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Tea with a worried mother

 

An excerpt post. In Revealed in Mist, Her Grace sets my heroine’s mind at ease.

Prue hesitated in the street outside her next destination. Callers needed to present their card at the gate, be escorted to the front door and delivered to the butler, then wait to be announced. On most days of the week, uninvited guests below a certain rank in society would have difficulty making it past the first obstacle, but on Thursday afternoons, the Duchess of Haverford was ‘at home’ to petitioners.

Past encounters had always been initiated by Her Grace. A scented note would arrive by footman, and Prue would obey the summons and receive the duchess’s commission. Though she was always gracious, never, by word or deed, had Her Grace indicated that she and Prue had any closer relationship than employer and agent.

The entrance and public rooms of Haverford House were designed to impress lesser mortals with the greatness of the family—and their own lesser status. Prue was ushered to a room just off the lofty entrance hall. Small by Haverford standards, this waiting area nonetheless dwarfed the people waiting to see the duchess.

Two women, one middle-aged and the other a copy some twenty years younger, nervously perched on two of the ladder-backed chairs lining one wall. Next to them, but several chairs along, a lean young man with an anxious frown pretended to read some papers, shuffling them frequently, peering over the tops of his spectacles at the door to the next room. Two men strolled slowly along the wall, examining the large paintings and conversing in low whispers. A lone woman walked back and forth before the small window, hushing the baby fretting on her shoulder.

Prue took a seat and prepared for a wait. She would not tremble. She had nothing to fear. Both Tolliver and David said so, and Aldridge, too. But how she wished the waiting was over.

It seemed a long time but was only a few minutes, before a servant hurried in and approached her.

“Miss Virtue? Her Grace will see you now.”

Prue gave the other occupants an apologetic nod and followed the servant.

The duchess received her in a pretty parlour, somehow cosy despite its grand scale. Prue curtseyed to her and the woman with her. Were all petitioners waved to a seat on an elegant sofa facing Her Grace? Addressed as ‘my dear’? Asked if they should care for a cup of tea?

“Miss Virtue takes her tea black, with a slice of lemon,” the duchess told her companion. Or was the woman her secretary?

“Miss Virtue, my companion, Miss Grant. Miss Grant, Miss Virtue has been of great service to me and to those I love. I am always at home to her.”

Was Miss Grant one of the army of relatives for whom Her Grace had found employment, or perhaps one of the dozens of noble godchildren she sponsored? The young woman did not have the look of either Aldridge or his brother, nor of their parents. Prue murmured a greeting.

“I was not expecting you, Miss Virtue, was I? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Your Grace. I just… I have some questions, Ma’am.”

“You should have sent a note, my dear. I will always take time to see you. I was happy to give a good report of you to my friend Lady Georgiana, of course.” As she spoke, the duchess took the tea cup from Miss Grant and passed it to her.

“Your Grace, I would like to speak with you alone, if I may. I beg your pardon, Miss Grant. I do not mean to be discourteous.”

The duchess stopped her own cup partway to her lips and put it carefully back into the saucer, examining Prue’s face carefully.

When she spoke, it was to Miss Grant. “Celia, my dear, will you let those waiting know that I will be delayed…” she consulted her lapel watch, “…thirty-five minutes, but I will see them all today? Perhaps you could arrange refreshments for them? Return on the half hour, please. That is all the time I can spare, Miss Virtue. If you need longer, I will ask you to wait or return another day.”

Prue shook her head. “The time will be ample, Ma’am. Thank you.”

As Miss Grant left the room, Prue was silent, collecting her thoughts. The duchess waited.

“You knew about Antonia. You have known all along.” Prue shifted uneasily. She had not intended to sound accusing.

The duchess inclined her head, her face showing nothing but calm. “Since shortly after her birth.”

Prue did not know how to ask the questions that crowded her mind, but the duchess had exhausted her noble patience, which was, after all, on a schedule. “What is it you wish to know, Miss Virtue? Why I said nothing?” Her voice softened, and her eyes were compassionate. “I read your sister’s letter, and thought to write back and offer you and the child a place with me. I did not think a home filled with such… such judgement could be happy for either of you. But family is best, if it can be contrived. And there was Aldridge. I was unsure how things had been left between you. He seemed to feel a genuine fondness; I thought he might… He has more charm than is helpful in such situations, and I did not want my granddaughter raised… Well. That is not to the point now.”

