Tension on WIP Wednesday
Tension is an important part of a story. If we’re not on the edge of our seat wondering how it’s all going to turn out, we might as well be painting our nails or watching the grass grow.
This week, I’m inviting you to share a passage where you ratchet up the tension. It might be dramatic tension, romantic tension, suspenseful tension, comedic tension–your choice. Mine is from To Wed a Proper Lady, and is set in the aftermath of a duel between my hero’s brother and his loathsome cousin.
“Good shooting, brother,” James said, clapping Drew on the shoulder.
“Idiot would have been fine if he hadn’t moved,” Drew grumbled. Weasel had shot before the final count and missed. When Drew had taken his turn, he had announced his intention of removing Weasel’s watch fob from the chain that drooped across his waist, and ordered the man to stand still.
At the other end of the field, Weasel was carrying on as if death were imminent. His second, the Marquis of Aldridge, after a brief examination, gave the Winderfield men a thumbs up before leaving Weasel to the ministrations of the doctor. Aldridge was now giving orders to the servants by the carriage that had brought him and Weasel to the duelling grounds.
“Breakfast?” James suggested.
“Good idea,” Drew said. “Let’s collect Yousef and…”
As if his name had conjured him up, their father’s lieutenant appeared from the trees and stalked towards them. Something about his posture brought James to full alert, and Drew sensed it too, stiffening beside him.
“Trouble?” James asked, as soon as Yousef was close enough.
“An assassin in the woods, armed with a pistol like these.” He gestured to the gun that Drew had replaced in its case until he had time to clean it. “You were not meant to walk from this field, Andraos Bey.”
Tea with a love letter
The Duchess of Haverford took tea in her rooms this quiet Monday afternoon. She was alone for once; even the maid who brought the tray sent off back to the servants’ hall. Her life was such a bustle, and for the most part, that was how she liked it, but just for once, it was nice to have an afternoon to herself. No meetings. No entertainments to attend or offer. Not even any family members–her current companion had gone to visit her mother for her afternoon off, Aldridge was about his own business, Frances was at lessons, and Jessica and Matilda had been invited on an outing with Felicity Belvoir.
As to Haverford, who knew where he was? But he would not disturb her here. He had not come to her rooms since Jonathan had brought Frances to join her nursery–the little girl a greater gift than her son could ever know. The scandal of the child’s existence was a secret Haverford needed to keep from his royal cousins, and she had been able to use her knowledge of that secret to secure her wards’ future under Haverford’s reluctant and anonymous protection, and her own freedom from his intimate attentions.
It had been an unpleasant negotiation, determined on her part and rancorous on his–not that he much wanted his aging wife, but he resented having his will forced. In return for his agreement, she had promised to continue as his political hostess, and to maintain the myth of a perfect Society marriage.
Why was she spoiling a perfectly good afternoon thinking about His Grace? She came up here to explore quite different memories.
Putting down her tea, she fetched the little box of keepsakes from the back of a cupboard. The fan her long dead brother had given her before her first ball. A small bundle of musical scores, that recalled pleasant evenings in her all too brief Season. Aldridge’s cloth rabbit. She had retrieved it when Haverford had ordered it destroyed, saying his son was a future duke and should not be coddled. Aldridge had been eight months’ old. A pair of Jonathan’s bootees. She had knitted them with her own hands, and there had been a cap to match. A rose, faded and dry, that she had pulled from a bouquet James had sent her, to wear in her hair. It still bore a faint scent of the perfume he had delighted in as they danced that night.
And the letter. It was one of several she had kept; most of them brief notes about nothing in particular. ‘I saw these and thought of you’, on a card with a bouquet of sweet spring flowers. ‘Save me a dance at the Mitford’s tonight?’ ‘I saw you in the Park. You rode like a goddess.’ They did not have to be signed. They were all from James, and short because they had to be passed to her in secret. “I’m not throwing you away on a third son, Eleanor Creydon. Winderfield is a fribble; a useless pup. Haverford wants you, and I’ve accepted him.”
James was back in England, a widower, father of six sons, heir to a dying duke. “Take that, Father,” Eleanor thought. “The third son will be duke, and his sons after him.”
