WIP Wednesdays

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Family reunion on WIP Wednesday

I’m expecting The Secret Word back from the editor this week. Looking forward to it! Here’s an excerpt.

***

Chris waited anxiously in the private room at Miss Clemens’ Book Emporium and Tea Rooms. He was about to meet cousins from both sides of the family, and he was far from certain of the reception he was about to get.

Clem squeezed his hands and he smiled at her. He wasn’t at all certain he would be facing this if not for her. She gave him strength.

She had done so at Aunt Fern’s ball. Both his mother’s brother, the Earl of Crosby, and his father’s cousin, the Earl of Halton, were there. Later, he found that the public repudiation had been organised by Aunt Fern. But whether they meant it or not was the question.

Both reacted with the same disdain when Chris was presented to them.

Lord Halton said, “Reginald Satterthwaite’s son? I have no wish to meet anyone associated with that scoundrel.”

And Lord Crosby looked Chris up and down and declared, “No, thank you, Lady Fernvale. With all due respect, I see no reason to acknowledge this person.”

Chris wanted the floor to open up and swallow him, and then Clem had slipped her hand into his, and all was right with his world. He had not had their approbation before, and had not felt the need of it. He did not need it now.

Nonetheless, as the minutes ticked by, he acknowledged to himself his deep yearning for a family. He would have Clem, of course. Somehow. With or without Wright’s blessing. But, for as long as he could remember, he had longed for brothers and sisters or—failing them—cousins. Perhaps, if this meeting went well, his children with Clem might grow up knowing their cousins.

The first to arrive was Lord Crosby’s son, a tall man with that gaunt stretched look of a youth who was still growing—one who ate like a horse and put on no weight. “Are you the son of Reggie Satterthwaite, who ruined my father’s sister Christabel and ran off with her to Gretna Green?” he asked. “I am Michael Thurgood, Lord Crosby’s son and your mother’s nephew.”

He held out a hand to be shaken, so Chris figured his somewhat hostile first question could safely be ignored. “Clem,” he said, figuring a female—and a non-family member at that—might help to keep the conversation civil, “May I present my cousin Michael Thurgood? Thurgood, Miss Wright has done me the honor of accepting my suit. I have yet to convince her father.”

“Miss Wright.” Michael Thurgood’s nod was perfectly polite, but his attention remained on Chris.”

“Is it true, what Lady Fernvale said? That your grandfather abandoned you in the streets after your father died?” he demanded. “Father says he would have taken you in if you had come to him.”

Chris was about to protest that his nine-year old self had had no idea where the Earl of Halton lived, and no expectation of being welcomed, in any case. But they were interrupted by another arrival. A second man, this one around Chris’s age, so perhaps five or six years older than Thurgood.

Chris would have known him for a Satterthwaite even if he had not been expecting him. He look more like Reggie, Chris’s father, than Chris did, though his hair and complexion were fairer and his chin was firm and determined where Reginald Satterthwaite’s was weak. He wore the flashy uniform of a horse guard,

“If you’re Satterthwaite, so am I,” he growled. “Hello, Thurgood.”

Thurgood nodded. “Satterthwaite.” He gained a bit of respect from Chris when he then turned to Clem. “Miss Wright, may I make known to you Captain Satterthwaite of His Majesty’s 27th Regiment of Horse, and Satterthwaite, this is our cousin Christopher Satterthwaite and his betrothed, Miss Clementine Wright.”

As with Thurgood, Satterthwaite greeted Clem politely, but then turned his attention back to Chris.

“Is it true you did not go overseas with your grandfather? My father wants to know why you didn’t come to us. We would not have turned you away.”

“You did,” Chris said, dryly. “Or at least your grandfather had me and my grandfather thrown out of the house, and when my grandfather sent me on my own, the butler would not let me in.”

“You were nine or ten,” the guard’s officer said.

“I was nine.”

“You went back out into the road, and then what?”

“I ran back to where my grandfather had been, but he was gone. I called out for him. I asked other people if they had seen him. Then I ran down the street he’d left by. But I never found him.”

“I saw you,” Satterthwaite said. “I was watching from the schoolroom. You turned at the corner. Do you remember? You shook your fist at the house.”

