WIP Wednesdays

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The plot thickens on WIP Wednesday

In this week’s WIP  extract, I tangle several different plot threads just a little more.

Margaret sat with her friends in the shade, sipping fruit juice and watching Peter, Ash, Deerhaven and Snowy on the lake with half a dozen other men, rowing two to a boat in heat after heat. The ladies had been out on the water, but when the men challenged one another to a race, they had asked to be set ashore on the island, where refreshments were set out in the temple-like folly.

“You like him, don’t you?” Regina asked Margaret.

“Which him?” Margaret asked, though she knew perfectly well that Regina was referring to Snowy.

“I do,” Arial said. “Peter does, too. He is not what we expected when you told us about allowing him to escort you, Margaret.”

Margaret dropped the pretence to pursue this more interesting topic.

“What did you think he would be like?”

Arial thought about it. “A lot rougher. Less concerned about your safety and your reputation.”

“After all,” Cordelia pointed out, “you did meet him in a slum alley just behind the brothel where he works. It was not a recommendation.”

Regina agreed. “We were concerned, but not now that we have met him.”

“He has been raised as a gentleman,” Margaret said. “In my experience, he is more of a gentleman than many you meet in Society.”

The other ladies nodded. “Lord Snowden for one,” Regina agreed. Snowden was watching them from the far shore. His son and young Deffew, his ward, were out on the lake, racing, but Snowden did not turn his stare away from the four ladies.

“The rumours say Snowden is not the viscount, that there is a lost heir. Is it Snowy, do you think? Is that what this display of Snowy’s is about?” Ariel asked.

“He hasn’t said,” Margaret told them. “But the way these rumours have appeared just when he chooses to go into Society—it is too unlikely a coincidence. I think he must be behind them. Lord Snowden must be rattled. He sent his son to tell me that Snowy was a charlatan, a fraud, and that I must cease seeing him immediately.”

Regina’s reaction was the same as Margaret’s. “The cheek!”

“Interesting, though,” Cordelia mused. “Have you told Snowy?”

A face on the other shore caught Margaret’s eye. It could not be… At this distance, it was impossible to be sure, but somehow, she was.

“Margaret?” Arial asked.

“Hmmm?” What had they been talking about? “No, I haven’t had the opportunity, yet.”

Her friends were looking at her with concern. “You have gone pale, darling.” Arial said. “Is something the matter?”

“Nothing,” she assured them. “I thought I saw someone I knew long ago. But I am sure I was wrong. He was some distance away, and I could not see the face clearly. Just the hair colour and the uniform.”

“Not the odious officer!” Arial exclaimed.

“The odious officer?” asked Cordelia.

Arial was the only one who knew quite how odious Martin had been, but the rest was not a secret. “A man who trifled with my heart during my first Season. I was too young to realise that his compliments were lies and his promises so much empty air. I am sure it cannot be him. As far as I know, his regiment is still posted overseas.” For years she had been checking the listings in the newspapers, hoping that he never sold out.

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A girl’s first ball on WIP Wednesday

The book I have just finished has two distinct parts and a bridging section. In the first part, my heroine is turning 17, and one of the scenes is set at her birthday ball, which is also her debut to Society.  The section follow her from the planning for the ball to the end of her first Season. The second part picks up the story sixteen years ago, when she is a widow and the boy she wanted to dance with at her ball returns from many years overseas. Today’s piece is set at the ball.

Regina had thought that the dinner party would drag, given how excited she was about the ball, and how eager for the dancing to begin. Mr. Paddimore, however, proved to be an entertaining dinner companion. He told Regina several stories about funny things that happened at balls he attended, and assured her he was happy to fight off any suitors she would prefer not to entertain.

Before she knew it, dinner was over and Mama was saying it was time to form the receiving line. That, too, was exciting. All of these people had come to celebrate Regina!

She received many compliments. Mama and Papa, too, for having such a beautiful and charming daughter. Even so, she was glad when the stream of new arrivals dwindled to a trickle, and Mama announced it was time for the first dance.

Her one disappointment was that Elijah had not arrived. She had gone to such trouble, too. Yesterday afternoon, at the dancing class that one of Mama’s friends had got up for young ladies and young gentlemen who were new to the Season, Regina had managed to speak to several of the young men to whom mother had given one of her dances.

