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Annoying Napoleon

For my latest novella, The Beast Next Door, I researched hospitals that might have performed the surgery I needed. It had to be offshore, because the hero came home after ten years away. And not all places in Europe that might have accomplished surgeons were available — the return happens in 1814, at the end of the Napoleonic wars.

I started looking at Italy, because surgery was an important branch of medicine in Italy as early as the 16th century, unlike England, where gentleman became physicians who never touched their patients, and surgery had a recent history as a job for barbers.

Northern Italy was out. No English aristocrat would send even an unwonted child into territory controlled by Napoleon. The kingdom of Naples and Sicily, however, did not fall into Napoleon’s hands until 1806.

So my Eric was sent to one of the first and best-known of Italy’s hospitals. Santa Maria del Popolo degli Incurabli, now known as Ospedae degli Incurabili, still stands today as a modern medical facility.

It began in the late 15th century when Charles of France invaded Naples leaving a small gift behind. To this day Neapolitan’s call it the French disease. The French call it the Neapolitan disease. It has various other names but the best known as syphilis.

When it first arose the disease was deadly and many hospitals were opened for the incurable.

The Incurabili in Naples was built in 1521. A Catalonian woman, wife of the Spanish viceroy, was stricken with paralysis and miraculously cured. She founded a church and hospital comprising a group of small monastic communities where she devoted the rest of her life to caring for the sick.

Ancient camphor tree in the hospital’s medicinal garden.

Over the centuries the hospital became a medical school where the breadth of studies far surpassed the English model. Pharmacy, surgery, both medical and palliative care, all were both taught and practised.

An interesting touch for Christmas, the hospital is associated with the Naples tradition of crib scenes. According to historical records, some of the early cribs were built in an oratory at the hospital.

Locating Eric, my hero, in the Kingdom of Naples gave me further ideas for my story. When Napoleon invaded the kingdom of Naples in 1806, he was 14. Trapped behind enemy lines, he and his tutor disguised themselves as Neapolitans and took to the mountains, where they joined a band of insurgents, harassing the troops of of Napoleon’s puppet kings, first as brother and later his brother-in-law.

I love the way that works.

The Beast Next Door is a novella in Valentines from Bath, a Bluestocking Belles collection on preorder, to be published on 9 February.

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Scars on WIP Wednesday

My next story to be released has a hero with a scarred face, and I’ve been contemplating the number of my books that include a character with a physical deformity. I have quite a few scarred heroes — echoes of the Beauty and the Beast trope.

In every story where such a character appears, I have to consider the scars as part of what drives the story. How is my character affected by their scars, the cause of their scars, and the impact on others of their scars?

So that’s my theme for today. The scar might be internal or external, and belong to any person in the story. Give me an excerpt, in the comments, that describes your character or one of those effects.

My excerpt is from The Beast Next Door, my Valentines from Bath story. Valentines of Bath is the next Belles’ box set, due out on 9 February.

How beautiful she had grown. The men of Bath must all be married or blind. Her wide blue eyes narrowed, and then she smiled and held her hands up as if she would fetch him down through the window. “Eric? Eric, is it really you?”
Ugo gave an amiable bark and wagged his tail, then collapsed onto the grass at Charis’s feet. She frowned again, looking from the dog to its master. “He is yours? Oh, but he has been here for weeks. Eric, have you been hiding from me?”
“I did not want to scare you, Charis. I never thought you would know me right away. But wait, I will come down.” No flinch. No fixing her eyes and then turning them away. It was as if the disfigured side of his face was no different than the side that bore a single long scar from a knife cut.
“Of course, I knew you,” she greeted him when he rounded the folly and approached the bench. “No one has eyes like yours, Eric. And no one calls me Charis except you. Here!” She backed to sit again on the bench, sweeping her gown to one side and patting the place beside her. “Come and sit with me and tell me everything you’ve done since last we could write. Oh, Eric, when Nanny died, I felt as if I had lost you both, and I can only imagine how you must have felt so far away from home! I am so sorry.”
Eric hesitated. Given a choice, he’d have sat on the other side, so she didn’t have to look at the mess the surgeons had made. Charis put her head to one side, her smile slipping a little, and he sat quickly before he made her uncertain of her welcome.
“I thought it was worse for you,” he told her, “stuck here and no one knowing or caring how important she was to us both.”

