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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: The Umbrella Chronicles – Chester and Artemis’s Story

Another delightful story in the Chronicles of Aunt Harriett’s Umbrella of Destiny.

She felt his gaze everywhere and suddenly felt the earnestness behind his words. “Unbelievable,” she agreed and touched her hand to his cheek.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then, “I cannot believe I almost gave it all up—”
“The chance to argue with me?”
He touched his forehead to hers. “And to make up.”
“To shun society with me?”
“And to parade before them and show them how little we care.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Well, then there’s nothing for it, get on with it then.”
He pulled back as much as the length of her arms would allow. “It?”
She leaned in, and stood on her tip toes, closer, her lips a hairsbreadth from his. “Kiss me, my beast. Here, now.”
He didn’t hesitate, his arms wrapped around her, and he swooped in and kissed her. Finally.

 

Our heroine, who doesn’t take nonsense from anyone.

Lord Henry’s careful voice reached out. “Do I have one pound for this lovely basket of delights?”
Basil Driscoll, a man of dubious reputation, raised his hand, and Artie glanced to Theo, who looked alarmed. Whispers floated over the air, and Artie did her best to ignore them. Everything would work out in the end, she was sure. It was not like she was expected to be alone with the man. And she certainly wasn’t afraid.
Lord Henry nodded and looked out. “How about two pounds? Do I hear two?”
A tall, thin man stepped forward, hand raised. “Two pounds.”
Lord Henry asked, “And you are?”
The man bowed, his ears turning red. “Mr. Dorian Simmons, secretary to the Duke of Eastly; I’m bidding on his behalf.”
A collective gasp echoed around the room, and the harsh word, Beastly, could be heard on faint whispers beneath the din.
Artie darted a glance to Theo, who’d turned beet red and wore a look of utter embarrassment. “Your brother?” Artie mouthed.
Theo winced. “Sorry,” she mouthed back.
Artie turned away and crossed her arms. She’d never met the elusive duke, despite her friendship with Theo, but her friend was forever singing his praises. Reclusive beast or not, Theo’s brother or not, how dare the man think he could bid on her basket and not even bother to make an appearance. What? Was she expected to eat her own basket by herself? Would the secretary take off with it, take it to the elusive Duke, and leave her here alone?
Not if she had anything to say about it, even if she ended up having to fight off the advances of that fiend Driscoll as a result.
Lord Henry spoke up. “Do I hear three?”
Artie stood, ignoring Theo, who whispered sharply, “Artie. What are you doing?” and said, “Lord Henry, I’m afraid I cannot accept the last bid.”
Lord Henry smiled. “Come, dear. Surely you do not believe the rumors…”
Artie shook her head. “That is not my point. I will not accept a bid from a man who could not even bother to make an appearance or offer in person.”
She genuinely couldn’t abide the type of man who never lifted a finger but to order others around, particularly the servants or any that sort of man felt were beneath them. She imagined Eastly as a man pale from lack of sun and weak from dearth of exercise. Though that image didn’t fit the painting Theo had drawn in Artie’s mind. In Theo’s eyes, her brother was a veritable saint, the very image of perfection in manners, in mind, in form. Apart from the scars, of course. And strong. The outdoorsy, sporting type.
But perhaps, Theo didn’t see her brother as he truly was, rather maybe, she saw him through eyes filled with love.
Driscoll snickered.
Theo dropped her head into her hand.
Lord Henry glanced warily at Driscoll and said, “But Miss Synclaire, it’s for a good cause—”
Artie could feel the eyes of everyone in the room darting back and forth between her, Lord Henry, and Mr. Simmons. Her cheeks heated, and she lifted her chin. “Nevertheless—”
Driscoll shouted, “Three pounds!”
Everyone gasped.
Mr. Simmons pulled at his cravat and quickly rejoined with “F-four pounds.”
Lord Henry glanced to Artie, who crossed her arms and turned to the secretary. He may have pulled at his cravat, but she read determination in his eyes. He would not fail his employer. Well, then.
Artie turned back to Lord Henry. “All right. If Mr. Simmons wins the basket, I shall dine and dance with Mr. Simmons. Not His Grace. Clearly.” The din of voices grew louder at that pronouncement.

And our hero, the Beast.

He hadn’t intended to reveal himself. Nor to offer such an outrageous sum.
But he’d found her, in a word, magnificent.
Her eyes glimmered with intelligence and audaciousness; her posture suggested confidence and courage. Fire, wit, mettle, beauty…everything he’d ever dreamt of in a woman. He’d spoken before he’d even completed those thoughts. Who could blame him? He was only truly surprised there hadn’t been an all-out war for the opportunity to procure her basket.
She could have packed boiled turnips (he’d rather drink from the Thames), and he’d have still bid the same.
As Eastly entered the luncheon tent and approached her table, he spared a quick glance toward his sister, who had the good grace to offer him a sheepish smile. He’d deal with her later.
Then he caught sight of Aunt Harriett, who winked and raised her cup to him. He’d deal with her, too.
He focused on Miss Synclaire.
He was already consumed with the daring woman before him.
And she returned his gaze with such intensity, he momentarily forgot all about his scarring, not to mention the whispers of beast dripping from everyone’s lips. A first.
He’d been captivated the moment she stood and dared to risk the wrath of a Duke, particularly one with a reputation that was the stuff of children’s nightmares.
“Miss Synclaire.” He executed a flawless bow.
“Duke.” She dipped her head as she followed his movements with her eyes. Eyes that didn’t hold a trace of fear, merely interest.
The effect on his body was most inconvenient. Eastly pulled out his chair, and out of habit, checked its structural integrity. At six foot five, he was not a small man, and the delicate furniture so fashionable today was ill-suited to his size. The specimen groaning beneath his grip was no exception and was an example of one of many reasons why he preferred the comfort of his own home.
But there was nothing for it; he couldn’t very well stand. So, he hooked Harriett’s Umbrella on the back of the chair and sat. With extreme caution.
Miss Synclaire leaned to her left and watched. Slowly, she straightened. “Five pounds says it doesn’t last the hour.”

