. In the nineteenth century, adults began to understand that crying was a normal part of infancy and childhood, often a result of the baby and child still learning how to express themselves.

Play and games were encouraged as being essential towards a child’s development, and children’s clothing reflected these changing attitudes. While babies were kept in long gowns to keep them warm, as soon as they reached the age of crawling and walking, they were placed in “short clothes” to give their chubby little legs room to maneuver. Pudding caps were used as well, a slightly padded helmet, of sorts, to help prevent the bumps and bruises that came with learning to walk and run and jump. (And just when you thought overprotective parenting was a modern invention…)

Children were also drawn tighter into the bosom of the family, and many households all ate their meals together rather than keeping the children separate with a nursemaid round the clock. The belief was that they would better learn to socialize and grow into better adults by seeing the behavior of their elders and to “practice” with them. But it had the added benefit of keeping the family together and letting the parents and children play a larger part in each other’s lives.

By the age of eight is when things would begin to change in the child’s life. If you were a boy, your education went into overdrive. Being sent off to school, the hiring of a tutor, or being sent to learn from the local parson were all popular options. Girls, on the other hand, were more likely to be kept at home for their education (especially as a girl’s education consisted of things like needlework, painting, music, and less history, science, and languages than their brothers). A governess would often be added to the household staff (though we all remember Lady Catherine De Bourgh’s horror at discovering that all five Bennet daughters were raised without the aid of a governess).

As the nineteenth century moved forward, the role of motherhood and the importance of children being children only progressed further. A short while after the Regency period, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert arrived, two people who both reportedly doted on their children (all nine of them!) and all while running an empire. Now, nearly two centuries later, it is remarkable how many things have changed, and yet how with the upswing in popularity of cloth diapers and midwives and ensuring that kids have ample time to play, just how many things have remained the same.

The Firstborn

Sophia has sacrificed everything for her younger sister, Lucy. She has removed them from the only home they ever knew, taken on the care of Lucy’s illegitimate son, George, and even assumed the role of a widow and mother in order to erase all hint of scandal from the boy’s birth. But rumor continues to follow them like the darkest of clouds, and Sophia must adapt to her new existence as a false widow with no prospects beyond the doors of her small cottage.

Lord Haughton will stop at nothing to prevent the slightest whiff of disgrace from tainting his family’s name. When he learns of his younger brother’s latest indiscretion-one that leaves a bastard child in his wake-Haughton rushes across the country to offer the boy’s mother a comfortable living in exchange for her silence about the child’s true parentage. But he arrives only to have his generous offer thrown back in his face by Sophia Brixton, a sharp-tongued and sharper-witted woman who proceeds to toss him out of her house. But just because he is banished from her home does not mean he is so easily banished from her life.

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Excerpt:

Finnian shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Up to this point, nothing had transpired in the way he’d imagined it would. And as for Sophia, she was too blunt, and too intelligent. And that was what worried him most.

He gestured towards the recently vacated table. “Will you be seated?”

Her shoulders pressed back. “I’ll stand, thank you.”

He cleared his throat. She was not going to make this easy for him. A point for her, since he doubted she had any idea what had brought him all this way. “The child—”

“George,” she said, interrupting him. “His name is George, after our father.”

“Of course.”

“No,” she spoke again, while his next words still danced on the tip of his tongue. “Not ‘of course’. Such a phrase denotes your being aware that our father’s name was George, or knowing what type of man he was and why we would choose to honor him in such a way. But here you are, darkening my doorstep nine months after his birth. A fact which proves to me that either you didn’t know about him before now, or you simply didn’t care.”

He inclined his head, yet dared not take his eyes off of her, not for a second. “My apologies. I assure you it was the former, and as soon as I discovered that my brother had a son—”

“And where is your brother? And why are you here in his stead?”

Finnian could feel his temper beginning to rise. Never before had he allowed himself to show anger in front of a woman, and yet she was the most infuriating creature he’d ever encountered. “He is in London. I assume.”

“You assume?” To his surprise, her mouth broke into a smile and a soft laugh emanated from the back of her throat. “In other words, you have about as much sway over the life of your brother as I have over my sister.”

“I’m not here to discuss my family,” he said, his voice taking on a note of warning he hadn’t even intended to be there.

“Oh, but I’m sure you’re here with the sole purpose of discussing mine. Or am I wrong?” A flash in her eyes countered the steel in his voice. “The mere fact that you’ve arrived today with a prior knowledge of not only both our names, our location, George’s existence, and no doubt a myriad other trivial items concerning our past and present life tells me that you’ve gone to great lengths to find out all you could before traveling here from…” She waved her right hand in a vague circle. “… wherever you call home. Which means, no doubt, that you wanted the upper hand in this discussion. Which also means that I will most likely not care for whatever it is you’ve come to tell me.”