One of them—a youth she had known from the cradle—was more than happy to forego his dance with her in return for an introduction to another of the debutantes who had caught his eye.

If Elijah arrived, she would be able to dance with him. She had always wanted to, since she had seen him dancing with his mother at a village festival more than six years ago.

However, if he could not be bothered to come to her ball, she was certainly not going to spare him another thought. She smiled at Mr. Paddimore and allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor. He was a very graceful dancer. She supposed that, at his age, he had had a lot of practice.

She enjoyed every minute of the next two hours. She did not enjoy some of her partners. The clumsy ones who trod on her feet or tried to lead her the wrong way. The ones who talked the entire time, and never had a single interesting thing to say. The ones who served ridiculous and overblown flattery with a helping of questions about how rich her father really was.

But Regina loved to dance, and was happy to imagine the clumsy, boring, or calculating partner of the moment replaced with the perfect gentleman of her imagination. The perfect gentleman who would partner her in one perfect dance.

It was for that imaginary person she danced gracefully to the music, smiling and glowing with pleasure.

At supper, her partner was tongue-tied, so she carried on with her daydream, imagining that her perfect gentleman had selected morsels to tempt her appetite from the best of the dishes set out for the guests.

Her escort managed to break his silence long enough to stammer, “Are you enjoying the evening, Miss Kingsley?”

Regina heard the question in her perfect gentleman’s thrilling tones, and it was to him that she answered, “I am having such a wonderful time. Everything is so exciting, so beautiful, and the people have been so kind.”

The enthusiastic response loosened her escort’s tongue a little. “It is very easy to be kind to one as lovely as you, Miss Kingsley.”

He might not be her perfect gentleman, but he was a very nice person.

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Friends on WIP Wednesday

Coffee houses were popular meeting places

Friends are useful to a novelist–someone for a character to talk to about everything that’s bothering him or her. Or, if they’re not the talking sort, someone to prompt thoughts of what they’d like to talk about. In my current work in progress, Snowy and the Seven Blossoms, my hero has two close friends, both of them members of a group of investors that he founded.

Here they are, discussing railways. And then more.

The discussion continued even after the meeting was over and the other investors had left, the decision still on the table.

“Locomotives are unreliable,” Gary declared. Gaheris Fullerton was the first real friend Snowy had ever had, another scholarship student and one of the smartest men Snowy knew. The second son of a poor working family in the Midlands, he’d read law at Oxford and had overcome the disadvantages of his origins to complete his four years at an Inn of Court and be accepted to the Bar.

“If Murray and his ilk can overcome the difficulties with the steam locomotive, the canals are not going to be able to compete,” Drew countered. The fourth son of a duke, Lord Andrew Winderfield had been brought into the group by another investor because of his family owned a prosperous shipping company, but he’d soon become another friend. He was one of the few aristocrats Snowy trusted.

Gary scoffed. “A big if. Those machines are dangerous and unreliable. And too heavy. I’ve heard about the problem they’re having with the rails.”

Drew was adamant. “They’ll find solutions. And when they do, rail paths will be cheaper to build and much much faster than the canals. We should reject any canal project that will take more than ten years to recover costs.”

Gary was not convinced. “You think the collieries and others will prefer wagon rails to canals in less than ten years?”

“Some of the collieries do now,” Drew retorted. “Wales and Scotland are making great strides. My brother predicts that we’ll have them hauling passengers within a decade.”

Gary shook his head. “And who will want to ride in a carriage pulled by a locomotive? Not me, that is for certain.”

“What do you think, Snow?” Drew asked.

Snowy had been thinking about his own problem while the friends argued. “I’ll consider it between now and the next meeting,” he said.

His friends exchanged glances. “I don’t think he asked us to stay on after the meeting to debate the merits of locomotives,” Drew surmised.

“Out with it then,” Gary commanded. “The witness at the bar will present his testimony.”

Where to start? “I have learned something… unsettling.” Which was a hell of an understatement. Snowy’s world had been rocked on its axis. He focused on Drew. “You know a bit about where I came from, and what the Blossoms mean to me.”

Drew nodded. “Your foster mothers,” he said.

It was as good a description as any. “They gave me a present for my birthday. The true story of my origins. If it is true. The thing is, they would never lie to me, so they believe it. But it is just too fantastic.” He batted one hand at the air, as if he could knock away his own confusion.

