The British royal family can trace its ancestry back to the kings of Wessex and Kent, at least 1300 years, though it gets a bit murky beyond that. The family tree on this site links both the English line and the Scottish line through a descendant of Alfred the Great. Often through the female line, and sometimes through collateral lines that have long been separated from the main tree. But still.
Convenient marriages on WIP Wednesday
It’s a common trope in historical marriage. The couple marry for reasons other than love, but love comes to surprise them. That’s one of the tropes in Lady Beast’s Bridegroom. My hero has inherited a rundown estate. My heroine needs a husband to protect her from the dastardly schemes of the cousin who is her closest male relative.
Here’s my hero’s reaction to the idea.
The sense of something just out of reach followed Peter into the morning. His appointment with Richards was at noon. He waited to be announced, feeling as he had sometimes before a battle: as if something momentous marched inexorably towards him, bring a change for better or for worse.
After civil greetings, Richards got straight to the point. “I have an opportunity for you, my lord. It will allow you to pay the estate’s debts and leave money and to spare over to bring your lands back into full production. And you will also be able to do a great service for another person.”
“It sounds too good to be true,” Peter commented. “What is this service that brings such great rewards?”
His solicitor leaned forward a little, his eyes intent on Peter. “Another of my clients has commissioned me to find her a husband, Lord Ransome. Her need is urgent and imperative.”
An obvious reason for haste occurred. “Pregnant, is she? I’ve no wish to make someone else’s son my heir, Richards.”
“No, my lord. My client is a lady and a maiden. I am authorized to explain her reasons, but only if you agree to consider the marriage. The lady does not wish her identity to be known or her circumstances to be discussed except with the candidates for her hand.”
Peter’s brows twitched upwards. “Candidates? I am not the only person to whom you are putting this proposition?”
“The lady commissioned me to select candidates and send them to her for interview, Lord Ransome. She will make the final decision.” He nodded, firmly. “After all, she will live with the results.”
“She, and her chosen groom,” Peter pointed out. “I wish the lady well, Richards, but I am not minded to sell myself in such a way.” He’d not sunk that low. Not yet.
Richards set his jaw, examining the blotter on his desk as if it contained some secret he could interpret if he stared for long enough. “You will forgive me, my lord, if I point out that your other choices are untenable. You have cut your outgoings to the bone, and yet you will still not have sufficient money to pay the mortgages when they fall due, let alone the other more pressing debts.”
Peter protested, “You advised me not to let staff go nor to begin selling off everything that is not entailed!”
Richards nodded. “I advised you not to frighten your creditors by behaving as if you were insolvent. You and I needed time to come to terms with what might be done. But, my lord, you are insolvent. I must change my advice. If you will not consider an advantageous marriage, then you must make haste to sell whatever you can.”
“It won’t be enough!”
“No, my lord.” Richards sat back in his seat, his hands in front of him on the desk, keeping his gaze steady.
Peter shivered, though the day was not cold. He had sunk lower than he knew, if a convenient marriage was his only option. “I daresay I could find an heiress on my own.” He had a little time, surely? The mortgages were not due until next quarter day, and Richards could continue to put his creditors off a little longer.
The solicitor tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, my lord. A wealthy merchant’s daughter, perhaps.”
Peter sighed. “You think I am cutting off my nose to spite my face. Very well, Richards. I will consider your lady. Tell me why I should agree to be one of the supplicants for her favor.” He wrinkled his nose at the thought of being interviewed by the would-be bride, like a footman or a groom anxious to win a position.
Constitutional monarchy and the power of a living symbol
State Opening of British Parliament in 2019
Britain has a constitutional monarchy, as do 14 realms like my own who share its monarch. There are others, including Belgium, Cambodia, Jordan, the Netherlands, Norway, Spain, Sweden and Thailand.
A constitutional monarch is a system of government in which power is shared according to the country’s constitution. The monarch may be the head of state, have purely a ceremonial role, or have certain limited powers allocated by the constitution. All other powers of government belong to the legislature and judiciary.
Britain has a democratically elected legislature that holds all the political power, an independently appointed judiciary that has the power to decide whether the legislature is breaking the law, and a monarch whose power is almost entirely symbolic.