She took a deep breath. So she was not as calm as she seemed, either. “I sent someone I trust to check whether you needed my intervention, and found you had left the letter writer to live with another sister. A more hospitable environment, my agent thought.”

Prue knew who the duchess’s trusted messenger was. “Tolliver.”

Her Grace nodded. “Yes. Thomas and I have an equal commitment to protecting and championing those to whom the Grenfords owe a duty.”

“You and I have met since, Your Grace.”

“Your secrets are yours to keep or share, Miss Virtue. I have often wished to ask after your daughter, but I did not wish to intrude. My son’s carelessness changed your life in ways for which I can never compensate. The Grenfords have responsibilities here, but no rights.”

Prue felt suddenly dizzy as her tension drained away.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I knew about the three girls: the young ladies you are raising. I thought you might… I feared you would take Antonia. Aldridge told me you would not, and so did David and Tolliver.”

The duchess leaned forward to pat Prue’s hand. “Oh, my dear. I am so sorry you were worried. Matilda, Jessica, and Frances had no one else, and at the time we found them I did not understand that a quieter life in a less prominent household would have served them better. Frances was the last I took into my own home, and that was nearly ten years ago. Now Thomas and I do better by those we find. But there, done is done, and the girls and I love one another dearly.”

She had kept Prue’s hand in hers, and she now gave it a comforting squeeze. “I can assure you, Miss Virtue, I have never taken a child from a mother, or from relatives who cared. The future those little girls faced,” she shuddered at the thought, “was unutterably grim.”

She sat back, and picked up her abandoned cup to take a sip. “You say Aldridge reassured you. He knows about his daughter, then?”

“He has met her, Your Grace. He saved us from a dastardly villain. It was quite heroic.” Prue found herself telling the duchess about the attack in Tidbury End. “I would like to talk to the Dowager Lady Selby, but she has not been at home,” she finished. “Surely she would be concerned at the plight of her grandchildren?”

Her Grace wrinkled her nose and frowned, her lip curling. “Not from what I know of her, my dear. But have young Wakefield escort you to my ball on Thursday. I shall arrange for you to have a private interview with Lady Selby.”

A discreet knock at the door warned the duchess their time was nearly up. The Duchess of Haverford stood and walked Prue to the door, and Prue found herself enfolded in a tight embrace. “I shall continue to rely upon you for your professional services from time to time, my dear, and will be pleased to say a good word if ever it can help you. You will let me know if there is anything else I can do,” she commanded. “Should the opportunity arise, I would dearly love to meet your daughter, entirely at your discretion.” She turned her head away, but not before Prue had seen the glistening eyes.

Prue curtseyed. “My association with you has always been to my benefit, Your Grace; I am certain such acquaintance with the House of Haverford can only be to Antonia’s advantage.”

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Spotlight on Christmas in July

It’s Christmas in July, with more than 75 historical romance books, many of them Christmas and romance-themed, available for the whole month. Go to https://books.bookfunnel.com/christmasinjulyhistrom/hzdhbid0cm to see the books and join the fun.

My offering is If Mistletoe Could Tell Tales, which contains six Christmas themed stories.

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Introductions in WIP Wednesday

 

This is an unused scene from Crossing the Lyon, my contribution to Night of Lyons. I had to write 7,000 words before I found the start of the story, so I thought I’d share some of the words I took out. My heroine has knocked on the door of the hero seeking shelter against the stormy night.

Ursula thought about the Beaumont brothers as she draped her wet clothing over a laundry rack that hung from the ceiling near the stove. They knew she was a woman; she was certain of it. She had seen the realisation dawn on first the one, and then the other.

There. That was the last item. At least, apart from the bandages, everything she wore was made originally for a man. She was not hanging a female’s unmentionables in a gentleman’s kitchen.

She should go out and face them. She quailed at the thought, but took courage from Mr Roy Beaumont’s recognition of her dilemma and the consideration that came up with the scullery as a solution.

She was alone in a house with three men she did not know. On the other hand, she was warm and dry.

No one knew where she was. If she disappeared, her employers might notice when she did not turn up for work, but only Nora would miss her and make an attempt to find her. And Nora was three hour’s ride away, in London, and not expecting to see Ursula again for another five days.