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: A Second Chance at Love

Next up, the lovely tale of Constance and her Digby. You might remember Constance. She was a secondary character in one of Sherry’s earlier stories. Lovely to see her get her happy ending at last.

Viscount Digby Osgood returns to London after a two-year absence, planning to avoid the woman he courted and then left. Surely she has moved on with her life; even married by now. A bit of encouragement from a friend, however, pushes him to seek the lady out. Can she ever forgiven him and give them a second chance at love?

Lady Constance Whittles has only cared for one man in her life. Even after he broke her heart, it remains fixed on him. Another man tries to replace him, but she soon learns she can never feel for him a shadow of what she still feels for Digby. One brief encounter with Digby confirms it; she is more than willing to forgive him. Can they truly take up where they left off?

Charity projects and a Frost Fair on the Thames bring them together, but another stands in their way. Will he tear them apart?

And an excerpt:

Digby opened his eyes. He felt as if he had been run over by a carriage. His vision was blurred. Where had his spectacles been placed? He fumbled around for them on the bedside table and slowly put them on. Once he could see clearly again, he took in his surroundings. He was in an unfamiliar room, but one thing was very familiar to him. Constance slept on the loveseat, a surprise to him. He watched as her shoulders rose and fell with every breath. She was stunning, even in sleep, and all he wanted to do was take her in his arms.
“Constance,” he whispered softly. His throat was raw, his voice raspy at best.
His lady’s eyes fluttered open, and her gaze fell on him. A smile turned up her mouth softening her features, and she threw the blanket off to rush to his side.
“At long last,” she cooed. “Your fever has broken.”
“Fever? What fever?” Digby looked down at his naked chest. In his gentlemanly modesty, he pulled the covers up to his chin, so as not to frighten the woman before him. “Uh… forgive my indecency.”
“You have been ill, my darling. I insisted you be brought to my aunt’s since it was closer than your own townhouse. Your parents have been sick with worry and have been here to check on you several times.” Constance motioned to a maid sitting near the door and began giving her instructions. “Janet, please see that a message is relayed to Lord Osgood’s parents informing them he is now on the mend.”
Digby ran his hand through his hair and winced, noticing the knot on his head. “And why is my head so sore?”
“You had an altercation with Lieutenant Abernathy after my fall through the ice. He is responsible for you hitting your head when you, too, fell. The doctor believed you would not have a concussion as your head injury was not that severe. We have been assured the sleeping you have done was due to a nasty bout of the flu. We took every precaution, however, in the event your illness was more severe.”
“You did?”
“But of course,” she said busying herself by fixing him a cup of tea. “Here, drink this. It will make you feel better.”
He took the cup and sipped, peering at her over the rim. Looking about the room, he was again surprised to notice they were alone. “You… took care of me yourself?” he asked, afraid of what the young woman may have gone through while tending him.
She blushed, most becomingly he thought. “I did what I could, when my aunt allowed it, Digby, although my aunt protested that others could see to tending you and my reputation was at stake. I told her I did not care a fig for my reputation. My main concern was you were properly nursed by someone who loved you.”

The lovely Constance:

Her breathing elevated just seeing Digby again, and she moved behind the desk to try to calm her thoughts. Still… she could not prevent herself from taking in the sight of him. His black hair curling at the edges was slightly damp where his hat had not covered his head from the falling snow. A slight cleft in his chin had always fascinated her whenever they had been together in the past. His face reminded her of the sculptures she had seen in her aunt’s garden; classical and timeless. But it was his vivid blue eyes that were her undoing. He gazed upon her as though asking if he was assuming too much by being here. The silly man.
“Too long indeed. There are not many who would brave such inclement weather to venture outside,” she finally answered hoping her assessment of him did not appear rude. “What brings you into the bookshop today? We have a new mystery if that is what you are looking for.”
“Not today,” he said while continuing to stare at her.
“Then if you have not come for a book, you must wish for some tea after being out in the cold,” she declared as she raised her arm toward the tearoom. “Feel free to pick any table.”
“I am not here for tea, either, my lady.”
Her breath leapt into her throat. Could he possibly mean…? “Then whatever brings you here today, my lord.”
“You.”

And Digby, home again.

