Monday for Tea

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Tea with an old friend

An excerpt post. I am currently going through the edits for Jackie’s Climb. My hero and heroine have come to London with his grandmother and her mother, seeking the help of an investigator. When the Duchess of Winshire discovers her old friend Clara Lady Reise is in Town, she sends her stepson to bring the party to stay at Winshire House.

We are fortunate the duchess is in town and remembers Gran fondly,” Pol commented.

“She has been very kind,” Jackie said.

The duchess had said that Gran had been kind to her, when she was a young bride and still finding her feet as a duchess. It was hard to imagine the commanding grand lady had once been unsure of her place. Now, said the duchess, she could return the favor.

“She has been very helpful,” said Pol. The four of them had agreed not to disclose the details of why they were in London to anyone but the enquiry agent, and even then, they had intended to be judicious about what they said.

Gran must have forgotten, for within ten minutes of her reunion with the duchess, she was spilling out everything. Her belief that Pol was the real heir to his grandfather and that her daughter-in-law had hidden the truth. The terrible treatment Pol had suffered in what should be his own house. How Oscar and his mother terrorized the neighborhood, with the connivance of the local magistrate. The trumped-up charges against Pol and Jackie. Even her own poisoning.

When Pol, Jackie, and Madame de Haricot du Charmont had joined the two older ladies, Her Grace knew everything. She asked how she could help. “I will, if you have no objection, ask Wakefield and Wakefield to send an enquiry agent to discuss your case. I am familiar with the firm, and agree they are a good choice.”

The agency had responded to the duchess’s note to say that someone would call as soon as possible. “Do you want to be part of the meeting with the enquiry agent?” Pol asked Jackie. “This affects you as much as it affects me.”

“I would like that,” Jackie agreed.

Her gaze moved to a point behind Pol’s shoulder. He glanced back. A footman was standing a few paces away, waiting to be noticed. “Lord Riese, sir. Mr. Wakefield has called to see you. He is in the Chinese parlor.”

“Thank you,” said Pol. “Can you show us to the Chinese parlor? Jackie? Are you coming?”

Having a guide was essential. The whole of the first floor of the town house was given over to reception rooms of one kind or another. The Chinese parlor must have taken its name from the style of the interior. Everything from the wallpaper and light fittings to the furniture and ornaments was in the chinoiserie style that had been highly fashionable in the middle of the previous century.

The person who was waiting for them did not fit Pol’s picture of an enquiry agent. He was expecting some bluff burly character of indeterminate middle age, with a working man’s coat and flat cap, and perhaps a flashy waistcoat.

This man was dressed quietly but neatly in a gentleman’s morning attire—the kinds of garment worn by a solicitor or a physician—or, for that matter, any gentleman with no particular desire to scale the heights of fashion.

In appearance, nothing about him stood out. Dark hair, hazel eyes, medium height and build. He was notable only for the smile he was addressing to the other occupant of the room.

The other occupant was a surprise. The Duchess of Winshire sat with the enquiry agent, engaged in warm conversation. She stood when she saw Pol and Jackie, and the man rose, too.

“There you are. Miss de Haricot du Charmont, Lord Riese, allow me to make known to you Mr. Wakefield.” She put an arm on Mr. Wakefield’s arm. “David, dear, do give my love to Prue. And let Antonia know that I was very proud of her last night.”

Mr. Wakefield bent for the peck of a kiss she placed on his check. “I will leave you to business,” she said, and sailed out of the room.

“Her Grace is godmother to my eldest daughter, who is currently enjoying her first Season,” Mr. Wakefield explained. He shuddered. “Unlike her poor Papa.”

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Tea with the emissary of a reformed villain

Her Grace served the Earl of Chirbury a cup of tea, made just the way he liked it, and passed him the plate containing several of the little cakes that Fourniers of London had sent over just that morning.

“Well, Rede,” she said, as she began pouring her own tea, “You are an emissary, you said in your note asking to visit. Not that you need to ask, dear boy. You are my nephew, and I am always at home to you. If I am at home, so it was as well you asked, for I am particularly busy these days. I have taken over from Cherry on several of her charities while she and Haverford are in Europe visiting Jonathan.”

She took a sip of her tea, and returned to the point. “An emissary for whom?”

“Do you remember Ruth Henwood, Aunt Eleanor?” Rede asked, and answered himself. “Of course you do. You remember everyone.”

“Miss Henwood was governess to your wife and her sisters at the time of their father’s death, and stayed with them when they fled the wicked uncle,” Eleanor replied. “She is somewhere in Spain, is she not? Did I not hear that she was governess to a princess somewhere in that region? What does Ruth Henwood need from me, my dear? I am, of course, willing to help her. Such a dear girl, and so much help to your darling wife.”

“Yes, Anne loves her as dearly as a sister, and indeed, I also think of her that way, though she insisted on seeking a position rather than staying with us at Longford. Her pupil is the Crown Princess of a small principality in the Pyrenees. And she is Miss Henwood no longer. Indeed, it is her husband who needs the favour, and not from you so much as from Haverford. They want to come home to live in England, you see, and he needs to know that your son will tolerate his return.”

“I do not understand, Rede,” said Aunt Eleanor. “Who has Ruth married, and how has that man offended my son?”

“You will understand the second when you know the first,” Rede said. “Ruth is now the Duchess of Richport.”

Readers of my books will, I hope, recognise Richport’s name. He is first mentioned in Revealed in Mist, as the holder of wild parties. And his name comes up again whenever I need a dissolute and amoral aristocrat. In To Tame a Wild Rake, he goes too far. He has offended too many powerful people, and is in disfavour with the Prince Regent as a result. He is about to go into exile to avoid consequences and decides to take Haverford’s beloved along as his wife. Without her consent. The kidnap is foiled, of course. But Richport is concerned that Haverford still bears a grudge.

The story of how the Duke of Richport came to marry a governess was one of the 43 plots I had worked out in a notebook before I wrote my first novel. It is The Duke’s Price, and will be published early in April.

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Tea with the Marquess and Marchioness of Ellington

Recently, the Duchess had the pleasure of receiving James, Marquess of Ellington, and his wife, the former Edythe Cavendish. The ton was abuzz with her ladyship’s story. You see, my friends, she lost both her parents in a fatal carriage accident and became the ward of her distant cousin Prudence. For ten years, young Edythe survived her cousin’s control of both of her bank accounts, a sizable sum and attempts to eradicate any sign of her independence. She kept telling her she would be a spinster for the rest of her life. But Edythe was her father’s daughter, and if anything, a Cavendish is a survivor. There is a happy ending to this story. As a matter of fact, there are two happy endings. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Our duchess, Eleanor, has become a close friend of the couple and has invited James and Edythe to tea. Oh, wait. I believe I hear their coach arriving. Sit tight, my friends and Eleanor will find out all about their amazing story.

“James, Edythe, it’s wonderful to see you both,” Eleanor said, gesturing for them to take their seats.

As they settled, Eleanor’s gaze sharpened with curiosity. “Now, I must confess, I’ve been dying to know more about the infamous Cavendish ghost and its curse. I hear it played quite a role in your union.”