The path to a politically powerless but socially effective monarch was a long one. Some suggest it started when the barons forced King John to accept the Magna Carta. There were other steps along the way, as Parliament tried to rein in the monarch, including 1649, when a monarch who thought he should have absolute power was tried by Parliament and executed (for treason). Then came the so-called Glorious Revolution, which led to a compact in 1689 between Parliament and the monarch. The monarchy was maintained and the herditary succession continued, but only on Parliament’s terms.
1708 is the last time that a British monarch denied royal assent to a bill (that is, refused to allow a piece of legislation passed by Parliament). From the time of George 1, kings stopped selecting Cabinet Ministers and getting involved in discussions at Parliament. William IV, in 1831, dissolved Parliament at the request of the prime minister but against the will of the majority of Parliament. Again. Last time.
Monarchs still give assent, approve Cabinet Ministers and the Prime Minister, open and dissolve Parliament. But now, they only do so when asked by Parliament.
Since the Georgian kings, the monarchs of Britain have had three rights and only three:
- the right to be consulted
- the right to encourage
- the right to warn.
The monarch is not so much a ruler as a parent of adult children, acting in an advisory capacity only, and making sure he or she does not embarrass or challenge the government of the day by stating opinions in public. They have no policies, no platform, no axe to grind or wheel to grind it on. To blame them for the decisions of the governments of the past 250 years is to completely misunderstand history.
The monarch also, of course, gives the British a centrepiece for the pomp and pageantry they do so well.
Personally, I hope my own country keeps its link to the monarchy. I don’t want a head of state with political power. I especially don’t want a head of state with political policies and affiliations. They cannot possibly promote unity or represent it, which seems to me to be the vital function of the monarch. I could stand having an elected head of state who was non-political. France and Ireland do that. But why pay the cost of elections when we already have a head of state who is stuck with the job, poor sod, because he was the first born male in the wrong family? (Take a look at the relative costs in various countries of heads of state. It’s enlightening. The British have it cheap.)
Long live the King.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, in WIP Wednesday
In Perchance to Dream, I have nearly 17,000 words in the bucket, and have just written a scene where John is listening to his daughter in the garden and thinking about his recent visitor, with whom he has been exchanging letters.
Jane’s writing and reading was going ahead by leaps and bounds, and she also showed a flair for numbers. I suppose I shall have to employ a governess sooner or later. His mind’s eye pictured Pansy, bending over her work on that last afternoon. She would make a wonderful governess. John rejected the thought, shoving it away with something akin to horror. Even if the lady was looking for employment, which she wasn’t, he could never have her living under his roof.
Witness his frequent thoughts of that visit, of the growing desire that made him both anxious for her present and eager to avoid it, of how he struggled with lust that last afternoon as he viewed her lovely rear, neatly outlined in her woollen gown.
She is a friend, and has become a good one over the past few months. That was all it could be.
His inner self asked, snidely, So is that why you are hovering by the window instead of getting on with your work?
He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was waiting for Thorne to come back from the nearest Royal Mail stop, some five miles away by road. He’d been sent to post a letter and to collect any mail that might have been waiting.
You had a letter only a week ago, he scolded himself. She had written that she was travelling to Essex. He hoped Peter’s children were recovering. He hoped she found treasures in her new rose blooms.
His own letter carried an invitation. He was nearly ready to install the Carlisle clock tower scenes, and would be travelling up there within the fortnight. Yesterday, the town council had sent him the date for the opening ceremony. The Thornes and Jane would travel up for it, of course.
He should not hope for it. It is a long way for Pansy to come. On the other hand, it was in July, when the ton were abandoning the stinky hole that London became in the summer, and she did, after all, have a sister to visit in Galloway, only a day’s journey from Carlisle.
Against that, it was high summer, and she would be desperate to get back to her garden after the long months in London.
The clop of hooves had him crossing the room to look out at the carriage way. Thorne was home.
John drew away from the window before Thorne could see him, and busied himself tidying his work desk, and then his tray of parts. Doubtless, Thorne and his wife had figured out how besotted John had become. It was hard to keep such a secret from a man who had been his batman since he first took up his commission. John could, however, at least pretend to be indifferent.
