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Compromised in WIP Wednesday

 

The compromise is a standard historical romance trope. And, of course, they then fall in love, because this is a romance. So it is in Chaos Come Again, my June release.

Dorothea screwed up her courage. “You said ‘betrothed’,” she said.

Colonel O’Toole shrugged. “I know I should have asked properly before announcing it,” he said, “but your former companion’s intrusion, followed by that of Lady Blaine, rather forced the issue.”

Dorothea did not know what to say. He had intended to ask her before Mrs Austin burst in?

He misunderstood her silence, because he rushed into speech. “If you do not like the idea, I will understand.” It was the first time she had seen him discomposed. “I know I am much older than you, and I should also tell you that I am not legitimate. My father was the eldest son of the Earl of Ruthford, but he was not married to my mother, who was the daughter of an Irish soldier and his Indian wife. So I am not actually even English.”

Her own remembered rejections told her he was trying to discourage her, but she recognised the pain of old hurts in his eyes and they emboldened her to say, “I am a merchant’s daughter, tainted with trade. One of my grandfathers was a farmer and the other a shopkeeper. My father started as a millworker, and is a coarse man, unfit for polite company. I am not pretty—too short, too plump, and ordinary in every way. If I marry without my father’s approval, I will not even have a dowry to make me attractive. I will be twenty-one in three months—which is old for an unmarried woman. You cannot possibly want to be burdened with me. No one else ever has.”

His gaze heated. “I don’t care about your ancestors or your dowry,” he countered. “I have money enough to keep us both in comfort. You are very pretty, at least to me. I prefer brown hair and dark eyes, and a complexion with a little colour in it to the pale wraiths that are fashionable.” His eyes dropped lower, to her breasts, and then he met her eyes again. “You are not plump, you are delightfully curved.” He chuckled. “I will allow that you are short, Dorothea. May I call you Dorothea?”

He reached out a hand to her, and she accepted it, though his touch scrambled her wits and it took her a moment to order her thoughts enough to say, “I do not care about your ancestors, either,” she admitted. “And you are just the right age. Did you really think of marriage before Lady Blaine came?”

“Yes. Almost from the first.”

There was nothing but sincerity in every line of his face.

“I am no prize, Dorothea,” he warned. “I was reluctant to ask. I hoped to find a solution that would not burden you with me.”

“It would not be a burden, but a privilege,” she protested.

“I am a military man, and must go back to war as soon as I have seen my grandfather.”

“I would not mind living in a tent and travelling with the army. Not if I can be with you.”

“Ah, Dorothea,” he said, and he lifted her hand to place a kiss within the palm. “Is that a yes, then? You will marry me?”

“If you truly want me,” she agreed.

He kissed her palm again. “Then eat your meal before it gets cold, my love. We have a long way to go and must be on our way soon.”

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Spotlight on If I Loved You

Matrimony Book 1

By Cerise DeLand

April 20, 2023 (Pre-order 99 cents)

Love does not advertise. Love counts no wrongs.

But when a young woman needs to escape an ogre, she’ll take an ad to find a man she can adore.

Verity Carr wants a new life in a new town far from her old home and the vile threat to her body and soul.

Can a gentleman to whom great wrong was done, build a new life with a true wife and leave the past behind?

Miles St. John Armstrong, Viscount Bellamy, vows to select his second wife with logic and careful investigation via advertisement.

Theirs is a relationship built quickly on admiration and trust. But their past comes to call. And it asks of them the ultimate question, can their love withstand the tempest and survive the terror?

BUY LINK: https://amzn.to/3nkslpf

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Allies, friends, and fellow travellers on WIP Wednesday

The Talons of a Lyon, my first Lyon’s Den connected world book, is out on the 26th April. Just enough time for a WIP excerpt, this one about an alliance with the Black Widow of Whitehall herself.

Mrs. Dove Lyon did not keep her waiting long. Seraphina stood when she entered, and curtsied. That was probably incorrect, since a baroness, even a disgraced widow, surely outranked the owner of a gambling den, but Mrs. Dove Lyon had a presence that transcended considerations of rank.