Edythe’s eyes met James’, a smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Indeed, it did. Though a tragic tale, it brought us together in the most unexpected way.”

James nodded, taking Edythe’s hand. “The ghost, Lord Alistair, was denied his love, Isabell. She wasn’t of the correct family. As he lay dying of a broken heart, he cursed the family and Cavendish Hall.”

Eleanor leaned in, captivated. “And how did this curse bring you two together?”

“A series of strange happenings. Mr. Hughes, the prestigious solicitor, had been searching for the heir to the Cavendish estate and fortune for some time.” Edythe held Eleanor in rapture. “Imagine, after ten years of searching, he found me.” Edythe sat back, removing her hand from Eleanor’s. “It was difficult to accept, especially with Prudence telling me terrible things.”

“It’s for me to gossip, my dear.” Eleanor’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “When you were discovered, let’s just say that the way in which you had been treated by your cousin appalled many if not all of us. But enough about her, how did you and James meet?

“We met when he pulled me into a moving train that was leaving the station for Cavendish Hall. He jumped on the train and gave me his hand,” Edythe recounted. “It was quite breathtaking.”

“Oh, dear.” Eleanor was quite taken aback. “Such daring.”

James continued, “I had been documenting the Cavendish family history. As a remote relative, I was interested in finding out if the ghostly hauntings were true or simply stories told to children to keep them away. When Edythe told me she heard the ghostly music in the ballroom, I knew we were close to finding out the truth.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened, her breath held. “And how did you do it, find the truth?”

“It was a combination of things, Lord Alistair needed to know the truth about his love. Isabell hadn’t abandoned him.” James took Edythe’s hand and stared at her. Eleanor didn’t miss the love between them.

“Edythe found the secret that lifted the curse.” James chuckled. “We started our quest when Edythe learned of a missing music box. Not too long after that, she heard ghostly music box playing in the empty ballroom. That was the first time Lord Alistair appeared.”

“We danced to the music. I thought it was a dream, but he left me a small gift, his handkerchief, so I couldn’t doubt our meeting. Ultimately, it was the music box that held the answer. But it took our declaration of love for Alistair and Isabell to reconcile,” James’s voice resolute. “It was All Saints’ Day Eve, at the witching hour. At the stroke of midnight, the ghosts of Alistair and Isabell reunited, and the curse was lifted. We married soon after.”

Eleanor sat back, a smile playing on her lips. “What a remarkable tale. And to think, it led to your happily ever after.”

Edythe squeezed James’ hand, their connection undeniable. “Indeed, it did.”

Tea continued, conversations flowing easily, but the legend of the Cavendish ghost lingered in the air, a reminder of the power of true love and the mysteries that bind the past to the present.

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you helped Lord Alistair,” she said, turning to Edythe. “And I’m thrilled that you found your James. Your story is a great adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “The two lessons I learned from your story are insightful ones. First, in life, one must take responsibility for one’s actions. Second, true love can endure time and distance.”

She hugged Elizabeth and James. “Please, you must visit me again.”

A Wraith at Midnight

When spooky manors and or ghostly specters call,
this stunning collection of haunted Historical Romance novellas
is sure to answer, leaving you breathless with ethereal, romantic tales…

Many of your favorite Historical Romance authors have come together for a collection of never-before published stories inspired by legendary hauntings and ghostly myths. A derelict old castle? A spectral lady wandering the forests? These tales will give you a chill, a thrill, and have you reading them over and over. From the moors of Devon to the ballrooms of Regency London, and far north into the Scottish Highlands, these stories will bring you wistful dreams of legendary and haunting romance. You’ve never before experience a collection like this by some of the very best authors in Historical Romance.

My Heart’s Song
by Ruth A. Casie

In the melody of a haunted past, romance unfolds, revealing a tale of love,
spirits, and a song that transcends time.

In 1850, tucked away in the heart of Northumberland, Edythe Cavendish’s life is upended by the inheritance of a manor shrouded in mystery and whispers of a bygone era. The sprawling estate, with its rolling hills and ancient woodlands, harbors secrets that echo through the manor’s corridors, watched over by the ghost of Lord Alistair, its last lord. His ghostly warnings speak of an enduring curse, a narrative of love forsaken and a legacy shrouded in darkness.

Lord James Ellington, heir to the Duke of Northumberland, shares Edythe’s passion for unraveling the past. Together, they discover a music box whose haunting melodies are intertwined with the manor’s troubled history, revealing their intertwined fates. Their journey through the archives uncovers letters and relics that draw them closer to the truth and to each other.

Yet, as the curse’s grip tightens, a near-fatal accident threatens their future, and a heated argument pushes them to the edge of despair. In their darkest hour, a hidden letter from the past holds the key to their salvation. Will Edith and James’s love prove strong enough to break the silence of centuries and herald a new beginning?

Buy Link: Amazon

Chapter One

September 12, 1850
East Coast Main Line

Miss Edythe Cavendish’s heart fluttered with a peculiar blend of trepidation and exhilaration as she boarded the train, her shoulder brushing against a gentleman’s arm in the chaos of the boarding crowd. She offered a quick, apologetic smile to the stranger whose startling summer blue eyes lingered in her mind as she settled into the velvet seat of the train compartment. A half-hour later, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the tracks echoed her own restless thoughts. Her hand instinctively reached for her reticule. She withdrew a crisp and formal letter from Mr. Hughes, the solicitor. She had read it and reread it at least one hundred times. The document informed her of an inheritance most unexpected—a manor house, no less.

The correspondence arrived three weeks ago at her cousin Prudence’s home, where she had lived for the last ten years since her parents’ passing. Mr. Hughes’s letter set off a flurry of activity. By the end of the week, preparations and farewells were set into motion. Yet, amidst the bustle, a shadow of Prudence’s discontent cloyed the air like a pall, along with vivid descriptions of a haunted decrepit house. It was clear, in the tightness of Prudence’s smiles and the sharpness of her gaze, that her cousin resented her good fortune, or was it her loss of control over the modest inheritance left to Edythe by her parents? To her relief, Mr. Hughes saw to that as well.

With her solicitor’s assurance, the house was not decrepit, and with his help, Edythe settled her affairs in London and made the necessary travel arrangements. Prudence, ever the matriarch, had deemed Edythe’s solitary journey inconceivable and insisted a seasoned chaperone was required for a young lady such as herself. As a result, Prudence condescended to go with Edythe; after all, who else would go with her? Edythe quickly reminded her while young ladies indeed needed a chaperone, spinsters, the word Prudence used to reference her, did not. So here she was, on her own, aboard the train to Sommer-by-the-Sea and Cavendish Hall.

As Edythe settled into the rhythmic sway of the train, she once again unfolded the letter from Mr. Hughes. The words “rightful and true heir to the Cavendish land and all its holdings” stood out, evidence of the solicitor’s thorough decade-long research and the unexpected turn her life was about to take.