Finnian fumed in silence. If the baby’s mother was even half as maddening as the woman standing before him, he wondered how David had survived with his manhood and his sanity intact. “I had come here with the intention of speaking to the mother of my brother’s child,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

“But she is not here,” she said, delivering the confession with the precision of a wielded weapon. “And she is not like to be anytime soon. And since your appearance here is most likely connected with George, then you will have to make do with speaking to me.”

Meet Quenby Olsen

Quenby Olson lives in Central Pennsylvania where she writes, homeschools, glares at baskets of unfolded laundry, and chases the cat off the kitchen counters. After training to be a ballet dancer, she turned towards her love of fiction, penning everything from romance to fantasy, historical to mystery. She spends her days with her husband and children, who do nothing to dampen her love of the outdoors, immersing herself in historical minutiae, and staying up late to watch old episodes of Doctor Who.

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by

Tea with Lady Emma

Lady Emma Landrum curtseyed deeply when the Duchess of Haverford’s secretary announced her. Puzzling over the invitation during the carriage ride over had brought her no conclusions, and she had no more idea why the duchess wished to see her than she did when the summons arrived. Summons it had been. An invitation can be declined politely.

She ought to have sent regrets, but didn’t dare, even if it did force her to delay her return to Chadbourn Park by a day. Mother would worry and Papa would rant when she failed to appear as expected.

How on earth did Her Grace know I raced to town for a fitting? We didn’t even put the knocker out. How did the woman know everything? Emma feared the duchess somehow found out about her little unauthorized excursion the day before. She prayed not. A woman of eighteen years with one season behind her ought to be allowed a bit of freedom for pity’s sake.

“Lady Emma, my dear, stop gazing at me owlishly and take a seat.” If the duchess’s knowing eyes rattled her a bit, the amused expression reassured her. Emma sat, and let the age-old ritual of the tea service calm her nerves.

“I don’t bite, you know,” Her Grace said after a particularly long silence when polite comments on the weather petered out. “But I expect you wonder why I wanted to speak with you.”

“I have been wondering,” Emma replied. “I know you have more important concerns than my opinion of Mme. Delacroix’s latest designs.”

The duchess laughed out loud at that. She did enjoy young people, and this one was a particular favorite. Emma Landrum had backbone and plenty of opinions. Her Grace was certain the girl would be a force to be reckoned with in a few years.

“I understand your uncle has returned from India.”

Emma felt her shoulders relax. Fred? This is about Fred? She grinned at the duchess. “He has indeed. With no notice, two heretofore unknown daughters, and a charming companion.”

The duchess’s eyebrows shot up. “I hardly know which question to ask first,” she said.

“Mama quite likes Clare—that’s the woman’s name. Apparently Uncle Fred engaged her to accompany his daughters to us. Mama says he expected—these are her exact words—to foist them off on us. But Clare forced him to come as well, at least until he introduced them to us. Mama is determined he will stay and—her words again—do his duty by those darling girls.”

“If the Countess is determined, your uncle has no chance. She finds the daughters ‘darling?'”

“Oh, Your Grace, they are charming! Meghal has more wit than those twice her age, and backbone too. Mama says Meghal alone will make sure Fred stays where he belongs. She adores the girl.”

“Meghal? Is that Bengali?”

“I believe so. They lived in West Bengal.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Their mother was Fred’s mistress in Dehrapur.”

Her Grace’s lips twitched with suppressed laughter. She whispered back, “So I had guessed.”

“But how did you—Oh. Cousin Charles was here.”

“He was indeed. I’m afraid he ended our tête-à-tête rather abruptly before I could ask him why he hired an enquiry agent. Is there trouble at Eversham Hall?”

Emma shrugged helplessly. “No one tells me anything. A man died in a haying incident. There were whispers it was no accident, but when I asked they hushed me up as if I was a moony ten-year-old.”

“Being protected can be a dreadful bore,” the duchess murmured. “I tell Aldridge that often.” She did so on the rare occasion her son thought he might keep something unpleasant from her.

“You’re right, Your Grace. I hate it,” Emma exclaimed. “As if that wasn’t bad enough, Fred and Charles forbade us to leave the house without an army of footmen and grooms. Would they tell me why? No! Peck said it was about the nabob who bought the Archer place across the river, but that’s all I know.”

The duchess caught her lower lip between her teeth, nodding. “Nabob,” she said at last. “Someone Fred knew in India?”

“I have no idea.”

The duchess deftly turned the conversation to fashion after that. Emma did indeed have opinions about this year’s fashion, all of them astute and some wickedly funny. When the girl departed she called for her secretary.

“I need to pen a message to Walter Stewart. I believe the Duke of Murnane and his cousin Fred may be his current employers. Let’s ask him to call for tea.”