Richard motioned for a passing servant to refill their glasses. “What are you doing here, Digby?” he asked, before taking another sip of his brandy.
“I offered my services to the duchess in whatever capacity she may need. This event will benefit so many, and the monies raised are for a worthy cause,” he answered.”
“And…” Richard drawled. He hid a smirk, leaving Digby in no doubt his friend knew exactly why he was here.
“And I also accompanied Lady Constance Whittles and her aunt to attend the committee meeting.”
Richard laughed. “About time you made up with the lady. Saw her a couple times after you left town. She looked completely crestfallen.”
“It certainly was not my intention to hurt her feelings,” he said. He took another sip of the drink and felt the liquor burn down his throat. The distant murmur of feminine laughter echoed through the hallway and Digby attempted to hide a smile, knowing Constance was most likely enjoying herself. “Perhaps one of the woman here might be of interest to you?” Digby hinted, taking another sip of his drink. “The de Courtenay sisters arrived. Lady Constance was having a pleasant conversation with Miss Miranda before their meeting started. From what I overheard, she is still available.”

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: Lord Ethan’s Courage

I love all five Fire & Frost stories, but this is my favourite.

When a lovely—but foolish— young woman marches into an insalubrious alley full of homeless former soldiers, Ethan Alcott feels something he thought dead stir to life: his sense of honor and will to live. Her innocent efforts to ease the suffering of men might have touched his heart if she hadn’t put herself in danger to do it. Someone needs to take her in hand.

Lady Flora Landrum chafes under her brother’s restrictions, but she’s willing to compromise if they can join forces to join in the Duchess of Haverford’s charity efforts. When she discovers that the mysterious one-armed ruffian she encountered in a back alley is Lord Ethan Alcott, son of the Marquess of Welbrook, her astonishment gives way to determination to make the man see reason.

Courage takes many forms. As Ethan comes to admire Flora’s, perhaps he can recover his own.

And here’s an excerpt:

Flo heaved a sigh of exasperation and closed the distance between them, grabbing his shoulders, and meeting his lips with her impatient ones. After a heartbeat he returned the kiss with an achingly tender one, using his damaged arm to pull her close while he feathered his graceful fingers across her cheek.
“Much better,” she sighed against his neck, “But know this. I can wait out my mourning and your illness, but do not ask me to be patient.” She spat each of the last words out one by one. “I am not a patient woman when I know what I want, Ethan Alcott, and I want you.”
He kissed her again, this time deeply, passionately, possessively. When she moaned and pulled him closer, he pulled back, tipping his forehead onto hers. “Your brother believes you deserve a Season. I agree. If you still want this in a year…”
“God save me from men and their honor,” she muttered into his cravat. “I’m not promising an entire year. My time of mourning ends September third. I expect to see you at Chadbourn Park that very day.” She grabbed his lapels and gave him a shake.
“I will court you properly,” he swore.
She rolled her eyes. “If you insist, you may make it a courtship, but Ethan, don’t be too proper.” Then she kissed him again, and he forgot to reply.

Meet Flo:

“War is an ugly thing. It demands inhuman amounts of courage, and can be soul destroying.”
“You mean they may have turned coward? They bring shame home with them?” Flo asked, trying to think it through.
“Sometimes, yes. But war can strip off the veneer of civilization. Men are driven to savagery of which they didn’t know themselves capable.”
“But not all of them surely, and the war is necessary, is it not?” Flo asked. “The Corsican is a beast, and if they don’t defend us what will happen?”
“Necessary, perhaps, but the longer it goes on the more it eats at them. They see and do things they can’t talk about at home—both on the battlefield and off.”
Flo mulled that thought over for a while. Her companion’s sympathetic voice interrupted her reverie. “We’re not meant to know, and they’re not to be condemned by those of us who weren’t there.”
“No, I suspect not. Who knows what we would do in that situation? The women of Spain have suffered greatly,” Flo murmured. The papers spoke of hunger and disruption, but she could guess what undefended women on their own might face.
Lady Georgiana nodded gravely. “We can only care for them, while they heal.”
“Shame would be a terrible burden, would it not?” Flo remarked, not requiring an answer. The image of Ethan Alcott’s deeply sorrowful eyes came to her.
What had those eyes witnessed? Things he dreads his family knowing, I’ll wager.
Another thought came to her. Her sister never spoke to Flo about her marriage. Flo assumed it to be fear; now she wondered if it was shame, an even more debilitating emotion. Shame festers when hidden, she thought, and it brought Ethan Alcott to mind again.
How will we help him heal? she wondered. It didn’t occur to her to question the determination that she and Will between them would try to do just that.

And Ethan:

The cold had stiffened Ethan’s bones and numbed his injured stump until he thought he likely could not rise even if he wanted to—even if he had somewhere to go. He knew he should move lest the cold take his worthless life, but the ice around his heart seemed to have frozen all motivation as well.
Odd, he thought idly, that the cold of Mayfair could kill a man as thoroughly as the icy streets of the east end. His father’s garden smelled better, however, even with the flowers dead and the hedges withered and brown. His feet had found the garden with no conscious decision on his part after an hour or more of aimless wandering in the dark streets of London on the coldest night in Ethan’s memory. Now he hunkered between the cold stone of the garden shed and the unforgiving wall, unable to move.
The early morning sun rose weak and grey, but enough to pierce the fog and illuminate the place as if through a veil, and memory seized him. From his haven between the two walls he could see the edge of a stone bench, one he and Edmund used as a pirate ship or galloping steed as the mood seized them in boyhood. One of the balconies two stories up would open to his brother’s room, the other to what once was his. Memory left him with a hollow longing.
He had left Chadbourn’s rooms in a panic, thinking to get as far away from the overbearing Landrums as possible. They pushed him, brother and sister, to open his soul to his family, something he could never do. It would hurt them too badly. Yet, here he was. Perhaps the warmth and obvious affection of the Landrum family made him sentimental. Perhaps he’d allowed Lady Flora’s earnest plea—and her gentle gaze—to penetrate the protective shell he inhabited.
He tossed about for somewhere to go—anywhere but here—but found none. He knew he ought to return to the Albany, but he found it harder and harder to think clearly. Before he could make the effort to rise, the back door of the elegant townhouse flew open and a flash of blue pushed past two men and down the steps.
His heart stuttered at the sight of Lady Flora Landrum turning her head from side to side, searching the garden until she jarred her coiffure loose and one chestnut lock tumbled over her ear. A spark of warmth curled itself around his heart. The foolish chit. She’ll catch her death without a cloak.