“While the Cavendish legacy allows for female heirs, the lineage has been meticulously traced to ensure that only a direct descendant, who embodies the true spirit and virtues of the Cavendish name, can claim the estate. It appears, Miss Cavendish, that you are the first in a century to meet these stringent criteria. Furthermore,” the letter continued, “it is important for you to be aware that Cavendish Hall has been without a resident Cavendish for the past 100 years since the passing of Lord Alistair, the last recognized lord of the manor. The estate has been maintained through a trust established by your ancestors, ensuring its preservation until such time as a direct heir could be located and take rightful ownership.”

With the proof of her lineage secured within the crisp folds of the paper, Edythe felt the weight of her new responsibility — she was, indeed, the last of the Cavendish line, bound for a home she’d never known, a home waiting for her arrival.

She glanced at the empty paper cone beside her and sighed. The shrill cry of the steam whistle broke her reverie. The train slowed, and Edythe seized the opportunity to disembark briefly and get another helping of chestnuts at the provincial station. The platform bustled with life, the air filled with the scent of coal smoke and the cries of vendors hawking their wares. She exchanged a few coins for a paper cone of roasted chestnuts, the warmth a comfort against the autumn chill. As she ate her treat, she gazed out into the countryside, thoroughly enjoying the view.

As the whistle blew its warning, Edythe turned to see the train lurch forward without her.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the young man with the summer blue eyes she had brushed against in London striding toward her, concern etched on his brow. “Miss, your train!” he called out.

Panicked, her snack spilled out on the ground as she dashed toward the moving train, her boots pounding the wooden planks of the platform.

The young man leapt into action. He jumped onto the train and then extended his hand. “Quick. Grab my hand.”

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Tea with a daughter-in-law

This week’s post is an excerpt from Paradise at Last.

Eleanor was too busy to fret much about her would-be suitors, or about the chill distance between her and the one man for whom she might be tempted to forsake her new freedom. She and Jessica had much to do preparing for Jessica’s wedding in April and shopping for Jessica’s trousseau. She continued the work she had begun, seeking donations for the several charities she had offered to help when last in Town.

She also found herself deputising for Cherry on many of the same committees that she had managed when she was duchess. Eleanor met with her daughter-in-law after every meeting to report on progress.

They took tea one afternoon in the little parlour Cherry had made her own. The previous evening Haverford had escorted them both to a formal dinner, with dancing afterwards, at the home of Lord Henry’s daughter Susan.

“You will be able to take up the work again, now that you are feeling more energetic,” Eleanor told her daughter-in-law. “I’m very happy to hand it all back to you, or to continue with some of it. You must just tell me what you need.”

“We shall see,” Cherry commented. “I expect I will need your help later in the year. You have guessed have you not?”

Eleanor acknowledged the truth of that with a smile and a nod.

“I thought so. You have not fussed over me as much as Anthony, but you are always there with a snack or a drink when I need it, and always ready to take over when a nap overwhelms me.” She put a hand over Eleanor’s and squeezed. “You and Mother are the only ones to know, apart from Anthony.”

“And, I imagine, your dresser,” Eleanor joked. “It is hard to keep such a secret from one’s maid.”

It was Cherry’s turn to smile and nod.

“Dearest, I could not be more thrilled,” Eleanor said. “And not because of that nonsense about an heir to the Haverford duchy. I have seen enough of you together to know that the love you bear one another is far more important than who carries on the title after we are all gone. But you deserve the little blessing you carry. You and my son will be wonderful parents.”

Cherry burst into tears. “Excuse me, Aunt Eleanor. I seem to have little control over my emotions at the moment.” She put her arms around Eleanor and Eleanor hugged her back, then offered a handkerchief so she could dry her eyes.

“And what of you?” Cherry asked. “I always thought you and Uncle James would make a match of it after the old duke died. We would all be so pleased. Can you not talk to him, Aunt Eleanor?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I expect you know what he thinks of me. Sarah was there when he found out what I had done. I cannot even blame him for it, for I was wrong.”

Cherry made an impatient noise. “And I suppose he has never made a mistake in his life? To throw away all of your history and the friendship you have found in the last few years—surely he is not so foolish.”

Eleanor sighed. “Shall we talk about something else, my dear? What dreadful weather we are having.”

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Tea with Georgie and a charitable impulse

“What did you think of the singer?” Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, asked her sister-in-law. Lady Georgina Winderfield had travelled up from the country for a lecture series at the British Museum, and had by chance been here at the right time for Eleanor’s charity concert last night.

“I take it you mean Miss Lind,” Georgie said. “She was the outstanding singer of the evening, as you know, Eleanor, since you gave her the last spot of the evening before the auction and supper.”

“She was, wasn’t she? But I wondered about your personal impression of her.”

Georgie put her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. It was a mannerism shared by her brother, Eleanor’s beloved husband.

“You will have your reasons, my friend,” Georgie commented. “You always do. My impressions of Miss Lind?” She pursed her lips. “I did not meet her. The Earl of Coombe rushed her away immediately after the concert. So I am only reacting to her appearance on the platform.”

Eleanor nodded, encouraging Georgie to continue. Her friend had a gift for sizing people up on sight, and the singer had been in sight for twenty minutes or more as she sang.

“She was too thin,” Georgie commented. “Starvation thin. Possibly an illness, but more likely, I think, overuse of laudunum or the like. She had that bruised look around the eyes. When she sang, it was hard to think of anything but that magnificent voice, but between songs, she seemed to shrink into herself. I daresay Coombe abuses her. He has that reputation.”

“She is a childhood friend of a friend of Drew’s,” Eleanor commented. “Sir Johan Trethewey, a Cornish baronet. Drew says that Sir Jowan has tried to see Miss Lind but has been turned away on Coombe’s orders.”

“Poor girl,” Georgie commented. “Perhaps we could get word to her somehow. If she is being abused, and wants to escape, we could help her, Eleanor.”

“I daresay she will do more private contests,” said Eleanor. “Of course we shall help, if we can. And Georgie, I was not aware of Coombe’s private reputation until James told me, and by then the invitations to the concert had already gone out. Perhaps, once Miss Lind has been given her opportunity to flee to safety, we should make sure that Coombe finds England too uncomfortable for him.”

Georgie nodded. Between them, they were related to at least a third of England’s most influential women, close friends with a good half, and able to influence a fair percentage of the rest. If they decided someone was to be ejected from good society, ejected he would be.

But first, Miss Lind needed a chance to escape.

As it turned out, the singer did not need the duchess’s help to escape. Jowan and his friends, including Drew, managed the feat themselves. But Eleanor, Georgie and their friends were certainly instrumental in driving Coombe out of London Society. For more about this story, read Hold Me Fast, which was inspired by the Ballad of Tam Lin.

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Tea with the Viscountess Andrepoint

“Your Grace,” Jane curtsied deeply, hoping that the amount of respect she was showing was adequate. She often granted far more depth to her courtesy than was strictly necessary, but she’d rather err on the side of respect than not.

“Lady Andrepont, please come in.” Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford gestured to a waiting teapot and sitting area.

Jane’s palms sweated as she gripped her silk gown, crossing the plush pile rug of the duchess’s drawing room. “Thank you.”

