WIP Wednesdays

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Trust and doubt on WIP Wednesday

In this passage from Chaos Come Again, my hero does not feel worthy of his wife’s love, so begins to wonder if he has it.

Lion and Fox rode ahead of the column of troopers, driven mostly by Lion’s eagerness to return to Dorothea. According to Fox, Dorothea had been keeping herself busy in his absence. Fox was inclined to be annoyed that she had employed a couple of the camp followers to cook for them and do their laundry. Lion wished he had thought of it. Amelia was wife to a major now, and should not still be doing the work of a servant.

“She has been wandering all over the camp, making a nuisance of herself with the families,” Fox told him. “You’ll have to have a word with her, Lion.”

Lion would reserve judgement until he had talked to his wife. Which would be within the hour, for that odd shaped rock ahead marked the turn to their camp.

He resisted the urge to spur his horse on. It was too early. “I’ll talk to her,” he told Fox. And listen, too. Fox had an odd kick in his gallop when it came to socialising between the classes.

Fox fell silent for a while, and they’d passed Almeida and had the camp within sight when he rode up beside Lion again. “Dorothea and Cassiday have been getting on well,” he commented. “Nothing for you to worry about, Lion, I’m sure. Even if she has spent more time with our good major than she has with you.”

Lion repressed a sigh. Fox had been making remarks like this ever since he arrived back in Portugal. It was just Fox’s way, but Lion was finding it annoying. “I know I have nothing to worry about,” Lion told him. “My wife loves me, and I trust her.”

“Oh, good,” Fox said. “I am sure you are right to do so.”

Lion shook off a slight disquiet to wave to the camp’s sentries, who had been watching them approach. “Welcome back, Colonel,” said one of them.

“Thank you,” Lion said. “Glad to see you’re alert.”

“Always, sir,” the other man assured him. “Are we on the move, then?”

“Soon, trooper,” Lion assured him. “Soon.”

Within a week, or so Wellington intended. They were ready, rested, and well supplied. “Next year,” he predicted, “our winter quarters will be in Spain, or even France!”

Both soldiers grinned at that. “France, I say, sir,” the first one said.

Lion returned the grin and sent his horse forward again. The farmhouse was just behind the second line of sentries, on the edge of the camp. Lion dismounted outside and tossed his reins to Blythe, who had been trailing Lion and Fox, and had caught up when the two men paused to talk to the sentries.

Fox was close behind him as he opened the door, walking in to hear Michael say, “I hope you can persuade Lion to forgive me, Dorothea. I know I should have handled it better.”

It was the three of them: Dorothea, Michael and Amelia. At least she is not alone with Michael, Lion thought, and then was ashamed he had let Fox’s nonsense influence him.

Amelia saw them first and stood, with an exclamation of delight. “Major Foxton! And Colonel O’Toole, too. Dorothea, your husband is here.”

Dorothea already knew. She had turned towards him, beaming, her hands held out. He took them and pulled her towards him, kissing her in a passionate claiming that was, he acknowledged in his innermost heart, at least in part a demonstration—telling Michael and anyone else who needed to know that Dorothea was his. You are being ridiculous, Lion. The woman loves you.

Perhaps when he had her in his arms, joined to her in the most intimate of ways, his disquiet would settle. “Come,” he said. He led her to their bedchamber and shut the door.

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Intimacy on WIP Wednesday

This is from Chaos Come Again

She bumped her head into his shoulder, in a surplus of affection, and he winced.

“What has happened?” Dorothea asked.

“A slight strain in my shoulder, dearest. Nothing to worry about,” he replied, dropping a kiss on her hair. “I will just have my bath, shall I?”

But while Abigail was dressing Dorothea’s hair, she heard Blythe say, “You’ve bruised your shoulder, Colonel. You should get my lady to rub some of her liniment into that. Going to be a whopping bruise.”

Dorothea put up a hand to tell Abigail to stay where she was and tiptoed to the dressing room door, so she could see what her husband was trying to hide from her. A livid bruise about the size of a fist coloured his shoulder.

