WIP Wednesdays

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Secrets of Success in Work-in-Progress Wednesday

It’s an AI image, and I couldn’t persuade the thing to give me Regency era costumes. Pretty picture otherwise, though.

In editing Hearts at Home for publication on May 1st, I had the pleasure of revisiting old friends. This excerpt is from The Beast Next Door, first published in the Bluestocking Belles’ Collection Valentines from Bath. I thought I’d share with you Charis’s discovery about how to attract a man.

The Master of Ceremonies finally discovered Charis in her hiding place. Blushing under Lady Harriett’s wise gaze, Charis allowed the man to present the Earl of Chadbourn as a suitable dance partner.

He exuded strength in spite of his slender frame, stood tall, possessed thick brown hair, and dressed all in black down to his stockings, gloves and cravat. The armband told her the lack of colour was not a fashion choice but marked a death.

However, when she attempted to express sympathy, his friendly smile faded. He said, “Thank you,” mildly enough but nothing else as he escorted her to their place on the dance floor.

It was not as bad as she’d feared. Lord Chadbourn recovered his good humour and proved to be an excellent dancer. He even kept his attention on her with every evidence of courteous enjoyment. After some remarks about the weather and her dress failed to ignite a conversation, he admitted to being more at home on his land than in fashionable company and responded to her timid question with a brief comment on new crop succession planning, which became an enthusiastic dissertation when he discovered she was truly interested.

No. It was not bad at all, except that a succession of less interesting men followed the earl’s example. She tried fading back into the shadows, but apparently, dancing with a handsome earl destroyed her cloak of invisibility, because each time a partner returned her to her delighted mother, another waited to claim the next set.

She tried the same technique that had worked so well with Lord Chadbourn, asking questions until she hit on a topic her current partner could wax lyrical about. As the hours dragged and she continued to twirl and promenade—and smile, a fixed polite fiction as painful as the feet that were aching worse than her head—she learned more than she ever wanted to know about the best points of a race horse, how hard it was to tie a perfect cravat, and the pleasures of collecting snuff boxes.

The hour was late. Surely this torture must be over soon? She gave half an ear to the fribble who was escorting her back to Mother while, with the rest of her mind, she rehearsed reasons why Mother might consent to let her sit out a dance or two. “… don’t know when I have enjoyed a dance more, Miss Fishingham,” the fribble said. “Upon my word, I don’t. Never thought I’d meet a lady so interested in…”

So that was the secret? That was what men wanted? A listener who made appropriate noises while they rabbited on and on? Even Lord Chadbourn, though he, at least, was interesting and polite enough to stop and check that she was not bored.

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New friends on WIP Wednesday

This week’s excerpt is from The Beast Next Door, a story that appeared years ago in a Bluestocking Belles’ Collection, but which I’m currently editing for publication as part of Hearts At Home. My heroine has sought a quiet place where she can read uninterrupted by her noisy family.

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The bench outside the long-forgotten folly was wet, but Charis had expected that. She took her book from her bag, and spread the bag on the bench to protect her skirts. She never saw anyone here, not since her friend Eric left, ten years or more ago. But someone must know she came, because the area around the bench was always kept weeded, and the folly itself was cleaned from time to time, so it lacked the heavy overload of dust and cobwebs to be expected in such a neglected spot.

She was settling herself to read, when a large shaggy dog bounded out of the woods, his tongue lolling cheerfully from one corner of his grinning mouth. His tail waved enthusiastically, and she braced for whatever he intended, but he stopped a pace or two away and sat, stirring the wet grass and weeds with his tongue, lifting one paw as if hoping she would shake it.

“What a beautiful gentleman you are,” Charis said to him.

The dog tipped his head to one side, his tail speeding up.

“Shake?” Charis said. Is that what he wanted?

Apparently so. He shuffled forward, not raising his hind end completely from the ground. When he was a few inches nearer, he lifted his paw again, this time within reach if she just bent forward.

And so, she did.

The dog grinned still more broadly and half lifted again so his tail could wag at full speed.

“Yes, you are a friendly boy,” Charis agreed. “And someone has taught you beautiful manners.” She looked around, wondering if the dog’s owner was near, but no one was in sight.

The dog collapsed at her feet, leaning his head against her knee, and she obliged by rubbing behind his ear, then down to his chin. He closed his eyes in ecstasy and tipped his head even higher.

“That’s what you like, is it not?” Charis asked him and continued to caress the dog as she opened her book. Her own place, her book, and a friendly dog to pat. She could feel the tension draining as she settled in to enjoy her brief period of freedom.