Jane almost tripped on the way over, but righted herself in time. She was grateful when she was able to sink into the deep cushion of the Duchess’s upholstered settee. Finally she pulled out an unadorned tin that she’d held gripped in a sweaty fist lodged deep in her pocket on the way over. “If it is not too forward, I would like to gift to you a tisane of my own making.”

“Oh?” The Duchess asked, reaching out to take the small, undecorated box. “Shall we brew it up now?”

“Oh, no, it is for medicinal purposes.” Jane managed to get out the words. She was as skittish as a colt on ice, and her voice took so much effort to use. “It is especially meant for cramping or for headaches. I use it myself as well as for my staff.”

The duchess opened the tin and sniffed. She had the politeness to not wrinkle her nose at the pungent aroma. Jane had not yet learned how to mask the odors well yet.

“I have a greenhouse that I use to brew up my mentor’s receipts. Or, she was my mentor before I married.” Jane hurried through the explanation feeling foolish. But the duchess looked on with generosity. “I, of course, do not seek education now.”

“Cream?” Duchess asked, poised with the tiny ewer.

“Yes please.” It seemed impolite to refuse, so she accepted without thinking.

“You must be very well accomplished to have had a mentor,” the duchess said, pouring tea for them both.

“Well enough, I suppose. I had thought I would stay in the country, unsure if I would ever marry. It seemed prudent to have a profession.”

“If I may say, Lady Andrepont, you are quite a beauty. I know you are young, but you have many years of beauty yet. A profession would not have been needed.”

“Very kind of you to say. But I rather enjoyed my time with the midwife. She did more than attending the birthing room. The skills seemed preferable to marriage.”

“And now?” The duchess inquired.

Jane tried to give the polite answer. The one she should say, especially given the company. “I’d rather be a midwife.”

“And this tisane you’ve gifted me, you say you’ve tried it yourself?” The duchess inspected the tin again.

“Yes. Though I will caution that it does make bruising worse, even as it aids the feeling of the cramping.”

The duchess snapped her eyes back to Jane. She’d said too much. Jane looked down at her cup, the deep brown of the high quality tea swirling with the pale cream. Her heart hammered in her ears.

“Is it the viscount who does this?”

“Does what?” Jane said, before she could think of a lie, forcing herself to meet her hostess’s gaze. There was a pause, and Jane knew the duchess was weighing her options, on how much intervention she could muster. But no one could stop Andrepont. If someone could have, it would have already happened.

“Do you need protection?” the duchess asked, and even her asking the question made Jane tear up.

Jane couldn’t fathom anyone being nice to her anymore. She had spent long enough in Andrepont’s house to know that she was not a person who deserved kindness. That charity was nothing but bait to hurt her even further. There was a part of her that insisted the duchess had no such malice, but experience pushed those thoughts away. Jane shook her head.

“I’m sure I could help, if you are in true danger.” the duchess pursed her lips.

Jane thought of Vasya. He was the man who had built her greenhouse. The man who kept her safe despite her husband. Jane pulled her shoulders back, giving the impression of confidence she did not have. “I have protection. You have no need to worry.”

A Lady’s Resilience by Edie Cay

When the Blood Is Up series finale

Love Makes Us Desperate

In 1780, Queen Charlotte hosts a ball for her birthday. Jane Laurent has not been to a ball because at age sixteen, she isn’t ready. Raised in the country, Jane appointed herself apprentice to a midwife—a calling she wants to pursue. But the family traipses into London so Jane’s older sister Emma can land herself a lord. The family celebrates when lovely Emma catches the eye of the handsome viscount Andrepont. But the night of the engagement ball, dependable Emma runs away with a soldier instead. The family panics and pushes Jane forward to fulfill the marriage contract with the older and oddly unsettling Lord Andrepont. How bad could he be that pragmatic, reliable Emma ran away?

Vasily Nikolaevich Kuznetsov is a man with a past, but at least its far away. Meeting up with Gareth Somerset in a seedy gambling hell outside of Paris was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. Aimless, he follows Gareth to London where he helps his friend win the girl of his dreams, and vows to keep an eye on her while Gareth is deployed to the colonies. But when Gareth’s wife joins her husband in the colonies, and Vasya hears the younger sister is marrying Andrepont, a monster well-known to the seedy underbelly of London, Vasya takes a position as a groom in the lord’s household to protect the sister-in-law of his friend.

Years pass, and Vasya watches Jane grow into the formidable and beautiful Lady Andrepont. He can only love from afar, but there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. And when it comes to murder, Vasya has the experience and the moral flexibility to help…

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Tea with Drew

Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire, was particularly fond of her husband’s fourth son. Drew was always obliging, always ready to help a sister or a brother, to attend his stepmother’s events and contribute to their success, and to support his father in any one of a myriad of ways. Drew was, in fact, a thoroughly nice gentleman.

He always joined Eleanor and James for lunch, if they were all in London. His father made it an insistent and permanent invitation when the young man’s investments began to show a profit and he bought his own townhouse and moved into it. He was here today, and had been telling them about a balloon ascension that he’d watched in Hyde Park. “And so I have promised to take Bartholomew and Jamir to the next one,” he finished. Bartholomew was James’s fifth son, and Jamir was his dearest friend.

“Your brother tells me you have been borrowing dozens of horses,” James asked his son. “Is it for a race? Or a joke?”

“Neither,” Drew told him. “It is, I suppose, a trick. But in a good cause.”

“What sort of a trick,” Eleanor wondered. It was not like Drew to play tricks on people.

“I can tell you, I know,” Drew said. “It is highly confidential, but you will not speak of it.”

James and Eleanor exchanged glances. His said, “What on earth is he up to?” and hers replied, reassuring him that, “This is Drew. We can trust Drew.”

“You remember my friend Jowan Trethrewey? I told you that the singer, Tammie Lind, was a childhood friend of his.”

What did that have to do with dozens of horses? “Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “She sang at my concert. She was magnificent, but she does not look at all well.” An understatement. Miss Lind looked fine on the stage, when she was singing. But in person and up close, she was gaunt and pale. Eleanor feared for her wellbeing, particularly given that she was under the control of one of the nastiest men Eleanor had ever met.

As if he had followed her thoughts, Drew told her, “She wants to be rescued from the Earl of Coombe. Jowan has come up with a plan. And to carry it out, he needs horses. Lots of horses. All as close to identical as I can get them.”

He leaned forward as he told them what Trethrewey had in mind. It was ingeneous. Eleanor hoped that it worked.

Hold Me Fast

Published 19th September

She has paid for her fame with her heart and her dreams. What must she pay for peace and love?

Tamsyn Roskilly and Jowan Trethewey were childhood sweethearts, until their parents conspired to separate them. Seven years later, Tamsyn has become addicted to drugs and alcohol, supplied by the earl who has seduced, debased, and abused her. Their childhood romance may be over, but now Jowan owes her a rescue.

As he and his friends nurse her through withdrawal, Jowan and Tamsyn fall in love again. But Tamsyn does not believe she is worthy of love, or that Jowan can truly overlook her past. And the wicked earl is determined to take her back.

