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Enemies to lovers on WIP Wednesday

 

Actually, in One Hour of Freedom, from the Lion’s Zoo series, they were lovers before they were enemies.

She stopped by the window and turned to face him, the brighter lights in the bedchamber illuminating her face.  He traced the changes time had left. In London, when they first met, she had been more child than girl. In Spain, several years later, she was a girl hovering on the edge of womanhood. She was now fully a woman, and more beautiful than ever.

“I need to talk to you, Matthias.”

He sneered. “And you could not visit me in London? No, of course not, for undoubtedly you are involved in something illegal, and you know that in London I have the authority to arrest you.” A slightest exaggeration. His authority was limited to the river and the docks. But she wasn’t to know that.

She had learned to control her temper somewhere in the past four years. She did not react to his needling, but answered calmly, “I am being watched in London. I could not see a tail, but I may have been followed here, to Coventry. I cannot be seen to be talking to you.” She waved an expressive hand. “Hence the precautions.”

Despite himself, he was intrigued. No. He would not let her inveigle him again. “I have a way you can avoid that. Don’t talk to me. Go away, Electra.”

She sat in one of the two chairs by the hearth. “The Kingpin has ordered me to kill you,” she said, bluntly. “You are interfering with his trade, I am told.”

His hand had not left the gun in his pocket, but it had relaxed. No more. He hooked his finger back to the trigger, though every nerve in him jangled at the thought of sending a bullet into the flesh he had once loved so deeply.

The Kingpin was a shadowy figure that had, in the past couple of years, taken over some of the most lucrative illegal businesses in London. One of those was stealing cargoes from the ships in the Pool of London and the London docks, which put him in direct conflict with the Thames River Police. 

“I do not recommend that you try,” he growled.

She hooked a single eyebrow. “I have no intention of trying. But when I told the Kingpin that, he took someone very important to me. He tells me I have a choice. Kill you, or see the person I love die. I choose the third option. I have come to ask for your help.”

The sheer audacity of it silenced him for a moment, and then he swore, a long string of invective dredged up from the streets that birthed him. “You think I would lift a finger to help you save your lover?” he added. “Go to hell!”

“I undoubtedly will, for my sins,” Ellie agreed. “But first I must take down the Kingpin before he finds my daughter and carries out his threats against her, and I hope you will help me, for she is your daughter, too.”

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Cover reveal for Lion’s Zoo

Coming up in June and July are the first two books in my series about exploring officers (we’d call them spies) from the Peninsular Wars, finding their feet and their lifetime love as civilians. Two more will follow this year

Lion’s Zoo

Once they were wounded children, each helpless against the adults who controlled their lives. Later, they became exploring officers with Wellington’s army, under Colonel Lionel O’Toole, known as Lion.

Famed for their varied skills and their intrepid courage, they were renowned for carrying out missions where others had failed.

Now Napoleon has fallen, they all have a new mission. Each must use his own unique abilities to carve a niche for himself in civilian life.

Lion, their wartime colonel, will use his influence as Earl of Ruthford to help, but he wants more for them. He hopes they will, like him, find a love that enriches their lives.

The first book, Chaos Come Again, tells the story of the colonel who gave the cadre of exploring officers their name. It takes the reader on a journey to Portugal and into the wickedness of a jealous heart.

It is based on the play Othello, by Shakespeare. But, of course, I give it a happy ending. I promise.

Book two, Grasp the Thorn, is a rewrite of a book I published several years ago under the name House of Thorns. My hero is known as Bear, and he’s a Regency house developer, buying up old estates, doing them up, and selling them to the newly rich. His bachelor life is disrupted when a lovely woman comes to steal the roses from the cottage he has just purchased.

Book three, One Hour of Freedom, started as part of a Superheroines project that got snarled in everyone’s other commitments. My heroine is called Electra. Her trust in the uncle who trained her as an assassin destroyed her relationship with Matthias Moriarty, or Bull, as he was known to the Zoo. Now, four years later, he is a Supervisor with the Thames River Police, and she has been sent to kill him. It will be out in September.

All of the books are gothic in tone, but Book four is the darkest. The Darkness Within tells the story of Max, who is haunted by all the people he has killed, and particularly the first. When he is sent to rescue a former comrade from a religious cult, he manages to fit in, like the Chameleon they used to call him. The peace of the community almost seduces him. But the secrets it hides are even darker than Max’s own. I’m hoping to have this one ready for December.