“I did,” Chris said.  He had forgotten that detail until this moment. “I was angry with my grandfather and with yours.”

“It is you,” Satterthwaite said. “Chris, isn’t it? Chris, I’m Harry.

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Family troubles on WIP Wednesday

I’ve just heard that The Secret Word will be back from the editor soon, so I thought I’d give you an excerpt.

***

“Yer young fella’s gaffer came by to threaten me today. Me! At my work! Happen I’ll lurn him that Bertram Wright ain’t to be pushed round by a useless blot of an upper crust snot rag. Says that scoundrel of a grandson is already betrothed!” Father was furious. His careful speech, much like that of the class he aspired for his grandson to join, had been slowly and thoroughly learned. It was very seldom that he slipped back into the words and accent of his youth.

Another sign of his anger was the way he was pacing, to and fro across the parlor rug.

Fortunately, Clem had already heard from Chris the probable topic that had so upset her father. “Our Mr. Satterthwaite was angry with his grandfather when we met this afternoon, Father. Apparently, the man turned up in Chr— Mr. Satterthwaite’s office this morning, demanding that Mr. Satterthwaite stop courting me as the older Mr. Satterthwaite had already signed a marriage agreement for Chris. Of course, Mr. Satterthwaite told him where he could put his plans.”

That stopped Father’s furious pacing. “He did? Yes, I suppose he did. Though the man is his grandfather.”

“The man abandoned our Mr. Satterthwaite sixteen years ago, when he was a child. To turn up now and dare suggest Chris owes him anything? Chris told him in no uncertain terms that whom he marries or does not marry is not the business of Mr. Satterthwaite senior, and he wants nothing to do with the man.”

“Is that right?” Father had taken up station in front of the fireplace, rocking back and forth, his hands in his pockets, and a smile on his face. His temper was gone as if it had never been.

“When are you seeing ‘Chris’. Tonight, is it?”

Father had not missed her slip of the tongue, then. It was too late to unsay it. She could do nothing more than hope he wouldn’t find a way to turn it to her disadvantage. Hers and Chris’s.

Honestly, why did the pair of them have to be cursed with such conniving selfish vicious old men?

“Yes, Father. He is escorting me to the Sutton ball.”

“Sutton as in the Earl of Sutton? That’s the Duke of Winshire’s heir.”

At her nod, he whistled. “Sutton, eh? You are flying high, Clementine, my girl. When Satterthwaite arrives, tell him I want to talk to you both before you go out.”

Clem could do nothing but agree, and wait with as much patience as she could muster for Chris to arrive.

Hours later—it seemed much longer—evening rolled around and with it came Chris, looking incredibly desirable in his black evening coat and silver-grey breeches and stockings, this time teamed with another waistcoat—this one in a dark blue silk brocade.

He must have chosen it to co-ordinate with her gown, which he had asked about during their afternoon drive. It was silver grey embroidered in dark blue, and was one of two new gowns she had had made. Father had reluctantly agreed to pay for a single new ball gown, but Clem had taken a leaf from Chris’s book and gone off Bond Street. The modiste was so reasonably priced compared to the Bond Street shop that Clem was able to purchase two.

“Father had a visit from your grandfather,” Clem told Chris.

“The vile old villain,” said Chris. “I should have expected it. What did he want?”

“Do you know? Father never said. I just assumed it was that you couldn’t marry me. I told him about Mr. Satterthwaite’s visit to you, and how you dealt with it. He cheered up, then. He wants to talk to us before he goes out, Chris, but he didn’t say what about.”

“We are about to find out, then,” Chris said, “for here he comes.”

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Old acquaintance in WIP Wednesday

I’ve just received the preorder link for The Lyon’s Dilemma. It’ll be published at the end of next month, so I’m celebrating with a work-in-progress excerpt.

***

Felix arrived at Viscount Stillwater’s country manor in time to change for dinner, or so said his hostess. In fact, from the looks on the faces of the guests waiting in the parlor, dinner had been held back to allow him time to wash and change.

He looked around the room. Knowing that Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater were attempting to find husbands for their two daughters, he had expected the flock of maidens who looked as if they had only recently learned to walk creditably with their skirts down. He would not find his duchess among them.