On the other hand, the brothers Beaumont did not look or behave like monsters. Those who worked for them thought well of them, and in a small community, it was hard to hide misbehaviour of the sort she feared.

In any case, unless she wanted to go back out into the storm, she had to trust them, at least to a degree. However, before she left the kitchen, she took a knife from a rack and hid it in the folds of her robe. Her preferred clothing kept her safe from most who employed a handyman-gardener, since few actually looked at her and saw her.

Most, but not all. She had been forced to defend herself several times, though she wondered if she would have fought so hard if any of them had actually asked instead of merely attempting to take.

After all, ruined was ruined. She worked for a living. She dressed as a man and did manual labour. Her father had killed himself rather than face his own failures. Her sister worked as a seamstress, which in the eyes of many meant she must be a harlot, as many seamstresses were, poor things, their wages being so low.

Still, virtue—and, to be honest, pride—had kept her and Nora from taking the expected path of those who were ruined. So far. Though tonight, she was so cold, that she might do anything asked of her just to keep from being turned back outside into the rain.

Ursula put her hand on the door to the parlour, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The Beaumont brothers confirmed her belief they knew she was a woman by standing as she entered the room.

“Come and sit by the fire,” Mr Roy Beaumont invited, waving to a chair between the two the brothers were occupying.

She did as he suggested, taking heart that he offered her a chair of her own. She could feel the heat of the fire on her face and on the hands she stretched towards the flames, but still the cold racked her core, and she shivered.

“Would you like a brandy to help warm you?” Mr Roy asked.

“Just a little one,” Mr Ban Beaumont warned his brother, then turned his gaze to Ursa. “Unless you are used to brandy, Miss Ursa? A little is a good idea, but too much may leave you with a sore head in the morning.”

She was right. They had realised she was female. No point in dissembling. “Ursula,” she volunteered. “My name is Ursula Kingsmead. And yes, I will try a little brandy.” Anything to feel warm again.

Mr Roy crossed the room to a tray with decanters and glasses, and Mr Ban took a rug from the back of a sofa by the window and brought it to her. “Tuck this around you, Miss Kingsmead. Or is it Mrs? Or Lady?”

“Miss,” Ursula admitted. She and Nora had still been in the schoolroom when her father died and the creditors had seized everything. Since then, they had had offers, but not for marriage.

She wrapped herself in the blanket, and accepted the brandy. The brothers stood until she remembered the manners she had been taught so long ago. “Please. Won’t you sit down?” she said.

Mr Roy was correct. The brandy spread its warmth down her throat and into her chest. The blanket Mr Ban had provided also helped. She sat huddled in the blanket, sipping from her glass, and staring into the flames. Bit by bit, the shudders stopped as she began to warm.

The brothers made no effort to engage her in conversation, instead, they spoke to one another, casual conversation about what each had been doing during the day. Mr Roy had been out on one of the tenant farms, helping a horse that was foaling. He owned the horse, apparently, and had high hopes for the foal. “She is as beautiful as her mother, Roy, and if she is as fast, we’ll have twice the chance to breed the stallion we need.”

Mr Ban had been to London for a meeting about some sort of a container that would revolutionise—Mr Ban’s words—food preservation.

“I said I would have to consult with my partner,” Mr Ban concluded.

“Does it taste any good?” Mr Roy asked. “Will there be a market for it?”

“Military,” Mr Ban said. “The army will leap at it. Navy, too. Preserved food on a long march or a longer voyage? It will taste better than dried meat and beans, I should imagine.”

“Good point. We should try some, Ban. But if it is in the least edible, I say we invest.”

Investment. Horse breeding. Farming. Mr Beaumont senior may have lost most of the family’s money, but apparently the brothers were making it back again. Ursula wished she could have done as well. It had been all she and Nora could manage just to keep body and soul together.

At least Nora had a safe place to live with her employer. The dressmaker valued Nora’s skills, but her protectiveness towards Ursula’s sister also suggested an affection to which the woman would never admit.

Ursula, on the other hand, had come back from her Sunday visit to her sister to find the shack in which she had been living had burned to the ground while she was out, and with it everything Ursula owned that wasn’t on her back.

Thank goodness she had worn her man’s disguise for the trip to and from London, for if she had gone to work these past two days dressed as a woman, she would already have been fired.

Her sigh attracted the attention of the brothers.