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: My One True Love

The second story in the Bluestocking Belles collection, Fire & Frost, is Rue Allyn’s charming My One True Love.

Major Arthur Trevor PenRhyddyrch, Earl of Trehallow, returned to Wales from war and found his best friend gone. No one would speak her name let alone tell him where she might be. Then he found her in the frosty London fog of January 1814 only to lose her in the next moment.

When Miss Mary Percival Cummins saw Trevor in the fog, she ran. She knew he would hate her once he heard what others said, and the memory of their friendship was too dear for her to survive knowing he despised her.

But fate and the Duchess of Haverford had different plans. Her Grace knew, if they did not, that these two friends deserved the happiness of finding their one true love.

An excerpt

Trevor blinked. Percy had used his given name. Without any hesitation or prompting. Nor was she subdued and reluctant as she had been when the evening started. What had changed? He doubted anything in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice had inspired his love to drop her unnecessary shame. He did agree, however, that Kean’s performance was inspiring. Perhaps she was simply transported out of the personal darkness that suppressed her naturally buoyant and intrepid spirit.
Regardless of the cause, he was pleased and happy to see again the inner fire that had always shown bright and strong in his best friend. Pray heaven they encounter no one rude enough to cause his love to sink back into unwarranted guilt. He helped her rise and escorted her from the box. Jessica had been correct. It seemed the entire audience had come for refreshments and to discuss the performance thus far. Everywhere he turned he heard Kean, Kean, Kean as well as stellar, immortal, truly gifted, and many other accolades. No one spoke Percy’s name. No one noticed her enough to turn aside and give the cut direct.
Her Grace had been right to insist that Percy attend tonight’s performance.

Meet the heroine.

She did not want him knowing where she lived. She shook her head and dropped her gaze to her fingers clenched in her lap.. She dared not look at him. One glance at the concern in his deep brown eyes, might have her betraying all good sense and throwing herself into his arms to weep out her troubles. He would feel honor bound to solve all her problems. She could not allow that.
“For the coachman,” he continued.
“Haverford House,” she blurted. She did not have to go inside, and if Trevor insisted on seeing her as far as the foyer, she would let him. The footmen were all familiar with her comings and goings. No one would question her if she left through the kitchen the minute Trevor left through the front door.
But Robert Burns had been right in his poetic address To a Mouse,. “The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley.” Her plans went awry the moment she crossed the threshold. There, in the midst of the foyer, stood Jessica and the duchess herself.
“Trehallow, my lad,” the duchess said. Jessica followed, crossing to where Trevor and Percy stood just inside the now closed front door. “What a pleasant surprise, and you’ve brought our Miss Cummins back home with you. We had begun to worry about you, dear.” The duchess—who did not prevaricate–lied through her teeth. “Go on up and change. We shall wait dinner until you come down.”
Jess took Percy by the arm and compelled her to walk to the stairs. There she spoke a few quiet words to a nearby footman. Percy was being whisked away up the stairs before she could blink. What was Her Grace thinking?
“You will join us for dinner, Trehallow. I insist,” Her Grace decreed.

And her determined hero.

He and Percy walked in silence nearly half the length of the promenade, the only sounds coming from the crunch of straw on the frozen ground beneath their feet and the low murmur of the other couple’s voices.
He wanted to ask her what happened. Why she had become this silent almost shy person, when that was so alien to the lively, curious, intrepid Percy he remembered. But he could not find the words.
“How have you been, Percy?” was all he could manage.
“Well enough with the duchess’s patronage.”
Was she completely dependent on the duchess? That would not sit well with the Percy he had known. “I was sorry to hear of your parents’ passings. That must have been a very difficult time for you.”
She shrugged. “I prefer not to speak of it.”
So she would not talk about her family. “How did you come to know the Duchess of Haverford?”
“Jessica and I were at school together. She insisted I come to her and the Duchess after… after my father died. Mother was too ill to travel, so I came by myself. Her Grace has been all that is kind and helpful. Mother remained at Cummins house under the care of my cousin Donald. I hoped she was well cared for, since I could not be there to see to her comfort myself.”
Which implied that, without the Haverford’s help, Percy might not have been able to provide for her mother at all.
“I am very sorry I was not there to help, Percy. But surely your cousin gave you and your mother a home?”
Percy looked at him, her expression hard, her lips pressed together. “As I said earlier, it is not a time I care to discuss.”