It was a very long half hour before Thorne knocked on the door and entered.
Tea with an apologetic duchess
The following excerpt is from a Christmas special I wrote about the mend in the breach between Haverford and his mother. It was a made-for-newsletter-subscribers story called Christmas at Hollystone Hall (password is in two-monthly newsletter). Another version of the same scene is told from Eleanor’s perspective in Paradise Triptych.
It was the day before Christmas, and the incessant rain had let up long enough for an expedition to bring in the greenery for decorating, and the windfallen log that had been marked as a Yule log for the massive fireplace in the great hall.
Four wagons set out for the woods, each driven by one of the party’s gentlemen, with the littlest children riding in the tray watched by various of the older sisters and mothers, and everyone else tramping along beside.
Haverford drove one of those conveyances known as a break, inviting anyone who did not want to walk or sit on the floor of the wagons to take their place in one of the long benches behind him, but found himself travelling alone. No matter. The wagons would be full on the return trip, and the break would come in handy for the little ones.
Groundsmen, grooms, and footmen trailed the party, ready to lend a hand with the heavier hauling, but—for the most part—the family planned to collect their own raw materials for the garlands and other decorations they planned.
The woods were beyond the water gardens and up a small rise. Each wagon took a different turn from the main track, and Haverford carried on to the central clearing, where servants had started a fire and set up blankets and cushions for those who needed a rest from their excursions. Maids were already unpacking refreshments, and footmen hurried to the back of the break to offload the steaming kettles of hot chocolate, coffee and two different kinds of punch, with and without alcohol.
Haverford left them setting the kettles near the fire to stay warm and followed the sound of voices to join in the fun. Before he reached the main crowd, however, he encountered his mother, lifting Nate’s sister, little Lavinia, up into a tree to reach for a pine cone, while one of Lechton’s daughters, Millicent, held onto Mama’s gown and watched.
“Do you need help, Lavie?” Haverford asked.
Mama started. “Haverford! I didn’t see you there. The little girls wanted to help, and I remembered that last year some of the trees along here had pine cones under them, but the only ones I can see are still on the branches.”
“There are some further along, the way I came,” Haverford told her. He reached up and took Lavie’s hand, guiding her to push the cone up so that it detached from the branch. It evaded her snatch at it and plummeted into the undergrowth, and Millicent let go of Mama and dived in after it, emerging triumphant with it in her hand.
Mama lowered Lavie to the ground, saying, “The two of you make a good team.” She darted a glance at Haverford. “Perhaps I should take them back to the others.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Cherry was right. He had to fix this, or at least try.
“They know the little girls are safe with you,” he said. “Bring them this way, Mama, and they will be able to fill their basket with cones to paint.”
Lavie sealed Mama’s fate by slipping her hand into Haverford’s. He would have taken Millicent’s hand, too, except she was shy of him. Besides, that would leave Mama carrying the basket, which was hardly gentlemanly. He picked it up and led the way to a small cluster of fir trees of different kinds, with cones scattered on the nearly clear ground beneath.
Mama would have helped the little girls who were scurrying to and fro, picking up all the cones they could find, but Haverford said, “Mama. A word, if I may.”
She stopped, and the anxiety in her eyes had him hiding a wince as he added, “Would you meet with me in private when we get back to the house? I think we need to talk.”
She inclined her head, her social mask firmly in place and her eyes opaque. He had learned the skill from her—to hide his feelings behind a bland and unreadable exterior, but neither of them treated family to that distancing. Given the situation between them, he had no right to feel bereaved at her shutting him out.
Cherry would remind him that his armour was most impenetrable when he felt most threatened. Doubtless, Mama was the same. “Nothing too terrible, Mama. Even if I had stopped loving you, which I haven’t, I wouldn’t want to upset Cherry.”
She gave him the ghost of a smile. “The pair of you are good together,” she acknowledged, then turned her attention to Lavie, who had dropped her side of the basket so that all the cones the little girls had picked spilled onto the ground.
Haverford crouched to help pick them up, while Mama soothed the wailing child.