He had attended the ball she was at the night before last. Eleanor had looked up when the room fell silent, and there he stood on the stairs, surrounded by members of his family, whom she barely noticed. James looked wonderful. More than thirty years had passed, and no person on earth would call him a fribble or useless now. He had been a king somewhere in Central Asia, and wore his authority like an invisible garment. And he was still as handsome as he had been in his twenties.
She caught herself sighing over the man like a silly gosling. She was a married woman, and he was a virtuous man who had, by all accounts, deeply loved his wife. Besides, women did not age as well as men, as the whole world knew. She no longer had the slender waist of a maiden, her hair was beginning to grey, and her face showed the lines her mother swore she would avoid if she never smiled, laughed, frowned, or showed any other emotion. Of course, she had not followed her mother’s instruction, but those who had were no less lined than Eleanor, as far as she could see.
Gads! She was prevaricating. She had come here to reread James’s last letter; the one that had broken her heart; the one she had ignored, leaving her to a lifetime of regret.
Stealing herself, she opened it.
My dearest, dearest love
My father is in it, too. He says that Haverford is to have you, as soon as he has recovered from his wounds.
I wish I had never challenged the duke, or that I had shot to kill. I meant only to defend your honour; to show he could not speak of you as if you were his possession. Even a husband should hesitate to show such disrepect to the woman he has promised to cherish above all others, and so I told him. ‘You are not even her betrothed,’ I told him, ‘and the last man on earth to deserve her’. I am very sorry, Eleanor. I lost my temper, when I should have been thinking of the best way to press my case with your father.
Now, the devil is in it, my father insists that I must flee the country. He says Haverford will have me arrested for shooting him, and Father won’t lift a finger to stop him.
Come with me, Eleanor. I promise I can look after you. The ship my father has organised leaves in two days, but I have a friend who can get me away tomorrow night. I promise I can look after you. I’ve sold the little estate my mother left me, so I have funds. We will go to the Continent. I can find work, I know I can, and we will be together. I know it won’t be what you are used to or what you deserve, but I love you, and you love me. Is that not worth fleeing for?
Meet me by the oak near the back gate of your garden as soon as the house is quiet tomorrow evening. I will be there from 8 of the evening and will wait until 2 hours after midnight. We have to be on the ship in time to sail with the dawn, and by the time your household wakes, we shall be gone down the river, and out to sea.
Come with me, my love.
Yours forever
James
The art of reading reviews
Okay. I confess. I’ve been reading reviews of my books again. People are always advising authors not to do it, but I always do. My books tend to get good ratings, but not everyone loves them. I’m good with that. I write the books I like to read, which means a large cast of characters, lots of everyday life, convoluted plots, serious and dark complications, nasty villains, and nice heroes and heroines.
A good review is a great morale boost, especially on the days that the plot elves go on strike, the weather is lousy, I’ve eaten something that disagreed with me, I haven’t had enough sleep, I’ve taken a dislike to both my current protagonists, and I have a deadline looming and too much to do between now and then.
Good reviews are not just ones that say the book is marvelous; that’s nice, of course, but what I love to read is why the reader thought so. Even a low rating can be rewarding to read, if I come away thinking, ‘yes, I see where they’re coming from’. I can either learn from it or agree to disagree, but at least I know!
Mostly, reviews of any kind are one person’s opinion, and they’re entitled to it. We don’t all enjoy the same things. I’m okay with that. In fact, a review only upsets me for two reasons.
Reason one, I’ve done something stupid and now that it is pointed out to me it’s really obvious, even though no one in the whole development process–from my first readers, through the beta readers and editor, to the proofreader and ARC readers–has noticed. That has happened a couple of times, and I hate it. The mistake in the title of one of my key repeating characters. Aaaargh! I’ve had to come up with a complicated backstory to fix it.
Reason two, the reader castigates me for getting the research wrong when I didn’t. I hate that. I do try hard to get things right, and it rubs me the wrong way when a lofty reviewer informs other readers that my book is unbelievable because ‘a woman back then wouldn’t have [insert the independent action of your choice]’/’the writer should have done some basic research into [almost anything that the reviewer has a prejudice about–one review was a lecture on church tithing based on modern, but not Regency, practices]’.