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Tea with the man who wasn’t there

Eleanor was alone. Aldridge had left for Haverford Castle that morning. Matilda had already visited and was now busy about the house. Eleanor had instructed her dresser to allow no one else into her private rooms. She didn’t want to give the servants anything more to talk about, and she certainly didn’t want to worry her wards with her current appearance.

It was boring to be confined, though. With one eye swollen nearly shut by a large purple bruise and her head aching from the blow she took to the back of the head, she couldn’t read or attend to her correspondence.  She tidied the embroidery box that she seldom used, but that task took only a few minutes. She went over in her mind the list of tasks to be done before the charity auction and ball in less that a week’s time, and had to concede that her deputies, particularly Matilda, Cecilia, and Georgie, had it well in hand. What excellent young women they were!

When His Grace attacked Matilda yesterday! Eleanor shuddered at the memory. Thank goodness for young Charles. Would they make a go of it? Clara, the boy’s mother, seemed to think so, and Eleanor couldn’t doubt that Matilda had a tendre for Charles. But he had hurt her badly a year ago, and she didn’t trust him.

Eleanor shut her eyes and leaned back against her cushions, but her bruises ached too much to let her sleep. Her dresser had advocated taking some of the laudunum the doctor had left. Eleanor was not a fan. Perhaps a half dose?

A soft noise from the doorway. Her dresser coming to check on her well being, though she’d sent the woman downstairs to the servants hall not ten minutes ago. She was hemmed about by people who fussed over her, and on days like today she found it hard to be grateful. Without opening her eyes, she said, “I am well, Matthewes. Go and have a nuncheon. I will not need you for at least an hour.”

“She has gone, Your Grace,” said a voice that had become familiar again in the last year. Her one working eye flew open and she sat up so quickly that her head spun and she was forced to rest it back on the cushions while it settled.

“James!” What was the Duke of Winshire doing in her private rooms? In fact, what was he doing in Haverford House?

He crossed the room and crouched before her, peering at her eye, his lips compressed and his nostrils flaring.

“It looks worse than it is,” Eleanor insisted. “James, what are you doing here?”

“I had to see for myself.” James took one of her hands and lifted it to his lips. “Eleanor, I know I should not be here, but no one saw me. I came in through Aldridge’s wing. He gave me keys when he saw me last night.”

Eleanor couldn’t make sense of that. “Aldridge visited you? Why?”

“He told me what happened. He wanted you well protected while he was away, and for that protection to be invisible.” The man’s beloved lips quirked in a slight smile. “No one will see my men, Eleanor, and if they do — who would imagine that the Winshire retainers were protecting the Haverford duchess and her wards?”

Eleanor’s head! If only it did not pound so much, this might make sense. “Protected? From what?”

James shrugged. “I am not sure he knows himself. I suspect he is a little overwrought, Eleanor, and who can blame him? But I am glad to do you this service. If his instincts prove to be true, then we will make sure no harm comes to you. If not?” He shrugged. “My men will enjoy the novelty of another house to protect. But let us no concern ourselves with that. What can I do to make you more comfortable? Something to drink? Something to read? Another pillow?”

Eleanor decided to leave the mystery of her son’s actions and enjoy the moment. “Sit and talk to me, James. Tell me about your new granddaughter. And Sophia. Is Sophia well? How is young Sutton? I like your son a great deal, James.”

“I am coming to like yours, my dear,” James answered, settling himself on the floor at her feet, her hand still captured in his.

They had an hour till the dresser returned. All of a sudden, the head did not hurt nearly as much.

***
Her Grace is injured in Melting Matilda. Buy Fire & Frost before release date on 4 February to find out how and why.

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: Melting Matilda

Fire & Frost is out in just over a week, and I’m really excited. I think this collection is the best the Bluestocking Belles have done yet! I’m going to be celebrating each of the novellas over the next couple of weeks, with excerpts and everything!

First up, my own novella, Melting Matilda.

Her scandalous birth prevents Matilda Grenford from being fully acceptable to Society, even though she has been a ward of the Duchess of Haverford since she was a few weeks old. Matilda does not expect to be wooed by a worthy gentleman. The only man who has ever interested her gave her an outrageous kiss a year ago and has avoided her ever since.

Charles, the Earl of Hamner is honour bound to ignore his attraction to Matilda Grenford. She is an innocent and a lady, and in every way worthy of his respect—but she is base-born. His ancestors would rise screaming from their graves if he made her his countess. But he cannot forget the kiss they once shared.

Here’s an excerpt:

For more than a year, Charles had kept to himself the fact that the Haverford Ice Princess kissed like a flame. As he abandoned his own granite facade for once and for all, he rejoiced in her heat. This time was even better than the last, and the best was yet to come. Though perhaps not here in a family parlor where her brother or sisters could walk in at any time.

“I hope you do not want a long betrothal,” he whispered, between kisses.

She broke off her attempt to completely unravel his cravat. “Not long,” she agreed.

Her fervent answer demanded that he kiss her again, losing himself so deep he didn’t know they were no longer alone until a voice behind him said, “I trust you are betrothed to my sister, Hamner, for it would be most inconvenient to start the evening’s celebrations by killing you.”

Meet my hero, walking in the fog.