The afternoon had been set aside to create and put up the decorations. The foliage and other items they had collected was spread out on tables in the ballroom, where it would be formed into garlands, wreaths, and kissing balls decorated with ribbons and paper chains and flowers that the ladies had unearthed from previous Christmases or made from their own supplies.
Mama was seated with a flock of girls, watching them dip pine cones into paint and set them to dry. Haverford beckoned to her, and she murmured a word or two to Jessica, who was helping her and the girls.
He took her to the library, to a chair near the desk he’d taken over for the work that followed him everywhere. He was neglecting it today, but it wasn’t going to go away. He’d get back to it after Christmas.
As he settled in his own chair, and before he could pour her tea from the waiting tray and start his prepared speech, Mama spoke. “Haverford, I have apologised for interfering between you and Cherry, but I would like to do so again. I have known all along that I was wrong to go privately to Cherry as I did. You are adults, and I should have said what I thought to both of you and trusted you to make your own decision. I am truly sorry for the distress I caused you.”
Haverford opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Mama put up a hand to stop him. “I have a second apology to make, Haverford. Watching you and Cherry together in the past week shows me that I was wrong again—wrong to believe that your love for Cherry was less deep than hers for you. Wrong to think that you would fall out of love once you had achieved your prize. All I ever wanted was for both of you to be happy. You are perfect for one another, and I shudder to think how close I came to preventing that happiness.”
Mama had rendered him speechless, taking all the best lines from what he had been about to say to her. All he had left to say was, “Thank you, Mama.”
“I will never interfere again,” Mama promised, then, with a slight frown, “or, at least, I will try my very best.”
Haverford smiled at the thought of his managing mother keeping her fingers out of any situation she thought she could improve. “I shall not ask such a sacrifice, Mama. Both Cherry and her mother have pointed out what a marvellous gift you have for interfering, as you call it. All I ask is that you consult us first on any plans you have that involve us and don’t proceed without our agreement.”
Mama had tears in her eyes. “I can promise that,” she agreed.
Cherry had been right to push him to reconcile. All his irritation had melted away. “Tea, Mama?” he asked.
They enjoyed a peaceful cup of tea, and the kind of conversation he had so enjoyed in the past, ranging far and wide on topics as diverse as family, the corn tax, and the Luddites.
“Come on, Mama,” he said, when her cup was empty, “We have a house to decorate.”
He offered her his hand to help her rise, and his elbow to escort her back to the ballroom, just in time to see a footman moving a ladder away from the arched doorway. A kissing ball hung in the middle of the arch. Cherry stood looking up at it, and she glanced their way and smiled to see them together.
Haverford put his arm around his mother, reached up for a mistletoe berry, and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “I love you, Mama,” he told her. “Merry Christmas.”
She patted the side of his face, the tears welling again. “It will be,” she agreed. “I love you, Haver… I wonder, would it be a great impertinence of me to call you Anthony, as Cherry does?”
“I would like that, very much,” Haverford assured her, blinking back a little moisture of his own. The candles must be smoking.
She patted his cheek again, then reached out to Cherry, who was beaming at them. “Here, Anthony. You would be better off kissing your wife than your old mother.”
Haverford thought both was better still, but he was certainly glad to follow up his peace-making kiss to his mother with one of gratitude and jubilation shared with Cherry. He drew her into his arms, and sank into one of their soul-moving kisses, while around them the family stopped what they were doing to applaud, laugh, cheer or jest, according to their natures.
It was, indeed, going to be a very Merry Christmas.
Backlist spotlight on Unkept Promises
(Book 4 in The Golden Redepennings series)
Logline: She wants to negotiate a comfortable marriage; he wants her in his bed
“… oaths and anchors equally will drag: naught else abides on fickle earth but unkept promises of joy.” Herman Melville
Naval captain Jules Redepenning has spent his adult life away from England, and at war. He rarely thinks of the bride he married for her own protection, and if he does, he remembers the child he left after their wedding seven years ago. He doesn’t expect to find her in his Cape Town home, a woman grown and a lovely one, too.
Mia Redepenning sails to Cape Town to nurse her husband’s dying mistress and adopt his children. She hopes to negotiate a comfortable married life with the man while she’s there. Falling in love is not on her to-do list.