Chaos Come Again

Tormented by his past and by vile rumours, will this Regency Othello allow a liar he trusts to destroy the love between himself and his wife?

Grasp the Thorn

When secrets, self-doubts, and old feuds threaten to destroy their budding relationship, can they grasp the thorn of scandal to gather the rose of love?

 

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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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Tea with Regina

“It is my first ball,” Regina Paddimore explained to the ladies gathered in one of Mrs Clemens’ private meeting rooms.

“I have no doubt it will be highly successful,” said Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire. “We have seen how efficient you are Mrs Paddimore.”

Regina was a member of the overarching committee Eleanor had set up to oversee all the various charitable groups in which she had a hand. Today’s meeting having concluded, they were enjoying one another’s society over tea and cake. The young widow’s organising capabilities had made her an asset in one of the subsidiary groups from the moment she joined, and Eleanor had swiftly put her to work here, too.

She blushed at the compliment. “You are very kind, Your Grace.”

Eleanor found her modesty charming, though not the cause of it; more than a decade buried in the country caring for an ailing husband.”Nothing but the truth, but if you want advice, my dear, some of the best hostesses in the ton are right here in this room.”

“A good chef is essential,” said Eleanor’s daughter in law, Cherry, the Duchess of Haverford.

“I recommend my cousin’s husband,” Eleanor said. “The creator of these cakes. You cannot go wrong with Monsieur Fournier.”

***

Regina Paddimore is the heroine of One Perfect Dance, published this coming Thursday.

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Spotlight on One Perfect Dance

Hurrah! My second book in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale is out on Thursday. Buy it now at only 99c.

One Perfect Dance

Elijah was the man Regina could never forget. Now he is back in England, but someone wants to kill him.

Regina Paddimore puts her dreams of love away with other girlish things when she weds her father’s friend to escape a vile suitor who tries to force a marriage. Sixteen years later, and two years a widow, she seeks a husband who might help her fulfil another dream—to have her own child.

Elijah Ashby escapes his abusive step-family as soon as he comes of age, off to see the world. Letters from his childhood friend Regina are all that connects him to England. Sixteen years later, now a famous travel writer, the news she is a widow brings him home.

Sparks fly between them when they meet again. Regina begins to hope for love as well as babies. Elijah will be happy just to have her at his side. However, Elijah’s stepbrothers are determined to do everything they can—lie, cheat, kidnap, even murder—so that one of them can marry Regina and take her wealth for themselves.

Love and friendship must conquer hatred and spite before Elijah and Regina can be together.

https://amzn.to/3RMDcmI

Excerpt from One Perfect Dance

In a moment, she was a warm fragrant bundle on Ash’s lap, her curves draped across his torso, her arms wrapped around him, her face tucked into his shoulder as she cried.

He patted her shoulder, murmuring comfort. “There now. You’re safe now, Ginny. He’s gone. He won’t bother you again. I have you, my darling. I have you.”

He had not seen Regina so discomposed since she was a child, grieving the loss of a kitten. He wished he’d hit Deffew harder. He’d thought he and Charles were in time, but if the swine’s violation had gone beyond what he’d seen, the dog would die for it, Regina’s opinion notwithstanding.

Charles poked his head around the door, his eyes widening in alarm when he saw the state of his mistress. Ash pointed to the brandy decanter he could see on a sideboard. “Two,” he mouthed, ceasing his patting to hold up two fingers then resuming again, barely breaking rhythm.

Charles nodded and tiptoed to the decanter to pour two glasses of brandy, then tiptoed back across the room to place them on a side table next to Ash’s elbow, setting them down so carefully they did not clink.

Ash briefly wondered whether the young man wanted to save Regina the embarrassment of knowing her emotional collapse had been witnessed, or whether he feared she might expect him to do something about it if she knew he was there. Whichever it was, he faded back across the room and out of the door, pulling it shut behind him.

The footman was not important. Not when the lady he loved was in his arms, her soft curves molded to his body, the aroma of roses, honeysuckle and something indefinably Regina filling his nostrils. He yearned to hold her closer still, to show her how much he desired her, though the way her lovely rear pressed into his groin, she would notice soon enough.

