WIP Wednesdays

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After the Kiss on WIP Wednesday

We can tell a lot about the people in the books we read by how they behave after a kiss. Are they embarrassed, happy, nonchalant? What are they thinking? Do their thoughts match or are they each believe different things about what just happened. I’d love you to show me an excerpt in the comments. Mine is from next month’s release, To Mend the Broken Hearted.

“Ruth…” he said her name on a groan, then again, this time more sharply, turning his head as her mouth followed his and tried to reconnect. “Ruth. Sweetness. We have to stop.”

Yes. Yes, they did. Heavens! Jeyhun and Zyba were somewhere nearby, perhaps just around the corner, and she was draped over the Earl of Ashbury like a tavern slattern. She jerked away from him, the heat rising in her face. Whatever did he think?

“I beg your pardon,” she murmured.

“I am the one that should apologise, but I find it hard to be sorry. That kiss…!” Val’s voice still sounded strained, as if he was in pain. Her doctor’s mind registered a point from her reading: extreme tumescence could be painful, and when she had been on his lap she had felt his… If her face got any hotter, it would melt.

She opened her mouth to make some sort of an excuse for her behaviour, or to change the subject to something innocuous. But what came out just added to her embarrassment. “I have never been kissed before. Was it…?” She wasn’t sure what she was asking. Was it exceptional? Was it meaningful to you? Was it something we could do again? Perhaps all of them.

Val, who had dropped his arms when she shifted away, lifted his good hand to cup her cheek and lift her face so that he could gaze into her eyes. “I have never had a kiss like that in my life. Ruth, you are an exceptional woman, and make me wish with all my heart I was a better man.”

She leaned into his hand. “You are a good man, Valentine Monforte,”

A burst of dialogue came from just beyond the hedge that shielded them. Jeyhun and Zyba were returning.

Val caressed her lips with his thumb before standing, allowing his fingers to trail over her cheek as he dropped his hand and stepped away. He was just in time. Jeyhun and Zyba rounded the turn in the path, and their stolen moment together was over.

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Secondary romances

 

Do you enjoy romances with a second courting couple? Perhaps they are the couple for the next book in the series. Or perhaps they are a foil and contrast to the main protagonists. Sometimes, as in the excerpt that follows, the secondary couple have their romance arc over the whole series. Feel free to share an excerpt with your secondary courting couple. Here are the Duchess of Haverford and the Duke of Wellbridge, meeting alone in the third novel in the four novel series Children of the Mountain King: The Return.

James followed Eleanor across a small entrance hall to a cosy little parlour, where a fire burned in the hearth and a tray with a tea set waited on a small table between two chairs. Eleanor took the seat closest to the tea pot and waved her hand to the other. “Be seated, dear friend. Would you care for tea?”

Tea was not what he hungered for. For ten years after Mahzad’s death, he had thought himself beyond desire, but Eleanor brought it roaring back the first time he saw her on his return to England. Getting to know her again had only increased his longing; she was even lovelier, both within and without, than when they had first met long ago, before James was forced into exile and Eleanor was made to marry Haverford.

He kept his feelings to himself. If he told her his hopes, and if she shared them, he didn’t trust himself to be alone with her like this without besmirching his honour and insulting hers.

Eleanor was a married woman and virtuous, even if her husband was a monster. Even if the old devil was rotting from within and locked away for his own good and to protect the duchy. He accepted the offered seat and the cup of tea; asked after the duchess’s children and caught her up to date with his own; exchanged comments on the war news and the state of the harvest.

“James,” she said at last, “I proposed this meeting for a reason.”

“To see me, I hope. Since Parliament went into recess and we both left London, I have missed our weekly visits to that little bookshop you frequent.”

Eleanor smiled, and James fancied that he saw her heart in her eyes for a moment, and it leapt to match his. But her smile faded and her lashes veiled her eyes. “That, too, my dear friend. I have missed you, too. But there is another matter I need to bring to your attention.”

She grimaced and gave her head a couple of impatient shakes. “It seems I am always muddying our time together with gossip and scandal. I am so sorry, James.”

“One day, I hope we will be able to meet without subterfuge, and for no reason but our pleasure,” James said. The last word was a mistake. He might be old, but at the word ‘pleasure’ his body was reminding him urgently that he was not dead yet.

Eleanor seemed unaffected, focused on whatever bad news she had to give him. “You are aware, I am sure, of the history of your niece Sarah’s ward?”

“Her daughter?” James queried. Of course Eleanor knew. She was a confidante of his sister-in-law.