 

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Brothers on WIP Wednesday


And here are my heroes from A Gift to the Heart – Drake and Bane.

“The wife is out,” said the blacksmith, when Bane poked his head into the kitchen to see if supper was ready. “It’s Misrule Night. Don’t know what they’re up to, and I’m not going to ask. Supper is on the table.”

Bread, cheese, and a big slab of plum cake. Good enough. Bane poured himself an ale and sat down, as did the blacksmith. They ate in silence—when the lady of the house was home, she chattered enough for all three of them, but the blacksmith was a man of few words, and Bane had been eating alone for most of his life.

Besides, his mind was not on the food or the company, but on his brother. Something about the whole situation didn’t sit right. Drake was popular with the ladies, but—as far as Bane knew—this was the first time he’d ever received an anonymous invitation. Not, in itself, suspicious, but Bane didn’t like the timing. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that on Misrule Night, women used their temporary freedom to seek revenge.

Revenge for what, though? Drake was, as Bane had cause to know, the kindest, most giving of men, with a positive talent for staying on pleasant terms with his amours both during and after their liaison.

He had almost finished his ale when a hullabaloo started from outside—the rata-tat-tat of drums, the shriek of whistles, clanging sounds that put him in mind of kitchens.

“Better check,” said the blacksmith, and got up to open the door, just in time for the parade to pass in front of the smithy and then the cottage alongside it.

The noise makers came first. The clanging, Bane noted, was made by various types of spoon against pot lids. The women all wore costumes and masks, like the group he’d seen earlier. Even their own mothers would not have known them.
More women, similarly garbed, followed the noise makers. They were oddly positioned, in long lines, and it took Bane a minute to realise they were pulling on ropes—at least half a dozen ropes, each with eight or nine women haulers. Others danced among them with lamps, lighting the whole scene.

As he craned his neck to see what they were dragging, he noticed that doors and windows were open up and down the village street. The men of the village were silent witnesses to whatever was happening.
“It is a shaming,” said the blacksmith. He sounded awed. “There hasn’t been one in Marblestead for seven years! I wonder who it is?”

A shaming. Bane had never seen one, but he had heard about the last one. The man had been a serial fornicator, seducing one girl after the other with meaningless promises. After being led through the whole village and around the major farms and manors all one Misrule Night, he had left town and had never returned.

The object at the end of the ropes was plodding into view. It was a donkey, stolidly ignoring the ropes, the noise, and the murmuring of the onlookers. That, Bane saw at a glance.

What took all of his attention was not the steed but the rider. He was male. Since he wore nothing but knee breeches and a head-concealing mask in the form of a goat’s head, his gender was beyond a doubt. So said the broad shoulders and the muscular torso, arms and thighs.

He sat backwards on the ass, bound to the saddle with rope, swaying slightly as if he was drunk. Bane knew that torso, those arms! He narrowed his eyes as the rider drew level, and was aided by one of the dancers, who lifted her lamp so that it shone on the rider’s elbow.

“It is Drake,” Bane said.

“Really?” asked the blacksmith. “What has Drake done to deserve a shaming?”

“Nothing,” Bane said, grimly, and took a step forward, but the blacksmith grabbed his arm. “If you go out there, you’ll be joining him.”

“I can’t leave him there,” Bane protested, but the blacksmith was right. He’d not get Drake free without using his brain instead of just reacting. “I need my horse,” he said. “And a good knife. I’ll grab him when they take him off the donkey to throw him into the pond.”

“They’ll overpower you,” the blacksmith warned. “There are what? Fifty of them? One of you.”

“I can’t fight them. Not women,” Bane admitted. “But I have to try. If I get dunked alongside Drake, so be it.”

The blacksmith pursed his lips. “Cut the goat’s head off,” he advised. “Let them see they’ve got the wrong man.”

That might work. Bane left for the barn, where he also stabled his horse.He wanted to merely bridle the horse and be off after his brother, but his common sense told him that he might need the stability of saddle and stirrups. It took several minutes, even with the blacksmith’s help, but at last he was in the saddle and galloping after the Misrule party.

They had reached the pond and were dragging Drake from the saddle, none too gently. Fortunately for Drake, only a few of the women—ten at most—were involved in the dismounting. The rest were not even watching. Rather, they waited on the edge of the pond for the next event in the night’s entertainment. Bane grinned. He would give them something to watch.