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Tea with Eric

Eric Parteger followed the footman through the house, up flights of stairs, along halls, down more stairs, through successive rooms to further halls, and up again until at last they crossed a large formal parlour and exited the house through a set of double doors.

They were on a terrace that spread along this face of the Haverford’s London townhouse. Townhouse! In any other country, it would be called a palace. Miles of halls, acres of rooms, great towering cliffs of facade. All designed to impress, and all of it insignificant in its impact compared to the elegant lady who awaited him.

She was seated at a table near the balustrade between the terrace and the formal garden that spread out below them. Tea makings and plates of dainty cakes sat at her elbow, awaiting his arrival. She smiled a welcome as the footman faded back from his side to reenter the house.

“My dear boy, how good of you to come,” she said, looking unflinchingly into his eyes as if completely unaware of the ruin of his face.

Stunned at her warmth — Eric had never met the lady before — he took refuge in formality, presenting his best court bow. “Your Grace.”

“Come and sit down,” she insisted. “May I fix you a tea? Please, do try one of these little cakes. I have them delivered from Fournier’s, and they are as tasty as they are beautiful.”

Eric sat, and took the plate she offered him, and the cup of tea prepared to his preferences without any consultation. One corner of his mouth kicked up and he spoke without thinking.

“Gren always said you had better intelligence agents than Napoleon, Your Grace.”

She grinned back. She was dark where his old friend was fair and had blue eyes where Gren’s were hazel, but her son had the exact same grin, and Eric’s usual wariness with women, mothers, and aristocrats melted away.

“Your preference for strong tea with no cream, milk, or sugar has been noted by all the hopeful maidens of London, and their mothers. I had purposed to help you because my son speaks well of you, Eric. I may call you ‘Eric’?” She paused for his nod. “Good. But I like a man who speaks his mind, and shall be pleased to support you for your own sake.”

Support him to do what? “I am grateful, Your Grace.” What else could he say?

Again, she surprised him with shades of omniscience. “You wonder what I am to help you with, and how I can possibly be of help. I am the Duchess of Haverford, and one of the great ladies of Society, Eric. I can help you take your rightful position, of course. I can also advise you that the silly ninnies Lady Wayford has been parading before you will not do.”

Gren had the same sharp intelligence; the same unnerving ability to see behind Eric’s bland face to the busy thoughts beneath. Eric addressed the last remark. “None of them will be required to do so, ma’am. I have no intention of allowing Lady Wayford any part of selecting a bride for me.”

She nodded sharply, once. “My son said you were clever. We will talk more on this matter, but first I would love to know more about the time Jon — Gren, as you call him — spent with you in the mountains of Southern Italy, fighting Napoleon.”

***

Eric is the hero of The Beast Next Door, my novella in Valentines From Bath, which is on preorder and due to be published on 9 February. See the book page for the blurb and blurbs of all five novellas in the box set.

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Good riddance 2018 and hello 2019

Fond Farewell, by Edmund Blair Leighton
DM16545 The Fond Farewell by Leighton, Edmund Blair (1853-1922) Messum’s, London, UK English, out of copyright

To be fair, heaps of good things happened in 2018. For one thing, I finally began to recover from the polymyalgia rheumatica, and I discovered a few food allergies that restricted my diet still further, but got rid of my sinusitis, my hives, and my migraines.

For another, I published stuff: novellas in three multi-author box sets plus two novels. I wrote another novella that will be published next month, at least six newsletter subscriber short stories, most of the rest of the co-authored book Mari Christie and I are publishing on Wattpad, and a third of another novel.