“Are you back with us, Miss Kingsmead?” asked Mr Roy.

“Are you hungry, Miss Kingsmead?” Mr Ban said, at the same moment.

She looked from one to the other. “I do not wish to be an imposition,” she said, even as her stomach growled.

Mr Roy grinned, and got to his feet. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He left the room.

“It is no trouble, Miss Kingsmead,” Mr Ban assured her. “Our cook always leaves plenty for us for supper, and my brother and I have eaten. You will not object to eating in here? I could light a fire in the dining room…”

Ursula was not sure that she could force herself to leave the warmth of her cocoon of blankets. “I have no objection,” she said, faintly.

Mr Ban smiled, and put another log on the fire.

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Tea with Mrs Clifford

The innkeeper could not be more apologetic. There had been a misunderstanding. He had not been expecting Her Grace until the next day. The letter requiring a private parlour to be set aside for her comfort for an hour in the afternoon specifically said Thursday. He was terribly sorry.

Eleanor listened as her major domo conceded that they were a day early, but demanded the private parlour anyway.

“But I cannot turn out the lady currently using it,” the innkeeper protested. “She is elderly, and not too well.”

The major domo was of the view that his great lady’s convenience superseded the needs of anyone else, so it was time for Eleanor to intervene.

“If your guest would be kind enough to share the parlour for an hour, I shall do very well,” she said. “And if not, you might perhaps have a bedchamber I could use?”

The innkeeper looked even more worried, and no wonder. Eleanor’s impetuous decision to bring her plans forward a day had landed her in this town on the day some sporting event was about to take place. Her major domo was not prepared to discuss the nature of the match, so Eleanor assumed it was boxing or something equally unfit for the gentle sensibilities of ladies.

Fortunately for the poor innkeeper’s peace of mind, the lady in the parlour proved willling to share, and Eleanor spent a pleasant hour with her feet up, a nice hot cup of tea, some delightful ginger biscuits, and the company of Mrs Clifford, the original occupant of the parlour.

Eleanor knew who Mrs Clifford was, of course, but did not embarrass the lady by mentioning it. And she was a lady, by her behaviour. Indeed, as mistress to the recently deceased Marquess of Raithby, she had been more faithful to the gentleman over thirty or more years than the marquess’s wife. Kinder to his children, too.

Eleanor said none of that, but simply talked about the purpose of her trip. “My foster daughter’s confinement is fast approaching, and I completed the last of the obligations that kept me in London, so I wished to wait not a moment more. I must beg your pardon for intruding on your peace. It is entirely my fault for leaving early.”

Mrs Clifford raised a hand in demurral. “It is my pleasure to have your company, Your Grace.” She paused, then confided, “I am also travelling to see a beloved relative. My sister’s child. She lives in the village where I spent my childhood, and I wish to see it and her one more time before…” She trailed off, but Eleanor could finish the sentence in her own mind. It was clear that Mrs Clifford was very ill.

“Do you have far to go?” Eleanor asked, and discovered that the other lady was going all the way to the Wirral Peninsula in Cheshire.

“I am travelling a day and resting a day,” she assured Eleanor. “I shall see Rosabel one more time, and I shall be happy.”

Eleanor’s maid popped her head around the corner of the door to let Eleanor know the carriage was ready. Eleanor stood, and could not resist saying, “I hope the rest of your journey goes well, Mrs Clifford. And may I express my sincere condolences on your loss? Raithby was a great man.”

Mrs Clifford’s raised her eyebrows but smiled. “He was, Your Grace. He was.”

Mrs Clifford is a secondary character–and a scandal–in Grasp the Thorn, published tomorrow.

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Spotlight on A Fairweather Friend

A Fair-Weather Friend

An enemies-to-lovers sweet historical romance

Book 2: Summer (A Year in Cherrybrook)

Is the wrong brother the right man?

Marian Lyle, the vicar’s daughter, has a talent for sewing and a memory for details. Give her something to memorise or sew, and she’s sharp as a pin. But when it comes to understanding men.… She’s hopeless!

Marian’s ready heart tells her that newcomer Jonas Talbot is more than a fair-weather friend, he might be the man she can say “yes” to. But just when Marian is expecting a marriage proposal, Jonas disappears from Cherrybrook unannounced, leaving her hurt and confused.