He set the horse at a gallop, straight at the cluster around Drake, pulling up only at the last minute. They had, as he’d hoped, leapt out of the way, and Bane reached down and grabbed the rope that bound Drake’s arms to his body. “Mount behind me,” he shouted, and heaved as Drake jumped and scrambled until he was seated behind Bane.

The horse danced and skittered, objecting to the noise, the load and the whole situation. That was a help, for the women who might have objected to losing their prisoner were keeping their distance.

“This is my brother Mandrake Sanderson,” Bane shouted. “He has done nothing worthy of a shaming.” He was pretending to be trying to control the horse, but his knees were encouraging its jittery behaviour.

A woman with the crown and staff of the Lady of Misrule stepped forward—an Amazon with dark curly hair. He could not see much of her face behind her half mask, but what he could see distracted him for a moment. She was stunning.
“Mandrake?” she asked. “Not Colin?”

Bane hoped it was her readiness to listen to reason that soothed his anger, and not his awareness of her as an attractive female. Or perhaps it was just that Colin probably deserved whatever the women cared to dish out. They had made a mistake, and Bane had rescued Drake before they could half drown him. Or all the way drown him, which old timers said had sometimes happened.

“Not Colin,” he replied. “I’ll show you.” Bane twisted in the saddle so that he could use his knife to cut the ropes, an act the horse made more difficult than it needed to be. “Drake, take the head off,” he said.

“I don’t feel too good,” said Drake, in a voice that quavered over the register, but he fumbled with the goat’s head and lifted it free. His eyes looked odd. They must have given him something.

As the horse calmed, the women had gathered closer.

“It is Drake,” said one of the women. Bane couldn’t be sure, but he thought he recognised the voice of the blacksmith’s wife.

“Mr Colin Sanderson is older,” explained another to the Lady of Misrule.

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Meet a new heroine on WIP Wednesday

I’ve made a start on A Gift From the Heart. The Winterberry sisters are my heroines.

