Spotlight on “Moonlight Wishes and Midnight Kisses” in Under the Harvest Moon

by Collette Cameron

Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides

Time can heal most wounds. Only love can heal what remains…

A wounded veteran with no future

There was a time when Cortland Marlow-Westbrook wanted little more than to marry the Scottish lass who stole his heart and build a life with her. But that was before the war left its mark on his body and soul. Now, scarred and disabled, all he wants is to be left alone. Unfortunately, fate—and the only woman he ever loved—have another plan in mind…

An heiress who mourns the past…

Avery Levingtone was heartbroken when Cortland went off to war and never responded to a single letter she sent. But now he’s back, and she refuses to waste the second chance they’ve been given. She’ll do whatever it takes to win back her wounded warrior’s heart and prove they were meant to be together—or she’ll remain a spinster forever. On this there can be no compromise…

Can Cortland overcome the pain of his past and embrace a loving future with Avery? Or will he deny his happily ever after…and hers?

***

“Moonlight Wishes and Midnight Kisses” is the first story in Under the Harvest Moon, now on preorder at the special pre-release price of 99c.

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Scandal and risk on WIP Wednesday

Scandal is part of the stock in trade of a historical romance writer, and particularly the writer of Regency and Victorian novels, whose stories are set against a rigid, if hypocritical, standard of publicly moral behaviour. If my characters didn’t ignore it, or be accused of ignoring it, my stories would be a lot shorter! Here are the hero and heroine of One Hour in Freedom, ignoring social norms. Or are they?

After she was ready for bed, Ellie sat in a chair by the fire, waiting. He had stopped in the hall as Mrs Blythe showed them to their rooms. From the look in his eyes, he had thought about kissing her, but had changed his mind. Why? Were they still estranged? Was she a fool to hope they could be together again? Surely he had the same questions.

After half an hour, she decided that Matthias was not coming. Does he not realise that they needed to talk? They had both been given rooms in the guest wing, and were the only occupants. Furthermore, when they had come up together after the meeting with Max, she had seen which room he had entered.

Well then. She let herself out into the dim hall and counted doors until she reached the one Matthias had been given. Light still shone under the door. Good. That made things easier. She knocked and listened for a response from inside the room.

The door swung open, and Matthias stood in the opening, his neutral expression dropping for a moment to reveal surprise, then delight and lust, before he reimposed control over his features.

He stood to one side. “Ellie. Please come in.” The huskiness of his voice sent her body humming, as did his state of dress—or undress. He had wrapped a towel around his waist to open the door, but—apart from that scrap of fabric—he was naked.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and walked past him into the room.

“Give me a moment,” he demanded. He went behind a dressing screen. He is quite correct. We need to talk. Ellie took a deep breath and attempted to distract herself by cataloguing the contents of the room. A bed. A couple of chairs by the fire, one of which had a half full glass on the little table beside it. She sat in the other chair, and continued her examination.

A clothes press. A side table under the window. Another by the door. Very similar to her own room, so probably a washstand and some pegs for clothes behind the dressing screen.

Where Matthias was presumably armouring himself against her lustful eyes by hiding his glorious chest and strong legs under clothing. But the sight was graven on her eyeballs, and her efforts to think of something else were not working.

He emerged in a pair of trousers, with a shirt worn loose over the top. “Still undress,” he said, “but not quite as scandalous.”

“Not scandalous at all, under the circumstances,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but the household doesn’t know that, do they?” he argued. “Do you want a whisky, Ellie? Lion brings it down from Northumberland. They brew it in the hills there.”

“I have never tried whisky,” Ellie admitted. “Perhaps just a little. As to the scandal of my presence here, or not… that is one of the things I wanted to talk about.”

Ingenuity on WIP Wednesday

I get them into these situations and then I have to get them out. Fortunately, the plot elves usually come up with something. This is from Weave Me a Rope, which I’m currently writing.