Despite his dislike of social events, he could not avoid them all, and Mrs. Stillwater was a notable hostess. He recognized many of the guests, and knew which were married and which were widows with roving eyes. No duchesses there, either.

“You will be able to recognize your prospective wife,” Mrs. Dove Lyon had insisted. “Mrs. Beverley will be one of the maturer young ladies—she will be thirty years of age at her next birthday. She was widowed seven years ago and has been living a quiet life with her daughter. Her husband left few funds, and she has been supporting herself. I shall let her tell you the details.”

There were three possibilities. Perhaps four, but the fourth lady was turned away from him, so he was only judging by her back. As Mrs. Stillwater gave the signal to go in to dinner, she turned around, and Kempbury knew her immediately.

No! It can’t be.

It was, though, and if he had had any doubts at all, they would have been put to rest when she saw him, paled, thenflushed bright red, and turned determinedly away.

Somehow, he managed to offer his arm to his hostess, lead her into dinner, and even carry on something of a conversation with her. All the while his mind was reeling and his heart was a pit of despair. Adaline Fairbanks.

Surely, Mrs. Dove Lyon did not think to match him with that lying jade. She had said “Mrs. Beverley,” but that was not reassuring. In a decade, Adaline might well have married, had a child, and been widowed.

He needed to find out, so he did something he usually found too difficult to contemplate. He engaged his hostess in conversation, asking about each of the guests with whom he was not personally acquainted.

He retained enough self-possession to ask about both men and women, but he doubted that small amount of camouflage fooled Mrs. Stillwater for a moment. She was much more informative about the ladies than the gentlemen.

One by one, her mini-biographies eliminated each of the ladies he’d marked as possibles. One was married. One betrothed. One was a devoted social butterfly committed to life in London, which would not suit Felix. Besides, she had turned down every proposal she had received in her eight years on the Marriage Market. “She has a private fortune,” said Mrs. Stillwater. “She declares she has no intention of marrying.” She shook her head at the thought.

“Then we come to Mrs. Beverley, who is a widow, Kempbury. She is attending with her daughter, who must be ten years old, or close to it. Our governess says she is a delightful child. That’s Mrs. Beverley sitting between Baron Thornwick and Mr. Thompson. I understand she has been a widow for seven years, and that she runs a business, which is very enterprising of her. I do not know much more about her. I sent her an invitation at the request of a friend, but have found her to be a very pleasant guest.”

Mrs. Beverley. Adaline Fairchild. One and the same person. Did she really have a child of ten? If so, the child must have been a baby when they were betrothed, so that had been something else she had hidden from him all those years ago.

There was no point in him being here, but it was too late now. He would not insult John Stillwater, his charming wife, and the viscount his father by cutting his attendance short. Still, he would write to Mrs. Dove Lyon tonight and tell her that Mrs. Beverley was not a possibility.

***

The Lyon’s Dilemma

Felix Seward, Duke of Kempbury, does not want to be at a house party. Any house party, particularly one attended by her. Adaline Beverley. His nemesis. His Achilles heel. The one woman put on God’s earth to lure him from his duty. But Kempbury’s purpose is strong. Nothing she can offer will tempt him from his chosen path.

 

 

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Yet another beginning on WIP Wednesday

I’ve made a start on the last Dragonblade novel for this year. The Night Dancers is due to the publisher on 31 August. Guess the inspiring folk tale!

***

Melody Blackmore knew within minutes of entering the marquess’s study that the rumours were true. He was a terrible man. Had the investigation he wanted undertaken been the real reason she was here, she would have found some excuse and left again.

Although, from what he was saying, it was already too late. “You will move in immediately. You have one week to complete your investigation. At the end of that time, if you have not discovered my sons’ secret, my men will take you out, beat you, and hand you over to the navy press gang.”

This was a further escalation. Of the previous four investigators, the first had been dismissed, the second dismissed with a buffet or two from footmen, and third and fourth beaten each more heavily.

She would not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Two weeks. We shall write it into this contract.” She handed it to the bullying lord. “You will see that my daily charge is five guineas, plus expenses. Since you expect me to live in, you will be responsible for my keep for the fortnight. And, of course, we have yet to discuss my success fee.”