At the time, Lucilla Winterbury thought the Twelfth Night rumpus to be perfectly justified. And just! Unwise, perhaps, but only because she did not want even a hint of it reaching her father. For if Father knew what she and the other young woman at the party had done, he would shut her sister Olivia in her room forever, and Cilla he would never let out of his sight again.
Father had been reluctant to allow Cilla and her sister Olivia to go to Marplehurst Hall for a twelve-day Christmastide party. No. He was reluctant for Cilla to go. Cilla was his younger daughter and his pet. As he had told Livy more than once, his elder daughter could go straight to the devil for all he cared.
In the past, he had never given permission even for Livy to go. Lady Virginia Marple, hostess of the event, was his younger sister, and the two did not get on. Indeed, perhaps his dislike of Livy was rooted in his fraught relationship with his sister, for he frequently said that Livy was just like Aunt Ginny.
As to the party, Aunt Ginny had only begun them after the end of her period of mourning for her husband, and for the first three years, neither Livy nor Cilla could have gone. Neither would have left their mother during her long illness, nor could they attend while they were in mourning for her.
The following year, Father said that Aunt Ginny had grown wild since she was widowed, though he would not disclose any details.
This year, Aunt Ginny descended on him in person, and demanded that both daughters be released into her care. Aunt Ginny was Father’s younger sister, and he swore that Livy was exactly like her. Cilla and Livy listened to their conversation from the secret passage that ran beside the fireplace.
“Olivia may go,” Father said, “but Lucilla is not out, Virginia.”
“It is an all-female party, Horace,” she told him. “My own daughters, goddaughters and their mothers. I want my nieces with me. Other girls of Cilla’s age will be there. Younger girls, too. It is disgraceful, by the way, that Cilla has not yet made her debut. The girl is nineteen, after all.”
“You shall leave me to know what is best for my daughter,” Father insisted. He sniffed. “Lucilla is delicate. I would not expect you to understand.”
Father had always insisted that Cilla was delicate. Mama had been delicate, and Cilla looked just like her, but had always kept excellent health. Livy said that Mama’s delicacy was caused by Father’s bullying, which might be true.
“Then the matter is easily resolved,” Aunt Ginny retorted. “I shall look after Cilla, and so shall Livy. You may be confident that we will not allow her to become overtired or stressed. Though I think you should trust Cilla’s good sense, Horace.”
Father was firmly of the view that women had no good sense, but were instead creatures of emotion. Livy said that this proved Father to be a creature of emotion.
“I cannot reconcile it with my conscience,” Father insisted. “Olivia may go.”
“Both of my nieces,” Aunt Ginny insisted. “I do not wish my other guests to think I am ashamed of the connection, Horace.”
Cilla winced. Father would not like that. Wealthy though he was, he was still only a merchant in the eyes of the people Aunt Ginny counted as friends. The remark worked, though. After a few other objections, each of which Aunt Ginny countered, the sisters were permitted to leave with their aunt.
They had a fabulous time. Cilla already knew and liked her cousins, and she soon made other friends. As for Livy, away from Father and in an all female environment, she blossomed. It helped that, on the first night, her slice of the Christmas pudding contained a silver crown, making her the Lady of Misrule for the whole of the party.
She threw herself into the role, showing the sly humour that she normally shared only with Cilla. It fuelled a seemingly endless succession of merry tricks and hilarious games, and inspired others to offer suggestions of their own.
Everyone was enjoying themselves. Everyone, that is, except Aurora Thornton, a girl from the next village, who did her best to join in but was clearly unhappy. Cilla tried to draw her out of her shell, but to no avail.
“It is odd,” one of the cousins said. “Rory is not normally like this.”
“She was happy when the party started,” said another cousin. “Very happy. I thought she had a suitor, but if she did, he has disappointed her.”
Poor girl. Cilla had never had a suitor. From the stories she was hearing this week, perhaps that was a good thing.
In the end, what caused Aurora to sob her heart out on Cilla’s shoulder was a game, for one of the girls claimed that she could read the cards and tell fortunes, and the fortune she told for Aurora was a tall fair headed man who would be faithful and true.
“But he wasn’t,” Aurora wailed. “Colin was not faithful, and he wasn’t true. He made all kinds of promises, and they were all lies, for he is ma- ma- ma- ma- married!” The final word was broken by sobs, and even though the young ladies—the mothers and aunts were closeted with a bottle of port and had left the damsel to their own devices—even though the young ladies gathered closely around, it was some time before the story was told.
She had had a secret suitor, who became her lover. He lived in this village, and so Aurora had arrived full of hope, certain she would be able to make arrangements to see him, to find out why he had not visited for several weeks.
And on Christmas Day, when the house party attended church, she did see him—in his pew with a woman and two children. A few questions to those who lived locally soon confirmed that they were his family—his wife and their offspring.
“Well,” said Livy, when she understood all, “you are not with child, and nobody knows except us. And we are all your friends, Aurora, and will keep your secret. The question is, what do we do to Colin Sanderson to embarrass him in public the way he has embarrassed you in private?”
Cilla had never been prouder of Livy. Though some of the maidens had been horrified to have a ruined women among them, Livy had reminded them that Aurora was a sheltered innocent and Sanderson a mature man who should have known better.
“He set out to ruin her,” she said, fiercely. “Who is to say that any of us would have fared better, believing his lies and his promises as Aurora did.” And one by one, they nodded their heads.
Even the most censorious promised to keep the secret, and all of them had suggestions about making Sanderson pay. The plan they came up with for New Year’s Eve was masterly, Cilla thought.
New Year’s Eve, in Marblestead, was the Festival of the Lady of Misrule, where the women took over the town and the men stayed indoors out of their way. It was the perfect time to make a fool out of a lying deceiver.
They had to enlist the groom who was sweet on Cilla’s eldest cousin to lure the Sanderson mountebank to the tavern in the village, but everything else, they could handle themselves.
It would be the highlight of the party.

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Hooking the governess on WIP Wednesday

This is the last work-in-progress excerpt from The Duke’s Price. By next Wednesday, it will be a published book!

Ruth was responding to him. She might not realise it, but Perry did. Physically, the signs were obvious, but emotionally, too, she had softened towards him as he told his stories, ably supported by Walter, who had been with him through it all.
He had not intended to mention Lockswell or the young man’s mother. He never spoke of them, but Bella’s faintly hostile attitude, at first amusing, had begun to grate. Clearly, Ruth had told her pupil what the price was for his assistance, and she was indignant on her mentor’s behalf. Polite, but ever so slightly scornful. When she mocked his age, he had responded without thinking.

If he was not mistaken, the fact he’d been a widower for more than half his lifetime had softened the girl’s attitude, though he had not been seeking her pity. No doubt she’d invented a whole romantic story about the poor duke grieving for the love of his youth.

What would she think if she knew the truth? What would Ruth think? She would probably pity him more than ever—yes, and despise him too, the weak innocent ignorant creature he had been, a dupe of his uncle and his faithless wife.
There was a reason Perry never spoke of the youth he had been and the mistakes he had made.