When Jonas’s curmudgeonly brother John arrives to discover his brother’s whereabouts, he finds that Jonas has apparently won the affections of naive Miss Lyle. Well and good, for if Jonas marries her, it might save the Talbot family from another scandal it can ill afford. But soon John begins to doubt the wisdom of insisting upon the match for Marian’s sake…. and maybe even his own.

When threads are untangled and truths are told, which brother is the right brother, and what will come of summer love?

Excerpt

… a stranger stood before them with all the friendliness of an executioner awaiting his next job. The sunlight was pouring in through a window behind the man and she could not make out his features at all, only that he was stocky and stood with his arms crossed menacingly.

“Which of you is Miss Lyle?” he barked.

From behind the looming silhouette, Marian was relieved to hear Mr. Jennings’ solicitous voice, “Miss Lyle, Esther, do come in! Mr. Talbot, step aside.”

Marian’s hand flew to her mouth and she stifled a gasp. Esther grabbed at her arm painfully.

The uncongenial human door block stepped aside, and the ladies pressed into the room giving him ample berth, their eyes wide.

While Mr. Jennings was hurrying from his cluttered desk with his hand extended in welcome, the door closed behind them with a shocking slam.

Mr. Jennings did his best to make them comfortable in two soft chairs that were in the corner of the paneled room, and only after Marian concluded that Esther looked none the worse for the shock, did she dare to study the stranger who no longer appeared as a frightening dark shape against the sunlight.

This Mr. Talbot was nothing like the Mr. Talbot she knew.

Meet Charlotte Brothers

Delighted to add story-crafting to her life adventures, Charlotte is fortunate to have experienced many rather ordinary, wonderful things like mothering, wife-ing (should be a verb), reading, traveling, and gardening as well as an extraordinary art education which carried her and her family to Italy for a couple of years.

As life got busier she took a hiatus from fiction in favor of lots and lots of art books. Fortunately, that all changed one particularly dreary January day when her husband brought home a genre romance novel to cheer her up.

She began reading stories again (funny how one can find the time), and soon discovered a desire to write her own.

Her books have been described as having “light, flowing prose” with “well-developed characters” who often engage in “witty” dialogue. She would never claim to have the mastery of Austen, Heyer or L. M. Montgomery, but those beloved authors are her guiding lights.

Website: www.charlottebrothersauthor.com

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

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/charlotte-brothers

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/goodreadscomcharlottebrothers

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Exploring officers

Lion’s command includes a group of exploring officers, whose job it was to collect information about enemy movements. They would have denied being spies. Spying was considered underhanded and dishonourable, and simply not the way that a British gentleman acted. Indeed, while several government officials are known to have run spy networks both within Britain and overseas, Britain didn’t have an official department for spies until the 20th century.

In real life, as opposed to books, Exploring officers in Wellington’s army worked for the Intelligence Branch of the Quartermaster General’s office. They operated on their own or with one or two local guides. Their task was to collect first-hand tactical intelligence by riding to enemy positions, observing and noting movements and making sketch maps of uncharted land. It was a dangerous job and they had to be fit, good horsemen, and ready to escape at any moment. They wore their uniforms at all times (at least in theory), because they were officers, not spies.

The famous exploring officer Lieutenant Colquoun Grant was captured by the French while in uniform, and treated as an officer. Grant gave his parole, which basically meant he agreed to not try to escape. However, he discovered that the French general whose prisoner he was had written a letter that said  ‘His Excellency thinks that he should be watched and brought to the notice of the police’.

In other words, the French consider Grant a spy, to be dealt with by the police and not the army. Grant decided that the French had broken their agreement so his parole no longer counted, and he escaped.

Another job of the Intelligence Branch was intercepting letters, such as those sent from French generals to their officers.

They also collected information from networks of local spies. In my books, I have my exploring officers joined by a Greek spy and his niece, who claim to working with the British because the British are the enemies of the Turks.

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Villains on WIP Wednesday

A candle either side of the ornate mirror on the study wall lit Richard’s face and upper body without relieving the gloom behind him. The black of his evening wear merged with the darkness, leaving the planes of his face and the folds of his white cravat to swim against the shadows.

“It cannot be him,” he told his reflection. “He’s dead. He died nearly two decades ago. A boy of that age? A soft spoiled brat like that? And a pretty one? He could never have survived.”