But what can you do? The facts are the facts, but I can’t change people who base their facts on opinion.
I’m writing a couple of reviews at the moment. I don’t, usually, mostly because I don’t have time. I’m never tempted to spend that time writing a review of a book that I rate as three star or less, because I’m not about to spoil another writer’s day, and it is, after all, only my opinion.
I do, occasionally, write four and five star reviews. And when I do, I post them on my website as well as in the usual places. I like to do it, because reviews matter to authors, and I feel I should do my bit. When I can.
What do you think? Should authors review other authors’ books?
Someone to talk to on WIP Wednesday
Michael Hauge calls them reflection characters–those people we invent whose role in the story is to listen to the hero or the heroine, and occasionally (by what they do or what they say) point them in the right direction. This saves lots of pages where our protagonists talk to themselves, so the readers can hear what we need them to know while still keeping secrets from their romantic interest. Then the meeting with said romantic interest doesn’t have to devolve into him sitting staring at her thinking about whether to tell her the estate is bankrupt, while she sews studiously away thinking about whether he will turn her out on her ear when he knows that she has been supporting her wicked brother out of the housekeeping. Give them each a reflection character, and they can get these thoughts off their respective chests, and increase the tension when they spend the evening not talking about it.
So, give me a passage of conversation with a reflection character. My excerpt is from my newest draft, and my reflection character is a little different. He doesn’t exist, except as a memory in my hero’s mind.
“Stedham was looking for a home; a purpose,” Max told Sebastian. The lieutenant had tried being a steward on an estate, and moved on. He had worked for a while in a lawyer’s office, and a few months more as secretary to a Member of Parliament. The last address the sister had for him was a vicarage, and Max was heading there now.
“He hasn’t been able to settle since he returned from the wars” she had told Max.
Her husband’s estimation was harsher. “He cannot stick to anything. Some of them are like that. They need the adventure, the thrills, and they’re no use in ordinary life. He should join up again.”
Max didn’t agree. “Stedham was a good soldier, but he wasn’t made for that life. Not really,” he told the man, but he might as well have talked to the wall.
“You don’t know him like we do,” the brother-in-law said.
“That man wants his wife to himself,” Sebastian commented. “I know jealousy when I see it.”
Max thought the ghost might be right. Sebastian usually was right about the darker emotions. “Stedham needs a place to belong, but that isn’t it.” Stedham could hardly have missed the lack of welcome. Was that why he stopped writing to his sister? But he’d only stayed with the pair for the first two months after arriving home from France in 1814. He’d continued to write faithfully, week after week, until a few months ago.
“No one belongs,” Sebastian argued. “Belonging is an illusion, and the ones you love most are the ones who most hurt you.”
Max ignored the oblique reference to Sebastian’s death. “That’s the village.” From this elevation, it and the surrounding fields were spread below like a patchwork made by a thrifty housewife from a hundred different scraps. The church, its steeple foreshortened by his perspective, sat at one end of the cluster of houses, the last building on the village street. At the other end was an inn, strategically placed on the junction with the road he was travelling. He could see glimpses of its curves, snaking down the hill before it straightened, leapt a river, and straightened to run past the village street and on into the distance.
Tea with Sally
The Duchess of Winshire’s beloved James had added a conservatory onto his townhouse as a wedding present for his new wife. Even a decade later, Eleanor felt warm at the thought. No. A decade did not decrease her appreciation of her husband. Rather, it made it richer and deeper. The conservatory was just one of many ways he showed his deep love for the companion of his old age. Her lips curved in amusement. Not as old as all that! Bed sports with a generous man she adored, and who adored her in return had been a revelation to the former Duchess of Haverford. Neither her children nor his appreciated the passion between the couple, and they tried to be considerate, but really! They were married, after all.
Today, the conservatory was a play house for two of her favourite people. The little Marquess of Abersham, not quite four years old, was a godson–almost an honorary grandson, since his father had been a close friend of Eleanor’s own son for most of his life. Lady Sarah Grenford, that son’s daughter, was almost a year younger, but imperiously certain of her right to rule of the child-sized tea table where the two children entertained an assortment of dolls, stuffed toys, wooden animal and tin soldiers to afternoon tea.