Charles lifted his hat in greeting, and sensed rather than saw her shoulder’s ease. Did she think an assailant unable to ape good manners? Stride by stride he approached, and stride by stride she came into better focus.
His heart sank as he recognized her. Of all the females to need his help, it had to be the Haverford Ice Princess. Nonetheless, manners demanded that he lift his hat again, bowing. A slight bow, peer to commoner, but still a bow. He fiercely resented the necessity, telling himself that a female with her breeding — or lack thereof — should not expect such recognition from a gentleman, but the ward of the Duchess of Haverford had every right to be treated with respect.
Miss Grenford returned a small curtsey, though a quick darting look at the fog hinted that she no more wanted to be rescued by him than he wanted to play knight errant to her.
Matilda Grenford had been bedeviling Charles since she first made her entry to Society, side by side with her equally problematic sister. No. She was more problematic.
“Lord Hamner.” Just that, and in freezing tones. No explanation of her presence alone in the street. No pleas to see to her safety. No smile.
“Miss Grenford.” How he wished Miss Grenford were more like her sister so he could blame her, instead of himself, for the insult that had sunk him so low in her regard. He’d fought an unwelcome and inappropriate lust in her presence since he asked her to dance at her debut ball two years ago. It was, of course, only lust. He would have recovered long ago, he was certain, if she had been in his keeping, but that would never happen.
Besides, for all that he told himself he would tire of her, he could not imagine it. He would not take a mistress he could not give up. He had sworn on his mother’s grave that he would have no other women when he married. He would never do to his wife and children what his father had done; marrying a proper lady when his heart was with his irregular family.
To marry Miss Grenford was unthinkable. When he wed, it would be to a maiden of pure bloodlines, both maternal and paternal. He owed it to his name. He owed it to the heir he and his wife would raise to the dignities of his title, and to any other offspring.
To offer protection to a ward of the Duchess of Haverford was impossible. She behaved like a proper lady, whatever her appearance. If he compromised her, he would be honor bound to offer for her, and would do so without even the incentive of an angry brother. The Marquis of Aldridge would avenge insult to any of the Grenford sisters, and Aldridge was deadly with both sword and pistol, but Charles’s own sense of what was due a lady would propel him to the altar without such a threat.
Sometimes, he struggled to remember that would be a bad outcome.

And my heroine:

If the two of them made it out of the near-invisible city streets alive, Matilda Grenford was going to kill her sister Jessica, and even their guardian and mentor, the Duchess of Haverford, wouldn’t blame her. Angry as Matilda was, and panicked, too, as she tried to find a known landmark in the enveloping fog, she couldn’t resist a wry smile at the thought. Aunt Eleanor was the kindest person in the world, and expected everyone else to be as forgiving and generous as she was herself. Matilda could just imagine the conversation.
“Now, my dear, I want you to think about what other choices you might have made.” The duchess had said precisely those words uncounted times in the more than twenty years Matilda had been her ward.
When she was younger, she would burst out in an impassioned defense of whatever action had brought her before Her Grace for a reprimand. “Jessica is not just destroying her own reputation, Aunt Eleanor. Meeting men in the garden at balls, going out riding without her groom, dancing too close. Her behavior reflects on us all.”
Was that the lamppost by the corner of the square? No; a few steps more showed yet another paved street with houses looming in the fog on both sides. Matilda stopped while she tried to decide if any of them were in any way familiar.
Meanwhile, she continued her imaginary rant to the duchess. “Even in company, she takes flirtation to the edge of what is proper. This latest start — sneaking out of the house without a chaperone or even her maid — if it becomes known, she’ll go down in ruin, and take me and Frances with her.”
Matilda had gone after her, of course, taking a footman, but she’d lost the poor man several mistaken turns back. Matilda had been hurrying ahead, ignoring the footman’s complaints, thinking only about bringing Jessica back before she got into worse trouble than ever before. Now Matilda was just as much at risk, and she’d settle for managing to bring her own self home to Haverford House, or even to the house of a friend, if she could find one.
Home, for preference. Turning up anywhere else, unaccompanied, would start the very scandal Matilda had followed her sister to avoid. If Jessica managed to make it home unscathed, Matilda would strangle her.
In her imagination, she could hear Aunt Eleanor, calm as ever. “Murder is so final, Matilda. Surely it would have been better to try something else, first. What could you have done?”

Fire & Frost: released 4 February. Buy now!

Join the The Ladies’ Society For The Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans in their pursuit of justice, charity, and soul searing romance.

The Napoleonic Wars have left England with wounded warriors, fatherless children, unemployed veterans, and hungry families. The ladies of London, led by the indomitable Duchess of Haverford plot a campaign to feed the hungry, care for the fallen—and bring the neglectful Parliament to heel. They will use any means at their disposal to convince the gentlemen of their choice to assist.

Their campaign involves strategy, persuasion, and a wee bit of fun. Pamphlets are all well and good, but auctioning a lady’s company along with her basket of delicious treats is bound to get more attention. Their efforts fall amid weeks of fog and weather so cold the Thames freezes over and a festive Frost Fair breaks out right on the river. The ladies take to the ice. What could be better for their purposes than a little Fire and Frost?

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A picnic by any other name…

Sometimes, you dodge a bullet by sheer happenstance. This week, Ella Quinn, in her wonderful resource on FaceBook, Regency Romance Fans, posted about the meaning of the term ‘picnic’ in Regency England, and I went back and did some more research.