“I shall get my liniment,” she said.

Lion looked over his shoulder. “It is nothing to worry about,” he repeated. He submitted to her ministrations, all the while protesting that he hardly felt it at all. “It looks worse than it is.” Which wasn’t true, for when she asked him to windmill his arm, he was unable to do a full circle.

“You will need to rest it,” she scolded him.

He put his other hand on the nape of her neck and encouraged her ear close to his mouth. “You’ll have to be on top, then, my love.”

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Reunions in WIP Wednesday

Many historical novels have the hero and the heroine reunited after years. In One Perfect Dance, my hero arrives back in London after sixteen years and goes to visit the woman who was his childhood sweetheard.

Lady Barker—Elaine—had been able to discover that Mrs. Paddimore was in residence, and that today was her afternoon for receiving calls. Ash had seen enough of English Society in far-flung corners of the world to know the process. The butler took Ash’s card, and beckoned Ash to follow him up the stairs and into a drawing room that managed to be both elegant and comfortable.

Catching her at home and receiving was a mixed blessing. It had insured his immediate entry, but meant he was now afloat in a sea of unknown faces.

Not that he gave any of the others more than a cursory look. He had eyes only for Regina. He had not seen her in sixteen years, and she was now very much an adult rather than a girl on the verge of conquering Society, but she was even lovelier as a mature woman than she had been when he was last in England.

There were perhaps a dozen men and four other ladies in attendance, but he could not have described anything about them. Odd. He had long since developed the habit of cataloguing the people present, the contents of a room and every possible exit. His travels had taken him to places where his life depended on such awareness.

At this moment, however, everything and everyone else was just a background for Regina. Her flawless skin, her dark hair in an artful coil on the top of her head. Her blue eyes, sparkling as she conversed with the lady next to her. Her plush lips, curved in a gentle smile. One of the shoe brooches he had sent her was clipped in her hair.

The butler announced him. “Mr. Elijah Ashby.” The room silenced as if by magic, and everyone turned towards the door, their mouths hanging open. Regina leapt to her feet and hurried towards him with both hands held out.

“Elijah!” she proclaimed. “How wonderful! I read in the newspaper that you had returned to England but did not expect to see you so quickly! I am so glad you called. Please, come and allow me to introduce you.”

She was smaller than he expected. Over the years, he had forgotten how diminutive she was, not just short but also slender, though in a thoroughly womanly fashion. She is still a sylph. The force of her personality, coming through in every letter, had somehow led him to expect a larger presence. The scent was the same as he remembered, though. An English garden, with a touch of something that was pure Ginny.

“Ladies, allow me to present my friend, Mr. Ashby. Mr. Ashby, my cousin, Mrs. Austin, and the Ladies Deerhaven, Charmain, and Stancroft, all very dear friends.”

Ash made his bow.

Lady Deerhaven was a regal lady with the slight padding of a matron and a kindly smile. “Regina and I have been reading your books since the very first,” she claimed. “How lovely to meet you in person.”

Lady Charmain was a statuesque blonde with eyes of a vivid blue. “Mr. Ashby, it is a delight to meet you.”

Ash did his best to look Lady Stancroft in the one eye that showed. The other was hidden by a pretty half mask that covered one side of her face. A fine tracery of purplish scars hinted at the story the mask had to tell.

He was next introduced to Lord Deerhaven and Lord Stancroft, presumably the husbands of the two ladies. They welcomed him back to England. Lord Charmain, if there was one, was not present. Regina continued to introduce him around the room, and he continued to be polite about remarks that praised the books and to deflect questions about his and Rex’s plans for the future.

Then they reached a short balding man who was vaguely familiar and whose face came into full focus when Regina said, “And, of course, you know David Deffew.”

Daffy Down Dilly, as Ash lived and breathed, there with an oily smile on his face and his hand out ready to claim his part in the fêted return of the famous author.