He stood and leaned on the desk, looming over her as she sat facing him. “You are not in a position to dictate terms, Mr. Black.”

“And yet you need my skills, Lord Teign,” Mel pointed out, maintaining her calm facade. “My success rate is second to none. And you have discarded so many investigators so violently that word has gone out in the fraternity. It is me, or no one.”

The argument got through to him. With a visible effort, he subdued his rage and sat down. “You are an arrogant young man,” he accused.

Mel had been lying about her identity since she first donned men’s clothes to undertake her first investigation. Without a blink, she accepted the accusation and replied, “My arrogance is justified. Within a fortnight, my lord, you shall have an answer. If we come to terms. Otherwise, I shall leave, shooting my way out if necessary.”

The last statement got his full attention. “Shooting? Damn it, man. I am a marquess. You’d not get out of here alive.”

“My reluctance to shoot you, my lord, is less than my reluctance to be beaten and pressed. And if you are dead, you shall not be able to deny whatever story I tell.”

Given the reception she was likely to get from the sailors when they discovered she was a woman, she would rather die trying to escape the marquess’s house, than die miserably in a ship’s hold after the sailors made a plaything of her.

If those were her choices, she’d be certain to send him down to hell before she breathed her last. But with two bad choices before her, she’d try for a third way.

“We do not, however, need to be at odds, my lord. You wish to find out how your sons are managing to remain fit and well without adequate food, and going through dancing slippers without any way of leaving their tower. I wish to survive this engagement and be paid for it, so I am highly motivated to discover their secret. That is my only interest, Lord Teign.”

“You are remarkably calm,” Lord Teign commented, frowning. He pulled the contract toward him and began to read it. Mel expressed her relief in a single long respiration. In. Out. Relax but remain alert. Remember your purpose.

Having made up his mind to accept her terms, Lord Teign spent little time reading the contract, and indeed, it was simple enough. He did not haggle over the two week term, the daily payment, the bonus for success, not any of the other terms, but simply read the contract through and signed both copies.

Within twenty minutes, her copy in her pocket, the butler was leading her to what he called “the young lords’ tower” through a maze of passages—servants’ passages, which might have been a deliberate affront.

The butler had searched her bag and her person, missing the false bottom in the bag and most of the weapons she had about her person. He had found the decoy gun she had in her pocket, but not the real one worn in a harness in the small of her back under her coat. Nor did he find the gunpowder and bullets in the heels of her boots.

On the whole, Mel was not dissatisfied. Nor was she discouraged by the butler’s pompous recitation, as she accompanied him through the house, about the impregnability of the tower—its thick walls, barred windows, and single door, which was both locked and guarded.

After all, ten spoilt lordlings could come and go as they pleased, evading the tower’s defences, their father’s servants, and the surveillance of four men who specialised in solving the problems of the haute ton, and uncovering their secrets. If they could do it, so could Mel.

All she had to do was discover their secret, and meanwhile carry out her real mission.

They turned a corner and began traversing a long hall with windows on both sides that looked out over roofs on one side and on the other, down into a stableyard. Two-thirds of the way to the other end, bars blocked their passage. Two sets of bars, in fact, each containing a gate.

The butler unlocked the first gate, then handed the key to one of the two footmen who had been escorting them through the house. The footman stayed outside and locked the gate. The same process saw Mel and the butler on their own at the end of the hall, with two locked gates behind them. Clever. The young lords would not be able to escape even if they overwhelmed whoever came into their chambers.

Mel’s respect for them went up a notch. Perhaps they were not so contemptible after all. It didn’t matter. They were not her main purpose her.

Next came a locked door, which let into an antechamber. The butler handed Mel his lamp and said, “Ring the bell and wait here for Lord Kemble,” He then shut her in. She heard the key turn in the lock.

Bell. There it was, a large handbell, on a table against the side wall of the chamber. There was another door opposite the one she’d entered by, and another table on the fourth wall of the room. And that was all. Just bare stone walls and a wooden floor, a plain ceiling, the two tables, the two doors, and the bell.