Mrs. Dove Lyon nodded briefly and took a seat behind her desk, saying nothing, but simply facing Seraphina. Studying her, Seraphina assumed. Seraphina had swept her veil back over her bonnet, but Mrs. Dove Lyon wore a thicker one that completely obscured her features.

“Lady Frogmore,” she said at last. “How may I be of service?”

Seraphina took a deep, brief breath. She had prepared and practiced her speech. “If you know who I am,” she said, “you know I am rumored to be a wicked wanton, and a bad wife.” Moriah had said that Mrs. Dove Lyon knew everything.

Mrs. Dove Lyon inclined her head.

“The rumors are untrue,” Seraphina declared. “They were spread by my husband’s family, who want to keep me from my children.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon said nothing.

Seraphina continued. “I know few people in Society and few of them know me. I come from a merchant family and my husband kept me at home. The Frogmores want me out of my children’s lives because they wish to control the fortune my father left to my children, and my son’s estates—estates saved by the fortune I brought into the marriage as my dowry.”

She had another fear. Only the person of that son, born after Henry’s death, stood between Marcus Frogmore and the title. But surely, he was not such a monster as to kill his own nephew?

She would not mention that to Mrs. Dove Lyon lest the woman think her crazed.

“Marcus Frogmore took a case to court to gain custody of the children. I knew nothing about it until after the case was decided. I have sought another hearing, but my solicitor says that, as things stand, I cannot hope to win without the support of some of those in the ton who can then stand as character witnesses. To do that, I need to move among them, to allow them to get to know me.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon spoke. “So, you want me to find you a husband.”

Seraphina spoke with all the horror she felt. “Dear Heavens! No! Never again.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon stilled. Without seeing her face, Seraphina could not be sure, but she thought the Black Widow was surprised.

Her voice had no inflexion, though, when she said, “No.” Then, “I see. Or, rather, I do not see. I can understand why a widow would not wish to marry again, but I do not understand what you want from me.”

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Tea with Chloe

“Don’t be nervous, my love,” said Dom Finchley to his darling bride. “She may be a double duchess, but she is very kind.” They were visiting the Duchess of Winshire, who had been the Duchess of Haverford until her husband died and she married again. Dom was in some sort related, for he was the product of an affair between his mother and the Duke of Haverford.

Lord and Lady Diomedes Finchley were in London, and Dom was determined that Lady Diomedes (who much preferred to be called Chloe) should be given a chance to make a splash on the London social scene. She had had a season, she pointed out to him. Somewhat belated, and in York not London. But both of those circumstances were to his advantage, surely, since he met her and married her.

Dom thought that the Duchess of Winshire might consent to introduce Chloe to some hostesses. He was sure she’d find Society much more fun as a wife than she did as a bookish wallflower. Chloe thought that Her Grace had no reason to think kindly of the Finchleys, and besides, she might not be a bookish wallflower, but she was a bookish wife.

She had just made that retort when the door opened, and the grand lady herself entered. The duchess set Chloe at ease immediately, by advancing to Dom with a hand held out for him to bow over, and the words, “Dom Finchley! How delightful of you to visit. And you have brought your wife. Lady Diomedes–oh I do hope you will let me call you Chloe, dear. I have been longing to meet you, ever since Charlotte and Anthony told me how nice you were, and how perfect for our Dom. I say ‘our’, my dear boy, for I do quite take a proprietary interest, since you are half brother to my sons and my darling wards.” Anthony was her son, the current Duke of Haverford, and he and his duchess had come to Dom and Chloe’s wedding, in York.

Her Grace invited them to sit, and sent immediately for tea. “You will have to come to my ball next week,” she said, before Dom could even introduce the topic of Chloe’s social life. “I will also speak to my girls and my friends about including you on their invitation list. Chloe, Matilda, who is your husband’s half sister, has a regular weekly meeting that might interest you: a book club. If you are interested, she would be delighted to hear. Oh. And the theatre! I am sure Anthony will allow you make use of his box. We shall have such fun!”

Dom and Chloe are hero and heroine of Lord Cuckoo Comes Home, which is a story in the Desperate Daughters collection.

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After the night, the dawn. After the winter, the spring.

This is a Christian faith statement. If you are likely to be offended, don’t read on. If you do, I hope you can find parallels in your own spiritual beliefs.