“Go on,” Drew said, when he remained silent.

“No,” Gary protested. “Elucidate. If you are not Moses White, brothel bookkeeper and investor extraordinaire, who are you?”

Snowy’s huff of amusement was genuine. “I am, of course. But apparently, I started out as Henry Snowden, elder son of Edward Snowden, who was the third son of Richard, Viscount Snowden.”

His friend looked startled, though not as flabbergasted as Snowy himself.

“Lily and her sister Iris found me in an alley when I was six years old. I’d been stripped and beaten. They figured out who I was, and tried to return me, but my mother asked them to keep me, and to keep me hidden.”

Gary lifted his eyebrows. “Mrs Snowden suspected someone of trying to do away with you?”

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Different worlds meet in WIP Wednesday

My latest hero resides in a slum. Here’s the first part of the first scene of his book.

Seven Dials, London, April, 1819

“That there countess is back again,” Tommy reported. Pestiferous woman. Snowy had told her repeatedly that she risked her reputation as well as her life by venturing into the slums to visit the residents of a brothel.

Stubborn female. Had she not already found out that her high birth and fancy title would not protect her if some of the slime who polluted the streets she traversed decided to kill her fancy footmen and help themselves to a taste of noble flesh?

Snowy’s anger rose again at the thought of how they had met. He would never forget his first sight of the lovely young woman standing over her footman’s body and swinging a weighted reticule to keep six armed men at bay.

Snowy sent the boy back to his post in the entrance hall. He left his account books and locked the door of the office. He would escort her home again, once she had finished whatever errand of mercy brought her back to the House of Blossoms.

He sighed. If he had not brought her here for refuge after he rescued her, she would never have met his friends, never have begun bringing them herbal remedies from her still room. How did a countess become a gifted herbalist? No. He did not want to know. His only interest was in seeing the woman returned to her own world.

Blue, whose nickname was an ironic comment on his flaming-red hair, guarded the top of the stairs on the floor with the private apartments. He stood as Snowy approached. “Where is she?” Snowy asked.

Blue pointed along the passage to Lily’s suite, which took some of the wind out of his sails. If Lily herself had invited the aristocrat to visit, then Snowy’s objections were on shaky ground. The owner and mistress of the House of Blossoms had her reasons for everything she did, and would not have brought the countess here on a whim.

At his knock, Lily called for him to enter. “Snowy,” she said. “I am pleased you are here. You know Lady Charmain, of course.”

Snowy gave the lady his best court bow. “My lady.” Not only did Lily expect him to display the impeccable manners she had paid his tutors to beat into him, but it discomposed the Countess Charmaine, which was turnabout and fair play, for she had been discomposing him since the day he looked into her vivid blue eyes.

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The marriage mart on WIP Wednesday

This week’s excerpt is from The Husband Gamble, a short novella I am writing for The Wedding Wager.

The Earl of Hythe was already regretting his agreement to attend the party. The room he had been given was perfectly adequate. His valet Pritchard, who had been with him for years, had been busy while Hythe was in his bath. Pritchard knew exactly how Hythe likes things. He had organised the dressing room and the bedside table, and had moved the chairs in the seating area so that they were precisely aligned with the edge of the hearth, with the little table equidistant between the two and on the same ruler-straight line.

After he was dressed again, Hythe set his travelling desk on the desk provided, and checked the desk drawers. Lady Osbourne had provided quality paper and ink. The stack of paper needed to be tidied, as did the rest of the drawer contents. That task finished, Hythe had no further excuse for lingering in his room, getting in Pritchard’s way. Like it or not, he needed to go below and meet the other guests.

He blamed his sister Sophia, entirely. On second thoughts, he had opened himself to the attack. If he had never grumbled to her about the difficulty of finding a wife one could respect and even, perhaps, befriend, she would never have suggested that he put himself in the hands of the acclaimed matchmaker. One who had found matches, furthermore, for people whom Society had judged unmarriageable.

Even so, Hythe would never have agreed if the marriage of his sister Felicity had not left his townhouse appallingly empty. Felicity had followed him from one diplomatic post into another, keeping house for him. His servants were perfectly competent, but they would be horrified to be asked to sit down for a chat over breakfast or of an evening.

And, of course, no servant could be his hostess or be at his side during the social occasions that were so much part of his work.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Pritchard said.