My personal romantic hero and I had an absolutely fabulous holiday with Carol Roddy (aka Caroline Warfield) and her beloved, and built some wonderful memories.

And I spent another year with my best friend, culminating in our 47th wedding anniversary just after Christmas.

On the other hand, for most of the year I was just hanging in there.
Family crises, the busiest year at work ever, illness, and all sorts of other hiccups meant I finished the year with less done than I’d planned, and a good case of exhaustion.

I’m back at work on Monday 7th, after two and a half weeks off. For the first nine days, I slept ten hours a night, and then had a two hour nap each day. It’s nice not to be tired, and I’ve come back to a three-day week at the day job.

I’ve upped my expectations for writing in 2019 to allow for two things.

First, I have that extra two days a week — counting travelling time, that adds up to an extra 18 hours for stuff that isn’t the day job.

Second, my personal romantic hero gave me Dragon, the dictation software, for Christmas. I’ve been using it less than a week, and I’m already achieving a slightly higher word count dictating stories than typing them. As I get more skilled, I hope to at least double my writing speed.

So here’s the publishing plan for 2019. Two long and at least four short novels; at least two novellas; six subscriber-only short stories; a collection of my published New-Zealand-based stories.

Given the extra time, it’s feasible, but of course it could change on a dime, since family and friends come first.

Still, if I want the mountain top, I need to aim at the stars. Roll on 2019.

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Announcing Valentines from Bath

It’s nearly here. Valentines from Bath, the new box set from the Bluestocking Belles, is available for order, and will be released on 9 February.

What do you think of the cover? Isn’t it gorgeous?

Valentines from Bath

The Master of Ceremonies announces a great ball to be held on Valentine’s Day in the Upper Assembly Rooms of Bath. 

Ladies of the highest rank—and some who wish they were—scheme, prepare, and compete to make best use of the opportunity. 

Dukes, earls, tradesmen, and the occasional charlatan are alert to the possibilities as the event draws nigh. 

But anything can happen in the magic of music and candlelight as couples dance, flirt, and open themselves to romantic possibilities. Problems and conflict may just fade away at a Valentine’s Day Ball.

See https://bluestockingbelles.net/belles-joint-projects/valentines-from-bath/ for the blurbs of the individual stories, and buy links.

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Wounds on WIP Wednesday

Characters without character flaws and scars tend to be boring — the Mary Sues of literature, there not to drive the action but to be acted upon. I try not to write them, but that means I do spend a lot of time thinking about the emotional and psychological wounds that make my characters more than two-dimensional.

 In this week’s WIP Wednesday, I’m inviting you to post excerpts from your current work-in-progress that talk about a character’s wounds: physical, emotional, psychological or spiritual; obvious or hidden.

My piece is from The Beast Next Door, my novella for the Bluestocking Belles’ Valentine box set. My hero bears both internal and internal scars.

How beautiful she had grown. The men of Bath must all be married or blind. Her wide blue eyes narrowed, and then she smiled and held her hands up as if she would fetch him down through the window.“Eric? Eric, is it really you?”

Ugo gave an amiable bark and wagged his tail, then collapsed onto the grass at Charis’s feet. She frowned again,looking from the dog to its master. “He is yours? Oh, but he has been here for weeks. Eric, have you been hiding from me?”

“I did not want to scare you, Charis. I never thought you would know me right away. But wait, I will come down.” No flinch. No fixing her eyes and then turning them away. It was as if the disfigured side of his face was no different than the side that bore a single long scar from a knife cut.

“Of course, I knew you,” she greeted him when he rounded the folly and approached the bench. “No one has eyes like yours, Eric. And no one calls me Charis except you. Here!” She backed to sit again on the bench, sweeping her gown to one side and patting the place beside her. “Come and sit with me and tell me everything you’ve done since last we could write. Oh, Eric, when Nanny died, I felt as if I had lost you both, and I can only imagine how you must have felt so far away from home! I am so sorry.”

Eric hesitated. Given a choice, he’d have sat on the other side, so she didn’t have to look at the mess the surgeons had made. Charis put her head to one side, her smile slipping a little, and he sat quickly before he made her uncertain of her welcome.