“My dear stepbrother,” Dilly announced to the room, as he clasped Ash’s hand and held it too long. Ash inclined his head slightly and gave a tug on the hand to free it. He would not make a scene in Regina’s drawing room.

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Compromised in WIP Wednesday

 

The compromise is a standard historical romance trope. And, of course, they then fall in love, because this is a romance. So it is in Chaos Come Again, my June release.

Dorothea screwed up her courage. “You said ‘betrothed’,” she said.

Colonel O’Toole shrugged. “I know I should have asked properly before announcing it,” he said, “but your former companion’s intrusion, followed by that of Lady Blaine, rather forced the issue.”

Dorothea did not know what to say. He had intended to ask her before Mrs Austin burst in?

He misunderstood her silence, because he rushed into speech. “If you do not like the idea, I will understand.” It was the first time she had seen him discomposed. “I know I am much older than you, and I should also tell you that I am not legitimate. My father was the eldest son of the Earl of Ruthford, but he was not married to my mother, who was the daughter of an Irish soldier and his Indian wife. So I am not actually even English.”

Her own remembered rejections told her he was trying to discourage her, but she recognised the pain of old hurts in his eyes and they emboldened her to say, “I am a merchant’s daughter, tainted with trade. One of my grandfathers was a farmer and the other a shopkeeper. My father started as a millworker, and is a coarse man, unfit for polite company. I am not pretty—too short, too plump, and ordinary in every way. If I marry without my father’s approval, I will not even have a dowry to make me attractive. I will be twenty-one in three months—which is old for an unmarried woman. You cannot possibly want to be burdened with me. No one else ever has.”

His gaze heated. “I don’t care about your ancestors or your dowry,” he countered. “I have money enough to keep us both in comfort. You are very pretty, at least to me. I prefer brown hair and dark eyes, and a complexion with a little colour in it to the pale wraiths that are fashionable.” His eyes dropped lower, to her breasts, and then he met her eyes again. “You are not plump, you are delightfully curved.” He chuckled. “I will allow that you are short, Dorothea. May I call you Dorothea?”

He reached out a hand to her, and she accepted it, though his touch scrambled her wits and it took her a moment to order her thoughts enough to say, “I do not care about your ancestors, either,” she admitted. “And you are just the right age. Did you really think of marriage before Lady Blaine came?”

“Yes. Almost from the first.”

There was nothing but sincerity in every line of his face.

“I am no prize, Dorothea,” he warned. “I was reluctant to ask. I hoped to find a solution that would not burden you with me.”

“It would not be a burden, but a privilege,” she protested.

“I am a military man, and must go back to war as soon as I have seen my grandfather.”

“I would not mind living in a tent and travelling with the army. Not if I can be with you.”

“Ah, Dorothea,” he said, and he lifted her hand to place a kiss within the palm. “Is that a yes, then? You will marry me?”

“If you truly want me,” she agreed.

He kissed her palm again. “Then eat your meal before it gets cold, my love. We have a long way to go and must be on our way soon.”

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Allies, friends, and fellow travellers on WIP Wednesday

The Talons of a Lyon, my first Lyon’s Den connected world book, is out on the 26th April. Just enough time for a WIP excerpt, this one about an alliance with the Black Widow of Whitehall herself.

Mrs. Dove Lyon did not keep her waiting long. Seraphina stood when she entered, and curtsied. That was probably incorrect, since a baroness, even a disgraced widow, surely outranked the owner of a gambling den, but Mrs. Dove Lyon had a presence that transcended considerations of rank.

Mrs. Dove Lyon nodded briefly and took a seat behind her desk, saying nothing, but simply facing Seraphina. Studying her, Seraphina assumed. Seraphina had swept her veil back over her bonnet, but Mrs. Dove Lyon wore a thicker one that completely obscured her features.

“Lady Frogmore,” she said at last. “How may I be of service?”