I was much struck today by part of the reading for the Easter Mass. Mary Magdalen comes running to the apostles to say that the body of Jesus has been taken. She went, as women have done throughout time and space, to perform the last loving service a human being can give their dear departed–to prepare the corpse as her culture demanded–and the body wasn’t there. She assumed the worst, as you would. Someone had stolen the body. To the terrible events of the trial and crucifixion had been added an insult even to the poor broken remains.

But, of course, the next scene in the story lets her know she had the wrong answer. He was no longer in the tomb, true. But the evidence had led her to the wrong conclusion. The worst had not happened, but the best. The end was not the end, but a new beginning. Even as she went out into the garden to weep, he was already risen.

That particular scenario may be unique in human history, but the mind set hasn’t changed. We look around at the signs of growing disfunction, of despair, of the breakdown of society. It is all over, we say. All we can do is sit in the garden and weep.

But we in the Catholic tradition call ourself an Easter people for a reason. Let us remember on this solemn and glorious feast day that, no matter how bad things look, Christ may already be walking in the garden. The night is already at an end. Spring has begun.

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News and journalism in Regency England

Researching for one of my works in progress, I came across an article by journalist, author, and academic Brian Cathcart about the arrival of the official despatches from Waterloo.

He points out that no one in London on 18th June 1815 knew that the great battle had taken place, let alone who had won. The news was slow to arrive, too. The battle was on a Sunday, and it wasn’t until late on Wednesday that Wellington’s messenger, Major Henry Percy, arrived in London, with a French eagle sticking out of each window of his yellow post chaise. Escorted by a delirious crowd, he brought the report to Cabinet, who were dining in Grosvenor Square. After they’d read it and made an announcement to the crowd, Percy continued on, with an even larger crowd and followed by most of the Cabinet, to the house of the banking family where the Prince Regent was dining that night. In the words of the hostess, Mrs Boehm:

The first quadrille was in the act cf forming and the Prince was walking up to the dais on which his seat was placed, when I saw every one without the slightest sense of decorum rushing to the windows, which had been left wide open because of the excessive sultriness of the weather. The music ceased and the dance was stopped; for we heard nothing but the vociferous shouts of an enormous mob, who had just entered the Square and were running by the side of a post-chaise and four, out of whose windows were hanging three nasty French eagles. In a second the door of the carriage was flung open and, without waiting for the steps to be let down, out sprang Henry Percy – such a dusty figure! – with a flag in each hand, pushing aside everyone who happened to be in his way, darting up stairs, into the ball-room, stepping hastily up to the Regent, dropping on one knee, laying the flags at his feet, and pronouncing the words ‘Victory, Sir! Victory!’

In another article, Cathcart makes the point that not a single war correspondent was in Brussels to cover the battle, and explains why. Journalism as we know it had not yet been born, though London had many many papers. Indeed, the news they printed came from reports from ordinary civilians who happened to know something, official reports printed verbatim, or articles lifted from other papers.

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Sowing Chaos on WIP Wednesday

Here’s an excerpt from Chaos Come Again, my retelling of Othello, now on preorder.

Lion walked out of his bedchamber at peace with the world. Dorothea was still asleep—the sleep of the well-pleasured, Lion thought as he closed the bedchamber door as quietly as he could. Amelia was already up, and was frying bacon and eggs on a skillet over embers in the hearth. Blythe must have given her the provinder he had brought from headquarters.

“Coffee, Colonel?” she asked. “I am making breakfast for Major Foxton. Can I fetch you a plate?”

Lion was suddenly remarkably hungry, which was unsurprising given how physically active he had been in the night. “Yes, thank you. Breakfast would be very welcome. I can pour my own coffee, Mrs Foxton.”

He carried his mug out into the morning sun, where Fox was already sitting on the bench under the front window.

“I didn’t expect to see you up so early,” Fox commented. “Busy night, wasn’t it?”

Lion bristled. Admittedly, he and Dorothea had not been quiet, but the comment was in poor taste.

Fox didn’t seem to notice. “I am glad you have some compensations for your hasty marriage,” he commented.

That was an odd thing to say. “I have Dorothea,” Lion pointed out.

Fox chuckled. “Yes, I heard.”