Eleanor had refused a seat on the tiny chairs in favour of an adult-sized chair pulled close to one side of the table, but she accepted the tiny porcelain cup Sally handed her, filled with coloured lemonade.
“Now you must hand Grandmama the custard squares, David,” Sally commanded, and Abersham obeyed, carefully carrying the plate around the table balanced on both palms. He bowed as he offered it, and it tilted, the contents threatening to slip off before he slapped a hand over the top of them.
“I saved them, Aunt Eleanor,” he told her proudly, lifting a sticky hand to allow her to select from the offerings, the custard slightly squashed under cracked icing.
“You crushed them, silly,” his sternest auditor pronounced.
“I’m not silly,” the young lord protested. Then, clearly feeling that honour must be restored, he stalked towards Sally waving his custard-covered palm in threat.
“Abersham, your manners, please,” Eleanor reminded him. “And Sally, ladies never call other people ‘silly’. You have hurt your friend’s feelings.”
Sally’s eyes widened and she turned to Abersham, all contrition. “I did not mean to, David. Here!” She picked up a linen napkin. “Let me wipe your hand clean.”
Abersham grinned, and licked his palm. “All clean,” he said, “and it tastes good.”
Eleanor thought about reprimanding the child again, but he had nurses and parents for that and, after all, he would not still be licking his palm at dinner parties when he was twenty. Let him learn kindness now and manners later.
Both were the eldest children of dukes, which meant they were more indulged than was good for them, but they both had sweet natures, and were dearly loved. And they had one another as the best of friends. What would the future bring them, she wondered, as she used a spoon to select the undamaged edges of her custard square.
Spotlight on Never Kiss a Toad
The epilogue to this novel has been posted on Wattpad. We’ve reached the end. Time to go back to the beginning and edit it into something shorter and more concise, but we’re delighted with the reaction we’re getting to the current lo-o-o-ong draft.
Epic love story… Good you did not hurry through to the climax,😉 now the afterglow is going to be brighter, and the afterthoughts sweeter,☺ this is not a story we shall forget in a hurry. Thank you for sharing it with us.
WOW!
That’s the only word for this amazing journey of Sally & David. I absolutely loved this novel. ❤️❤️
Thank you to both the authors for sharing this with us. 🙂
Nice, eh? And Wattpad followers will be pleased to know that we’ve written the first scene of the story of what happens next for Maddox and Gills.
To read the book go to my profile or Mari’s on Wattpad (or wait about 18 months).
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JudeKnight
https://www.wattpad.com/user/marianagabrielle
Here’s the blurb:
David “Toad” Northope, heir to the Duke of Wellbridge and rogue in the mold of his infamous father, knows Lady Sarah “Sal” Grenford, daughter of the once-profligate Duke of Haverford, will always hold his heart. But when the two teens are caught in bed together by their horrified parents, he is sent away to finish school on the Continent, and she is thrown into the depths of her first London Season.
Can two reformed rakes keep their children from making the same mistakes they did? The dukes decide keeping them apart will do the trick, so as the children reach their majority, Toad is put to work at sea, learning to manage his mother’s shipping concern, and Sal is taken to the other side of the world, as far from him as possible. How will Toad and Sal’s love withstand long years of separation, not to mention nasty lies, vicious rumors, attractive other suitors, and well-meaning parents who threaten to destroy their future before it has begun?
(Toad, by the way, is the son of Mari’s Regency hero Nick, the Duke of Wellbridge, and Sally’s father is our own Marquis of Aldridge, now the Duke of Haverford.)
Declarations of love on WIP Wednesday
My hero in my current WIP has finally faced up to his feelings, so this week, I’m seeking excerpts where the hero (or, if you prefer, the heroine) declares their love. Mine is from my Fire and Frost novella which is the title of the next Bluestocking Belles’ anthology of new stories.
She invited him to serve himself, while she fixed him the coffee that he asked for. As he filled his plate, he asked, “If we are not to stand on ceremony, I wonder if I might beg you to call me Hamner. Or even, should you wish it, Charles.”
Matilda paused, his cup in her hand, then gathered her scattered wits and passed it to him. “You are very kind, Lo– Hamner.”