She was still crying, but the angry storm was gone, fading into heart-wrenching sobs that twisted Ash’s gut even more than the initial outburst. “There now, Ginny,” Ash soothed. “Let it out, dearest. You’re safe now, my love.”

She turned her face up at that, drawing back so that her tear-drenched eyes could meet his. “Am I, Elijah?”

“Yes, of course. He has gone, and I won’t let him near you again.”

She thumped his chest softly, an action so reminiscent of the child Ginny that he had to repress a smile. “Not that,” she scolded. “The other.”

He retraced his words in his mind. “My love?” At her tiny nod, he repeated, “My love.”

She raised her eyebrows in question, the imperious gesture only slightly marred by the shuddering breath of a leftover sob.

“I love you, Ginny. Did you not know?”

She thumped him again, another gentle reprimand. “You never said,” she grumbled. “You never even tried to kiss me.” The last two words were disrupted by a hiccup, but he understood them well enough.

“I am abjectly sorry, Ginny,” Ash told her, managing to keep his voice suitably solemn while his heart was attempting to break out of his chest and into hers. She has been waiting for my kisses! Missing them, even. “I have never courted anyone before. I am clearly not very good at it.”

She hiccupped again as she put up a hand to cradle Ash’s cheek. “I am sorry to be so cross, Elijah. I hate hiccups. I hate crying, and it always give me the hiccups.” She proved it with another shuddering hiccup.

“Have a sip of brandy, beloved,” he suggested, and he picked up one of the glasses and held it to her lips. “It might help. And if it doesn’t, perhaps a kiss will cure them.”

Ash was very aware that she had not returned his declaration of love. However, she wanted his kisses. He would start there and hope for the best.

Ginny took the glass from his hand and had another sip, followed by another hiccup.

“It will have to be the kiss, then,” he suggested. He lowered his head to hers, slowly, giving her plenty of time to turn him away. Instead, she lifted her face to bridge the gap, her mouth reaching inexpertly for his.

He pressed kisses to each corner of her mouth, then settled his mouth over hers, stroking her lips with his. She clutched him, some of the brandy spilling from the glass so she drew back, apologizing with another hiccup.

Ash put the glass out of harm’s way and drew Ginny to him again. This time, he ran his tongue across the seam of his lips, seeking entrance. She hummed but didn’t open. If he hadn’t known she’d been a wife for more than three years before her husband’s accident, he would have thought she’d never participated in a kiss.

“Open for me, sweetheart,” he suggested, his lips still touching hers as he spoke.

“Open what?” she asked, and he took the moment to slip his tongue inside, into the soft warm cave of her mouth, gently teasing the sensitive skin inside her lips and at the roof of her mouth. She tasted as wonderful as she felt: a deeper richer version of the Ginny element of her perfume.

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Gretna Green weddings

Why did people in our Regency and Victorian stories run away to Gretna Green to get married?

It’s a combination of different legal systems and geography. In the middle of the 18th century, England passed a law to stop clandestine and irregular marriages. From then on, people could not marry without proving that they were who they said they were and that they were over the age of 21 or that they had the permission of their guardians, if under that age. I’ve written about the reason for the act and what it established, if you’re interested.

The law did not apply to Scotland, which had its own laws. In Scotland, you were married if:

  • you were not already married
  • the pair of you said you were husband and wife in front of witnesses
  • you consumated the marriage.

Gretna Green was the first village north of the border on the highway that ran from England to Scotland on the western side of Britain. The highway on the eastern side was far busier, and the chances of being caught by pursuing angry parents higher. Other villages along the border were not as easily accessible, since much of the border country was wild and hilly. So Gretna Green became synonymous with runaway marriages, as anxious couples arrived and demanded to be married right away.

And the Blacksmith’s shop? In fact, anywhere would have done, but the blacksmith had a building at the junction of five coaching roads. Easily found. And Joseph Paisley, the local blacksmith, saw an opportunity for a side business, witnessing and recording marriages for a few coins. He would ask, “are you of age to marry” (14 for boys and 12 for girls in Scotland at the time), and “are you free to marry”. Then he’d strike the anvil and it was done.