Lion glared at him. “Enough of that, Fox. Show my wife some respect.”

“Sorry, Lion. It’s just, it seems so unfair that you didn’t know you were earl-in-waiting until after you’d taken a merchant’s daughter to wife. There are better-born women—ladies—with dowries her equal or better, and you could have had your pick. I blame our grandfather.”

“Don’t say that Fox. Don’t even think it. I count myself the luckiest man alive that I was there to rescue her from Westinghouse. I love her, Fox, and she loves me.” He smiled out over the camp, recovering some of the peace with which he’d started the day.

He wanted his cousin to understand. “You can’t know what it is like. My life has been turmoil and chaos since my mother died, but she makes sense of everything. She is my order and my peace. Be glad for me, cousin.”

Fox looked blank for a moment, as if he could not understand Lion’s words. Then he lifted his cup to sip his coffee and looked away, across the sea of tents where earlier risers than they were already busy. “That’s good then,” he said.

She loves me, Lion reminded himself again. And then, unbidden, And I do love her. If ever I do not, chaos is come again.

“What was that, Lion?” Fox asked.

Did I say that out loud? He must have. “Nothing,” he told his cousin. “Look, here is Amelia with our breakfast.”

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Tea with a nephew

“Dear Lord, Rede,” said the Duchess of Haverford. “The whole village?”

“Not the entire village, nor all of the household. The thing was, Aunt Eleanor, they had no idea who they could trust–who was working for that scoundrel and who was secretly their friend,” said the Earl of Chirbury, known to family and friends as Rede.

Eleanor fanned herself with her hand. “As a principle, dear boy, I do not like to hear the end of a story before the middle, but please tell me that our darling Kitty and her little family are safe.”

“Thanks in no small part to Kitty herself,” Rede said, proudly. “When the smugglers attacked en masse after her husband was captured and imprisoned, she helped to organise the defence and…”

Eleanor halted him with an exclamation. “Rede! Stop right there!”

His eyes twinkled, as he raised a single eyebrow at her, which was an annoying affectation that her son had copied from his favourite cousin. “Something wrong, Aunt Eleanor?”

“I did not mean for you to skip the middle entirely. Now answer my question, you wicked man, and then go back and tell the story properly.”

See The Flavour of Our Deeds for Kitty’s story.

 

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Don’t miss this chance to buy all five novels in the Golden Redepenning series at sale price.

I’ve held the standard price for my novels at $3.99 USD, because times are tough for so many people. But even then, with five novels in the series, that’s close to $20.

But not for the next twelve days. You can buy the box set for $4.99, which is half the box set price, and the newest novel, which is the 5th, for 99c. More than 1500 pages of adventure, suspense, romance, humour, and history for under $6.

This bargain price ends mid-April.

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Jealousy on WIP Wednesday

I think I’ve finished the first draft of Chaos Come Again, my retelling of Othello. The following is the scene illustrated on the cover.

Dorothea lay sprawled on their bed, still fully dressed but sound asleep, though it was only early evening. Lion bent over her, and his heart turned over in his chest. Her eyes had the red puffy look of someone who had cried herself to sleep and the tracks of tears stained her cheeks.

In the course of the day, he had imagined wiping out the insult of her betrayal by killing her. Yes, and Michael Cassiday, too.

He had not expected to reach the farmhouse and find it empty. Empty, that is, except for his sleeping wife.

Lyon had visualised a bullet for Michael, or killing him with his own officer’s sword. Not a duel. The kind of scum who took advantage of his colonel’s wife did not deserve the honour of a duel.

He could not use a gun on Dorothea. He could not bear to think of the damage that a bullet would do to the body he had loved with such passion and tenderness. The same applied to a knife.

He had considered strangling her with his own hands, but he couldn’t do that, either. To touch her with violence—no, it was inconceivable. He could not see her suffer or mar the perfection of her skin in any way.

As he gazed at her asleep, he realised that a pillow would be a solution to the conundrum. He could place it over her face and hold it down. He wouldn’t have to look at her. She might wake. Probably would. But not for long, and death would be as kind as death ever could be in one so young.

He shuddered, and his tears were as much revulsion as grief and shame.

This is a romance, I promise. There will be a happy ending.