The Reluctant Wife

Children of Empire, Book 2

Genre: Pre Victorian, Historical Romance  µ Heat rating: 3 of 5 (two brief -mild- sexual encounters)

ISBN:  978-1-61935-349-9 µ ASIN:  B06Y4BGMX1 µ Page count: 275 pages

Pub date: April 26, 2017

When all else fails, love succeeds…

When Captain Fred Wheatly, a soldier with more honor than sense, is forced to resign from the Bengal army, and his mistress dies leaving him with two half-caste daughters to raise, he reluctantly turns to Clare Armbruster for help. But the interfering widow has her own problems, and a past she would rather forget. With no more military career and two half-caste daughters to support, Fred must return to England and turn once more—as a failure—to the family he let down so often in the past. Can two hearts rise above the past to forge a future together.

Find it here: https://www.amazon.com/Reluctant-Wife-Children-Empire-Book-ebook/dp/B06Y4BGMX1/

And click here for my review.

About Caroline Warfield

Traveler, poet, librarian, technology manager—Caroline Warfield has been many things (even a nun), but above all she is a romantic. Having retired to the urban wilds of eastern Pennsylvania, she reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows while she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.

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Giveaway

Caroline is sponsoring a grand prize in celebration of her release. You can enter it here: http://www.carolinewarfield.com/2017blogtourpackage/

The prequel to this book, A Dangerous Nativity, is always **FREE**. You can get a copy here: http://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf/a-dangerous-nativity-1815/

Excerpt

Before they reached the top, the door swung open. There stood a stiff-backed English butler in a high white collar and black coat. His chin pointed upward, he wore a perfectly professional glower, but his eyes held the slightest gleam of curiosity. Meghal startled him before he could speak.

“Are you my uncle?”

The old man frowned ferociously and said, “I beg your pardon?”

Clare let go of the girl’s hand and pulled her close. “We are . . . that is, these young ladies are Mr. Frederick Wheatly’s daughters. He has been delayed by an accident with a hay wagon, and we’ve come on ahead. He sent word to his family.” Did he? Now she wasn’t sure. Even if he did, would it have reached them here?

“We know of the accident. Men have been sent to help.” The butler’s brows drew together, and he frowned at the girls, unable to speak.

“Fred’s children? Truly?” came a voice from behind the man. A blond head peered around him, a vision with laughing eyes and a beguiling smile.

“Lady Emma, I am not sure,” the butler said cautiously.

“Of course they are! How perfectly marvelous! Bring them in, Banks. Don’t leave them standing there.”

The butler escorted them into an immense foyer from which a wide marble stairway curved upward; its heavy wooden railing gleamed with polish. Clare wondered that they permitted anyone to walk across the stunning parquetry, much less three travel-stained strangers.

The young woman who had welcomed them rocked up on the balls of her feet in excitement, hands clasped in front of her. She had carefully coifed blond hair and wore a pink gown with a cinched waist and expansive skirt which Clare assumed was the height of fashion. She wasn’t exactly sure since she had been away more than a year.

“Oh dear,” Lady Emma exclaimed. “Who shall make introductions? Rules of proper behavior leave this situation out,” she laughed. “I am Emma Landrum, your cousin.”

Lady Emma, Clare remembered. “This is Miss Meghal Wheatly and Miss Ananya Wheatly,” she said, studying the young woman, who demonstrated no sign of distress, rejection, or even surprise that her uncle had brought two half-caste children home unannounced. On the contrary, Clare saw nothing but joy in her face. Both girls stared back at her.

“Are you a princess?” Ananya lisped.

“You survived your come out with body parts intact,” Meghal said, quoting Catherine’s letter and causing Lady Emma to burst out laughing.

“I did indeed! Who told you that?” Lady Emma asked, eyes dancing with delight.

“It was in a letter from Catherine. She is my aunt.”

“That sounds like something she would say.” She drew up, suddenly remembering something. “Oh! Yes. Mother. Banks, please let the countess know we have visitors.” That settled, Emma looked expectantly at Clare. “And you are?”

“I’m Clare Armbruster,” she said. She had to think for a moment. What am I? Nanny? Governess? I am nothing. “The girls’ escort. I will leave once they are settled.”

“But you did say Uncle Fred is coming,” the young woman reminded her, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Clare assured her he was.

Emma reached out both hands toward the girls to lead them to the drawing room. “Come, cousins, let’s get acquainted.”

Clare took a step backward. Perhaps I should go back out and wait for Fred, she thought and then chided herself for acting like a ninny.

“Were you expecting us?” she asked.

Emma paused to smile back at her over her shoulder. “Not in the slightest, although I should say yes. My mother has expected Uncle Fred any time for nine years. Do come and rest, Miss Armbruster. You must be exhausted. I’ll ring for refreshments.”