He shook his head. “Not kind at all. You called me pompous, Matilda. You had the right of it, but I am trying to amend. May I call you Matilda?”
Matilda cast a glance at the maid, but she had her head bent low over her mending and was did not appear to be taking any notice of them.
“Just when we are alone,” Hamner cajoled. “Or am I being an idiot again? I thought… I hoped that you might be coming to care for me as I do for you.”
“I had no idea.” Matilda lifted her chin, her lips firming as she remembered last year’s tears. “Have we not travelled this path once before, my lord? You made your opinion of me clear at that time, did you not?”
His clear blue eyes met hers. If she did not guard her heart, he would break it all over again, but he sounded sincere. “I was a fool, and worse than a fool. A pompous prig, you said, and that hurt. Because you were right.”
“You kissed me then spurned me and proposed to another woman,” she reminded him.
“Ah.” The colour rose in his face and he looked down at the coffee cup, dwarfed by his large capable hands. “You are Lady Felicity’s friend. Of course, you know about that.”
“What? You hoped to deceive me?”
“Not that!” The cup clattered as his hands shook, and he put it down on the side table. “I hoped I could explain it before you knew what an ass I had been. To burn for one woman and propose to another, as if they were interchangeable? My mother tells me I deserve for you to send me away and never speak to me again, but I hope to convince you that I have learned from my stupidity.”
Almost without her volition, Matilda’s head shook, slowly, more in disbelief than negation. “You despise the circumstances of my birth. You do not believe I would reflect credit to your name. Your words, Lord Hamner.”
Hamner leaned forward as if he would grasp her hands, but stopped short of reaching for them. His voice vibrated with passion. “Do I regret that your birth has barred you from all the respect you deserve? Yes. You are the daughter of a duke, raised by a duchess, and a lady of uncommon intelligence, grace, and ability. You act always with propriety and dignity. You should take precedence with others of your rank, and I am indignant that you cannot. You would grace the name of the highest in the land. I was an ignorant fool to think otherwise, and an uncouth lout to say what I did. Though I hope my actual words were kinder, Matilda.”
“Perhaps.” She pursed her lips. “However, you agree that I took your meaning. As an apology for that kiss—I was humiliated, Charles, and I do not see how you expect me to forget it.”
She only realised that she had slipped into calling him by his given name when his eyes lit up, but he did not capitalise on the error. “Not forget. But may I hope for forgiveness? In time? Give me leave to prove my sincerity by my devotion? I mean marriage, Matilda, in case you are in doubt. Yesterday, I saw you in danger, and I knew I could not be happy without you. I spoke to your brother, but he said some of what you have said, and told me that I would need to make my own petition to you. The choice of whether I am permitted to be your friend and your suitor is entirely yours.”
“I do not know how to answer you.” Hamner opened his mouth again, but Matilda held up her hand. “Enough. Lord Hamner, I shall think on what you have said, but we shall not speak of it again today.”
Tea with Jonathan
Her Grace of Haverford answered a question about her plans for the evening, while watching her younger son prowling her private parlour, picking up ornaments and putting them down, smoothing out a crinkle in a linen mat, twitching a flower out of a vase to smell it and put it back in the wrong place. He clearly had something to say, and was barely pretending to listen as he tried to decide whether to come out with it.
“What is on your mind, my dear?” she asked, after he had tossed out two more conversational sallies, neither of which related to the other.
He flopped into a chair opposite to her. “I need something to do, Mama. His Grace stops everything I try, and Aldridge thinks I am complaining about nothing.”
So that was it. The duchess knew that His Grace refused to allow his back-up heir to take up any worthwhile activity, but she had not realised that her older son had also proved unsympathetic.
“You know what happened when I tried to join the army,” Jonathan complained. “His Grace refused his permission. So I joined under a false name. His Grace had me hunted down, bought me out, and confined me until I gave my word not to do it again.”
“I am rather glad about that,” Eleanor confessed. “It is cowardly of me, but I hate the thought of you risking your life in the struggle against Napoleon.”
“I am not afraid,” Jonathan insisted, completely missing his mother’s point. “At least I would have a purpose.” He continued his litany of things he’d done. “I went to work for an architect. His Grace had the man beaten. I changed my name again, and found work as a factory clerk. He threatened to ruin the man if I wasn’t fired. He told me that if I tried it again, he’d throw my old nanny out of the cottage she has retired to.”