I’d looked into it for the Bluestocking Belles new collection, Fire & Frost. The heroines of our five stories make baskets of food to be auctioned for the charity that is underpinning theme for the collection. The food is to be eaten at a Venetian Breakfast on the ice of the frozen Thames (a last minute change to take advantage of the unusually cold weather).

I knew, of course, that a Venetian Breakfast was an afternoon entertainment at which food was served. The ladies, in morning dress (anything worn before the change into dinner gowns in the early evening), and gentlemen of Society would have been familiar with the term ‘picnic’.

The term started in France as pique-nique, and referred to what we today would call a collaborative meal. Everyone either brought food or drink, or they paid something towards the costs. Pique-niques became very popular in Europe during the 18th century, and when people fled the French Revolution, some of them anglicised the term and started a Pic-Nic Club. The plan was to get together to eat, drink, gamble, and put on theatricals. Around 200 people joined, and the dramatist Sheridan saw it as competition for his own professional theatre. In 1802, the resulting spat spread across the newspapers, with cartoons and the lot.

Blowing-up the Pic-Nic’s or Harlequin Quixote Attacking the Puppets, vide Tottenham Street Pantomime, James Gillray, April 2

The kerfuffle popularised the term, probably because it sounded kind of catchy. I’m guessing people began to apply it to the outdoor entertainments that were already happening, where people all brought their own food and sat and ate together. Jane Austen used it in the outdoor sense in Emma, and Dorothy Wordsworth used it in letters to a friend, both close to the period of Fire & Frost (Wordsworth in 1808 and Austen in 1816). So I think we could stretch a point to say that our Regency heroes and heroines of the winter of 1813 to 1814 might be a little ahead of their times in planning an outdoor event and calling it a picnic.

However, we were saved by the collaborative original meaning of the word. Our ladies are preparing baskets to share with the successful bidder at the auction. Hurrah! Picnic baskets.

In time, the outdoor sense outlived the joint meal sense. Meanwhile, I’ve sent a couple of line edits to make sure the picnic pedants (myself among them) don’t trip over an anachronistic name for a social practice. Phew!

***

Reference: https://www.historytoday.com/archive/historians-cookbook/history-picnic

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Avowals of love on WIP Wednesday

Isn’t part of the fun of a romance seeing a strong man brought to his knees? Today, hit me with your excerpts where one party or the other speaks of their love. Could be a proposal, as in the following excerpt from Melting Matilda, my novella in the soon to be published Fire & Frost.

“I have been attracted to you since the first time we danced, but that is desire, and desire is a part of love but not the whole. I do desire you, my love, more and more each day, but I also admire you, I like being with you, I enjoy talking to you, I respect you. I want to see you every morning when I wake, to spend my days with you, to have the right to dance the first waltz with you at every ball, and to go home with you every night. I want to see your belly rounded with our child, and watch you as you gently teach them the way I’ve seen you teach your little sister. I want you and only you as my countess and the mother of my children. I want to grow old with you, Matilda Grenford.”

He dropped to one knee. “Miss Grenford, I esteem you with all my heart. Will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”

He waited, his anxiety rising as she said nothing, despair taking over as tears rose and began to leak from her pansy eyes. Then she began to nod as she slipped to her own knees and reached out for him. “Yes. Oh, yes. Charles, I love you, too.”

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Tea with the Ladies

Today’s Monday for Tea post is an excerpt from Melting Matilda, which is now available on pre-order in the box set Fire & Frost. The duchess is holding a meeting of her Ladies’ Society.

They dropped the conversation as they entered one of the less formal parlors, where the duchess waited for them, her current companion at her side, and Cedrica Fournier, her previous companion, already seated before a table, pen and paper ready to take notes.

Madame Fournier had left her position to marry, but she had volunteered to be secretary for this committee. Jessica and Matilda took turns in greeting her with a kiss in the vicinity of her cheek, and as they did, the other ladies began to arrive.

The first part of the meeting was given over to reports. The work of the Society was organized by small groups, sometimes as few as two or three ladies. Lady Felicity Belvoir, through her connections to half the families of the ton, kept them aware of social events at which they could canvas for votes in Parliament. Lady Georgiana Hayden was in charge of writing pamphlets to sway opinion, and Lady Constance Whittles marshalled a miniature army of letter writers for the same purpose.

Many of the Society’s members also volunteered at hospitals where injured veterans were nursed and orphanages that cared for veterans’ children.  They visited widows where they lived, some in very insalubrious areas. The duchess agreed with the necessity: how else were they to meet real needs if they did not first talk to those who were suffering? She insisted on the volunteers and visitors travelling in groups and being escorted by stout footmen.

Once all the groups had reported back, they discussed their next fundraising event. The ladies offered one idea after another. The duchess would hold a charity ball, of course, as she did every year, but none of them felt that would be enough to really draw attention to the cause. Something special was called for. Something unusual.

Matilda was not sure who suggested a Venetian Breakfast, but the star suggestion of the day came from a shy girl who was new to the Society. Miss Fairley rose to her feet and waited for Mrs. Berrisford, the meeting’s chair, to notice her.

“I wondered if we might hold a picnic basket auction,” she said, flushing pink at being the center of attention. We have done them at home as fundraisers for the church, and they are very popular.”