Before they can do more than glimpse a possible future together, their duties force them apart. At home in England, Mia must fight for the safety of Jules’s children. Imprisoned in France, Jules must battle for his self-respect and his life.
Only by vanquishing their foes can they start to make their dreams come true.
Buy links
Books2Read: books2read.com/Unkept-Promises
Excerpt
Jules made his way home in the early hours of the morning, a little drunk and a lot annoyed at a waste of an entire evening. “Good of you to come out on the first night of your leave, Redepenning,” said the admiral when he was finally able to say his goodbyes. Not that his note demanding Jules’s presence at his table had offered the choice of refusal.
The evening had comprised interminable discussion of the same points over and over—points on which Jules had given his opinion in his reports from Madagascar and the final one delivered this afternoon. They needed to oust the enemy from the two ports still in French hands, since the enemy used those bases to attack British shipping.
Most of the captains favoured a frontal assault. Jules, Fleming, and a couple of the other captains held the minority view, suggesting the British support the young king of the Merinas, who was in the process of conquering the whole island. The admiral was playing his cards close to his chest, but had dismissed them all with a promise to let them know what he would be recommending to the Admiralty.
No-one had said anything new, and Jules’s evening would have been better spent with his daughters and Kirana. Or even having the overdue confrontation with his inconvenient wife.
She had better not be in his bed. If she was, he’d pack her off to her own, as he should have done with Maureen when the little baggage met him there one night, naked between his sheets, after a very similar evening. Instead, tired, frustrated, and lonely, his willpower blunted by alcohol, he had accepted what she had to offer. If she was pregnant with his child, it must have been that night, for the next time—the only other time—he’d worn a pig skin, as he always did with anyone except Kirana. Kirana, who had been too sick to give him the comfort of her body for a long time.
He had been so depressed by the sheer emptiness of copulating with Maureen that he’d sworn off any repeat engagements, though Maureen had not believed he was serious, and he’d left for Mauritius and Madagascar before she could put it to the test.
He’d kept to his resolution, too, much to Gerta van Klief’s surprise. The widow had been quite put out when he explained he intended to honour his marriage from this point on.
Which, when Jules came to think about it, he could do while still enjoying the delectable package that might be waiting in his bed. She was, after all, his wife. For a moment, he let himself imagine unwrapping the unexpected gift that was, after all, his. No. They needed to get a few things sorted, first. A ship could only have one captain, and he was it. And he decided who was on his crew and where they went.
His key opened the front door, and he locked and bolted it by the light of the shuttered lamp left waiting for him in the entrance hall. He let himself into his bed chamber. His bed was empty; the sheets crisp and neat over the mattress. He did not feel disappointed. He would not feel disappointed.
But before he could think and put a brake on the action, he crossed the room to the connecting door leading to the one requisitioned by his wife, and turned the handle. It wouldn’t budge. She’d locked the door against him!
His indignation expressed itself in a raised fist, ready to pound on the door and demand entrance, until his sense of humour caught up. So much for planning to turn her out of his bed. What a hypocrite he was being, desiring the damnable woman even while he was suspicious of her motives and annoyed about her existence.
He turned towards the bed. He’d be sleeping in it alone, apparently.
What I’ve been up to and what is coming.
I’ve just completely revised my Works in Progress page, with a list of the books I plan to publish between now and January 2024. There are fifteen. (At least. In the last six months, I’ve written 270,000 words of the 700,000 word total I’ll need to reach the target, and I have until the end of October 2023 to write the last of the remaining 430,000, so I should be able to squeeze in another book or two.) Take a look and let me know what you think. Is there something you’re waiting for that isn’t on there? Is there anything you’re particularly anxious to see?
I’m currently writing Perchance to Dream and The Flavours of Our Deeds, revising Snowy and the Seven Blossoms and Zara’s Locket, and thinking about The Talons of the Lyon and the Bluestocking Belles ‘Box set for 2023. Perchance and Snowy belong to A Twist Upon a Regency Tale, the same series as the beautiful cover above, Lady Beast’s Bridegroom. See the new A Twist Upon a Regency Tale page for the titles, covers, and blurbs of all four books. The Flavours of Our Deeds is the next book in The Golden Redepennings series. And Zara’s Locket will be in the Belles’ 2022 Holiday box set.