It will take the help of their friends and their entire community for Jowan and Tamsyn to finally prevail.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DBXN9GYJ/

https://books2read.com/u/3GLkPQ

by

Tea with the no longer haunted

The Duchess of Haverford, renowned for her progressive views and enlightened mindset, epitomizes a refreshing departure from society’s expectations. Unlike many of her peers who cling to rigid social positions, she possesses the ability to discern a person’s true worth beyond their title or wealth. Growing up, she was undoubtedly a spirited child, characterized by her openness to embrace people from all walks of life.

Recently, the Duchess, a close friend of Lady Margaret Blanefield, had the pleasure of receiving her friend’s daughter, Lady Elizabeth, and her new husband, the financier James Alexander. The Whispering Hollows haunting was well established. Some say that the town, as well as the Duke, had paid a pretty penny for someone to come in to ‘remove’ the ghost, but it came to nothing. It took Lady Elizabeth and her James to put things right and the ghost to rest. Eleanor was eager to meet the brave duo, and this was her chance. They were returning from their travels abroad following their nuptials and would only be in the area for a few days.

“More tea, Mr. Alexander?” Eleanor asked, holding the pot in her hand.

“You can warm mine.” James smiled and lifted his cup.

“Lady Elizabeth?” she asked as she warmed James’s cup.

“Please, Your Grace. That sounds much too formal for friends,” Elizabeth began. “Elizabeth is fine.”

“And James for me, if you please.” He dropped a cube of sugar into his cup.

“Very well, please call me Eleanor.” She put the teapot down. “Now that that’s all settled, should we celebrate Thomas’s passing?”

James stopped stirring his tea.

Elizabeth’s hand froze her teacup inches from her lips.

Putting his teacup back on its saucer, James turned to Eleanor. “Thomas will not be joining us. The curse that held Thomas here after he passed has been lifted. Thomas is now at rest.”

“That is a relief.” Eleanor’s shoulders eased as she sat back. “I worried about the poor man. How did you manage to free him?”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “The entire event was somewhat supernatural. My mind was on James’s return. He had been away in the Black Watch for six years.”

“And I couldn’t wait to see Elizabeth. Her letters were what got me through all those years, the good ones as well as the bad ones.” James cast a loving smile at his wife. “I am a very lucky man that she waited for me.”

“Was that the supernatural part?” Eleanor asked, trying to stifle her smile.

“Not at all. I got myself turned around in the patch and encountered a man. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I realized who and what he was.” She glanced at James. “Thank heaven James was at my side.”

“The man suffered for twenty years, and for what?” James wasn’t angry as much as he was disappointed. “In anger, he was left to die and cursed to boot.”

“It was when my parents were young. Mother was much in love with Father. He teased her about his conquests.”

“Let me guess,” Eleanor said. “She was left thinking she was wanting.” Eleanor let out a deep breath.

“My grandfather gave her a lovely necklace that a local boy, a childhood friend of my mother’s, designed.”  Elizabeth nervously smoothed out her skirt, unable to face Eleanor.

“And your mother allowed your father to think she was involved with Thomas…to make him jealous.” The Duchess leaned close and gently put her hand on Elizabeth’s. “My dear, you are not responsible for your parents’ actions. They must face the consequences of their actions, whether intentional or not.”

“You were the one who made them take action,” James said calmly. “If you hadn’t gone into Thomas’s pumpkin patch, he would still be chained to this earth. With your help, he found peace.”

“Oh, how so?” Eleanor asked.

“I picked a pumpkin from the patch, intending to give it to my younger sister. You see, she dropped the one she carved, and it smashed on the floor. That started everything. In the end, both Mother and Father confessed what they had done.”

“Retribution for Thomas was them admitting the truth,” James said. “It lifted the curse and resolved an issue between Elizabeth’s parents that had haunted them for twenty years. That, too, was resolved.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Elizabeth asked Eleanor.

“Oh, dear. I do not believe in ghosts, but I do believe in skeletons, and I have loads of them in any number of my closets!”

That set all three of them into a bout of laughing that lasted, on and off, the rest of teatime. Their conversation continued for another hour or so until James glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. It’s time for us to leave.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you helped Thomas, ” she said, turning to Elizabeth. And I’m thrilled that you waited for your James. Your story is a great adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “The two lessons I learned from your story are insightful ones. First, in life, one must take responsibility for one’s actions. Second, true love can endure time and distance.”

She hugged Elizabeth and James. “Please, you must visit me again.”

An Excerpt from The Ghost of Whispering Hollow

Part of The Spirit of Love of Hearts Through History Anthology

 By Ruth Casie

In the haunted hollows, love dances with destiny.

Amidst the moon-dappled oaks of Blanefield Manor, where ancient secrets whisper through time, James returns from war—a soldier scarred by battle and longing. Elizabeth, his childhood friend, has been his solace through ink-stained letters. But as they unravel a family curse impacting both their lives, they face a haunting love, and Whispering Hollows reveals its true magic. In a dance of shadows and moonlight, their hearts reignite—a love that defies both time and spectral secrets.

Buy Link: Amazon

Chapter One

Glenmore, Scotland
October 31, 1786

In the depths of the Scottish countryside, nestled at the western end of Loch Morlich, lay the village of Glenmore. A day’s ride north of Sommer-by-the-Sea, it thrived as it had for over a century. The quiet, picturesque community was dressed in colorful autumn decorations, all to create the haunting atmosphere of the annual All Saints’ Day celebration. The village elders, their memories steeped in Samhain celebrations, recounted the tales of donning costumes to outwit devilish spirits. Today, the air buzzed with anticipation as the children prepared to dress as ghosts and carve pumpkins, rather than turnips, for the annual contest.

Blanefield Manor, the home of Edward, Duke of Blanefield, his wife, and two daughters, stood proudly beyond the village. Within its stone walls were generations of secrets and whispered confidences. Some secrets were murmured during the harvest moon when the veil between this world and the next grew thin.

In the grand foyer, Lady Elizabeth, the Duke’s eldest daughter, flinched as her sister Nancy’s grasp faltered and the carved pumpkin slipped, smashing on the marble floor. Nancy had labored over her creation all day, carving intricate patterns, certain she would win the contest. Now, her breath caught, and for a moment she stood frozen, tears trickling down her cheeks as Mr. Paris, the butler, and several footmen took charge and worked quickly to remove the mess.

“Don’t worry.” Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed away her sister’s tears. “I’m sure we can find another pumpkin for the evening’s contest.”

“I held it tight.” Nancy, her lips quivering, glanced at Elizabeth. “It slipped out of my hands. We’ll never be able to replace it now.”

“We won’t. But I will.” Elizabeth turned to the butler. “Mr. Paris, my coat and shawl, please. I’ll meet you at the Hollow’s gate.”

Her father, the Duke of Blanefield, appeared from the drawing room, his presence commanding attention. His eyes, usually stern and calculating, softened with concern.

“What’s happened?”

Elizabeth and Nancy spun around and faced their father.