Ruth, he was pleased to note, did not take it on faith that he was a pitiable widower, pining for his long-dead wife. She was warier than ever. Whatever she thought of his personal revelations, she was not allowing it to overwhelm her good sense.
It was already too late for her, did she but know it. He had her hooked, senses and emotions. Only by the most careless of mishandling would he lose her now. And Perry was far too experienced to mishandle a seduction.

He had already planned the next step, and when they arrived in Toulouse, he set about putting it into action. Once again, they walked to another inn after leaving the hired carriage and team. Perry ordered a suite of their best rooms, and it was perfect—three bedchambers, a single dressing room, and a shared sitting room, which included among its furnishings a dining table. The bill had used up almost the last of his gold, but tomorrow he would sell a couple of jewels and they would be in funds again.

Since Bella clearly knew that Ruth had agreed to be his lover, he did not have to disguise the sleeping arrangements, so he assigned Bella to the middle-sized room, Walter to the smallest room, and him and Ruth to the largest. Bella opened her mouth on what was, by her expression, going to be a complaint. Ruth waved her to silence.

“I have ordered a bath for you ladies to be brought to Bella’s room,” Perry said, “and one for me and Walter in the dressing room. Once we have bathed, our dinner will be served in the sitting room.”
Ruth looked relieved, which was ever so slightly insulting. Did she think Perry was so inept that he’d insist on bathing with her when they had never done more than kiss? Nor would he do more than kiss tonight, even though his inflaming touches had left him as aroused as they had her. Perhaps more aroused, for he knew where the amorous journey led.

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Seduction on WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from The Duke’s Price

Ruth was responding to him. She might not realise it, but Perry did. Physically, the signs were obvious, but emotionally, too, she had softened towards him as he told his stories, ably supported by Walter, who had been with him through it all.
He had not intended to mention Lockswell or the young man’s mother. He never spoke of them, but Bella’s faintly hostile attitude, at first amusing, had begun to grate. Clearly, Ruth had told her pupil what the price was for his assistance, and she was indignant on her mentor’s behalf. Polite, but ever so slightly scornful. When she mocked his age, he had responded without thinking.
If he was not mistaken, the fact he’d been a widower for more than half his lifetime had softened the girl’s attitude, though he had not been seeking her pity. No doubt she’d invented a whole romantic story about the poor duke grieving for the love of his youth.
What would she think if she knew the truth? What would Ruth think? She would probably pity him more than ever—yes, and despise him too, the weak innocent ignorant creature he had been, a dupe of his uncle and his faithless wife.
There was a reason Perry never spoke of the youth he had been and the mistakes he had made.
Ruth, he was pleased to note, didn’t take it on faith that he was a pitiable widower, pining for his long-dead wife. She was warier than ever. Whatever she thought of his personal revelations, she was not allowing it to overwhelm her good sense.
It was already too late for her, did she but know it. He had her hooked, senses and emotions. Only by the most careless of mishandling would he lose her now. And Perry was far too experienced to mishandle a seduction.

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Travelling with the wicked duke on WIP Wednesday

Another passage from The Duke’s Price, now on preorder.

“We did not have much packing to do,” Bella told DeAth, when they were settled in a comfortable carriage and on their way to the next town. “Ruth and I shall need to go shopping, DeAth. Or should I call you ‘Papá’?”

Ruth found herself sharing an amused smile with the unaccountable man.

“DeAth will do,” he said. “I hope to reach Toulouse tonight. I am certain that city will have shops to supply suitable clothing and other items for a wealthy merchant’s ladies.” He turned questioning eyes to Ruth. “If we are delayed on the road, will you be able to manage for one more night?”

“We will,” Ruth assured him.

“Why not ‘Papá’?” Bella enquired. “Do you feel too young to have a daughter of nearly fifteen, DeAth?”

He didn’t allow Bella’s impertinence to ruffle his equanimity. “I know I am old enough to have a daughter of your age. I do not, as it happens.” He grinned. “At least, as far as I know. But I do have a son, Bella. My heir, the Marquess of Lockswell.

“He will be twenty-five this year.”

“Goodness!” Bella said what Ruth was thinking. “You cannot have been more than a boy!”

DeAth laughed outright at that. “Are you asking my age, young lady? I am three and forty, and yes, that means I was married at the age of seventeen.”

“You are a widower, then, excellensia? DeAth, I mean?” Bella asked.

Ruth should really remind her that such personal questions were impolite, but Ruth also wanted to know.