“I thought it was worse for you,” he told her, “stuck here and no one knowing or caring how important she was to us both.”

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Spotlight on Lara’s Story

Lara’s Story 

Shattered by heartbreak…

“When a heart breaks, it does not break evenly, cleaving in half exactly down the middle.” 

Surrounded by her large, boisterous family in 1840s Ireland, Lara Flannigan has never known anything but love and belonging—until the day tragedy strikes, leaving her abandoned and forced into indentured servitude.

Remade in a new world.

Just when all hope seems lost, Lara is discovered by a childless American couple, visiting Ireland to aid in the famine-relief effort. With barely a chance to look back, she’s swept away to a bustling new continent—and a dizzying new reality. One of petticoats, opulent townhouses, and the cold reaches of Philadelphia high society. Desperate for a future, Lara works tirelessly to fit into her new life… while still haunted by a past that won’t let her go.

Set in a fascinating historical period, Lara’s Story is a gripping young adult novel that explores the strength of the human spirit and the power of forgiveness to heal a broken heart.

Lara’s Story Pre-Order on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Laras-Story-Diane-Merrill-Wigginton-ebook/dp/B07J31ZK55

Lara’s Story Pre-Order on Barnes & Noble https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/laras-story-diane-merrill-merrill-wigginton/1128939577?ean=9781946146908

Lara’s Story Readers’ Favorite Reviewhttps://readersfavorite.com/book-review/laras-story

IWIC Review of Lara’s Story-https://writersinspiringchange.wordpress.com/2018/07/03/book-review-laras-story-by-diane-merrill-wigginton/

Lara’s Story Review by Elaine Ouster, Author and Blogger of On Writing https://elaineoustonauthor.com/2018/10/13/laras-story/

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Courtship on WIP Wednesday

Those who write romances also write courtships. Before the happy ending, some sort of wooing has to happen, short or long, impassioned or almost accidental. Courtship between other characters or in other genres of story may have tragic endings or trickle out into nothing, but even so, we often see them. The pressure of a courtship is a gift to the writer, allowing us to show and develop character.

This week, I’m inviting writers to post an excerpt in the comments from a courtship in their current work in progress. Mine is from my short story written for the newsletter that will go out this week. My couple married when she was still a child, separated immediately after the wedding, and haven’t seen one another for years.

When he made his way to the church, he wore the gloves she had sent him last Christmas, the muffler she had knitted for the Christmas before. His pocket bore two of the handkerchiefs she’d embroidered with his new crest; beneath the muffler, a tie pin she’d given him fastened his cravat. He was one of the early arrivals. The manger, the seat for the Virgin Mother, and a couple of rails on posts stood lonely in the transom, waiting for the players. Word of who he was must have spread, however, for friendly villagers escorted him to a chair near the front of the nave, and a dozen people made the opportunity to stop by and tell him he had a wonderful wife.

The sheep came first, herded into place by the shepherd and his helpers. Then someone led out the cows and tethered them to one of the rails. A crowd of angels processed solemnly through the nave, hands in prayer position, heads bowed, eyes dancing. Finally, the moment Hal had been waiting for, Dolly led a donkey up the aisle, and Hal’s heart stopped at the sight of the woman on its back.

Dolly had been right. She was stunning. She was looking down, so he could see little of her face beyond a white forehead and dark brows and lashes. The blue shawl he’d chosen for her in Kowton was fixed to her head by a wreath of flowers, crafted in silver, that he’d found in Baghdad. The shawl flowed over her shoulders and down her sides, but it was so light it clung to a form that dried his mouth and brought his baser self to painful attention. He’d married before sowing any wild oats, and then kept his wedding vows, waiting to return home to Willa. The part of him he’d thought under perfect control wanted to wait not another minute longer.

Hal shut his eyes, and gritted his teeth, and once he knew he would not run roaring up the aisle to carry Willa off, he opened them again.