The second day after a beating was always worse than the first. The insulating effect of shock was gone, the bruises were at their maximum, and the stinging cuts were still so raw that the least and lightest of covers caused agony.

Spen lay on his stomach and endured. The housekeeper visited again, and Fielder popped his head in a couple of times, bringing food and drink and taking away the chamber pot. He remained sullen, but was at least no longer actively hostile.

Just after the second meal of the day, Spenhurst heard voices outside of the locked door.

“His lordship said no visitors,” Fielder growled.

Spen strained to hear the response. It was John. Spen recognised his voice but couldn’t hear the words.

“No visitors,” Fielder repeated.

John’s voice again, Fielder gave the same response, and then silence.

So. Spen was to deprived of his brother’s company. Probably as well. If the marquess caught the John anywhere near Spen, it would go badly for the boy. John stayed safe by staying out of the way of the man who was too proud to admit that his wife’s second son was not his get, but too volatile to be trusted not to kill the unwanted cuckoo in his nest if John was anywhere near when the marquess lost his temper.

John, though, hadn’t given up. Spen’s dinner came with a note folded inside the table napkin. It was written on both sides and crossed to keep it small. Spen hid it until Fielder had taken away the tray, then puzzled it out by the light of the candle.

Spen, they won’t let me in to see you. Can you come to the window tomorrow morning at half after six by the stable clock? I will be in the oak tree on the other side of the courtyard. Lady Deerhaven is still taking her meals in her room, but her maid says it is only a bruise to her face. The marquess is leaving again tomorrow. The schoolroom maid heard him order the coach for 10 o’clock. I told Fielder that, and asked to see you tomorrow, but he said his orders were to keep you there and not let anyone in. Your loving brother, John.

Spen hobbled to the window, but it was too dark to see the clock in the little tower on top of the stables. No matter. Dawn at this time of the year was before six. If he watched for the light, he would be up in time to see John.

That wasn’t hard. He was in too much pain to sleep much at all, and up and restlessly pacing as soon as the sky lightened enough for him to move around the room without bumping into walls or furniture. The little tower room had become a dumping ground for elderly chairs and sofas, all overstuffed and sagging.

John should have waited until the marquess had left. He shouldn’t be climbing the tree at all—though it was a good choice. It was as tall as the tower, and on the far side of the tower from the house, so someone in the tree was likely to go unobserved.

He studied the tree as the sun rose. The growth was at its lushest, with young green leaves and catkins covering and concealing the branches, but Spen knew how strong those branches were, particularly on this side, where the gardeners kept them trimmed so no one could enter the tower from the tree—or, for that matter, escape by the tree from the tower.

Not that the bars on the windows made either possible. The marquess was nothing if not thorough. Spen could open the window, however, and he did.

Spen’s spirits rose. If John was careful, he might be able to get within perhaps ten yards of the tower, and he’d be impossible to see from the ground, should anyone be out and about this early in the morning. It was an easy climb, too. John shouldn’t be attempting it with only one useable arm, but Spen didn’t doubt his agility and balance.

The wait was interminable. Spen crossed the room twice to another window from which he could see the stable, and each time the longer hand had crept only a few minutes. No more. John would arrive, or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, Spen would worry about him for the rest of the day.

Despite his watching, he didn’t see John arrive at the tree. The boy’s head suddenly popped into sight, surrounded by leaves.

He was at the same level as Spen, but a few yards away. His intense determined look softened into a grin. “Spen! You’re here! You’re able to move around. The housekeeper said you would be up and about by now, but I was worried.”

“I’m well,” Spen lied. “Nothing for you to worry about, John.”

“Good. What does he want you to do, Spen? The servants say he is keeping you locked up until you sign something, but they don’t know what.”

Spen never knew how much the servants told John, and how much John picked up from the conversations of others because he was good at moving around the huge old house as silently as a ghost. Certainly, though, John was usually way ahead of Spen at hearing any news. “What happened to Miss Miller, John? The housekeeper said she got away safely, but I was concerned the marquess might send someone after her.”