“Indeed. What you may not know—what I have just found out—is that Society is making that assumption and spreading the story.”

James shook his head. “I assumed the gossips and busybodies would reach that conclusion, but without proof or confirmation, and with the family firmly behind her, the rumours will die.”

“True, if that was all. But James, you may not know—Sarah may not know—that her little girl’s father is back in England and, if my sources are accurate, seeking a bride.”

James stiffened. “The coward has returned?”

“As to that,” Eleanor said, “Grace always suspected that Sutton and Winshire had something to do with his disappearance, and it is whispered that his father bought him out of the navy, where he had worked his way up to being a surgeon, after being press ganged.”

“And your sources are connecting Sarah and her child with this man?”

Eleanor shook her head. “Not yet. The two rumours are separate. But if the two of them meet, people may make connections. Especially if the child resembles her father.” She shrugged, even that small elegant movement unusually casual for the duchess. “It is all very manageable, James, but you needed to know.”

“I appreciate it, Eleanor.” He sighed. “English Society is more of a snake pit that the court of the Shah of Shahs or the Ottoman Sultan Khan. Tell me, what is going on between my niece Charlotte and your son Aldridge?”

Eleanor’s answer was hasty, but her eyes slid away from his. “Nothing. There can be nothing between Charlotte and Aldridge.

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Unusual skills on WIP Wednesday

What sets your hero or heroine apart from the ordinary? Share an excerpt in the comments! Here’s an excerpt from To Mend a Proper Lady, which is due to be published the month after next. My hero is admiring the skill of his beloved and her best friend.

“Join me,” Ruth suggested. “A little sword work will soon loosen your muscles.”

Val hoped he was successful in hiding the anguish twisting his gut, but he didn’t attempt to speak; just held up the arm that ended at the wrist.

“That?” Ruth waved away his maiming as if it was a trivial detail. “You can hold a sword in the other hand, can you not?”

Nettled, he followed her into the room. She had had it cleared of furniture, apart from a table against one wall. On it, a number of edged weapons lay—foils, sabres, swords both curiously curved and straight, and daggers of various lengths.

Val was torn between admiration for their quality and nausea at the thought of displaying his incompetence. “I have never fought with my left hand,” he commented.

Ruth was picking weapons up and then putting them down again. “We are not going to fight.” She handed him a large sword. “Here, this looks to be about your size. The weapons act as a weight to force your muscles to work harder. And, of course, the practice steps I use are useful in an actual fight, training the body to particular movements. Like the exercises that we teach our horses. They ensure the fitness of the horse and rider, but also can be used in battle.”

Bemused, Val took the sabre and performed a couple of practice swipes. It felt heavy and ungainly, and he missed his former skill with a deep ache.

Zyba entered the room. Dressed like her friend, she held one of the curving swords in one hand and a long dagger in the other. A slight widening of the eyes was her only reaction to Val’s presence. She inclined her head in a graceful greeting. “Princess, Lord Ashbury.”

“Val is joining us today, Zyba. Val, why not stand in front of me so you can copy what I do.”

Val was slow, that first day. The two women took him through a series of movements of body and sword that left his muscles trembling, and then suggested he rest. He watched, awed, as they moved into a sequence as fluid as a dance, one facing the other, on opposite sides of the room as they continued to honour the quarantine.

They started slow, but the graceful movements of feet and arms sped up gradually, until they were moving with blinding speed, each swing of a weapon enough to eviscerate anyone unfortunate enough to be in reach.

They took it in turns to call out, at frequent intervals, a single word he didn’t know, but whose meaning he guessed at something like ‘swap’ or ‘change’. “Caly,” the one whose turn it was would shout, tossing both sword and dagger in the air and snatching them back again, but with the opposite hands. The game seemed to be for the other dancer—for it was a dance, though without music, fluid and beautiful—to react so quickly that the two sets of weapons rose and fell in unison.

Val could not tell whether his deepest yearning was for the skill they showed, the hand whose loss had robbed him of his own skill, or Ruth, whose movements mesmerised him. Sore though he would be once his muscles caught up with the strain he’d put them under, he would be here tomorrow, too, if they allowed him. Even if his reasons for that were as confused as his desires.

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Settings on WIP Wednesday

Once upon a time, authors might devote pages to descriptions of the setting. Even back in the day, did readers peruse every detail? I’m not sure that they did, and I’m certain they wouldn’t today. The trick is to establish setting and background in as few words as possible. Do you have a bit you’d like to share in the comments? Mine is from To Claim the Long-Lost Lover, and introduces the reader to the home of my villainess.