Hythe stepped out of his way, and Pritchard, carrying Hythe’s dinner jacket as if it was the crown jewels, proceeded to lay the garment on the bed and return to the dressing room for the next item. “Dinner is at seven, my lord, with gathering in the drawing room from six thirty.”

It was Pritchard’s way of saying “You have at least two hours before dressing for dinner, so please go away so I can ensure that anything you might choose to wear has been inspected and, if necessary, restored to a standard suitable for the Earl of Hythe.”

Hythe repressed a sigh and bowed to the inevitable, though he only went as far as the passage, where he stood for a moment, his eyes shut, bracing himself to meet all those people.

It was only for a week. He could resist any plots by Lady Osbourne or her protégés for one week. One of them might be the one for you. He rejected the errant thought. Everyone knew that Lady Osbourne had wagered with her cousin that she could find matches for the most awkward, difficult and challenging of wallflowers and hoydens and the most unprepossessing of grooms.

Hythe knew that he had little to recommend him beyond his title and his wealth. Ladies seem to prefer a man of address, who could flatter them with elegant compliments and talk for hours about frivolous matters that bored Hythe witless. Someone at ease meeting strangers and comfortable in crowds of people.

For Hythe, social occasions were an ordeal. He could manage. He had memorised a hundred different meaningless but polite responses, and practiced them in front of a mirror. He had learned which ones to trot out on which occasion.

It was not so bad if he could find a meaningful conversation in which to immerse himself, but the ladies of Society and many of the men had no interest in topics that mattered. Hythe had discovered the trick of finding a quiet corner where he could take a few deep breathes before pasting on a smile and getting back to work.

The right wife would have the skills he lacked, as his sisters did. They were both brilliant political and diplomatic hostesses, and had been happy to give their brother the benefit of their skills. Until they married. Without them, life in Society was even more exhausting than before.

He had not been able to find what he needed as a man. What his title required made it even more difficult.  The Earl of Hythe needed a countess who could burnish the reputation of the earldom and the family. Money was irrelevant. Looks were secondary. Behaviour…

Even in his thoughts, he could not agree that behaviour was everything. Important, yes. Hythe was the head of the Belvoir family, and no stain had ever attached to their family name. His parents had been renowned for their good ton as well as their wealth, their generosity, and their wide circle of friends. His sisters were models of propriety. Felicity, his younger sister, might at times allow her vivacity to bring her to the edge of proper behaviour, but never over.

However, Hythe wanted more from marriage than a countess who could be a good hostess and who knew how to behave. Perhaps, if he had contemplated marriage a few years ago, he might have chosen one of the insipid bird brains that seem to be the primary offering on the marriage mart. And perhaps, if he had been lucky, she might have learned to be an adequate countess.

Hythe also wanted a wife. He had watched his sisters find love matches. So had several of his friends. He was not convinced that a love match was a desirable thing — such an untidy excess of emotions did not appeal to him. In any case, he had never imagined himself in love, even when his friends were falling like flies for opera dances and Society beauties. He was probably not capable of the emotion.

The other kind of love he could manage very well. He held a deep and abiding affection for both of his sisters. He was sure he could be a fond and caring husband and father. All he had to do was find a wife he could talk to. It may be setting the bar too low to say a wife who did not irritate him, but that was precisely what he told Lady Osbourne when she buttonholed him in Town after Sophia had asked her for her help.

Someone who did not irritate him. Someone who was old enough and interesting enough to know her own mind and be prepared to have opinions and defend them. Someone who liked children and would be a good mother, for Hythe would need an heir, and hoped that his son might grow up with brothers and sisters.

Someone who knew how to behave as the wife of a diplomat and a peer — that went without saying, although he said it anyway. Someone who was at ease in social situations and prepared to exercise that mastery on his behalf, though he did not put that into words, unwilling to expose his deficiencies to that extent.

He waved away Lady Osbourne’s questions about appearance. Short or tall. Fair or dark. Plump or slender. What did those matter over a lifetime? “I want someone to grow old with,” he told Lady Osbourne, “should we be so blessed.”

He couldn’t spend the rest of the day leaning against the wall outside his room. He opened his eyes even as he took a stride down the passage, only to find his arms full of a warm fragrant female. Who gasped, and pulled backwards.