John shook his head. “He didn’t. Not that I have heard. I don’t think she went far, though. Just to the inn at Crossings. The stable boy saw her horses at the inn when he took two of ours to be shod.”

“She is off our land at least. But she must go back to London, John. To her father. He’ll be able to protect her.” Spen hoped. The marquess had a long reach though, as Spen and John both had cause to know. Their mother had died at the hands of highwaymen, or so the world believed. But the marquess had told her sons that he had sent the villains after her and her lover, when Lady Deerhaven had attempted to escape her miserable marriage.

“What does the marquess want you to sign?” John insisted.

“A marriage contract. Between me and Lady xxx. I’m not going to do it. I am marrying Cordelia Milton, even if I have to wait until his lordship is dead. But the more I refuse the more danger there is to her. Go and see if she is at the inn, John. If it is, tell her to go home to her father and stay safe. Tell her I love her and I will come for her as soon as I can.”

“He will make your life miserable,” John warned. He frowned. “We need a rope. If you had a rope, you could lower it and I could send up anything you need.”

Spen looked over his shoulder at the room. No ropes lying around, and if he started ripping up the sheets or the bedcovers, his keeper would notice. “Maybe I could take the fabric off the backs of the chairs,” he mused. “I don’t know if I could get enough pieces to reach the ground, though. It must be close to fifty feet.”

“How many chairs?” John wondered.

“Half a dozen, and three sofas.” The tower room had clearly been used as a dumping ground for broken or tired furniture. As well as the seating and the bed, it held two chests of drawers, a desk, a couple of tables and a wardrobe with only three legs.

John had a furious frown, a sign he was thinking. “Horsehair,” he said.

Spen frowned. “Horsehair?” But then it dawned on him. A couple of years ago, a stable master on one of the estates had taught the pair of them to make bridles from horsehair rope, having first made the rope. “The chairs will be stuffed with horsehair,” he realised. It could work. It could actually work, and it would at least give him something to do.

“I have to go,” John said. “I need to be back in my room before the maid comes. I’ll try to get to Crossings today, Spen. See you here tomorrow?”

Tea with the duke

“Mama,” said the Duke of Haverford, strolling into his mother’s private parlour, “I have come to ask a favour.”

”Sit down, Anthony, and let me pour you a cup of tea,” the Duchess of Winshire replied. Since she abandoned widowhood to marry again, she did not see nearly as much of her son as when they lived in the same house. “What can I do to help you?”

Haverford accepted tea, prepared just the way he liked it, and two of the three tiny iced cakes that his mother adored. She had a standing order with Marcel Fournier, the proprietor and chef at Fournier’s Tea Rooms. Haverford thought of suggesting that his darling wife also placed such an order. They really were delicious.

Mama waited patiently until he had eaten the first cake, then raised one eyebrow in question. “It is for Lion, Mama—the Earl of Ruthford. Or, rather, for one of his exploring officers and the man’s wife.”

“Is this to do with that man who calls himself the Kingpin?” Mama asked. “Dorothea, Ruthford’s countess, was telling our ladies about it just a few days ago. Lion and his men think the villian is one of us, Anthony. Dorothea wanted to know the names of men who had suddenly came into money without a known source.”

“It is the same case, Mama. They have reason to believe that Lady Blakeley is involved in some way, and they want to set up a situation in which they can talk to her without the villain knowing. The couple I mentioned? The Kingpin is threatening their child.”

Mama was too polite to snort, but her expression said clearly that she thought the plan misguided. “I am quite prepared to believe that Margaret Blakeley is involved in villainy, but I very much doubt that she is a minion. That woman doesn’t take orders from anyone.”