In the half light just before dawn, the last of the club’s patrons stumbled out of the front door, those employees who did not reside in their place of work left through the back door, and the building slipped into its usual early morning slumber.

The club comprised two houses thrown into one in a street of four-story terraced houses. Behind, the areas that serviced the public rooms had spread to include the building’s neighbours in the parallel street, but that was not obvious from the front. There, apart from its double width, little set the building apart from its neighbours. Perhaps it was a little tidier; its window-sills and doors newly painted, its bricks scrubbed and firmly set in newly pointed mortar. Only the discreet brass sign beside the door identified it as very different from the family homes and boarding houses that surrounded it.

Heaven and Hell, the sign whispered, engraved into the brass in discrete italics, only an inch tall. To read it at all, even in the light of the lamp that had hung just above it all night, one needed to climb the steps from the street. No one came to the building without a personal referral, but occasionally, first-time visitors needed reassurance that they were in the right place before they were emboldened to knock on the door.

A glimpse through the open door as the porter allowed entry  would leave a passerby with an impression of light and gilt. Members, or those referred by members, were surrounded by opulence as soon as they stepped inside. Opulence and decadence. In Heaven and Hell, nothing was forbidden. Everything was available for a price.

The woman known as La Reine, the ruler of the brothel Heaven that occupied the two upper floors of the main house, retired to her personal sitting room in a penthouse suite above the mean street behind the club. It had been a profitable night, at least upstairs. Supper was laid ready, and when her business partner joined her, she would find out how things went in Hell, the gambling establishment on the lower two floors.

 

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Broken families on WIP Wednesday

I’m beginning to get my first comments back on the beta draft of To Mend the Broken Hearted, so I thought I’d give you a piece. Val’s sister-in-law and Ruth’s cousin have stolen his little girl as revenge, and Ruth was captured when she went after them. Ruth’s family and Val’s comrades from the army have banded together to get Ruth and Genny back.

This story is about family. Val’s family is broken, but with Ruth’s help, he’ll rebuild what he can. Her family is split in two, with half left behind in the East. Another kind of break. Still, love binds them together.

Do you write about families? Born, made, or cobbled together? Share an excerpt in the comments.

Every strategy had risks, as the duke said when he summed up the discussion that followed. “We don’t have any idea where in the house our ladies are being kept. If we break in, they may be hurt before we can get to them. If we wait until morning, or whenever Wharton chooses to emerge, our ladies may be suffering right now, and we’ll be standing by while it happens.”

Val had been examining the house from where they stood in the cover of the stables. “What if we could get in from the top? Find an empty room in the attics and enter that way? If we could get even a couple of people inside, and they could find our ladies…?”

“It would be a tough climb,” Rutledge mused, his eyes narrowing as he considered the idea.

“I could do it,” Drew offered. “It’s our best chance, Kaka. If we can find our ladies and take out their guard, we can defend them while the rest of you make a full on assault.”

The duke gave a sharp nod, and Drew fell into a quiet conversation with one of his warriors, while the pair of them removed their gloves, their jackets, their boots and their stockings. “Kaka, we’ll ascend between the porch pillars and the side of the house, then walk that bit of pediment, climb up where that wing meets the main house, and make our way to the roof. We should be able to drop down to that bit of roof by the gable there,” he pointed to each feature as he named it. “The window is slightly open, so there may be someone inside. We’ll make a decision on whether to enter or keep looking once we’ve got up there. Once we’re inside, watch for us to signal that we’ve found the ladies.”

The duke nodded again. “And then we’ll attack. We will be ready, my son.”

Val watched in agonised envy as Drew and his companion ascended the house face, taking it in turns to lead, the lower one often offering a foothold for the other, who then would pause to reach back for his partner. I should be doing that. But even when he had both hands, he couldn’t climb the way those two did.

“They are quite mad,” Jamie murmured in his ear. “Back at home, they used to climb rockfaces for fun. Still do. The pair of them are making a list of all the mountains in Wales and Scotland with climbs they consider worth doing.”

Around them, the men dispersed, one group to each face of the house, to choose windows to break through when the signal came. Val stayed, watching the climbers approach the attic window.

They were almost there when the window opened wide, and someone leaned out of it. Val stepped out of the shadow, staring. “Ruth!” It was. She and Drew were embracing through the open window, and then she stepped back out of sight and returned to help Genny climb out of the window into Drew’s waiting arms.