She had taken her seat in the transom, and was staring straight at him.

***

This was going to be a disaster. When she’d received Hal’s message, she had very nearly panicked. Only Eliza’s good sense kept her from taking a horse and riding away into the night. Instead, she had donned the veil that was part of her costume for the tableau, fastening it in place with a silver circlet he had sent her and putting on the matching necklace and earrings. Not, perhaps, appropriate for a carpenter’s wife, but the marquis’s wife wanted him to know she treasured his gifts.

She’d known who he was immediately, though he was at least six inches taller and considerably broader. The eyes hadn’t changed, though. Besides, he’d said he’d be there, and no one else was a stranger. He’d stared straight at her, then shut his eyes, his jaw stiffening, a grimace passing over his face. He hated her on sight. She wanted to run, but she wouldn’t spoil the tableau. She dismounted, as they’d rehearsed, and collected little Michael from Clara, and then took her seat before looking again at Hal.

He opened his eyes and her gaze was caught. Everyone else disappeared from her consciousness. Only Hal existed. Willa was inexperienced but not stupid. That was heat in his eyes. He desired her, and his desire sparked her own. She shifted uncomfortably, uncertain whether she liked the feeling Hal had set alight. The baby sucked in a deep breath and let it out again, and she looked down, feeling both relieved and bereft to be released from Hal’s thrall. She refused to look at him again until the tableau was over, though she could feel that the weight of his gaze never left her.

 

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The magic of the ring — reunion. Follow Your Star Home blog hop on Sunday Sportlight

Holiday greetings, from me and the Bluestocking Belles, and welcome to our Follow Your Star Home blog hop. Read on for my story about the travels of the magic ring, and comment for an entry in our holiday prize. Then go to our blog hop page for links to the other Belles’ stories and for more information about the prize and the special price on all three holiday box sets for this week and next. The hop is running for the fortnight, so keep checking back to see if a new story has been posted.

The Reunion

Father was negotiating their passage in a caravan across Persia to the borders of the Turkish Levant. From there, they’d find ship to Constantinople, where Father planned to follow up the latest rumour.

For seventeen years, since he lost his wife shortly after Rus’s birth, he’d refused to believe she was really dead. But for seventeen years, every lead had evaporated, every story had proven false.

Not that Father spent all his time looking for his lost love. He’d also been the best father a man could be, and all the time he was making his fortune in the lands of the East.

Father was good at bargaining; much better than anyone Rus knew. In India, in Afghanistan, in Serendip, and now in this small port town on the Gulf of Persia, Father had the patience, the good manners, and the sheer intelligence to play the game of business with the locals, each action, every word, a step in a complex dance that left both parties satisfied and eager to do business again.

Father enjoyed the hours it took, but Rus was only seventeen, and the port was full of life and colour. He burned to capture the new sights on paper.

“Don’t go far,” Father said, when he begged leave to sketch. “Stay where I can see you from the verandah. And Rusty, wear your hat.”

He did better. He found a place under an awning that protected the fair skin he’d inherited from his father — skin that went with the hair that had won him his nickname. Even his hands would burn, though they were more weathered than his face. But when he began drawing he forgot time, ignored discomfort, saw nothing but whatever he was trying to reproduce in his sketch pad.

The Arabic dhows at anchor in the small harbour. The square shapes of the buildings. A sailor who took a coin to pose for a moment. Three camels in solemn procession, their noses as lofty as dowagers. He turned page after page, making brief notes in the margins about the colours he would apply when he had time to create a painting from the impressions he was absorbing.

A woman in western dress caught his eye, walking past in the direction of the small British naval garrison. Perhaps she was wed one of the British officers.

With a few brief strokes he captured the flow of her skirts, the bonnet that shaded and hid her face, the large man in desert robes that strode in her wake. A bodyguard, Rus guessed, since he stepped between her and a street pedlar with a basket of fresh dates.