 

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Amnesia on WIP Wednesday

Today’s excerpt is from the story I’ve just written for my next newsletter, which I’ll be putting out in the next few days. It uses the amnesia trope, and is set in the same part of the UK, and a few months after, the storm in the Bluestocking Belles collection Storm & Shelter. Indeed, the storm in question sets off the events of the story, and the seaside village of Fenwick-on-Sea comes in for an honourable mention.

All day, Abbey had been following a cart across the field and the rickyard and back, one of three men using pitchforks to lift the hay from the windrows into the cart and then from the cart onto whatever rick was being built. It was one of the skills he had discovered when he was well enough to be put to work. It was exhausting work, but still gave him time — too much time — to think about his dreams.

Were the dreams about his past life? He did not know. He did know he always woke feeling as if he had left something undone and time was running out.

He could no more remember what task he was neglecting than he could remember his own identity.

His ability to build a hay rick was a clue, he supposed. He could plough and scythe, too. And milk a cow. And groom and ride a horse.

He could also read and write. He spoke — or so they told him — like a gentleman. His mind was stuffed with all sorts of knowledge that the farmhands around here found surprising. It was something of a game for them, to ask him a question out of the blue. Name the kings of England. He could do that, yes, and recite the dates, too. He knew the dates of key events in English history. He could finish the verse of popular song if someone called out the first line. He could do it for poetry too, as the local squire discovered.

The squire suggested he might have been the son of a wealthy farmer, sent away to school but still accustomed to helping out on the land.

Abbey wondered why he could access so many facts and skills, but not know who he was, where he was from, or how he arrived on the beach at Dunwich more than half drowned, with a broken arm and a great bleeding wound on his head.

There had been a great storm that had swept all of that coast, cutting Dunwich off from the roads inland and to villages north and south. At a guess, he had been washed overboard from a ship, or had been aboard one of several that had foundered. Nobody knew. The squire made enquiries when he took Abbey into Ipswich to be examined by a doctor. He even sent letters to Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth.

No one had reported losing a man of Abbey’s description and name. If Abbey was his name. It had been the first word on his lips when he recovered consciousness, or so they told him. It didn’t feel as if it fitted, but he had no other name to offer.

The doctor said his memories might come back a few at a time, or all at once, or never. Abbey, still shaky on his legs from his long recovery and with no clues to his own identity, accepted the squire’s offer to return to Dunwich.

He worked on getting fit. He worked on any task he was given as a return for the care and kindness he had been shown. He bludgeoned his mind for the least hint about his past, but all he gained was a headache.

The dreams had started six weeks ago. At first, occasionally but now, every night. They faded as he woke leaving an impression of warm brown eyes, of someone calling for him to come home. Each night, the sense of urgency increased. He had something he needed to do. Quickly, before it was too late.

He had no idea what it was or why it was important.

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First kiss on WIP Wednesday

An excerpt from the book I’m currently preparing for beta reading, One Perfect Dance. Ash has just rescued Ginny.

She was still crying, but the angry storm was gone, fading into heart-wrenching sobs that twisted Ash’s gut even more than the initial outburst. “There now, Ginny” Ash said. “Let it out, dearest. You’re safe now, my love.”

She turned her face up at that, drawing back so that her tear-drenched eyes could meet his. “Am I, Elijah?”

“Yes, of course. He has gone, and I won’t let him near you again.”

She thumped his chest softly, an action so reminiscent of the child Ginny that he had to repress a smile. “Not that,” she scolded. “The other.”

He retraced his words in his mind. “My love?” At her tiny nod, he repeated, “My love.”

She raised her eyebrows in question, the imperious gesture only slightly marred by the shuddering breath of a leftover sob.

“I love you, Ginny. Did you not know?”

She thumped him again, another gentle reprimand. “You never said,” she grumbled. “You never even tried to kiss me.” The last two words were disrupted by a hiccup, but he understood them well enough.

“I am abjectly sorry, Ginny,” Ash told her, managing to keep his voice suitably solemn while his heart was attempting to break out of his chest and into hers. She has been waiting for my kisses! Missing them, even. “I have never courted anyone before. I am clearly not very good at it.”

She hiccupped again as she put up a hand to cradle Ash’s cheek. “I am sorry to be so cross, Elijah. I hate hiccups. I hate crying, and it always give me the hiccups.” She proved it with another shuddering hiccup.