Very well, then. Time to meet the sons of the Marquess of Teigh. Mel put down her bag on the floor and the lamp on the table. What would they say when she told them why she was there? Not the whole of it, of course. Just their part of it. There was one sure way to find out. She picked up the bell and rang it.

 

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Unwanted Suitors in WIP Wednesday

Here’s a passage from my story in the Bluestocking Belles With Friends collection Love’s Perilous Road.

Apparently, Captain Grant could not bring himself to believe that Felicity meant the firm ‘no’ with which she had greeted his proposals in Paris in 1815 and again in 1816, and the proposal that followed in London. He showed every sign that he was going to try a fourth during this house party. What a nuisance the man was!

He must have shared his intentions with Penelope Somerville, for he was assigned to take Felicity in to dinner two nights in a row, and when they travelled into the village to patronize the local shops, Penelope sent Felicity to ride in a curricle driven by Captain Grant.

He also followed her around, partnering her in every two-person activity if she had not been quick enough to find another partner, joining any group she was in, sitting next to her at tea, and constantly speaking to and about her as if they were an established couple.

She managed to deflect any attempts on his part to turn the conversation in a personal direction, and truly, if it came to the point, she would simply refuse him again. But it was exhausting.

Also annoying, for she had had no opportunity to make another visit to the schoolhouse, and Justin had not tried to see her. Robin, too, was playing least in sight, so she could not even recruit him to either carry a message to Justin or run interference with Captain Grant so she could be her own messenger.

“Penelope,” Felicity said to her hostess after breakfast on the third morning of the house party, “Please stop pairing me with Captain Grant. I do not wish him to think I might be amenable to his courtship.”

“But darling,” Penelope replied, “Captain Grant has done me the courtesy of discussing his intentions towards you, and they are everything honorable. He is a gentleman of means, and while his father’s family is nothing to speak of, his mother’s people are mostly highly connected. Most highly indeed.”

“Captain Grant has already proposed several times, Penelope. I have refused and will continue to do so.”

Penelope could not understand it. “But Felicity, you cannot have thought. He is most eligible, I assure you, and so elegant in his manner. I cannot see any objection. Indeed, I am certain the Earl of Hythe and your sister Sophia would be most distressed if I failed to urge you to reconsider.”

Penelope was quite out, there. Hythe disliked Grant, though he had declined to discuss why, which left Felicity with the impression it was to do with the secret work Hythe sometimes did under cover of his diplomatic positions. And Grant was not popular with Sophia, either.

“I have nothing personal against the man, Felicity,” Sophia had said. “But I cannot warm to him. And His Grace has warned both me and James against becoming too familiar with Captain Grant, so I daresay he knows something to the man’s discredit.” His Grace was the Duke of Winshire, father to Sophia’s husband James, the Earl of Sutton.

Even if Felicity had been partial to Captain Grant, she must have questioned her inclination once she discovered he had come to the attention, and not in a good way, of her brother and her sister’s father-in-law, both of whom were active in His Majesty’s service.

She could not tell Penelope any of that. It was probably some sort of top secret, and she did not have details, in any case.

“Neither my brother nor my sister would want me to marry where I felt no affection, Penelope. Indeed, and I know I can rely upon your discretion—I cannot like the man. No doubt a fault in me, but there it is. I am certain you would not wish me to pursue an acquaintance with a person I dislike, for you are so very fond of Sir Peter, and he of you.”

Penelope frowned, wrinkling her nose as if she might be about to cry. “Oh dear. Are you certain? Only, he seemed so certain you were merely showing maidenly reserve, and that his persistence would win you.” She sighed. “I did think it romantic he would try and try again.”

I find it disturbing. “I am certain. And truly, Penelope? Maidenly reserve? You have known me since I was eleven!”

Penelope giggled like the girl she had been when she first became friends with Sophia. “I suppose you are right, darling. You have always been very confident.”

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Deceit in a good cause on WIP Wednesday

Here’s the opening of my story for the August release Dukes All Night Long. It’s called With a Valet in a Wardrobe at Midnight.

***

“Tell me again why I am helping you do this, Garry” grumbled the Earl of Wolverton, as they rode up the carriage way to the home of the Earl of Congleton.