Eleanor had purchased the cottage, and Jonathan’s nanny now owned it outright, but the duke would find another stick with which to threaten his son into compliance.
“Don’t tell me to speak to Aldridge. He doesn’t understand. I can’t live this life—this meaningless, idiotic life. He has work. I am allowed none. He has purpose. Mine is to simply exist until he marries and has children. After that, I’m redundant. Aldridge thinks I should be happy to drink and gamble and swive — I beg your pardon, Mama. And indulge myself until I’m silly, then get up the next day and do it again. He can’t believe I’m not. But he wouldn’t like having nothing useful to do nearly as much as he thinks. Can you talk to him, Mama?”
“Of course I will.” It would not help. The duchess knew His Grace had forbidden Aldridge to involve Jonathan in the many duties of the duchy that burdened the eldest son. Still, she would speak to Aldridge, and suggest he explain that to Jonathan, so at least the young man’s ire would be directed at the proper target. Meanwhile, she would try to give his mind another direction. “Perhaps, my dear, you might consider being of use to me?”
He looked up from the fist he had been punching into his other palm. “With what, Mama?”
“I understand you are friends with Miss Lilly Diamond,” the duchess said. Jonathan blushed. So those particular rumours were true, then. Eleanor discounted much of what she heard about her sons, but clearly Jonathan was at least acquainted with the famous demi-mondaine. “My friend Lady Sutton is concerned. Apparently Lady Georgiana is a frequent visitor at Miss Diamond’s house.”
The young lord sat up straight, his face grave, “I do not think it the part of honour to be your spy, Mama.”
Eleanor hid a smile at the indignant rebuke. “Nor do I ask you, dear. But Grace thinks, and I agree, that something odd is going on in the circles where your friend Miss Diamond presides. It may be nothing to do with her, of course. But will you keep your eyes out, Jonathan? And will you watch out for Lady Georgiana, if you can? I would hate to see her hurt.”
“I can do that,” Jonathan agreed. His eyes lit, and he shot her a devilish grin. “I see what you are doing, Mama. You are making it my job to drink and gamble and– other things. Well, a man has to do what a man has to do.”
Lord Jonathan Grenford is carrying out his mother’s commission when the courtesan, Lilly Diamond, is poisoned. Gren (as his friends call him) finds himself helping his half-brother David Wakefield to investigate the murder, in Revealed in Mist.
Spotlight on The Smuggler’s Escape
Congratulations to Barbara Monajem on the release of The Smuggler’s Escape, a story of spies, smugglers, and second chances.
The Smuggler’s Escape
After escaping the guillotine, Noelle de Vallon takes refuge with her aunt in England. Determined to make her own way, she joins the local smugglers, but when their plans are uncovered, Richard, Lord Boltwood steps out of the shadows to save her. Too bad he’s the last man on earth she ever wanted to see again.
Years ago, Richard Boltwood’s plan to marry Noelle was foiled when his ruthless father shipped him to the Continent to work in espionage. But with the old man at death’s door, Richard returns to England with one final mission: to catch a spy. And Noelle is the prime suspect.
Noelle needs Richard’s help, but how can she ever trust the man who abandoned her? And how can Richard catch the real culprit while protecting the woman who stole his heart and won’t forgive him for breaking hers?
Amazon Australia
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Excerpt
Setup: Noelle needs Richard’s help, but she doesn’t want him interfering in the smuggling business. She refuses to marry him, and she can’t afford to let him seduce her, either. Richard has other ideas…
Noelle slid off Snowflake’s back, passed her to a surprised groom, and hastened toward the house. The wind ceased its fitful snatching at her bonnet and tore it off good and proper, dancing with it in the sunlight, tossing it around the side of Boltwood Manor.
Noelle picked up her skirts and ran after the hat. The wind teased it away from her grasping fingers and threw it this way and that across the lawn. Noelle followed, cursing, while the wind tugged her hair out of its pins and flapped it into her face. The bonnet flew through the herb garden, lit briefly on the outstretched hand of a stone nymph, and fluttered toward the terrace.