Seraphina took a deep, brief breath. She had prepared and practiced her speech. “If you know who I am,” she said, “you know I am rumored to be a wicked wanton, and a bad wife.” Moriah had said that Mrs. Dove Lyon knew everything.

Mrs. Dove Lyon inclined her head.

“The rumors are untrue,” Seraphina declared. “They were spread by my husband’s family, who want to keep me from my children.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon said nothing.

Seraphina continued. “I know few people in Society and few of them know me. I come from a merchant family and my husband kept me at home. The Frogmores want me out of my children’s lives because they wish to control the fortune my father left to my children, and my son’s estates—estates saved by the fortune I brought into the marriage as my dowry.”

She had another fear. Only the person of that son, born after Henry’s death, stood between Marcus Frogmore and the title. But surely, he was not such a monster as to kill his own nephew?

She would not mention that to Mrs. Dove Lyon lest the woman think her crazed.

“Marcus Frogmore took a case to court to gain custody of the children. I knew nothing about it until after the case was decided. I have sought another hearing, but my solicitor says that, as things stand, I cannot hope to win without the support of some of those in the ton who can then stand as character witnesses. To do that, I need to move among them, to allow them to get to know me.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon spoke. “So, you want me to find you a husband.”

Seraphina spoke with all the horror she felt. “Dear Heavens! No! Never again.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon stilled. Without seeing her face, Seraphina could not be sure, but she thought the Black Widow was surprised.

Her voice had no inflexion, though, when she said, “No.” Then, “I see. Or, rather, I do not see. I can understand why a widow would not wish to marry again, but I do not understand what you want from me.”

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Wounded heroes on WIP Wednesday

I’ve been working on my story for the next Bluestocking Belles collection, and thought I’d share. Jack has offered to look after Gwen’s father, who has dementia (not that they called it that then, while Gwen works.

Back at her home, she soon found her father and Captain Wrath. All she had to do was follow the two voices singing in the kitchen—a somewhat bawdy song about a miller and his customer. Her father’s deep bass and Captain Wrath’s light tenor wound around one another to turn the silly lyrics into a thing of beauty. On impulse, she joined in the chorus.

“To me right ful la, my diddle diddle lay do,
Right ful, right ful ay.”

Captain Wrath turned to smile at her. “That was just what the song needed,” he observed. “An alto.”

“My Ellen,” Da said, smiling. Once again, he thought she was her mother. Gwen had given up arguing with him when he was like this. Captain Wrath put a bowl down in front of him—stew, which he was eating with a spoon. What a good idea! Gwen had been serving her father on a flat plate, and with a fork and knife. And where did the stew come from? Had Mrs. Carr sent it in apology? Which reminded Gwen that she would have to call by and see how Chrissie was.

Captain Wrath had filled another bowl. “Are you ready for stew, Miss Hughes?” he asked. “I can make a pot of tea, too. The kettle has just boiled.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking a seat on the bench next to her father. Jack put the bowl in front of her. “What have you two men been up to today.”

Da was shoveling stew into his mouth. He spoke without waiting to finish the mouthful. “Jack tells stories,” he swallowed. “He went to the war.” He took another spoonful.

“Did he?” Gwen asked, at a loss for what else to say.

“Damn fool thing to do,” Da grumbled. “No good comes of going for a soldier. Thugs and villains.”

Gwen took a worried look at Captain Wrath to see if he was offended, but he grinned as he brought his own bowl to the table. All three of them with bowls and spoons, and bread they could tear with their fingers. Well, why not? It was not a formal dinner party.

“Ellen likes us to eat proper,” Da said to Captain Wrath in what might be intended as a whisper. He dipped his bread into the soup, scooped soup on to it and lifted it up, dripping, to shove into his mouth.

“It’s not the officers’ mess,” Captain Wrath whispered back. “Proper doesn’t count if it’s not the officers’ mess.” He nudged the bowl toward Da, so more of the soup would fall into the bowl while the bread was being transferred to Da’s mouth. Da had a towel tied round his neck, so the rest would at least be easy to clean up. Another good idea.