Preconceptions on WIP Wednesday
What a delight to turn a character’s preconceptions around. Here’s my John Forsythe, invaded by unwanted guests and suspicious of their motives.
The rain was even heavier the next day. John’s unwelcome guests would not be moving on. He did not have to see them; he trusted the Thornes for that. Nonetheless, their presence in his house and on his land distracted his attention, so that he failed to lose himself in his work, concern about what the she devil might be up to coming between him and the total concentration he needed to ensure that every part of the machine was placed just exactly where it belonged.
This particular automaton would have over five thousand precisely-made parts, so the potential for disaster was a very real. He covered the work and moved to another bench where a simpler piece, a children’s toy in the form of a monkey drummer, was waiting for spots of paint where the metal pieces had been joined together with pins, so they could move.
Painting was more mindless than constructing a clockwork engine, which had the disadvantage of that he had time to wonder what game Miss Turner was playing. Presumably, she—and probably her sister—were done up in their best gowns, all primped and pretty, and ready to charm him. He was almost tempted to go and see the show.
Mrs Thorne insisted both ladies and their three servants would remain in their quarters. John snorted his disbelief. Mrs Thorne did not know ladies of the ton the way that John did.
He finished touching up the monkey drummer and set it aside to dry. According to the workshop clock, Mrs Thorne would be putting together a meal about now. The visitors were making extra work for her. He could help lighten her load by going over to the other tower and fetching his own food.
He knew it was an excuse, even as he said it. So was his rationale that going through the house would help him avoid the rain. He unlocked the door that separated the tower from the main wing of the manor, locking it carefully behind him.
He could be honest with himself. He wanted to see the visitors, to prove to himself they were not staying where they had been put, that they were swanning around in fine clothing expecting his overworked servants to wait on them.
Perhaps not Lady Violet. He had met her years ago in London, when she and Rose, her sister, ran away from her manipulative self-centred harridan of a mother to beg refuge with Peter. She had been a sweet child. But eight years on, she was no doubt on the marriage market like all the other young women of her class, and lacked a thought in her head beyond marriage and clothing.
Tea with Lady Ransome
The young Lady Ransome would do very well indeed, Eleanor thought. She had taken a social liability–the terrible burn scars from the fire that had nearly taken her life when she was a child–and turned it into an intriguing asset.
The half mask that covered one side of her face from the mouth up could have been merely a reminder that, under it, she was disfigured. Indeed, if Eleanor’s information was correct, she had until recently worn plain white masks that had precisely that effect.
However, she had taken to matching her masks to her gowns, with startling effect. Painted in matching or complementary colours and trimmed with ribbons, jewels, and lace, her masked no longer looked like one side of a skull. Instead, they were glamorous accessories that drew attention, not so much to the mask, as to the lady herself. The side of her face that showed was not traditionally pretty, but it was beautiful. Full of character and charm. Her figure was more lush than currently fashionable, but fashion was foolish at best. Her generous curves, audaciously enhanced the gowns she wore, suited her and clearly pleased her husband, if one could judge from his stern eye on the gentlemen who now flocked to compliment her.
She also had excellent manners, neither too forward nor too reserved. During their half hour visit, their conversation had been wide ranging, and she had shown herself well able to hold her own in the group of young ladies Eleanor had gathered to meet her.
“Another cup, Lady Ransome?” Eleanor asked.
“No thank you, your grace,” the younger woman replied. “It has been very pleasant, but it is time for me to take my leave. Thank you so much for inviting me here today.” She cast a smile around the group, who chorused their farewells.
“I am leaving, too, Aunt Eleanor,” said Sarah, Lady Lechton, one of Eleanor’s goddaughters and niece to Eleanor’s husband. “I shall walk you out, Lady Ransome, and ask you a million questions about this salve you mentioned. I am certain my husband shall be interested.”
Eleanor was delighted. Lady Ransome needed friends in Society, and Sarah had the contacts to make sure she found them.