“Be that as it may, the plan is to give her a titled neighbour who invites her to tea. Something quite normal and casual that neither she nor any of her friends will regard as suspicious. They need a genuine person. Someone who is in Debretts but isn’t well known in London, preferably isn’t in England ,and won’t mind if Lion’s man’s wife pretends to be her.”

“That is easy,” replied Mama. “Eloisa Ormond. My second cousin on my mother’s side. She has not been in England since we were girls. Her father married her off to the Earl of Ormond the year before I married your father, and lived in Scotland until she was widowed ten years ago. She has been travelling ever since. Her last letter was sent from a place called Bali, which is, apparently, in the East Indies.”

“Cousin Eloise,” the duke repeated. “Mama, that is perfect.”

Spotlight on Snowy and the Seven Doves

Will Snowy be able to prove his identity, claim his birthright and make Margaret his viscountess before his stepfather succeeds in eliminating him forever?

The child found beaten and half dead in an alley has grown to a man. Seven soiled doves rescued him and raised him in their brothel. Now he must rise above his origins to hunt down the enemy who tried to kill him.

When she found herself in the wrong place at the right time, Lady Margaret Charmain’s life was saved by the man she knows as Snowy White. So when his self-titled aunt asks Margaret to help him make his way into the ton, she agrees to help, not knowing he intends to use the opportunity to confront his wicked stepfather.

Margaret upends Snowy’s negative conceptions about Polite Society, especially as her associates and friends come to his aid and to help him reclaim his stolen title from Viscount Snowden. Before long, he realizes his destiny includes her as his wife; after all, she wakened him to his true self with her kiss.

But the fraudulent Lord Snowden will stop at nothing to hide his misdeeds, even murder.

Published 10 August. Purchase now: https://amzn.to/3TIM5in

Excerpt

Snowy had to admit that the countess sounded as if she knew her herbs. Besides, Jasmine could do with the help. She was the oldest of the seven soiled doves who had pooled their resources to start the House of Blossoms. (“Soiled doves” was one of the politer terms the gentlemen visitors used for the women who serviced them.) Jasmine had been having unpleasant cramps during her woman’s inconvenience for as long as Snowy could remember, and they had become worse in the past three years. He hoped Lady Charmain’s remedy would give her some relief.

Like Poppy and Lily, Jasmine no longer accommodated the gentlemen visitors. Her piano playing, though, was a favorite entertainment for those who were waiting for the girl of their choice, recovering from a bout of mattress thrashing, or just spending an evening out.

A surprising number of gentlemen came to the House of Blossoms merely to play cards, listen to the music, enjoy Poppy’s cooking, and talk. Lily, who had been one of the most sought-after courtesans of her generation, taught the girls that listening to their clients with every sign of fascination was an even more important skill than those they exercised upstairs.

Other residents of the house were also troubled each month by the same complaint, if not as badly. If the poultice proved successful, it would make a difference to them, too.

Snowy relaxed once he saw how Lady Charmain addressed Poppy. He knew she was polite to Lily, but Lily had a presence about her that demanded respect. Even the most drunken and arrogant of lordings spoke respectfully to Lily’s face, whatever they might say behind her back.

Poppy was a different matter. She had no such air of command, though she certainly demanded perfection from the girls who worked in the kitchen. She still spoke with more than a trace of the accent of the county from which she hailed. And she was a cook—a lesser being in the eyes of the likes of the countess.

But Poppy had a kind heart and a happy outlook on life. Of the seven women who had raised Snowy, she was the one he had gone to with a scraped knee or hurt feelings. She had always had an encouraging word, a hug or a kiss, and something delicious to eat. So even though Snowy was protective of all the original Blossoms, Poppy had a special place in his heart.

Lady Charmain had greeted her with courtesy. The countess was now paying serious attention to Poppy’s questions and answering them politely. She even laughed when Poppy made a joke. Perhaps, she was not that bad, after all.