He settled the child on his back, clinging like a monkey, and Ruth followed her out the window. “What is she doing?” Jamie asked. “Ah! I see.” Ruth had taken off her pelisse and her shoes and stockings. She looped her skirt up between her legs and bound it in place by tying her pelisse around her waist by the sleeves. She used her sash to tie Genny to Drew’s back.

Val waited, his heart in his mouth, and Drew led the way down, Ruth following, and his friend bringing up the rear, helping Ruth whenever she had trouble making progress. Never had five minutes moved so slowly, but at last Drew set one foot and then another onto the ground, and Val was there to untie his little girl and take her in his arms.

 

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Bad family on WIP Wednesday

Someone in a review recently wrote that my characters have terrible families. I’d protest that some of them have lovely families. My James and his children — not his father and brother, though. The Redepennings, except for Rede’s sister. Candle Avery and his mother (but not his father). Okay, so the cap does fit, somewhat.

Of all toxic relationships, a toxic family relationship is one of the worst, and therefore gives huge scope for an author.

Does your work in progress have a jealous, selfish, mean, or plain nasty relative? Please share in the comments.

Here’s my hero from To Reclaim the Long-Lost Lover, with his father and stepmother.

“Go on, Libby,” he encouraged her. “What terrible flaw have you noticed that I must needs amend to be acceptable to a suitable lady?”

“Well…” she chewed on her lower lip, examining him with anxious eyes. “You have not been much in Society, Nate,” she offered, eventually.

Nate was trying to work out what she was driving at when his father spoke from the door to what he misleadingly called his study—a room in which he drank brandy and slept in front of the fire. “She’s right, for once. You are too free and easy, Bencham. You’ve no idea how to go on in the Beau Monde. And you don’t have the right connections. No friends from school or that sort of thing.”

No, because his father had tutored him at home, reneged on the promise to send him to Oxford in order to keep him as an unpaid secretary, and then connived with the Duke of Winshire to have him abducted and impressed onto a naval ship.

“I was at school with some of Society’s important hostesses, Westford,” Libby said, her soft voice meek and apologetic. “If we were to go to London with Lord Bencham…”

Lord Westford interrupted her with a rude snort. “I see your game,” he told his wife, scowling. “You think to jaunt up to Town, do you? And spend my money on fripperies, I suppose.” He began to shake his head, and Nate spoke quickly, before the old tyrant denied Libby what she clearly saw as a treat. Once he’d spoken, he’d not renege. Nate had hoped to escape his father’s presence, but he could hardly deny that Libby’s case was worse than his. She was stuck with the man until death did them part.

Nate smiled broadly. “What an excellent idea, Libby. Using your connections, I should soon have invitations to places I can meet my future bride, and I’m sure you can counsel me on my manners and dress, too.” Westford was purpling. Time to apply a little flattery. No, a lot of flattery—applying it with a shovel rather than a trowel would be no more that the earl considered his due. Nor would he note the barb Nate buried in the compliment.

“My lord, I know you will agree, for you have mentioned her ladyship’s useful connections to me before. What great foresight you showed in choosing a bride who could be of such assistance to your heir, especially since I was unable to complete my own education as a gentleman.”

The earl’s scowl deepened. For a moment, Nate thought he had misjudged Westford’s acuity, so he was relieved rather than annoyed when the earl grumbled, “You’d be married already, and likely have given me a grandson by now, if you’d paid more attention to your duties and less to making up to that girl. Instead, here you are, barely more than a savage, and now I have to go to the expense of a London Season for a woman who can’t even give me sons. You are a great disappointment to me, Bencham. Beyond a doubt I need to go to London to make sure you don’t marry to disoblige me.”

He turned his glower on Libby. “Lady Westford, you shall need to dress to reflect credit on me. You shall have a strict budget, and I shall expect an accounting.”

 

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Beleagured heroines on WIP Wednesday

Some heroines face huge challenges, and those are my favourite sort. Do you have a WIP excerpt to share? Mine is from the beginning of my newsletter subscriber story for next week’s newsletter.  (If you’d like to read the rest and don’t get my newsletter, click on the subscribe tab, above/)

The oiled cloth over the cart had thinned in places, and the persistent rain had found every crack and hole. The water insinuated itself in drips and trickles and rivers, pooling in the base of the cart until Lily was sitting in an inches-deep lake that continued to grow.

The baby was dry, at least. She’d managed to find a relatively undamaged part of the covering to sit under, wriggling until the damaged places leaked onto her back and not her chest where Petey slept, bound inside her shawl.