Father accepted Captain Wrath’s explanation, and continued spooning up his stew, while Captain Wrath gifted Gwen with a twinkling smile.

“How has your morning been?” he asked. The kettle whistled again, and he got up to pour the water into the teapot, then brought it, a cup, and a jug of milk to her place at the table. Gwen had not been waited on since she could toddle. It felt both wonderful and slightly uncomfortable. Shouldn’t it be her job to serve the food and the tea? But if it did not bother Captain Wrath, why shouldn’t she enjoy it?

“Is all well?” Captain Wrath asked.

Gwen collected herself and answered his question. “I have had a busy morning, thank you. Everything is well.” What was it about Captain Wrath that scattered her thoughts? “How have you and Da enjoyed yourself?”

“I think it has been a good morning for him,” Captain Wrath confided. “He has been talking well, and has accepted me, though he keeps forgetting who I am.”

At that moment, Da pushed back from the table and glared at them both. “What are you doing in my house?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

Gwen tensed. Last time he had suddenly had no memory of her at all, he taken offense at having a strange woman in his kitchen and had chased her from the house brandishing a broom.

“I am Jack,” Captain Wrath said, “And this is Gwen. You may remember you invited us to a meal with you.”

Da frowned, but didn’t challenge Captain Wrath’s statement. He pointed. “Something wrong with your arm?”

“Bullet in the shoulder,” Captain Wrath said. “Dr. Wagner says it damaged the nerves and muscles. Now the arm is pretty much just a useless lump of meat.”

Da nodded thoughtfully. “Poacher, was it? Or highwaymen. Not a duel, I hope.”

“No,” Captain Wrath said. “Not a duel.”

“Good,” Da said. He bent over to take a closer look. “No movement at all?”

Jack wiggled the fingers that poked out of the sling. “A little.”

“Hmmm.” Da frowned in thought. “A good sign. Keep it bound so you don’t bang it into things. But make sure you get your wife to exercise it twice a day. Massage, too. Ellen can give you some of my liniment to use. Do the dishes, Ellen, and see this stranger out. I’m going to have a little lie down.”

Gwen was back to Ellen again. She began to get up to see that her father made it up to bed, but Captain Wrath gestured for her to sit. “I’ll do it,” he said. “You finish your meal. I know you have a busy afternoon ahead of you.”

Gwen should have insisted. After all, it was her job to look after her own father. But it was such a blissful luxury to sit and eat a meal on her own; to finish a cup of tea while it was still hot. She had to admit that Captain Wrath was handling her Da well. Better, in fact, than she did.

The least she could do was offer him the liniment Da mentioned, and help him exercise his arm. Unless he had a wife. He had not mentioned a wife.

 

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Proposals in WIP Wednesday

Proposals are as individual as the people who make them. Here’s one from my next novella for the Bluestocking Belles.

For a moment, he remained still for her explorations, but all too soon, he put his hand on her wrist, not grasping but just halting her movement. “Enough, Gwen. I am holding on to my reason by a thread, but I’ve enough sense to realise that someone could come along at any moment, or your father could wake up.”

He had a point. She reluctantly let go. He gathered her close to him with his good arm and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Believe me, there is nothing I want more than to let you explore my body, and to explore yours in my turn. In private, though, my Gwen. Are you my Gwen?”

 She rested her head on his chest and put her arms around him as far as they would go. Her heart and her desire screamed Yes in unison. But what would become of Da? What of the business? She had kept it going not just so she had a roof over their heads and food to eat, but so that Evan would have something to come home to. Wouldn’t it be selfish to put her own wants and needs ahead of those of her family?

“How would it work, Jack? My home is here. My work is here. My father needs me.”

He kissed her hair again, his hand stroking her nape. “You have a home and a life. I don’t have a home, and I’ve lost the only life I know. If you were willing, Gwen, I would like to share yours. I don’t know exactly how that would work. We would have to decide that for ourselves. Together.”

It sounded too good to be true. “We are courting then?” she asked. 