Two of the ladies objected that midwinter was hardly time for a picnic, but Mrs. Berrisford called for silence. “Go on, Miss Fairley,” she encouraged. “How does it work?”

“The ladies provide a basket of food,” Miss Fairley explained, “and the gentlemen bid for the right to share the basket with the provider. It is usually the single ladies, of course.” Her voice faded almost to nothing as her blush deepened to scarlet.

Mrs. Berrisford called for order again, as the Society’s members all tried to express an opinion at once.

The duchess rose, and those who had not already stopped talking fell silent to see what she thought. “If we can ensure propriety, ladies, such an auction would be just the thing to bring in donations from the younger gentlemen, who are far more likely to spend their funds on less helpful activities.”

That settled it, of course. Discussion turned to ways and means, and before the meeting was over, several more groups had been established, to cover the various aspects of three events: Venetian Breakfast, auction, and ball, all on the same day.

“Could the auction prize include a dance at the ball later?” Jessica made the suggestion. “That way, gentlemen who have bought a basket will also be obliged to buy a ball ticket.”

The suggestion was met with a hum of approval.

“We will need to enlist the ladies of the ton,” Mrs Berrisford said. “I suggest each of us talks to as many as possible; older ladies to the mothers, younger to the girls. The men, too, of course; but ladies first.”

“We can start at Lady Parkinson’s in two days’ time,” one of the other ladies proposed.

That seemed to be the end of the decision making, though many of the members lingered for another cup of tea and one of the delicious little cakes Monsieur Fournier supplied to the duchess for her meetings.

Matilda and Jessica, in their role as daughters of the house, moved from group to excited group, knowing Her Grace would wish to know what was being said in these more casual conversations.

Everyone was excited by the plans, and more than one person was hoping that the fog would lift so that Lady Parkinson’s soiree would proceed and they could begin their campaign.

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Thinking series on WIP Wednesday

I’ve done very little writing over the last two months. I’m not entirely sure why. Christmas. Stuff going on with the family. Heavy lifting on a couple of projects at work. But I’m determined to get To Wed a Proper Lady out to beta readers and up for preorder in the next week, and to finish writing the first draft of To Mend the Broken Hearted before the end of February.

I’m also starting the next two, which need to be written at the same time since the heroines are sisters and the stories are concurrent. This week, I’m posting what might be the start of To Tame the Wild Rake, and I invite you to post anything you wish from a series work in progress.

He could not sense the presence of Lady Charlotte Winderfield in his room. The idea was ridiculous.

For a start, the bluestocking social reformer they called the West Wind would rather die than enter the bed chamber of any man, let alone the notorious Marquess of Aldridge.

For another, he was not in a position to sense anything outside of the plump white thighs of Baroness Thirby, unless it was the expert ministrations of her close friend, Mrs Meesham. Lady Thirby’s thighs blocked both his ears and his line of sight, and — in any case — no-one in the room could hear a thing over the yapping sounds she made as he drove her closer to her release. And he could not possibly smell the delicate mix of herbs and flowers that drove him crazy every time he was in Lady Charlotte’s vicinity; not over the musk of Lady Thirby’s arousal.

Damn it. The thought of the chit was putting Aldridge off his own release, despite Mrs Meesham’s best efforts. It was no use pining after her. With his reputation, her family would not even consider him. And if they could be persuaded, she couldn’t. She had made her opinion perfectly clear.

Above him, Lady Thirby stiffened and let out the keening wail with which she celebrated her arrival at that most delicious of destinations. At any moment, she would collapse bonelessly beside him, and he could maybe bury himself in her or her friend and forget all about the unattainable Saint Charlotte.

Instead, Lady Thirby stiffened still further. “What is she doing here?” She scooted backwards so that she could look him in the eye, still crouched, thank the stars. He didn’t fancy the weight of her sitting on his chest. “It’s one thing to do this with Milly. But you didn’t say you were inviting someone else.”

Standing in his doorway, her lips pressed into a tight line and her face white except for two spots of high colour on her cheekbones, was the woman of his fondest dreams. And she didn’t look happy to be there.

The cold air on his damp member told him that Mrs Meesham had likewise abandoned what she’d been doing to stare at the doorway. “She’s never here for a romp, Margaret. She’s one of the Winderfield twins.”

Aldridge sighed. He couldn’t imagine what sort of a crisis had brought Saint Charlotte here, but clearly he was going to have to deal with it.

“My lady,” he said, “if you would be kind enough to wait in the next room, I’ll find a robe and join you.”

She pulled her fascinated gaze from what had been revealed by Mrs Meecham’s movement, and glared at him. “More than a robe. You have to come with me and we have no time to waste.”

“He can’t go out,” Mrs Meecham objected. “Aldridge,” (when Lady Charlotte said nothing but just retreated into the next room), “you can’t go. You haven’t done me, yet.”

Aldridge had already left the bed, and was pulling on his pantaloons. “I am sorry to cut our entertainments short. Sadly, the messenger — who, by the way, neither of you saw,” (he gave them the ducal look learned from his father), “brings me word of an appointment I cannot miss. My heartiest regrets. Please, feel free to carry on without me.” He bowed with all the elegance at his command. He could shrug into his waistcoat and coat and pull on his boots while she told him what the problem was. It was a little late to worry about appearing in front of her improperly dressed.