Lily tried to sleep, too, but between the wet and the worry, she was as wide awake as she had been when the carter picked her and Petey up hours ago. She was grateful, of course, for the ride, but each turn of the wheels took her closer to her destination and having to give Petey up.

That is, if they would take him. They wouldn’t turn away their own kin? Not at Christmas?

“They will love you, Petey,” she assured the baby. He was the dearest of infants, sweet natured and cheerful. Surely Daisy’s family would be thrilled to have him? “I will pay them for your board, or at least for a few months. Once I have a new job, I will be able to send more.”

Her one-sided conversation was interrupted when the cart stopped. Mired again? But no. The voices of the carter and another man filtered through the drumming of the rain, and then the cover was twitched back.

“We won’t reach Little Crawston tonight, Missus. We have to stop. Better get yourself and the wee ’un out of the rain.”

He helped her over the side of the cart, and set her on the ground, then gave her a push in the direction of a lighted door. “Go on inside. No going any further tonight.”

Lily hurried out of the rain. What choice did she have? But if she spent the few coins she had left on a night’s accommodation, would she have enough left to leave money with Daisy’s family? She had already paid the carter for the ride. And she needed a few coins, too, to get her to a big enough town for her to find work as a maid. No point in trying to get another governess job, not with the most recent reference she could show being three years old.

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Conflict in WIP Wednesday

They met, fell in love, married, and never had a cross word or an angry thought from the first introduction until their death 80 years later. It would be a lovely life to live, but it isn’t my life nor that of anyone I’ve ever heard of. Conflict is part of life, and it certainly makes for more exciting stories. Conflict external to the main relationship, yes. But also conflict within the relationship. So that’s this week’s theme. I’m posting a bit from To Reclaim the Long-Lost Lover that gives the reader some strong clues about the conflict to come. Please add your own excerpt into the comments.

Sarah is choosing a husband. That thought dominated all others, and he had been escorted to the door by a footman and was out on the footpath again before he fully aware of being dismissed.

His childhood sweetheart, his first love, was still unwed but planning to choose a husband. His reaction—the sheer revulsion at the thought—had been unexpected. Yes, he had wanted to meet her again, let her know what had happened to him, make peace between them. He had even hoped to find out whether the grown Sarah and the grown Nate might be able to find some sparks of the fire that once burned when they touched.

A third of a lifetime had passed, and he had changed. He must assume she had, too. Perhaps they would meet and dislike one another, or meet and agree to part as friends. But his immediate reaction when Lady Charlotte mentioned that damnable list was to claim his long-lost love as his own.

Nate had walked seven blocks and had passed the street he was meant to turn down. He backtracked to the missed corner. Nothing had changed and everything had changed. He still could not move on with his own life until he knew whether the unbroken connection between him and Sarah Winderfield was all on his side, or whether she felt it too. But now he knew that the clock was ticking.

He needed to meet Sarah, clear up her misconceptions about his disappearance, find out if he still wanted the role that had once been his greatest ambition, and convince her to love him again. And all before she chose another husband.

A thought occurred and stopped him short. She had a short-list. He wasn’t, then, competing against a love match. He stepped out towards his father’s townhouse, a smile spreading as he considered that fact. He’d put the next two weeks to good use, using Libby and her contacts to find out who was courting Lady Sarah, who she favoured, and what they were like. The clubs, too. He’d buy horses and play cards—whatever it took to be accepted into the conversation men had when women were not around. By the time he saw her again, he’d be armed for the battle ahead. He’d know what she looked for in a husband, and also what was wrong with the suitors she was considering.

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Again with the first meetings on WIP Wednesday

 

I gave you Nate’s impressions of his love eight years after he last saw her, so I thought I’d give you the next scene. By all means, feel free to share one of your meetings in the comments.

It was Nate. Sadie kept assuring herself that she must be wrong. He had changed so much from the slim boy she had once loved. She smiled and nodded, allowed Lord Hythe to escort her around the room, made cheerful nonconsequential comments. And all the time, she was conscious of the man, watching him out of the corner of her eye, wondering what it was about him that screamed his identity.

He was a lot taller and broader; that was to be expected. He had been shooting up like a weed when she knew him, but had not yet reached his adult size. His face had squared off. Once, he had been a beautiful youth—a dark-haired Ganymede, her brother called him, with a smirk she didn’t understand until her Aunt Georgie explained that the Trojan prince had been stolen by Zeus who desired him because of his beauty.