“A small accident,” Mr. Paris, ever the unflappable servant, made it sound as if smashing a pumpkin on the foyer floor was an everyday occurrence. “A small accident,” he said. “Your Grace, Mr. Hughes has arrived. I’ve settled him in the library, as you requested.”

Her father turned to his younger daughter, a warm look of understanding on his face.

Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Nancy, still in shock. “It slipped out of my hands, Papa,” Nancy confessed, her vulnerability laid bare, “Elizabeth said she would find another one and meet you at the gate to the Hollows.”

“You’ll recognize me. I’ll be the one with the winning pumpkin.” Elizabeth took her coat and shawl from the butler. “Thank you, Mr. Paris.” She glanced at her sister. “What do we say if James arrives?”

James Alexander was a name whispered in the halls of Blanefield Manor these past six long years. A steadfast friend to Elizabeth, he had been absent, called away to war. She exchanged ink-stained letters with him, the only way they could bridge the long distance. Over time, those pages contained their shared dreams, secret confessions, and unspoken promises. It was through these pages that their hearts grew.

Nancy’s question hung in the air.

“James isn’t returning until tomorrow,” Elizabeth said. One more day. After all this worry and waiting, just one more day. She opened the front door, ready to slip out into the fading twilight.

“Wait!” Nancy called in a shallow gasp.

Elizabeth, impatient, turned to her sister and rolled her eyes.

“Where will you find a pumpkin now? We were in the village earlier today. There are no pumpkins anywhere.” Nancy paused. The color drained out of her face. “You’re not going into the Hollow,” she said, her eyes wide, her voice trembling with fear.

“Have no concern. I will find one.” Elizabeth called over her shoulder. “Now, let me leave before all the pumpkins are gone.” She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she rushed out of the house before anyone asked her any more questions.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and set her sights on Whispering Hollows or, as the village boys referred to it, Haunted Hollows. Nonsense, that’s what all this ghost stuff was. For decades, the Gabriels, a fine, respected family, had tended the land that yielded a bounty of vegetables for the village. Twenty years ago, Thomas, the last of the family, left without any explanation. The villagers picked through the fields, but soon, the fields were left unattended, and the neglected vegetables grew with great hopes only to wither on the vine. Whispers of ghosts and hauntings kept trespassers, especially the children, away. No one ventured into the Hollow.

With the sun beginning to set and the sky a soft pink, the village celebration would start soon. Elizabeth had no choice but to turn to the Hollows for a pumpkin. Time was running out.

How difficult could this be? There were plenty of pumpkins at the Hollow. They were clearly evident in their cozy furrows when she passed the pumpkin grove yesterday. It was curious that after years of neglect, the pumpkin patch still flourished. That was a thought for another time, right now the miracle was to her advantage.

A gust of cold air caught her by surprise as she left the shelter of the village buildings. She pulled her shawl tight to keep what little warmth it provided. Farther down the lane, the mist lying over the hills spread along the path and seemed to grow taller and thicker with each step she took.

Elizabeth’s footsteps crunched the fallen leaves as she moved through the woods. The waning gibbous moon hung in the sky, casting a sliver of silver against the quickly fading blue. She clutched her shawl tighter, the hem billowing as if it, too, sought refuge from the chill.

She told herself repeatedly all she had to do was choose the winning pumpkin and bring it to the Hollow’s gate. Nancy was clever. If Elizabeth were quick about it, her sister would still have time to carve it into something special.

But as Elizabeth stepped deeper into the mist-shrouded clearing, she had her doubts. The fog clung to her like an embrace, spirals curling around her ankles, urging her to stay, trapping her in place. Yet she pushed on, her resolve unwavering. She would not fail her sister.

Shapes materialized, phantom creatures that defied classification. Were they ghosts of lost souls, their features softened by time and sorrow? Or were they figments of her imagination, conjured on the eve of All Saints’ Day?

All Saints’ Day had weighed heavily on Elizabeth’s heart, a somber reminder of James’s departure six years ago. The waiting felt like a lifetime. Her long wait would be over soon. He would be home tomorrow.

Her breath hung in the damp air as she continued on, her boots sinking into the mossy ground.

Fear whispered at the edges of her mind, urging her to flee—to turn back and seek the safety of Blanefield Manor. But Elizabeth was no stranger to fear. She had faced it on moonless nights when the wind howled through the branches and the owls called out. She had faced it in the letters from James, written from distant battlefields.

The twilight sounds of the forest quieted. Elizabeth stopped. Her cape fluttered, a dark silhouette against the fading light, as her gaze swept in all directions. The forest murmured its enchantment, and she listened. There was magic here—the kind that defied reason, that danced on the edge of reality and called to her.

A glance at the darkening sky prompted her to move on. These last months, she had kept herself busy helping her mother and her sister. She’d do anything to make the days go faster. And now, here it was, All Saints’ Day Eve. Elizabeth didn’t need to re-read James’s message. She knew it by heart.

“Dearest Elizabeth, I have been blessed. I shall arrive at Blanefield Manor on All Saints’ Day. The journey has been long, but the thought of seeing you again sustains me. Yours always, James.”

Her heart raced at the thought of it. He and his friend Finn Elliot had left to serve in the Black Watch and had been garrisoned in America.

His letters were a comfort. His words danced off the page, echoing the warmth of his Scottish burr. He told tales about him and Finn, new friends, and the sights they encountered. Yet he spared telling her what their battalion did or where they were.

Two years ago, when she opened one of his letters, an uneasy sensation had crept over her. Her eyes had darted across the paper, desperately seeking any reassurance that her fears were unfounded until the stark truth leaped out at her.

Finn passed away this morning.

The two were like brothers despite the lack of a blood connection. Since that message, the laughter had gone from his letters. She ached for him and, at times, cried herself to sleep, concerned about him. She wanted one look, one touch. She needed to know he was well. As much as it frustrated her, she reached out through her letters and ensured he realized that she cared, that she loved him.

After the war, the remaining Black Watch regiment garrisoned in Nova Scotia. For three years, she waited and wondered if James would return to Glenmore as the same man he had been when he left. Others who had returned were often mere shadows of their former selves.

Enough worrying. With one deep breath, she pushed aside her concerns for now. They would be together soon—tomorrow. At the moment, she needed to find a pumpkin. The Hollow’s pumpkin grove was around the next bend.

As she went on, the mist thickened, swallowing the bottoms of the fence posts. Gusts of wind raced along the path, growing stronger and colder. The closer she got to the grove, the more an ominous sensation settled over her. Stopping in her tracks, she shook her shoulders. Stop being silly. She started walking again, her pace quicker in defiance of her growing apprehension.

Reaching the edge of the grove, she paused. The Hollows had always been a place of mystery—a threshold between the mundane and the magical. She’d never thought about going into the patch before.

In the distance sat several winning-size pumpkins. A sense of relief flooded through her. With a tentative step, she pushed open the gate and ventured into the patch.

She picked her way across the fallow field. Despite her caution, the hem of her day dress snagged on brambles. As she stepped around a small thicket that wasn’t more than fallen branches covered with leaves, her foot sank into the thick mud. She turned to make her escape, but thorny twigs caught her shawl. She tugged at it, not willing to leave it behind. Finally free and frustrated, for a moment she considered going home. She glanced at the pumpkin and relented.