“If that’s what you need,” he confirmed. “Courting, and then, when you are ready, betrothed.”

“If we can decide,” she cautioned. “If we are both happy to go ahead.”

“I will be happy with whatever makes you happy,” he assured her. “But shall I tell you what I have been thinking our life might be like?”

She nodded. This was probably a dream or a mistake, and tomorrow or the next day it would all fall apart. In the meantime, she would enjoy it.

“I’d like you not to have to work so hard,” he said. “Is it like this all the time, or is it the season? Have you thought of taking on another person?” 

Gwen shrugged. Thought of it over and over, and done her budgets to see if she could make it work. “The trouble is that I am a woman,” she pointed out. “Men do not want to work for a woman, but they might pretend just to get a job. Besides, would a stranger treat my father with respect? And if I choose the wrong person, might they take my customers and set up on their own? The work is there. We used to support three farriers—my father, Evan, and an apprentice, with me helping out when things were busy. We had a cook and a housemaid, too. But Evan left and the farrier across the river stole our apprentice, and Da…” she shrugged helplessly. “On my own and with Da to care for, it is all I can do to earn enough to pay our bills.”

“I can provide money to take a chance on an assistant,” Jack told her. “I’ve won a few prizes and found a bit of abandoned treasure over the years, and most of the money has been invested. We could afford to hire one man to start with and then take on an apprentice when business picks up. You’d have to interview the applicants, but I could sit there and look grim. You would be in charge, Gwen, never doubt it. But I can make sure they respect you and your father.

She twisted so she could look up into his eyes. That could actually work!

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Plot twist in WIP Wednesday

The excerpt is from Chaos Come Again, which I intend for release in June.

The shock came after dinner was over. The earl shook his head at his daughter, who had stood as a signal to the ladies that it was time to leave the room. When she resumed her seat, he tapped a spoon on his glass to demand silence. He let his gaze travel around the table, finishing with Lionel and Dorothea. “I have given much thought to what I wanted to say, and how to say it,” he began.

“I have chosen this occasion because my grandson deserves that the news I am about to share is spread as far as possible, and I shall count on those here at my table to pass on the story I am about to relate.”

The corner of his mouth quirked in a fraction of a smile. “Lion, here, is going to ask why I did not warn him. Well, all I can say in my defence is that when I planned this dinner party, I expected him to have been here well before it. Lion, I accept that your news took priority over mine.”

Lionel inclined his head.

“Nineteen years ago, my grandson arrived from India, with documents that proved he was the son of my deceased eldest son, Anthony Lord Harcourt. One of the documents claimed to prove that my son had married his mother, the daughter of an Indian woman and an Irish sergeant. I did not believe it. Nonetheless, I sent agents to discover the facts.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the table.

“All the adults in the story were dead. My son. Sergeant O’Toole. His daughter and her mother. It took time for my agents to uncover witnesses who could speak to the truth of the documents Lionel had brought with him. By the time they returned, two years had passed. My second son was known everywhere as Lord Harcourt, and Lion had been accepted as my illegitimate but recognised grandson.”

With a sigh, his hands shaking, he faced Lion. His eyes were anguished as he said. “Lionel, I will not ask for your forgiveness, for I do not deserve it. My agents found witnesses to your parents marriage, including the wife of the parson who performed the service. He had also died, but his wife was at the wedding and swore that it was a true and legal union.”

Beside Dorothea, Lionel had frozen in place, and when Dorothea put her hand on his to assure him of her support, the skin beneath her fingers felt cold to the touch.

The earl, his voice anguished, continued, “But to tell Harry that he was not the heir; to tell his wife! You were already speaking of a military career. I decided to say nothing; to leave matters as they were. It was a dreadful thing to do. I knew it at the time. I knew it every time I looked at you from the day I realised I had wronged you.”

Lion’s face had turned as hard as granite and his voice was strained, as he said. “My parent were truly married?”