“These twenty-three years. And that is enough, senorita. No more questions.”

He started telling them a story about his last trip through France, making an amusing tale of being chased out of town by burghers who had been treating him as one of their own until a Frenchman he’d met in London recognised him as the Duke of Richport.

When that episode had reached its end, with a lucky escape thanks to a sympathetic barmaid, Walter mentioned another escape, this time in Greece, and that led to a further tale and then another, so that Ruth was surprised when they rolled into a village and stopped at an inn for the first change of horses.

“It is very hard, Ruth,” said Bella when they had a private moment while the men were busy. “To lose his wife when he was not yet twenty. I wonder that he has not married again. Perhaps he loved her very much, and cannot bear to see another in her place. Perhaps that is why he is a rake. Do you not think that is possible, Ruth?”

Ruth thought it was more likely he had been a wicked youth, and that his wife had died of a broken heart. Ruth was going to take it as a warning. Don’t let his charm, his storytelling and his kindness fool you into thinking he is a good person. He reinforced the lesson repeatedly over the course of the day, letting his hand linger as he helped her in and out of the carriage, or ushered her through a doorway at one of the inns they visited on the day.

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You can’t choose your family on WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from The Secret Word

Chris had asked Harry Satterthwaite and Michael Thurgood to stand up with him. He hadn’t expected Billy to attend, but there the man was, sitting on the groom’s side of the church a few pews back from the front. Tiny was there, too, and at least a dozen of the other men—floor managers from each of the gambling dens, the man who operated the loan business, and managers of Billy’s other shops.

The women, too, for Billy had women managing each of his brothels, as well as a laundry, a pawnbroker, two barefoot schools, and some of Billy’s residential properties.

Chris had worked with them all, and was pleased to have them at his wedding, all dressed in their best clothes and looking as respectable as the other people in the pews on that side. 

The others were strangers, but the resemblance of some of them to either Harry or Michael identified them. They were his Satterthwaite and Thurgood relatives, come to see him married. Chris was touched. 

Would they take exception to the company in which they found themselves? If they did, no matter. He’d lived his life without them up until now. He could continue doing so. Would Wright take exception to their presence? He would not arrive until Clemmie did. It was to be hoped that, by the time he realised that Chris’s family had come out in his support, it would be too late to stop the wedding.

Those on the bride’s side were mostly strangers, except for a few he’d met when in company with Wright. Business magnates and merchant nabobs, and the women with them presumably their wives. 

Here came his godmother, and behind her Clemmie’s maid, Maggie and the companion, Mrs. Bellowes. Aunt Fern  strolled down the aisle to join those on the groom’s side while Mrs. Bellowes settled on the bride’s side. Maggie took a seat at the back, with several other people Chris recognised from Wright’s household.

And if Aunt Fern, Mrs. Bellowes, and Maggie were here, then Clemmie must be close! Chris stood up straighter, his eyes on the door by which she would enter. His cravat suddenly felt tight. He didn’t realise he was running his finger around his neck, trying to give himself room, until Michael Thurgood leaned over and told him, “You’re messing up your cravat. Stop touching it.”

And then suddenly the wait was over and Clemmie was walking toward him. Somewhere, music was playing. Presumably, Wright was escorting her. Chris saw only Clemmie. How lovely she was! What fools those men were who called her plain.

His heart seemed to fill his chest, pressing his lungs so that his breath came short and caught in a suddenly dry throat. He loved Clementine Wright, and in a few minutes, she would be his wife, promised to him for a lifetime. Wright and the minister exchanged a few words, and Wright extended Clemmie’s right hand to the minister who gave it to Chris.

Chris smiled into Clemmie’s eyes, and she smiled back. That smile and her touch anchored him through the rest of the ceremony, when his joy made him feel so light that he thought he might float away. 

He said his responses when prompted, trying to infuse his love, his certainty into his voice. He thrilled to hear the love in her voice and to see the happiness in her eyes when she spoke. 

At last it was time to encircle her finger with the ring he had designed and had made for her. For a moment, it caught on her knuckle, but he pushed firmly and it slid into place. 

The minister prayed, asking for God’s blessing on the marriage. He then took their right hands and indicated they should join hands. 

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

He then spoke to the congregation. But before he could finish explaining that he and Clemmie had proclaimed their consent, made their vows and given and received a ring, there was a commotion—someone shouting from the back of the church. Grandfather, the swine.

“Stop the wedding. Stop this travesty. The boy”

Harry touched Chris’s arm. “I’ll handle it. Carry on, minister.”