The lady waved her bodyguard aside, and exchanged a few words with the pedlar. Rus was too far away to hear more than one or two words, but he saw her pass over a coin and receive a handful of dates in a little basket woven from palm fronds.

Rus turned the page and began another sketch on a fresh piece of paper. The lady stripped off one glove, and as she did he saw something flash as it flew from her hand. She didn’t notice, picking a date from the basket and moving off towards the harbour as she ate it.

Rus put his pencil and sketchbook down and hurried after her, searching the ground for whatever had fallen. There it was: a ring. He caught it up and examined it briefly. It was chunky and heavy; a seal ring perhaps, with a star engraved on the face. It was not what he’d expect a fashionable lady to wear.

While he’d been pondering it, she’d strolled further away, and he cast a glance back at the house where his father sat. Rus had better hurry to catch her before she moved out of sight of the verandah and forced him to break his promise.

“Ma’am,” he called as he ran after her. “English lady!”

She turned slightly towards him and he could see her face. She was older than he’d expected from her graceful carriage and light steps. Not really old. The age of his father or a little younger.

Rus ignored the bodyguard, and held out the ring. “You dropped this, ma’am.”

She took it in her hand, without taking her eyes off his face; haunted eyes in a face suddenly blanched of colour. “Who are you?” Her voice shook.

Rus whipped off his hat and bowed. “Cecil McInnes, at your service, ma’am.”

He straightened just in time to catch her as she crumpled.

The bodyguard roared, and Rus thought he was done for, but then Father arrived, and the merchant he had been negotiating with. Rus was dimly aware of the merchant calming the bodyguard as Father ignored everything around him, even Rus’s attempt to explain what had happened, and took the lady’s face between reverent hands. She was stirring awake even as Father smiled, tears pouring down his cheeks the while.

“Cecily? Cecily, at last!”

Cecily? Rus’s mother? As she took her weight on her feet again, straightening, she didn’t take her eyes of Father.

“Alec? But you’re dead. They told me you had died! Alec!”

She threw herself into Father’s arms, her own tears running disregarded as she and Father babbled their wonder at finding one another again, and then Father scooped Rus into their embrace.

“Come,” Father’s friend the merchant said once they’d calmed a little. “You shall favour me by accepting my hospitality while you speak of all that has happened since last you were together. You have entertained every dog and donkey enough, yes?”

Rus blushed as he realised that the entire street was standing still to watch the crazy Englanders in their emotional reunion, but his father and mother (his Mother!) had eyes only for one another. Still, they allowed themselves to be herded inside.

It was only later that Rus realised that he and Mother had dropped the ring again, and by then it was nowhere to be found.

Cecily McInnes is the other woman in my contribution to the box set, Paradise Regained.

Divided sweethearts seek love and forgiveness in this collection of seasonal novellas.

Forged for lovers, the Viking star ring is said to bring lovers together, no matter how far, no matter how hard.

In eight stories covering more than a thousand years, our heroes and heroines put this legend to the test. Watch the star work its magic as prodigals return home in the season of goodwill, uncertain of their welcome.

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Sunday Spotlight on A Duke in Wulf’s Clothing

The Earldom of Rothgard has a long and storied history of strength, wealth, and integrity. But the death of the current matriarch hits everyone hard – most especially the Earl – and he tumbles into a mourning so intense his life becomes lost in a shroud of grief. His eldest daughter, Lady Isobel, steps up to lead the family so her brother can continue at university while her younger sisters experience a childhood of some normalcy.

Finding weaknesses in all Lady Isobel does to protect her family, an unseen enemy seizes an opportunity to launch financial and personal attacks. When treading water in the mess yields not success but rather an overwhelming sense of imminent drowning, she is forced to seek aid from her father’s well-connected friends—the fate of her family depends upon it.

Help arrives in the form of an arrogant, handsome gentleman seemingly suited more for the ballroom than the battlefield. The Duke of Conall, the ‘Wulf of the North,’ is an enigma in bespoke boots and tailored jackets. Yet behind the facade of cultivated ennui and charm beats the heart of a warrior—one who quickly recognizes the enemy tormenting the Rothgard family.