The earl nodded. “You are the legitimate son of my eldest son, Lord Harcourt by right of birth, and soon to be Earl of Ruthford after me. I have notified the Committee for Privileges.”

Lionel said nothing, but his muscles under Dorothea’s hand tensed still further, which should not have been possible.

Mr Foxton leapt to his feet and hurried around the table, sporting a broad smile. “Lion, that is wonderful. Grandfather, you must be delighted. Lion will be a superlative earl. As one of those under his command, I can assure you of that.” He reached Lionel and gave his shoulder a robust punch. “We must have champagne! I cannot think of anyone who deserves a peerage more! Just think how thrilled the tenants and servants will be not to be subjected to our second cousin and his wife!”

With Mr Foxton, the others at the table stood to offer their own congratulations. Lionel stood to receive them, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile, clinging to Dorothea’s hand as if he feared being swept under by the surge of goodwill.

“I don’t want it,” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. But Foxton and the earl both pretended they had not heard, and nobody else was listening.

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Setting the scene in WIP Wednesday

This week’s excerpt is the start of Love in Its Season, my novella for this year’s Bluestocking Belles with Friends collection.

The farrier plied his business from a barn on the outskirts of the lower town. It was not a particularly defensable position, Jack noted as he led the two horses through the open gate. Too open, with access not only from the road, but from the lane that ran beside the neat cottage where the farrier presumably lived, and across the fields behind the barn.

But Jack was in peaceful England, not Spain or France or Mauritius or the Indies or any of the other far flung lands to which King George has sent his soldiers. Of which Jack was no longer one, and if he wasn’t Captain Jack Wrath of His Majesties 12th Lancers, who was he?

One of the horses took advantage of Jack’s inattention to pull sharply away to the right, towards a tub planted with peppermint and chamomile. Jack jerked on the lead rein, and received a hurt look from the other beast, Paul Gibson’s patient mount. However, his own recalcitrant gelding fell back into line.

Jack led them past the dusty curricle that stood outside the barn, its shaft empty, then slowed his steps as raised voices in the barn hinted at an altercation. He sped up again when he caught the words.

“I’ll have the constable on him. The man is mad. Locked up, that’s what he should be.” A man’s voice in the crisp accent of the aristocracy, the nasal tones shrill with anger.

“I’ll be giving you locked up!” That voice was deeper and rougher, with hints of a Welsh lilt overlaying the Cheshire vowels.

Jack hesitated. What was he getting himself into?

“Father, no!” A woman’s voice, sharp with fear.

“Keep him back,” the aristocrat sneered, “or I’ll shoot him like the mad dog he is.”

“He was only coming to my aid, my lord,” the woman protested. “You cannot blame a father for defending his daughter.”

Jack reached the open doors as the aristocrat hissed, “You need to learn your place, woman.”

“What is going on here?” Jack demanded, crisping his own pronunciation into a counterfeit of his so called betters.

What he saw had him dropping the reins and moving forward. This part of the barn had been divided off as a farrier’s workshop. The space was occupied by three people and two horses, the latter a pair of bays that Jack immediately characterised as more showy than sound.

The aristocrat was much as expected: tall, but with too much flesh for his height. Overdressed for the occasion, with lace at his neck and cuffs, and a coat the colour of squashed strawberries over a maroon waistcoat heavily embroidered in gold. Gold tassels on his boots, too, and gems glinting from his cravat, his fobs, and his rings.

It was the gun that had Jack moving. It was wavering between the two other people in the barn, and the hand that held it was shaking. The pompous lord was scared out of his mind.

The woman stood at bay, her hands held out palms backward as if to hold back the man behind her. She was nearly as tall as the lordling—nearly as tall as Jack himself. Muscular, too, with powerful shoulders. Her dark hair, curled like a crown on her head, proudly proclaimed she was a woman. He would have known anyway. Even in an old shapeless coat, men’s trousers, and a leather apron was so exquisitely female that Jack’s mouth dried. Her gaze met Jack’s, her dark eyes full of defiance, fear and anger.