Clemmie started to turn to look, but Chris refused to give Grandfather even a look. “It is our wedding, Clemmie,” he said. “Ignore him.” And to the minister, he said, “My grandfather disapproves of my choice of bride, sir, as you can hear. But I am of age, and I have the permission of Clemmie’s father and the blessing of my cousin and my uncle, both earls, who are respectively the heads of the Satterthwaite and the Thurgood families. Carry on with the wedding, please.”

Reassured, the minister raised his voice to be heard over several voices shouting. “I pronounce that they are man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” 

Next came a blessing, and during it, the altercation at the back of the church faded away. Grandfather was, presumably, being dragged off. And a good thing, too.

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Bargaining on WIP WEdnesday

Another AI image. It’s not terrible.

In this excerpt from The Duke’s Price, my wicked duke makes his offer–and tells the governess his price. (On preorder for release April 1st.)

Miss Henwood was leaving. Was Mort going to do it or wasn’t he? It was unlike him to vacillate. “Miss Henwood,” he said, just as she was about to step through the door into the tower behind him. “I have another proposition for you.”
“Yes?” Her voice was cautious. Wise woman! Beware wicked dukes bearing gifts.
“I have a yacht moored in Collioure, just across the border from Spain in France. I will escort you and the princess to Collioure, and then transport you to England.”
“You will?” The hope in her voice tugged at the dried-up shrivelled vestiges of his conscience. Ridiculous. He was a villain. A villain with some gentlemanly standards, but a villain, nonetheless. If he was going to betray his friend and go to the trouble of a no-doubt uncomfortable dash through the mountains and countryside, then someone had to pay.
“I have a price,” he said.
Miss Henwood did not flinch. “Which is?”
“We will travel as a family—husband, wife and daughter. Or, given she looks like neither of us, step daughter, perhaps.”
Miss Henwood took the few steps back to his side before commenting. “That seems sensible.”
“We shall travel as husband and wife in every way except the church blessing on the arrangement, which shall be temporary, Miss Henwood. Until we arrive in England.” By which time, no doubt, he would have tired of her, as he had of all others.
“I see.”
That was it. Neither yes nor no. Mort began laying out plans as if she had already agreed. It was a strategy that had worked for him time out of mind, both in amorous and business negotiations. “If you can get her excellency out of the town, it is probably best if I appear to leave Las Estrellas. For Barcelona, perhaps. That way, they will be looking for a woman and girl, not a family. Tell me where to meet you and when, and I shall be waiting.”
Her frown deepened as she thought.
“I shall get the pair of you away safely, Miss Henwood, and protect you with all my considerable resources until you are in the hands of your friend and her family,” he said. It was a vow, he realized. Was he in his dotage or suffering a second childhood? He was becoming a knight errant!
“You will protect me from everyone except you,” said Miss Henwood, the sarcasm heavy in her voice.
She was being coy. He was far too experienced not to know she found him attractive, and surely she must be in her mid-thirties. She could not be so innocent that she regarded the perfectly natural acts he had in mind as dangerous.
However, it was not in his interests to point out her duplicity
“I shall tell Carlos in the morning that I have a mind to move on,” he said. “Once my people and I are out of Las Estrellas, I’ll send most of them along the road to Barcelona. From there, they can cross the border for Collioure. I’ll write a note for them to deliver to my yacht. My valet and I will circle the country and wait for you—where?”
“Camino del Lobo,” she said. “Bella and I will be there in… six days. Or I will send a messenger.”
He had her! Did she realise she had just agreed to be his lover? To test her, he said, “A kiss. To seal our bargain and as a deposit in your account.”
Miss Henwood sighed, very much as if he was an annoying child who must be tolerated. However, unless the shadows mislead him, she also blushed.
He said nothing, but waited for her to initiate their embrace. She waited, too. Was she playing games with him? That was not what he expected of her, but then women were unaccountable creatures, in many ways.
After a long moment, she said, “Well? Are you going to kiss me?”
“No,” Mort said. “I don’t owe you a kiss. You owe me one. I am waiting for you to kiss me.”
Instead of pouting, frowning, arguing, or laughing at his nonsense and giving him a kiss, Miss Henwood looked worried, but leaned forward and gave him a peck which would have fallen on his cheek if he had not turned his face to allow their lips to meet.
It lasted less than a second, and was over. Miss Henwood looked relieved. “I will say good night then, your grace.”
“Death,” he insisted, “and the toll required was a lover’s kiss. That was not a lover’s kiss, Miss Henwood.”
He almost laughed at her huff of annoyance. “De-Ath, then,” she said, the stubborn woman. “What am I supposed to know of lover’s kisses, De-Ath? I have been a governess since I was seventeen.”
Her irritation had him adjusting his assumptions about her experience. “You have never shared a kiss? No randy fathers or adult sons? No sweethearts on your day off?”
She frowned again. His guess that she was thinking about what to tell him was confirmed when she said. “I suppose, if we are to be intimate, you ought to know. I have never shared a lover’s kiss. I have had lust’s kisses forced on me, but have managed to avoid anything more than rude slobbering and even ruder fumbling.”
Her disgust dripped from the words. Mort was suddenly very pleased that he had demanded she take the lead in this first encounter. She would soften to him all the sooner if he behaved differently to those who had offended her.
What fools those slobberers and fumblers were! He had never forced an unwilling woman, though he had seduced more than a few into willingness. As he would Miss Henwood.