She found a nicely rounded, golden-orange pumpkin. Relieved that her search was almost over, she reached to pick it up but quickly pulled her hand away. Worms and insects had eaten out the back, leaving only a shell. Disappointed, she took out her handkerchief and cleaned her hands.

Suddenly, a rustling sound and frantic scurrying drew her attention. A mouse darted out from the underbrush, startling Elizabeth. Her handkerchief slipped from her grasp. As she reached for it, a barn owl swooped down. Its talons grazed the earth, capturing the unsuspecting mouse.

Her heart raced, and her breaths came in shallow spurts. The brutal attack had shaken her to her core. Without looking back, Elizabeth hurried off, her footsteps stumbling over gnarled roots, her handkerchief forgotten.

The second squash was not much better than the first. Elizabeth’s disappointment grew as she went on to a third, which was too flat, and a fourth, which was too small. With each step, she went deeper into the grove until she discovered herself surrounded by dense foliage. Finally, she found a plump, beautiful pumpkin.

Satisfied, she turned to leave but stood rooted to the spot. The sun now dipped below the horizon, coloring the sky a deep purple. The mist closed in, forming a wall around her.

As evening settled in, Elizabeth’s unease grew. It wouldn’t be long until the sky was completely black. There would be little light to guide her way to the gate.

With the ground soft beneath her feet, Elizabeth hoped to retrace her steps, but the forest had swallowed her tracks. The once familiar path blurred, and shadows merged, creating a disorienting maze. Which way had she come? Which was the way back? The darkening evening pressed on, and her sense of panic began to build.

“Take a deep breath,” she reminded herself, forcing her racing heart to slow. “That’s it. Again. One more time.”

Calm at last, she glanced around and put together a plan. The pumpkin grove was laid out in neat rows like other vegetable patches. With a little concentration, she should be able to follow the furrows. She chose a row and began to walk, determined to find her way to the gate and her parents.

The path became more treacherous, and the undergrowth grew increasingly gnarled as she went on. She trudged through puddles and mud. The pumpkin in her arms grew heavier with each struggling step. The hem of her skirt repeatedly caught on brambles and thorns. Her saturated skirt weighed her down and made it more and more difficult to lift her feet.

Tired, wet, and cold, Elizabeth stumbled over one of the roots and fell hard to the ground. She let out a startled scream, more from surprise than from any serious injury.

She sat up and paused, catching her breath and taking stock of her surroundings. Should she wait for the others to gather and find her or attempt to find her way to the gate alone? But which way to go? She looked in each direction for some sign but found none. She glanced at the ground as an unsettling sensation came over her. She picked up her handkerchief. A shadow of alarm ran through her. She’d been walking in circles.

by

Tea with mother and daughter (and a scheme of blind matchups in the making! )

Theodosia King sat in the elegantly appointed drawing room of the Duchess of Haverford’s residence, her teacup hovering just shy of her lips. The warm fragrance of honeyed tea filled the room, mingling with the scent of freshly cut roses. Her mother, the Marchioness of Kingsley, sat to her right, chatting animatedly with the Duchess about her latest scheme—something Theodosia fervently wished would be forgotten before the next scone was served.

“I do believe, my dear Marchioness, that blind matchups could be the very thing to enliven the next social season,” the Duchess of Haverford declared with a twinkle in her eye. She was a woman who rarely missed an opportunity to create a stir, and her enthusiasm was matched only by the Marchioness’s own.

“Precisely!” Lady Kingsley agreed, nodding with such vigor that her ostrich feather hat threatened to topple. “Imagine the thrill of it! Young people meeting in a carefully orchestrated manner, none the wiser until they’re already smitten. Why, it’s positively Shakespearean!”

Theodosia, who had been eyeing the delicate sugar biscuits with mild interest, set her cup down with a soft clink. “Positively disastrous, more like,” she muttered under her breath, though it was just loud enough for both women to hear. Just ask her. She had been the one to sit through her mother’s “blind matchups.”

The Duchess raised an amused brow. “Oh, come now, Theodosia. Don’t be such a cynic. Blind matchups are an adventure. Your mother is quite the genius. One must embrace the unknown!”

“The unknown is precisely the problem, Your Grace,” Theodosia countered, crossing her arms. “The last time Mother arranged one of these dreadful encounters, Lord Chance nearly drenched our sofa in sweat. Utterly unpleasant. No lady should have to sit through that.”

Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “Not all of them were that bad.”

“I beg to differ,” Theodosia replied dryly. “They were all equally bothersome.”

The Duchess laughed. “But that’s the beauty of it, my dear. Blind matchups are a delightful gamble. One might endure a few dullards, but then—who knows? You might stumble upon a gem.”

“Precisely!” Lady Kingsley exclaimed. “We should set up some matchups for Seth.”

“Seth? He would loathe being thrust into such an ordeal,” Theodosia said. On the other hand, perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea?

“Oh, I think Seth could do with a bit of excitement,” the Marchioness mused, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “He’s always so serious, locked away with his books and estate ledgers. A blind matchup might just be the thing for him to live a little.”

Or push him over the edge. Seth King despised anything remotely frivolous. Theodosia smiled. “You might be right, Mother. It’s only right that siblings share in joy and despair, is it not?”

“How delightful!” the Duchess declared, her tone brooking no argument. “The poor boy has been buried under responsibilities for far too long. A bit of romantic intrigue could do wonders, and it just so happens I have a few candidates in mind.”

Theodosia happily picked up her tea again, listening to the Duchess of Haverford and her mother conspire.

Ton beware!

A Little Bit of Hellion

By Tanya Wilde

What’s a lady to do when the man she thought was so utterly wrong turns out to be a hellion so very right?

Lady Theodosia King has had enough. Enough of her mother’s relentless matchmaking, enough of fortune hunters circling like vultures, and enough of the Earl of Saville clinging to her shadow under the guise of righting a wrong. Determined to escape the madness, she decides to pack her bags and retreat to Brighton for the remainder of the season. But she never expected a certain earl to follow her . . .

Field Savage, the Earl of Saville, has made his share of mistakes—none more torturous than his involvement in an infamous heiress list that found its way into White’s betting book, causing chaos in London. Every attempt to correct his errors only seems to worsen them. So, when he learns that the bane of his existence has fled London, he’s determined to let her go—after getting answers to a few burning questions.

Their plans go horribly awry when, shortly after Field catches up with Theodosia, they are set upon by highwaymen and left penniless on the side of the road.

Can they overcome their differences long enough to find help, or will their decisions lead them further down a path of mischief and mayhem? And perhaps even love?

Purchase link: https://www.amazon.com/Little-Bit-Hellion-Regency-Historical-ebook/dp/B0DC1859F1

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tanyawilde/

Except:

Theodosia King, daughter of the late Marquess of Kingsley, stared at the man before her and studied the pearls of sweat that dotted the line of his brow, one drop trickling down the side of his cheek. The man’s nervous laughter as he dabbed his handkerchief along his face reminded her of a timorous actor who forgot his lines in a Shakespearean play.