The hammering of the anvil soon became a notorious sound; romantically it is said that like the metals he forged, the Blacksmith would join couples together in the heat of the moment but bind them for eternity. [https://www.gretnagreen.com/why-the-blacksmiths-shop-a740]

Paisley performed marriages in the blacksmith’s shop for over 60 years, and his successors to the forge carried on the tradition.

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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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Tea with Elijah

Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire looked around her parlour with great satisfaction. The school for indigent gentlewomen that she supported would benefit from today to the tune of several hundred points. Even better, though many of the crowd had come to listen to the famous speakers, she had taken the opportunity to give them more that they expected for their ticket price. Her daughter-in-law Cherry had been the first speaker, and eloquent on the topic of the plight of gentlewomen who could not support themselves, and the value of providing education so that they could find appropriate jobs.

Of course, both Cherry and Eleanor supported education for women at every level of Society, but the idea of education a costermonger’s daughter, or even a costermonger’s son, was so far from the orbit of this audience that they would just look at her bluntly if she suggested it.

Not, perhaps, all of them. Mrs Paddimore, for example, who was here with her dear friend Cordelia, Marchioness of Deerhaven. Both Mrs Paddimore and Lady Deerhaven donated to the ragged school at which Cherry taught mathematics. Mrs Paddimore had caught her eye because the lady’s own attention was quite firmly fixed on the speakers. Or, rather, one of the speakers.

World travellers and travel writers Elijah Ashby and Lord Arthur Versey had talked about their journeys for over an hour, answered questions for another half hour, and were now refreshing their surely dry throats with sips of port, poured by Eleanor’s husband, who had winked and insisted that tea would be insufficient after the gentlemen’s ordeal in front of Eleanor’s crowd.

What was between Mrs Paddimore and Elijah Ashby? Not only did she turn towards him every few moments as if to check that he was still in the room, when she wasn’t watching him he gazed at her with reverence and longing. Eleanor approved. Mrs Paddimore was a lovely woman and deserved a husband who adored her, and Ashby was as intelligent and charming as he was handsome.

If there was anything she could do to promote the romance, she would. Eleanor did love a happy love story.

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Spotlight on His Spirited Lady

I always love it when I discover a new author who writes the kind of interesting, high stakes, informative stories that I love to read. When I came across His Enterprising Duchess, the first in this series, I loved it, and I preordered the second. Well. Let me tell you I am not disappointed. His Spirited Lady is even better. I’m hooked, and am already waiting for the third book. Peri tells me there’ll be more to follow. Woo hoo!

His Spirited Lady

Book 2 in The Enterprising Women

By Peri Maxwell

Mix two fake lovers, age over a disastrous house party, distill the romance, and savor the happily ever after.

Richard Ferrand arrives in Thetford to visit his family and to seek advice on a recent inheritance. He’s expecting it to be a brief visit. His former brother-in-law has a new family, and Richard is eager to return to his familiar bachelor businessman routine. That all changes when he comes to the rescue of a young lady with plans of her own.

Amelia Chitester has spent her life being the perfect society Miss—at least when people are watching. When they’re not, she’s busy creating the county’s best whiskey. That all changes when her gravely ill father insists she marry so that she will have a protector after he dies.

When Richard helps Amelia avoid a persistent suitor, she sees an answer to several of her problems. He needs a British distributor for his newly acquired French wine, and she needs a fake fiancé to take her off the marriage market. Richard thinks she’s daft—irresistibly beautiful, totally disarming, and completely daft–but he agrees to help because he admires her commitment to her family and her home.

As they work to fool their families and the entire village, it grows difficult to live out their lie. Amelia didn’t figure on the soft side of her convenient rake, and Richard wasn’t prepared for the stubborn charm of his fake conquest.

Soon they’re both faced with the choice of keeping their businesses or losing their hearts.

 

Excerpt

“It is nice to see you again, Mr. Ferrand.”

Amelia Chitester’s dress matched her eyes, and the gold lace complemented her hair. Not for the first time, Richard wondered if dressmakers and their clients understood how a high waist and a perfectly placed bow made it impossible for men to ignore a low neckline. All but the most small-breasted young women benefited from the design.

“Miss Chitester.” Richard dipped his head. Other than the color, the dress was simple. This wasn’t a ball gown meant to be seen and admired. She, like her parents, was dressed for an evening at home.