by

First meeting on WIP Wednesday

In Pol’s dream, he was chasing the gambler from the night before—Le Gume. Jack Le Gume, to be precise. Pol had asked a few questions and discovered that the man was well known in the area. And liked, too. He was remembered as a graceful winner and a cheerful loser. He won more than he lost, apparently. But not huge amounts, and those who had met the man swore to Pol that he was honest.

She was honest. Pol was certain of his impression from the night before, but now, in the dream, he tackled her to stop her from running away, and as she fell, the beard tore from half her face. Pol looked down into a face he knew. Jackie Bean, the stable boy from Squire Pershing’s.

Was he wrong, then? And yet his body insisted that the lithe shape underneath him was female and desirable.

At that point, Pol woke up. He was in the study, lying on the sofa under a rug, half aroused. Suddenly, he realized what his dream had been trying to tell him. He should have guessed sooner, for she had done little to disguise her name. Jack Le Gume. Legume. A bean was a sort of legume. Jackie Bean. Yes, and Jacqueline Haricot, too. Haricot was French for bean, and the French born Miss Haricot, the dressmaker’s apprentice and daughter, was very definitely a woman.

A lovely woman. Slender, but beautifully curved, with light brown hair that she usually wore tightly confined. But he had seen it loose, once, falling in soft waves to her shoulders. He had been riding past the field where she and her mother kept their cow, and she had not seen him, but the horse had stopped at a signal he did not know he had sent, and he had sat for a minute, staring at her with a dry mouth and an odd ache in his chest.

No wonder he had not guessed. The seamstress might be small, but she was all woman. However, now that he’d noticed it was obvious. She was was also the stable boy, and the gambler.

A soft click came from the door, which he had locked before he went to sleep. A similar sound had reached through the mists of sleep to wake him, he realized. Someone was tapping metal upon metal outside the study door.

No. Inside the door lock, for the light from the embers in the fireplace was enough to see the door open, and he had locked it himself, before he had settled on the sofa.

He watched as a slender figure slipped through the opening and closed the door. Not Oscar, then. His cousin was the only person with a right to pick the lock, though it was not likely he’d try. In the unlikely event he even wanted to enter the study and found the door locked, his style would be to hammer on it and demand to be let in.

This person was twelve inches too short and more than a hundred pounds lighter. For the same reasons, it couldn’t be the viscountess. Amanda, perhaps? But Pol already knew who it was. Perhaps it was the faint scent of violets, so vague he might have been imagining it. Perhaps it was the tightening of his body, already primed by the dream. She is safe, said a part of his mind, rejoicing far more than made sense, given they had not had even a single conversation.

Why was Jackie Haricot or Bean, or whatever her surname might be, breaking into Oscar’s study?

She had made her way to the desk and was crouching down by the drawers on one side. He shifted the rug from his legs and swung his legs to the floor to sit up, watching her the whole time. Her focus was on the drawers, and she didn’t notice him. The scratching sound suggested she was once again picking a lock.

He did not speak until he was ready, his weight balanced forward so he could make a spring for the door if she attempted to escape.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” he asked. “If it is the money Oscar cheated you out of, I’m afraid it isn’t here. Probably Oscar took it with him. He has ridden over to Civerton, I daresay for gaming and… um… other things.”

The girl froze when she heard his voice. As he kept speaking, she slowly moved, her head coming up so she was looking at him over the desk. “Is it you, Mr. Allegro?” she asked, only a small tremble in her voice indicating what was probably a turmoil of emotions.