“Have a sip of brandy, beloved,” he suggested, and he picked up one of the glasses and held it to her lips. “It might help. And if it doesn’t, perhaps a kiss will cure them.”

Ash was very aware that she had not returned his declaration of love. However, she wanted his kisses. He would start there and hope for the best.

Ginny took the glass from his hand and had another sip, followed by another hiccup.

“It will have to be the kiss, then,” he suggested. He lowered his head to hers, slowly, giving her plenty of time to turn him away. Instead, she lifted her face to bridge the gap, her mouth reaching inexpertly for his.

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Comfort and kindness on WIP Wednesday

One of the most endearing things a hero can do is comfort his heroine after she has been hurt or frightened. How he does this tells us a lot about his character. Here is my Ash comforting Regina, who is reacting to being assaulted in her own drawing room by a suitor she thought to be harmless. (Ash has punched him, threatened him, and had him thrown out.)

In a moment, she was a warm fragrant bundle on Ash’s lap, her curves draped across his torso, her arms wrapped around him, her face tucked into his shoulder as she cried.

He patted her shoulder, murmuring comfort. “There now. You’re safe now, Ginny. He’s gone. He won’t bother you again. I have you, my darling. I have you.”

He had not seen Regina so discomposed since she was a child, grieving the loss of a kitten. He wished he’d hit Deffew harder. He’d thought he and Charles were in time, but if the swine’s violation had gone beyond what he’d seen, the dog would die for it, Regina’s opinion notwithstanding.

Charles poked his head around the door, his eyes widening in alarm when he saw the state of his mistress. Ash pointed to the brandy decanter he could see on a sideboard. “Two,” he mouthed, ceasing his patting to hold up two fingers then resuming again, barely breaking rhythm.

Charles nodded, and tiptoed to the decanter to pour two glasses of brandy, then tiptoed back across the room to place them on a side table next to Ash’s elbow, setting them down so carefully that they did not clink.

Ash briefly wondered whether the young man wanted to save Regina the embarrassment of knowing her emotional collapse had been witnessed, or whether he feared that she might expect him to do something about it if she knew he was there. Whichever it was, he faded back across the room and out of the door, pulling it shut behind him.

She was still crying, but the angry storm was gone, fading into heart-wrenching sobs that twisted Ash’s gut even more than the initial outburst. “There now, Ginny” Ash said. “Let it out, dearest. You’re safe now, my love.”

She turned her face up at that, drawing back so that her tear-drenched eyes could meet his. “Am I, Elijah?”

“Yes, of course. He has gone, and I won’t let him near you again.”

She thumped his chest softly, an action so reminiscent of the child Ginny that he had to repress a smile. “Not that,” she scolded. “The other.”

He retraced his words in his mind. “My love?” At her tiny nod, he repeated, “Are you my love?”

She raised her eyebrows in question, the imperious gesture only slightly marred by the shuddering breath of a leftover sob.

“I love you, Ginny. Did you not know?”

She thumped him again, another gentle reprimand. “You never said,” she grumbled. “You never even tried to kiss me.” The last two words were disrupted by a hiccup, but he understood them well enough.

“I am abjectly sorry, Ginny,” Ash told her, managing to keep his voice suitably solemn while his heart was attempting to break out of his chest and into hers. She has been waiting for my kisses! Missing them, even. “I have never courted anyone before. I am clearly not very good at it.”

She hiccupped again as she put up a hand to cradle Ash’s cheek. “I am sorry to be so cross, Elijah. I hate hiccups. I hate crying, and it always give me the hiccups.” She proved it with another hiccup.

“Have a sip of brandy, beloved,” he suggested, and he picked up one of the glasses and held it to her lips. “It might help. And if it doesn’t, perhaps a kiss will cure them.”

Ash was very aware that she had not returned his declaration of love. However, she wanted his kisses. He would start there and hope for the best.

Ginny took the glass from his hand and had another sip, followed by another hiccup.

“It will have to be the kiss, then,” he suggested.

 

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Men in love on WIP Wednesday

My hero wanders in the rain, thinking about his beloved.

Ash walked through the streets of London in something of a daze. Hackman followed along in the curricle, shaking his head at his employer’s unaccountable decision to walk through the drizzling rain, but making no comment.

All of his intimate encounters had been, at root, transactional, though he had been fond of each of his mistresses and, he hoped, they with him. They said so, in any case. Being with Regina was so different that he was utterly at sea.