Poseidon would fit him better than Ganymede, now. Strength, barely-leashed power, serious and forbidding, except when he smiled at the woman with him. Who was she? His wife? They knew one another well, staying within reach of one another as they moved around the room.

He was breathtaking when stern. The smile transformed him. Even the scar that crossed one cheek in a ragged line added to his beauty; a contrast to perfection.

The eyes were the same, she decided. The same colour and shape, at least, though the cynicism with which he regarded the company was new.

Before they had reached the group that included Sadie, Hamner’s butler called dinner, and Lady Hamner began pairing people off to go to the dining table. Nate, Sadie noticed, was paired with another lady, and the one he had arrived with happily accepted the escort of one of the lords Sadie had on her list.

Lola guided her own dinner partner over to Sadie, and asked, out of the corner of her mouth, “What is the matter?” Her twin might not know what was wrong, but she always knew how Sadie felt.

“No time. Can we go straight home after dinner?” Sadie whispered back. The line passed through the doorway, and the sisters had to peel off in different directions, but Lola would make their excuses when the time came. Sadie couldn’t face Nate until she had time to absorb the fact of his return.

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Best friends on WIP Wednesday

Best friends are a great help to a writer. They give the hero or heroine someone to talk to, someone to support them, even someone to act on their behalf. In this week’s WIP Wednesday, I’m inviting authors to show us all an excerpt from your WIP with a best friend in it.

In mine, my heroine’s twin is meeting with the man who deserted her sister seven years ago, and who has suddenly reappeared in their lives.

The butler unbent enough to say, “Lady Sarah left for the country this morning, my lord.”

Nate knew it was no use, but he asked anyway, where she had gone and how long should be away.

As expected, the butler refuse to answer. “It is not my place to say, sir.”

Nate was turning away when he had another thought. The butler had said Lady Sarah had left. “Perhaps you could take my card up to Lady Charlotte? Tell her I would be grateful if she could spare me a moment of her time.”

He more than half expected the butler to explain that Lady Charlotte was also out of town. However, the man merely bowed, and asked him to wait. He ushered Nate into a small parlour, and carried off the card.

Nate tried to remember what Lady Charlotte was like. He had barely noticed her yesterday evening, his attention all on not embarrassing Lady Sarah or, for that matter, Libby, by staring at his long-lost love like a gawky youth. He had a vague impression that she was much of a size with her sister, but brown haired where Sarah was fair. In that golden summer when he and Sarah had become friends and then lovers, Charlotte had been ill with some embarrassing childhood illness; mumps, he thought. Sarah—at a loose end without her twin—had wandered the estate and come across the vicar’s son in the woods, rescuing a rabbit from a trap.

Nate had met Charlotte once before the day he was plucked from everything he knew, but he remembered little. Thoughts of Sarah had filled his every waking moment and fueled his dreams, and when he was with her, he was blind to everything else. No wonder Elfingham, the twins’ brother, had guessed what they were about.

He knew her most through Sarah’s descriptions. Loving, loyal, the best friend a sister could have. If she would talk to him, he could, perhaps, find out what he most needed to know.

“Lord Bencham. Have we met, sir?”

Nate spun round to face the lady who had just entered the room. A maid crept in behind her and took station in the corner, but Nate’s full attention was for Lady Charlotte. She was similar in size and build to Sarah, but on the surface, little else was the same. Except that, as she tilted her head to the side to examine him as he was examining her, the gesture and her thoughtful expression brought powerful memories rushing back.

“She used to look at me like that when she was irritated with me,” he blurted.

Some of the tension went out of Lady Charlotte’s shoulders, and one corner of her mouth twitched as if she suppressed a smile. “She, so our old governess used to say, is the cat’s mother.”

Nate felt his cheeks heat. “Lady Sarah, I mean. I beg your pardon. And yes, we have met, though it was many years ago.”

Lady Charlotte considered him for a moment longer, then waved to the chairs set around a low table. “Sit down, Lord Bencham. Tell me what brings you here.”

The answer was the same two words. “Lady Sarah.” Nate had so many questions he wanted to ask that he couldn’t think what to say first.

Lady Charlotte spoke before he could. “My sister is in the country. She is seeking a husband this Season, and hopes to narrow her short-list.”

A short-list of potential husbands? The room spun for a moment and Nate spoke before his brain connected with his tongue. “Me! I should be on her short-list.” Lady Charlotte raised her brows at him, and he realized he was shouting. He lowered his voice, but he couldn’t retract anything he had said. “Just me.”