***
In Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, which will be out early next year, I have a scene in which Eleanor, now the Duchess of Winshire, throws her social weight behind my heroine, Arial, Viscountess Ransome. I imagine the following scene from that story came before the afternoon tea I envisage above.
Then the Duchess of Winshire, one of society’s most influential matrons, cast the weight of her reputation on their side. She had one of her stepsons escort her to the Ransomes’ theatre box, where she reminded Peter that she had known his mother. She further claimed to have kissed Arial when she was a baby. She took a seat next to Arial, in full view of the rest of the theatre, chatting for several minutes. When she stood to leave, she said, “You are doing the right thing, my dear Lady Ransome. Facing down these ridiculous calumnies is your best option. It is unpleasant, I know, and takes courage, but I and my friends have seen that you have plenty of courage and are of good character, besides.”
She held out her hand to Peter. “You have found yourself a treasure, Lord Ransome. Young ladies who are beautiful on the outside are common enough in Society. Young ladies who are brave, wise, and honorable are much rarer—and my friend Cordelia Deerhaven assures me your wife is all three.”
Peter bowed and mimed a kiss above the back of the duchess’s hand. “I am fully sensible of how fortunate I am, Your Grace. My wife is a delight to my eyes as well as a true friend and partner.”
“Good answer,” the duchess replied. “Come along, Drew. Your father will wonder what is keeping us.”
Spotlight on A Duke at the Door
Who’s afraid of the wild duke?
Alwyn Ap Lewin, Duke of Llewellyn, swears he’ll never shift into his lion Shape for as long as he lives. He spent decades as a captive in a traveling menagerie, and he won’t risk being caged again. But the longer he denies his other half, the more his health declines, and the farther he hides himself away. The denizens of Lowell Close live in fear and suspicion of the mysterious duke—except for lady apothecary Tabitha Barrington.
After traveling the Continent for years, Tabitha is struggling to settle in Lowell Close and the prince regent’s insistence she care for the sullen duke only adds to the tension. By treating him as she would anyone else—and not as though he needs special attention—Tabitha begins to gain the duke’s very reluctant interest. And the more Alwyn sees both Tabitha’s gifts for helping everyone in the village as well as her kind and courageous heart, the more he realizes that he has something to live for after all.
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An excerpt from A DUKE AT THE DOOR
***
Note: The word versipellian relates to versipellis, which is Latin for ‘two skins’; it is how the Shapeshifters refer to themselves.
***
Lady apothecary Miss Tabitha Barrington sets out to search for healing herbs in the park of her new home, Lowell Hall. Who knows what else she might find…
Once she and Timothy settled in the cottage, Tabitha sent His Grace several notes via eager footmen, of which Lowell had an inordinate amount. She hesitated to knock upon the ducal door, as humble as it was, but if the part of the park she now wandered brought her near to Llewellyn’s sanctuary, then what of it? She had yet to investigate this particular grove—who knew what she would find?
Today, she found a duke.
A rustle in the shrubbery alerted Tabitha to his presence, and the rising sun cast just enough light through the trees to reveal Llewellyn’s shadow. “Your Grace.” Would she curtsy in the middle of a wood? No, she would not. “Good morning.”
His husky voice rumbled from the perimeter. “You ought not to wander without thought to what lurks on this land.”
That would be you, she thought. Lurking. “It is a paradox.” She set down her trug and took stock of the place. “For even though the beings here are dangerous to humans, this may be the safest place on earth. Or one of them. I do not know if this is typical of versipellian culture, to bring together a variety of species to live as one…” She trailed off at the sight of—was that—oh! Digitalis! She slid her shears out of a pocket and reached to stroke the bell of the nearest plant.
“Do not!” the duke very nearly shouted, his vocal cords not equal to the strain.
Tabitha snipped off a stalk of the foxglove before laying it in the trug. “It is only somewhat poisonous.”
“Under prolonged contact, it is more than somewhat.”
“I am taking only one. Two.” She hummed in consideration. “Three at the most.”
“You ought to wear gloves.” His eyesight was all it was vaunted to be if he could tell in this low light.
“They interfere with my perception.”
“Of what.” Another rustle, this time from her right side. Goodness, he was fast.