“Because I am the little brother you never had,” Gareth Viscount Versey cheerfully. “I say, Wolf. I’ve just had a thought. If this lady and I find we will suit, you and I might become brothers in truth.”

Wolf, as most of his friends called him, clapped a large hand over his face and sighed. “Doomed. I am doomed, I tell you. I should have drowned you when they gave you to me the day you started school.”

As a new pupil at Haddow, Garry had been assigned to Wolf—who was in his second to last year—to fetch his firewood, run his errands, and clean his boots, in return for Wolf’s protection and mentoring. They had hit it off, despite the six year age gap.

“And what if the Earl of Congleton finds out that my valet is the Duke of Dellborough’s grandson, and turfs us both out on our ear? And I lose Sabina?”

Garry shook his head. “No chance of that. The Earl wants the match between you and Lady Sabina as much as he apparently wants the one between me and Lady Jenna. Besides, Wolf, I’m not planning to be seen by the Earl or by his daughters. That’s why I’m pretending to be your valet.”

“I still don’t get it,” Wolf grumbled. “Surely you do not expect to actually meet Lady Jenna, let alone fall in love with her.”

Garry did not expect to fall in love at all, let alone in the week they would be here. Wolf had love on his mind, for he was head over heels for Lady Sabina, and his purpose in making this trip was to propose to his beloved, whom he had been courting for the entire Season. Garry’s purpose was quite different. “The idea is not to meet her but to watch how she interacts with her family, and how she behaves when only the servants are around. Wolf, you know how hard it is for people like us to find out what young ladies are really like. They are always acting. I want to know if I can like her, respect her.”

“Desire her,” Wolf offered.

“That, too, since I plan to be a faithful husband. Mama says love will come, if Lady Jenna and I are suited, and if we both enter the marriage determined to treat the other with affection and respect.” He shrugged. “I hope she is right, but once I meet the girl formally, I have lost all chance to figure out if I can even tolerate her.”

“What is the rush to get you married, infant?” Wolf asked. “You said the duke has ordered it, but you are only nineteen. Can you not tell him you want to wait?”

Was Wolf serious? He had met that force of nature currently wearing the coronet of Dellborough. What made him think anyone could argue with the man? “His Grace has decided his days are numbered.” Which was probably true, but not something the duke’s grandson wanted to think about. “He wants to see his great grandson before he dies.” If at all possible, His Grace had said, but a wish from the duke was a command.

Garry shrugged. “He has passed his eightieth year, Wolf. He is an old man.”

The indomitable and mighty duke of Garry’s childhood was a shrunken, hunched shadow of himself. He walked slowly, using a cane for stability. His speech was slower now, as if he needed more time to craft the still elegant, coherent, and frequently sardonic sentences that even yet moved the House of Lords and even royalty.

No, Garry could not tell the grandfather he loved and worshipped in equal measure that he wanted to wait. Not that he was being forced. Both Pater and Mama had said Garry could refuse the match and they would support him—which perhaps he would do if the girl was impossible.

But otherwise, Garry was marrying Lady Jenna Elliot, and doing so soon, so they could begin the great grandson project without delay.

Ah. Here was the house, coming into view around the curve of the drive. Another few minutes, and they would arrive, and then no more joking around with Wolf. Garry had to disappear into the persona of a valet.

Let the play begin.

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Dukes don’t wait on WIP Wednesday

The Lyon’s Dilemma, my next Lyon’s Den Connected World book, has just gone back to the publisher after I went through the developmental edits. Have I mentioned that I love Cynthia, my editor? The Lyon’s Dilemma gives the Duke of Kempbury the happy ending the poor man needs. You may remember him from Thrown to the Lyon.

Dukes don’t wait. Dukes keep other people waiting, but they are never left kicking their heels in the absence of the person on whom they have condescended to call—after making an appointment, mind you.

Felix Seward, the Duke of Kempbury, was tempted to get up and leave, but coming here once was hard enough. Leaving and then returning was unthinkable. And nothing else he had tried had worked.