Their first kiss had rocked his world. It had begun as a yearning caress and become a carnal meeting of lips, teeth, and tongue. He had kissed before, and with women who were far more experienced in receiving and giving pleasure. This was Ginny and that made all the difference.

He had, somehow, managed to keep that encounter to a meeting of mouths. Her innocence helped. She followed his lead, but she initiated nothing. It was, as he’d thought at the time, as if she had never been kissed as a lover kissed.

Unlikely as it seemed, he was even more certain now that his first impression was right. She was a quick learner, though. As soon as their lips met tonight, his self-control almost escaped its leash. He managed to retain enough consciousness to keep his caresses within bounds; to slowly introduce her to the feel of his hand on her breasts, to kisses that crept every closer before he had one of her lovely nipples in his mouth.

Her fragrance, her soft skin, her moans of pleasure, the arch of her back as she lifted towards him, all tempted him to take it further, but he managed to resist. When she gave herself to him, and he was almost sure that she would, it would be a free choice, not one coerced through seduction.

A choice of forever, for he could bear no less. To bed her without promises was to risk destruction. Already, it was too late for him to walk away without a broken heart, but he still did not know if she wanted him for a lover or for a husband.

You may tell William you are courting me, she had said. But did she mean to accept him when he asked her to marry him? If she allowed him the honour of full intimacy and then refused his proposal, he did not know if he could survive it.

Holding to his honour by a thread, he had reversed his progress, gentling his caresses, kissing back up to her lips, invading her mouth one more time with the rhythm of coitus, and then retreating to closed mouth kisses and a final hug.

Hackman drew up beside him. “Sir, you are walking the wrong way.”

Ash realised that the drizzle had turned to a serious downpour. Hackman must have decided he had had enough, and he was right about Ash’s direction, too. He was further away from Artie’s townhouse than he had been when he started.

“Let me drive,” he said, and leapt up into the driver’s seat of the curricle, taking the reins from the servant.

The wise thing would have been to take the fastest route home, but he could not resist driving back past Ginny’s townhouse.

Hackman cast him a worried look when he made the turn. Ash couldn’t possibly subject the poor man a prolonged loiter outside the building while he mooned beneath his love’s lit window. But he wanted to.

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Danger on WIP Wednesday

Elegant young gentleman dandy dressed in Regency fashion holding a hat and walking cane on the footsteps to a impressive mansion, 3d render.

In this excerpt, my hero sees a silver lining in the fact he has just been shot at.

They said their goodbyes and made their way out of the club.

Ash was still thinking about his courtship of Regina. The difficulties depressed his optimism. Regina had accepted several of his invitations, yes. But she had other suitors. More handsome, wealthier, better connected. Why should she choose an orphan of no particular family who had to work for his living?

She found him attractive; he couldn’t doubt the purely feminine interest with which she regarded him. But she didn’t flirt. She did not employ any of the many ways a woman indicated that a man’s attentions would be welcomed.

He descended the steps to the street lost in thought. Artie’s body crashed against his and they tumbled to the footpath. Even as he fell, his mind replayed the sharp bark of a rifle, heard through the din of the busy street. As Artie rolled off him and he clambered to his feet, he was already scanning the rooftops on the other side of the road.

Artie had hurried back up the steps, and was exploring the fresh hole in one of the stone pillars that held up the portico. “The bullet came from above and to the right,” he reported, before coming back down, scanning the ground. “And dropped here.” He stooped, and came up again with a lump of misshapen lead.

“Good reactions,” Ash told him.

Artie shrugged. “I saw a glint off the barrel. On the way down, I thought—it couldn’t be a rifle. Not in London!”

Ash was still scanning the rooftops. “I cannot see any movement.” He grinned at his friend. “I’m glad you didn’t stop for second thoughts. Was that for you or for me?”

Artie shrugged. “Or a case of mistaken identity. I can’t think of anyone who is that annoyed at me.”

Ash thought about his own possible enemies. “I can’t see Daffy Deffew being good enough with a rifle to make that shot.”

Artie examined him, head tipped to one side. “Because he thinks Mrs Paddimore favour you?” he asked.

It was a cheering thought. If Daffy was desperate enough to attempt murder, perhaps Ash really did have a chance with Regina.