“The health of the plant, the state of the soil…” She balked at admitting the fanciful notion that she could feel effectiveness or otherwise from what she touched and chose two more blooms.
A rumble of disagreement issued from between the leaves. “Gloves made of lambskin would suit.”
“The porousness of kid would defeat the purpose.” Tabitha set one last stalk into her trug.
“A trowel, then, for the love of Palu.” His Grace moved fully into the glade, dressed this morning like a common laborer, in a formless coat and a muslin shirt hanging outside his trousers.
“A blunt instrument?”
“You may gauge the plant by eye and then touch the soil.”
“Why should I uproot it, if it is not useful?”
“You may return it to its place! With the trowel!”
Tabitha could not stop herself: she smiled at him. How masculine he sounded in that moment, how like a man, exasperated at what he surely thought was feminine obstreperousness. He looked incredulous and irritated and…alive. She’d pat him on the cheek if she didn’t think he’d snarl or run off. Or…or bite her. Instead, she asked, “Who is Palu?” and turned away; he appeared to be discomfited by prolonged observance.
“A Welsh cat of legend, a goddess attached to my homeplace who protects those in her care from danger. What are you going to do with that plant?”
She would ask Timothy if he knew anything about Welsh mythological cats. “It is, of course, helpful for congested hearts. But an Italian apothecary showed me that the merest pinch in chamomile tea is a gentle purgative.”
“I cannot believe even the smallest amount of poison is safe.”
“Neither did I, until I witnessed how effective it was.”
“Witnessed.”
“Yes. Saw the results of its efficacy.”
“Tried it yourself, I wager.” This was delivered in a tone that had a lightness to it, perhaps of laughter?
“I cannot ask anyone to ingest something I would not.” Tabitha was staunch in this viewpoint. “It was enough work earning the trust of others thanks to perceptions of the weakness of my gender.”
“Others.” His voice came from the opposite side of the grove. His nimbleness was truly astonishing. How swift would he be at full strength? “Men.”
“Men, yes. And certain women. Some ladies preferred my counsel to that of a male physician, but many more would hear my advice and then allow a man to negate it. It was a waste of everyone’s time, mine and theirs.”
“The healing goddesses of the Celts are fierce. One does not call upon them for aid unless one is willing to be transformed utterly.” The duke had moved again, swifter than thought, and stepped farther into the light. “Ceridwen is one such, and we felines also call upon the Egyptian pantheon, and thus, Sekhmet.”
“How fascinating. So many gods and goddesses to invoke.”
“Gods and goddesses, indifferent to my dilemma—” He cut himself off, visibly appalled at what he had almost admitted.
She would lose him if she pursued that line of thought. “The wolves follow the Romans, whom my brother Timothy says borrowed their pantheon and the terms for the pack hierarchy from the Greeks.”
“Stole them, more like. Although, in truth, many on this island descend from ancient Rome. The wolves will do anything to hold sway.”
“And by the Duke of Lowell doing so, many are safe under his aegis.”
“As you and your brother are safe.” The duke canted his head, assessing her. “You do not strike me as one who seeks safety.”
“Who does not seek safety?”
“One who casually imbibes poison,” he mumbled.
Meet Susanna Allen
Susanna’s latest series, The Shapeshifters of the Beau Monde, also includes A Wolf in Duke’s Clothing, first in the series and A Most Unusual Duke, the beloved middle child.
Writing as Susan Conley, she is the author of two contemporary novels with Irish interest: Drama Queen and The Fidelity Project, both published by Headline UK; That Magic Mischief, a contemporary paranormal romance originally published by Crimson Romance, relaunched with Ally Press in September 2021.
Her memoir, Many Brave Fools: A Story of Addiction, Dysfunction, Codependency… and Horses is published by Trafalgar Square Books and recounts the growth and insights she acquired after having taken up horse riding as an adult, post-divorce.
She was born in New Jersey and is currently resident in Ireland.
Susanna Tweets and Instas and TikToks @SusannaAWriter, Facebooks at https://www.facebook.com/SusannaAWriter, and maintains a presence on BookBub and Goodreads. Follow her, if you are so inclined!