The Earl of Saville was to blame for this. Her once unperturbed life was in shambles.

Because of him.

And his friends, it must be said, but most of all him. He was the reason her mother had started hosting what she disturbingly called “blind matchups.” Every morning—unless she escaped before her mother seized hold of her—she would be stationed in the blue drawing room while her mother and Aunt Rose, her father’s only sister, selected King-approved suitors from the receiving room, allowing them each fifteen minutes in which the men could display their peacock feathers and do a little social dance in the hope of attracting her interest—chaperoned by her trusted maid, Nancy, of course.

She loathed every second of every matchup.

She resented her mother’s strange mind.

And she hated the Earl of Saville.

Most especially today.

Even if the earl hadn’t been directly responsible for these matchups, he’d still poked at the sorest of the sore spots when he’d claimed, on that horrid heiress list, that she had Satan’s eyes. To make matters even more dreadful, he and his friends had given the whole of White’s good entertainment when they lost the list and it found its way into the betting book of White’s. The result had been predictable. Wagers spilled over the book’s pages, drawing out all sorts of wretched creatures to her drawing room.

All in all, an unpleasant reminder of her place in the world. She hadn’t liked the Earl of Saville to begin with. Not since the first time they had been introduced in her first season, and he’d visibly flinched when their eyes met. The man was arrogant, pompous, and rude. Then there was what he, they believed to be her biggest flaw . . .

Theodosia had thought she’d gotten over the incident from her childhood, but that man had brought everything back to the surface with that one comment. Reminding her—no, taunting her—that she could never escape the judgment of others. What was it that her governess had once said?

Ah, yes.

How unfortunate. With eyes like that, you must be cursed, girl. Best lower your gaze when suitors come calling one day.

Theodosia inwardly scoffed. In truth, she couldn’t quite recall the woman’s exact wording, but it had been something to that effect. Lower her gaze, she’d been advised.

What nonsense. It had never been in Theodosia’s nature to lower her gaze. Instead, she made a point to look a man dead in the eyes—like she had done with the Earl of Saville—and their discomfort be damned.

The result? Nine times out of ten brought about the flustering, sweaty mess before her. Lord Chance. Would that this had been the only count against him.

He’d also been late. How long did it take to walk from one drawing room to another? In his case, an entire cup of tea. That had been the first count against him.

The second point against him had come in the form of kissing the back of her hand upon their greeting. His mouth hovered not one, not two, but three moments too long. Must the man cling to her hand?

“Do you like tea, Lady Theodosia?”

Ah, small chatter. Smallest of the small. Irrelevant. Unnecessary. A waste of her breath. Another mark against.

What sort of question was that anyway? Did she like tea? Would she be drinking tea if she did not like it? Does anyone in England not like tea? She didn’t bother to answer, merely took a sip from her cup in response.

A small but purposeful belch slipped from her lips, and she bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing when his eyes widened. “Oh, my apologies. The gasses in my body oftentimes demand release in the most inconvenient moments.”

He stared at her without blinking.

She tilted her head back, matching his stare.

“You . . . that . . .” He cleared his throat. “Inconvenient gasses should be left for more convenient settings.”

Is that so?

And this was the man Mama selected as a possible match. She loved her mother, but she sometimes wondered if the marchioness had any sense in her head. Her mother ought to have been able to tell with one glance this man would never do. He even wore the colors of a peacock. A green waistcoat adorned with a striking blue tailcoat.

Theodosia considered the man across from her, deciding to conclude this meeting ahead of the fifteen-minute mark. “Do you wish to marry me, my lord?”

Lord Chance sputtered on air. A true feat. “M-Marriage? N-no, I wouldn’t say that. I mean that is too early to speak of such m-matters.”

“Why is it too early to speak of such matters?” Theodosia arched a not-so-subtle brow. “You are calling on me, are you not? If you do not know if you wish to marry me because it’s still too early to decide, may I then help facilitate this decision?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lord Chance.” She set her cup down and leaned forward in her seat. “Would you enjoy a wife who is outspoken, stubborn to the bone, has a temper, hates dancing, loves bickering, and has no problem when it comes to insulting the opposite sex?”

His eyes had turned to saucers that grew with each trait she listed. By the time she said “loves bickering,” the man had already jumped to his feet. “Quite right, quite right. I cannot see myself with such a . . . such an unconventional wife.”

Theodosia dipped her head. A resolute nod meant to encourage him to scamper away. She fell back onto the divan even before he’d cleared the room, shooting him a sweet smile when he glanced over his shoulder before hurrying off. How many more? She’d already entertained five lords today.

Five!

Her mother breezed into the room. “What did you say to that poor man? He rushed out of the house as though the devil was on his heels.”

Theodosia gave her mother a deadpan look. “Perhaps the devil was on his heels.”

by

Tea with the ton

Another excerpt post. It isn’t tea, precisely, though I am sure Her Grace served tea at supper after the concert, along with other fluids. The hero of Hold Me Fast is hoping to see his long-lost love at the concert.

When, at last, they were all seated, chattering away like a thousand monkeys or jackdaws rather than people, the duchess came up onto the stage. The noise diminished and then ceased when she tapped the lectern.

It was a formal welcome, and an explanation of the charity hospital that the night was intended to benefit. They, the audience, would be helping the hospital through the ticket sales, several raffles, and an auction.

In return, they would receive not just the pleasure of doing good—a comment that fetched a much bigger laugh that Jowan thought it deserved—but would also enjoy an evening of unparalleled musical excellence.

Jowan managed not to shout out an instruction to get on with it, but Bran must have guessed it was a possibility, for he put his hand back on his brother’s arm.

The duchess was outlining the program for the evening, and doing so with a lot of description and a few jokes.

First, a pianist of whom even Jowan had heard. He had been mentioned quite a few times in the newspapers that made their way to Cornwall.

Next, a couple who must have been well-known in London. The audience’s hum of appreciation indicated the couple were a popular choice, even if they weren’t famous all the way to the western corner of south England. They would both sing while one of them played the harp-lute.

Following that, a short break would allow the assembly to see the items that were being raffled and to write their names and their donations on the paper by each item.

A gentleman whose name Jowan didn’t catch would sing next, and would then sing a duet with Miss Lind before the pianist returned to accompany Miss Lind in further songs. Jowan sat up straighter.

Another short break would be followed by the last musical segment of the evening, this time all Miss Lind.

The duchess went on to talk about the auction that would end that part of the evening and the supper to follow, but Jowan now knew he was doomed to keep waiting. After seven years of waiting, another hour or so should not be a problem, but somehow it was.

He shifted in his seat, trying to make himself comfortable, and caught Bran watching him. His brother looked concerned. Jowan did his best to smile, but must have failed, for Bran’s worry deepened.

The duchess had finished speaking, for everyone began to clap, and Jowan joined in. A tall gentleman who looked remarkably like Drew offered his hand to help the duchess down the steps at one side of the stage, while another man bounced up the other side and took a seat at the piano.

Hold Me Fast can be ordered from Amazon, and will be published on the 19th of September.