Richard Boltwood stepped through the French doors to the terrace, reached out a long arm, and rescued Noelle’s hat from the wind.
Sacré tonnerre, but he was beautiful. Most improperly, he wore only shirt and breeches. His sleeves couldn’t hide those powerful shoulders and arms, nor his breeches the muscles of his thighs. The open neck of his shirt revealed his firm throat and a few hairs of the masculine chest she had seen and touched only once.
His face was bright with laughter, his bearing confident. Masterful. Irresistible. In spite of herself, Noelle quivered inside.
No. This was no time for quivering. She hurried forward. “Richard, I must speak with you.”
“With pleasure,” Richard said. “Your bonnet, ma’am.” He held it out but made no attempt to touch her.
Noelle closed her fingers around the ribbons, and immediately Richard put his hands behind his back. She moved closer, and he inched away. “In private!” she whispered. She put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. The hat strained away from her hand, and her hair flapped in her face. “Stay here! It’s urgent. I need your help immediately.”
“Ah,” Richard said, “I am of course at your service, my love, but do consider. Your only legitimate excuse for such a precipitate arrival must be desperate love for me, but if there is to be no touching, it won’t look like love, will it?” He danced away like the bonnet on the wind. “You do look delightfully desperate, my sweet.”
“That was your idea,” Noelle fumed. “I never said I wouldn’t touch you, merely that it would be wiser not.”
“It would have been wiser not to involve yourself in the free trade. As to not touching me, do as you please, as long as you understand that if you touch me, I will consider it a clear invitation to touch you in return.” His lips twitched.
“Nom de Dieu.” She must keep her distance, but he was making that impossible. “Oh, very well. You may kiss my hand.”
“Your Majesty is most gracious.” He took her gloved hand in his and tugged at the tip of one finger.
She tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t let go. “What are you doing?”
“Exactly what it looks like. I won’t waste one of my burning kisses on a mere glove.” A few seconds later, the glove was in his breeches pocket. He took her cool hand into his large warm one and brought it within an inch of his lips.
The warmth of his hand, the heat of his breath, traveled all the way to her toes. “Get on with it,” she said, quivering with impatience. Get it over with before it kills me. When he did nothing, she pulled at her hand.
He didn’t let go. “It’s not enough. No woman who gallops to her lover’s door would be content with one little kiss.” He paused. “On her hand.”
Waiting for that kiss was torture, and she had urgent news. She said in French, “Richard, the excisemen are nearby! We don’t have time for playing games.”
“This is no game,” he answered in the same language. “Lives are at stake, and therefore our charade must appear real.”
Charade?
Did that mean he accepted her refusal to marry him? In which case, she should be glad. Or at the very least, relieved.
She didn’t have time for emotions. “Lives are at stake, and therefore we must hurry.”
“But not appear to do so,” he said. “A bargain—both your hands. It’s not dangerous, surely . . . just a little hand kiss or two.”
Before she had a chance to respond, he took the other hand, pried her fingers open, and released the ribbons of her hat.
It fluttered away across the lawn. “My bonnet!”
“What’s a mere bonnet when one is deep in love?” Richard removed the second glove and stowed it in his pocket. He pulled her close and pressed his hot lips to the back of one tingling hand.
Something inside Noelle pulsed in response. Yes.
His lips settled hotly on the other hand.
Oh, yes.
“Enough?” Richard whispered. “We have demonstrated love, but what about passion?”
Noelle couldn’t bring herself to move. Her breathing quickened, and her knees felt abominably weak.
“Only a passionate woman would ride ventre à terre to the man she loves.” He turned her hands over and cupped them in his large ones. “You, my sweet, are the essence of passion.”
He pressed his lips into one palm and then the other. The pulsing inside her deepened to a throb.
She couldn’t help it. She whimpered, staring at his lips and her hand.
His tongue reached out and gently, devastatingly, licked her palm.
Dieu du ciel. His arms surrounded her and his heady aroma overwhelmed her senses. She drank it in through her very pores. I love you. Oh, how I love you. She pressed her face into the hollow at his throat.
No.
She made a small despairing sound, and immediately his arms loosened. He pushed up her chin and deposited a swift kiss on her lips. “You do love me, and you know it.”