 

Ending a marriage in Regency England

In Georgian and Regency England, it was difficult to end a marriage. Basically, the options were an informal separation, a legal separation, or a divorce. In fact, in some ways, it would be fair to say that the three were stages in a process—with the couple probably no longer living together by the time one of them (usually the man) went before the Ecclesiastical Courts for a separation, and a separation being one of the requirements for a divorce.

Annulment is not one of the three for the simple reason that an annulment is a finding that the marriage was void at its beginning; that is, that the marriage ceremony was not valid, and therefore the couple were never married.

Divorce was difficult to obtain, expensive, and seldom allowed the parties to marry again. The first step was to apply to the Ecclesiastical Court. But the Court could only rule that the couple be permitted to separate (a divorce a menso et thoro, a separation from bed and board). They no longer lived together, and the husband was no longer responsible for providing a home for the wife (although he was still responsible for her debts.

A man could be granted such a ruling when adultery was proven against a wife. A woman had to also prove that the adultery was aggravated by life-threatening cruelty, bigamy, or incest.

If she obtained such a ruling, the woman had no right to access to her children.

A husband could also sue his wife’s lover under civil law for ‘wounding another man’s property’ and for depriving him of her services as household manager. Women had no such right.

The next step, if one of the parties wanted to remarry, was to take a private bill to Parliament for ‘relief’. The proceeding were expensive, long, messy, and public. It was very rare for the divorce finding to include a clause that permitted the ‘at fault’ party to remarry.

“Between 1670 and 1857, 379 Parliamentary divorces were requested and 324 were granted. Of those 379 requests, eight were by wives, and only four of those were granted.” (Wright, 2004)

https://jasna.org/publications-2/persuasions-online/vol36no1/bailey/

https://englishhistoryauthors.blogspot.com/2017/01/divorce-regency-style.html

Falling in love in WIP Wednesday

This is an excerpt from Love in Its Season, my contribution to Under the Harvest Moon, the next Bluestocking Belles Collection with Friends.

Jack strolled through the lower town considering ways to approach Miss Hughes without her turning him away. As the farrier’s cottage came into view, there she was. Gwen, his heart said. Stupid heart. What use would a magnificent woman like her have for a broken-down soldier, soon to be an ex-soldier, old before his time, beset by nightmares, with only one working arm, no job and no idea where he was going or what he would do?

She was harnessing a horse to a little vehicle—something between a cart and a gig, with a gig seat in front and a small cart tray at the back. The frown on her face hastened his steps. She was worried, and he wanted to fix it.

“Good morning, Miss Hughes.”

She turned at his greeting, her eyes widening in surprise. “Captain Wrath!”

As an ex-cavalry man, he recognized the setup in the cart back of the vehicle—the farriers and blacksmiths in the army had carried larger versions of the little portable forge, and the other boxes undoubtedly carried the tools of Miss Hughes’s trade.

“Off to work?” he asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of his tone.

“Yes, if…” Relief spread across her face as a boy of about nine raced around the corner of the cottage and skidded to a stop in front of her.

She continued to look in the direction he came, welcome turning to puzzlement. “Is your mother far behind?” she asked the boy.

“Mam can’t come,” the boy reported. “Said to tell you she’s sorry, Miss Hughes, but Chrissie got too close to the fire, and her apron caught, and Mam’s had to take her to the doctor.”

Miss Hughes paled, her eyes widening. “I hope Chrissie is not too badly hurt,” she told the boy. “Does your mother need anything?”

“It’s not too bad, my Mam says. She dropped Chrissie in the rain barrel straight off,” he was backing away as he spoke. “I have to go back and watch the baby. Sorry, miss.” He took off the way he had come.

Miss Hughes nibbled at her lower lip, her eyes full of worry.

“Anything I can do to help?” Jack asked.

Hope lit her face, followed by rejection. “I do not know you, Captain Wrath,” she pointed out. True, but Jack was more and more certain that his heart knew hers. Which surely meant that her heart knew his?