The dark eyes of the reflection stared back. He thought he saw an ironic twitch of the eyebrow.

“Curse Matt. He was meant to kill the little horror and throw the body somewhere it would be found.”

Richard scowled and the reflection scowled back. The plan should have succeeded. It had worked once. And with a body to grieve over, Madeline would have recovered. Richard could have charmed her into believing in him again. Instead, she insisted that the boy was still alive.

“She was meant to be mine.” He nodded his head once, decisively, and his reflection nodded back, agreeing with him. He had seen the pretty girl first, begun to court her. Then she met cursed Edward. The man with everything. His uncle’s favorite. The golden boy.

Tonight’s imposter looked just like Edward. “It cannot be the boy. He’s a by-blow; that must be it. Perfect Edward’s base born brat.”

How he would like to tell Madeline that Edward had been diddling someone else. His teeth flashed white in the candle light at the thought of her likely reaction. His own pain, though, was greater. He had won her for such a short time, and then lost her. She blamed him for the boy’s disappearance, and in the end, he had to put her away where she could do no harm.

It wasn’t fair. Matt Deffew had ruined everything. The boy had ruined everything by biting his abductor’s hand, wriggling from his grasp, and running away to die anonymously in the mean streets.

Matt was dead and could not pay for his mistake. The boy, too, was dead. He must be. And Madeline, to his everlasting sorrow. There was no one alive to punish.

The reflection raised an eyebrow. Of course. It was right. He must take his revenge on the imposter.

The passage is from Snowy and the Seven Doves.

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Spotlight on Grasp the Thorn

Grasp the Thorn

An accident brings them together. Will a scandal tear them apart?

Bear Gavenor has retired from war and built a business restoring abandoned country manors to sell to the newly rich. He’d like to settle in one himself and raise a family, but the marriage mart is full of harpies like his mother.

Rosa Neatham’s war is just starting. Penniless and evicted from her home, she despairs of being able to care for her invalid father. When she returns to her former home to pick his favourite flower, she is injured in a fall.

Bear, the new occupant of the cottage, offers shelter to her and her father. When scandal erupts, he offers more. He wants a family. She needs a protector. A marriage of convenience will suit them both, and perhaps grow to be more.

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?

Excerpt

Rosa blushed, and allowed him to capture her hands.

“Yes, I will marry you, Mr Gavenor.”

He bent from his great height and brushed her lips with his. “Then you had better call me Bear, as my friends do. Or Hugh, if you prefer. My great aunt used to call me Hugh.”

“Hugh, then. Thank you, Hugh. I shall try to be a good wife.”

He kissed her again, another butterfly touch of the lips, then put his hands on her waist and lifted her to sit on the dresser. Now her face was level with his.

“That is better,” he murmured against her mouth. Then his lips met hers again, not a mere brush this time, but a gentle and inexorable advance, setting her lips tingling and taking her breath. His hands slid behind her, pulling her against his chest, so he stood between her open knees, his body pressed tightly to hers.

No, just one hand hugged her, for the other came up behind her head, and tipped it slightly, holding it in place as his lips moved against hers and his tongue swept the seam of her shut mouth once, twice, and again. He hummed with satisfaction when she parted her lips a little, letting his tongue dart inside, and her whole body hummed with pleasure.

Pelman had subjected her to a kiss once; an awkward, embarrassing thing, with her twisting to escape and him boxing her into a corner and pawing her body while he slobbered on her face. The new Lord Hurley, who had also propositioned her when he first arrived at the Hall, had respected her refusal. In fact, he had rather avoided her, and had left again not long after the will was read.

Pelman laughed when she said ‘no’ and waylaid her when she was alone. It had, until now, been her only experience of the pastime, and she had not seen the appeal.

It was very different being the focus of Bear’s undivided attention, the recipient of his tender passion.

She lost herself in the new feelings, grasping his shoulders to bring herself closer to his body, trying her best to imitate the movements of his mouth and tongue.

He pulled away, and rested his forehead on hers, still holding her close. “We had best stop, Rosabel. You are to be my wife, and worthy of all respect, and I have no intention of tupping you on the kitchen dresser. At least, not until we are wed.”

Rosa reluctantly let him go, and he stepped back a little so he could lift her down to the floor. She was pleased to see he looked almost as dazed as she felt.