Amelia wasn’t small breasted, something her riding habit had concealed. She was also shorter than he’d expected, given her parents’ heights. Her head stopped a few inches below his shoulder, which gave him a chance to admire her braids as he escorted her into dinner. She smelled of apples and cinnamon.

Dinner was laid out on the sideboard, allowing them to help themselves. Footmen helped them into their chairs and then retreated.

“Father can’t bear the fuss,” Amelia whispered as she placed her napkin in her lap. “He says it gives him indigestion when people watch him eat.”

No wonder Augustus and Oliver were good friends. “I’m sure the servants don’t mind escaping. I wouldn’t want to watch someone eat mutton and then go below for cold ham.” At least, that’s what he’d overheard aboard ship.

“Our staff has the same meal we do,” Amelia said. “Unless there’s a party, which, thankfully, we rarely do at home.”

“You don’t enjoy parties?” Didn’t all young women long for the Season in London and the social whirl? The ladies in Quebec were forever trying to recreate it.

“Why would anyone enjoy a mass of people traipsing about their home spilling punch on the carpet while judging their decorating choices?” She paused with her spoon in her soup. “My apologies. Of course I didn’t mean this evening; this is—”

“No offense taken.” Richard used his napkin to hide his smile. He enjoyed the decorations at Oakdale Manor, especially the lively one beside him. “I loathe punch. Unless it’s liberally mixed with whiskey, of course.”

“Whiskey makes everything better.” Amelia paused again. “At least that’s what Father says.”

The pause made Richard wonder if her knowledge wasn’t more first-hand, but one didn’t ask a young lady if she drank when no one was looking. In his experience, the only women who drank whiskey didn’t care if they were seen doing so.

“No Mr. Raymond today?” he asked, willing to change the subject to something she might find more agreeable.

“He left yesterday, back to London.” Her sigh sounded more satisfied than regretful.

“You didn’t enjoy his visit?”

“Have you ever had a puppy follow you home?” She looked up at him, and a pretty blush stained her cheeks. “That’s unfair. He is pleasant company, but we didn’t expect him to visit and we had…things to do.”

Richard was set to ask what she did when she wasn’t entertaining unwanted guests, but laughter caught his attention. Oliver was regaling Augustus with a tale of a childhood adventure, one he’d apparently undertaken with Thea given her objections to the retelling.

“I remember them like that,” Amelia murmured. “When they were younger.”

“They are difficult to ignore.” Not that their behavior was inappropriate, or even rude. It was just so clear that they were happy together. That they had always been happy together. Oliver even seemed younger.

“Gossip dogged them everywhere, especially after Oliver sailed for Canada.”

And found a wife there.

“It’s difficult, isn’t it?” Amelia’s hand closed over his, her gentle touch contrasting with his tight grip on his soup spoon. “Moving forward sounds better than it feels.” She smiled when Richard met her gaze. “I remember when Father brought Mother home. I enjoyed hearing him laugh again, but part of me was angry that he was going to replace my first mother, as though she’d never been there or hadn’t been important.”

Richard looked from the young woman next to him to her mother—stepmother—at the end of the table. “What changed?”

“It got easier with time.”

Richard grasped her fingers as they slid from his. Squeezed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She freed her fingers as her mother went to the sideboard for the main course. “Now, would you tell me about Canada? We always intend to travel there, but the Season prevents us from going until fall, which Father has heard is a poor time to visit.”

Buy Links 

Amazon: https://a.co/d/0OabOFR

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/his-spirited-lady-peri-maxwell/1143350454?ean=9781960184696

Meet Peri Maxwell

Peri Maxwell has lost herself in reading romances all her life. She began writing as a challenge to herself and wrote her first historical romance on a dare, and now, she’s hooked. She prefers to write heroines who can stand toe-to-toe with a hero, challenge society’s rules for good reasons, and find love with heroes who admire an equal (even if it’s a little reluctantly).

She enjoys history, humor, and a good mystery. An armchair historian, she also has a background in women’s studies.

Peri lives in Arkansas with her husband and the two cats who rescued them. When she’s not writing or reading, she’s working her day job or spending time with her family and friends (the same ones who dared her to write a historical romance).

Social links:

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/22406672.Peri_Maxwell

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorperi/

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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.