The Duke comes prepared to fight…but did he also come prepared for love?

A Duke in Wulf’s Clothing is inspired by the legend of Beowulf, an Old English epic set in Scandinavia, where the hero, Beowulf, comes to the aid of a king and kingdom under attack by a ferocious monster. It is Book Six in the A Legend To Love Series, a group of eleven full-length Regency romance novels written by eleven different authors, where at least one of the main characters in each book is inspired by a legend.

(EXCERPT)

The entrance of Rothgard Hall, Derbyshire, April 1812

“Turn around, remount your horse, and I shall not shoot you today . . . Sir.”

The pause before the ‘sir’ was deliberate, just short enough to seem polite, but long enough to broadcast the insult. He would have chuckled had he not sensed the sincerity behind the words. His eyes scanned the entrance to the imposing estate, but the clear day and size of the area caused the voice to seemingly come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He must have hesitated too long himself as further instructions rang out.

“I had not planned to practice sighting my guns today, but as you are obligingly ignoring my directives, I will take advantage of the opportunity. I should warn you that I am a crack shot and your immobility all but guarantees my aim shall fall true. I have only to decide which part of you needs a ball in it most.”

The owner of the voice remained unseen, but the ominous cocking of a pistol drew his attention to the massive planter on the right side of the landing between the flights of stairs. No shrinking violet, this one, he thought. She had not been hiding, merely tactically placing herself near cover should it be necessary. The lady stood taller than most, had striking dark hair and eyes, and wore a topaz morning dress not in the first stare of fashion, but of high-quality material and extremely well-made. Her found himself taking notice of her skirts and the wisps of hair about her face, gently rippling in the light breeze. She raised one pistol, aiming it dead center at his chest, and returned his attention to where it belonged.

Clearing his throat, the action as foreign to him as the sudden attraction he felt toward this stranger threatening his life, he began his mea culpa.

“My Lady, I believe I should introduce myself before we have cause to regret your actions.” Despite not knowing her identity, he still sensed he spoke to someone of import.

“Save your speech to occupy your thoughts on your journey back down my lane. The only introduction you need concern yourself with is this ball greeting your torso.” An impish smile spread across her face as she raised one brow as if in a cocky salute. “And I assure you, I shall feel no regrets in the matter.”

And with those saucy words and braggadocio, the famously aloof and impassive Duke of Conall thought he might be in love.

Meet Renée Reynolds

Author Renée Reynolds grew up all over the world in a family whose motto is you can never learn too much, travel too much, or talk too much.  She owns an impressive stack of degrees that she ignores to instead write about what she cannot do: go back in time to dance at balls and flirt with lords and scoundrels.

Renée found her happily ever after in Texas, where she resides with her family and a menagerie of pets. They’ve added to the family motto: you can never read too much, too often, or too late at night.

WEBSITE – https://obstinateheadstronggirl.wordpress.com/

FACEBOOK – https://www.facebook.com/reneereynoldsauthor

AMAZON – http://amazon.com/author/reneereynolds

TWITTER – https://twitter.com/eenayray

BOOKBUB – https://www.bookbub.com/authors/renee-reynolds

INSTAGRAM – https://www.instagram.com/eenayray/

PINTEREST – https://www.pinterest.com/eenayray/

A LEGEND TO LOVE SERIES

Legends love again in each Regency romance novel.

A Legend To Love is a series of full-length Regency romance novels written by eleven different authors, where at least one of the main characters in each book is inspired by a legend. You’ll meet our very own versions of Robin Hood, Mulan, Cuchulainn and Emer, Vlad Dracula, Odysseus and Penelope, Romulus and Remus, the Lady of the Lake, Beowulf, Tristan and Iseault, Pygmalion and Galatea, and Dick Whittington and his cat. Each novel contains an Author’s Note, too, that talks a bit about each legend and why the author chose it.

Facebook Page – A Legend to Love Series

Website – A Legend to Love