He sat on the uncomfortable chair to which he had been directed. It was at least, a private parlor, but he could not forget that the establishment was a gambling den, and one in which light-heeled ladies—or prostitutes, if one wished to avoid polite euphemisms—prosecuted their trade.

Felix had been here once before, and he had been at a disadvantage that time, too.

That previous time, it had been his own fault. Mrs. Dove Lyon, the proprietress of this gambling den, had been rightly protective of her guest, and rightly reluctant to allow him to see her.

He had been operating on false information—believing what he had been told about his half-brother’s widow by his other half-brother and step-mother. He should have known they were lying—he should have investigated for himself.

It had all turned out well. The widow had married nine months ago, becoming the Countess of Somerford. Felix saw the Somerfords often—her, her doting husband, and their delightful son Stephen, who was the son of her first husband, and therefore, his nephew and currently, his heir.

Indirectly, Dorcas Somerford and her son had sent him here. Stephen Seward was a delightful boy, and made him long for a son of his own. Dorcas and Ben had that rarest of things, a happy marriage, and Felix wanted one, too.

Which was why he had come to the Lyon’s Den, after weeks—no, months—of indecision. Mrs. Dove Lyon was a highly successful matchmaker. Dorcas and Ben had married as a result of her machinations, and Felix knew of at least twenty other marriages that, from his observations, were credits to her work.

The truth of the matter was he needed a matchmaker. Felix had had no success in finding a wife. A duchess? That would have been easy. Almost any woman in the ton would be delighted to take on the role. But wife? Felix didn’t know how to out a lady’s true character. Nor did he know how to make himself agreeable to a lady in a way that would lead her to look on him with favor. Him. Felix the man, rather than Kempbury, the duke. In his mind’s eye, he could see them, the women who slavered over him when he was forced to make an appearance at a social event. As they looked up to him with adoring eyes, they did not see the man at all. For them, he was simply his title, the words obscuring him entirely—words that were capitalized, perhaps in gilded letters and possibly shedding gold dust: The Duke. Gilded title or not, Felix wanted to be simply a man to his wife, if to nobody else.

 

 

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Choices on WIP Wednesday

In my story for Love’s Perilous Road, my heroine is accosted by the villain.

***

All Felicity wanted was a couple of hours sleep, which was surely not too much to ask. But apparently it was. She had talked to Robin for a few minutes and then gone upstairs to find Victor Grant waiting in the hall outside of her bedchamber.

“I trust your patient has not died in the night,” he said, in a tone that implied the opposite.

The best form of defense was attack. “Were you spying on me, Mr. Grant?”

“Let us say, rather, I was looking out for the lady I mean to make my bride.”

“I have already refused your proposal, Mr. Grant. I will not marry you.”

Grant smiled. “I think you will. I hold your reputation in the palm of my hand, Lady Felicity. One word from me, and the whole of England will know you spent the night in the schoolhouse with Weatherall. And what is he, after all? A penniless schoolmaster. Distantly related to an earl, it is true. But by no means a match for a Belvoir, one of the great families of England.”

“Of the United Kingdom, Mr. Grant,” Felicity informed him, lifting her chin proudly. And yes, she was proud. The Belvoirs had served king and country since there was a country, and all without scandal staining their name. Grant was mistaken if he thought his threat would work on her, however. That very pristine reputation would protect her, and if it did not? Then better retirement to the country alone than marriage to a yellow-bellied cur.

“The answer is still no,” she said.

The man had not expected that. His smile slipped, and he snarled. “Then I will have no choice but to tell that Bow Street Runner who is here looking for our highwayman that Weatherall is Captain Moonlight,” he said.

Felicity absorbed the blow, schooling her face to show no expression. He could not know for certain, and even if he had witnessed something incriminating, it would be his word against Justin’s. And her word. She would give Justin an alibi even if she had to perjure herself. “What utter nonsense,” she said.

“I am going to Brighton today, Lady Felicity. I shall call on your brother and tell him what you have been up to. He, at least, will have a care to your reputation.”

Felicity managed to say, quietly, “I am of age, Mr. Grant. I will make my own choices.”

“Be sure that you make the right one,” Grant insisted and swaggered off, leaving Felicity far more disturbed than she would allow him to see.

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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.

***

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.