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An Excerpt from Lady Beast’s Bridegroom on WIP Wednesday

This excerpt gives you my hero and his best friend.

After washing off the dust of the journey and changing into clean clothes, he set out in search of a dinner. He was just about to enter a pie shop that looked clean and was busy enough to hint at tolerable food when he was hailed.

“Peter! I thought you were buried for life in the country!” He turned to see Captain John Forsythe, who had served with Peter during the Peninsular campaign and later in Belgium. As tall as Peter himself, John had dark hair while Peter’s was fair. John was altogether more massively constructed, so that he felt as strongly about the nickname ‘Bull’ as Peter did about being called ‘Beau’.

Strictly speaking, the man was Captain Lord John Forsythe, but he refused to use the honorific, saying he had done nothing to deserve it beyond being born in a marquess’s family some years after his older brother.

John looked in the doorway of the pie shop and protested. “Not here, Peter. I can do better for you than that. I’m off to my club to have dinner. You will join me, of course.”

“I thought I’d just pick up a pie,” Peter told him.

“Not enough to keep body and soul together.”

“I don’t know,” Peter protested. “Remember that pork pie in Belgium?” After Waterloo, that had been. A baker, delirious with joy at the defeat of Napoleon, had given them her entire day’s baking as they passed her establishment on their way back into Brussels. After handing most of the haul out to the men they’d managed to bring back with them, John and Peter had shared the last pie.

“Pure heaven,” John agreed. “But so is the roast beef at Westruthers, Peter. Come on. Eat with me. I want to know what you’ve been up to.” His mouth twitched upward in a smile. “And I want to tell you about my betrothed.”

“You are betrothed? John! When did that happen? Who is the unfortunate lady?” He fell into step beside his friend and listened to rhapsodies about the most perfect and lovely woman in the world all the way to the club and on through most of the two courses of a delicious meal.

Eventually, even John realized he was repeating himself. “I am sorry, Peter. You should have stopped me. You cannot be interested in where Belinda is buying her bridal clothes and what linen she has chosen for our new townhouse.”

“I need to meet the lady for whom you have become interested in such things, John.”

“Come with me tomorrow afternoon and I’ll introduce you,” John proposed, and when Peter demurred, saying that he would not want to play gooseberry, John said it was no such thing. “For I am never allowed to be alone with her, more is the pity. Even when I proposed, her mother sat on the other side of the room. And no wonder. She is a diamond, Peter, in every way. Do come along, for her drawing room will be crowded with callers and it will be good to have a friend of my own there.”

And why not, after all? His appointment with Mr. Richards was at noon, so he was sure to be free by three o’clock. “Very well. I’ll come and make the acquaintance of your paragon. When is the wedding?”

That set John off again. The date had been set for after the end of the Season, and none of John’s representations had served to move it closer. “Her mother will not hear of it,” he complained. “I promised we would remain in town so that Belinda could continue to enjoy the parties and so forth, but her mother insists. They will not even announce the betrothal, or allow me to speak of it.” He sighed.

“What does your betrothed say?” Peter wondered.

“Oh, that she cannot wait to be my wife, but she feels she owed it to her mama to abide by the lady’s wishes. And I do see that. Belinda is the Weatheralls’ only daughter, and Weatherall tells me that his wife and Belinda have spent all winter planning for the fun of the Season.”

John managed not to raise his eyebrows. “I collect that Miss Weatherall is a young lady, just out?”

“This is her third Season, but she has had a hard time of it in other years, poor dear. Girls jealous of her beauty have been very cruel to her. I cannot help but admire her courage in returning. She is wonderful, Peter, and very mature for her age, I assure you. A great reader, and feels just as she should on all the things important to me.” His eyes stared into nothing and his lips curved in a fatuous smile. “And as beautiful as the dawn.”

He continued to extol the virtues of his beloved until Peter declared himself ready for bed after his days of travel, and they parted with an arrangement to meet the following afternoon.