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Spotlight on Earl of Shefford

Congratulation to Anna St. Claire on the publication of Earl of Shefford.

Earl of Shefford

Wicked Earls Club, book #28

By Anna St. Claire

Releases 2/16/2021

Colin, Earl of Shefford visits a building he won, having determined its address to be an excellent location for a new club. Discovering not only a fully functioning orphanage but a beautiful headmistress, who refuses his offer of an alternative establishment, he suffers a pique of temper. Irritated by her immunity to his charms, he foolishly succumbs to his intense attraction and brashly offers her a choice. Either she must accept him in a marriage of convenience or provide proof that the orphanage has value to him.

Impoverished and needing to restore her fortunes, Miss Honoria Mason despises the members of the ton for their extravagance and blames them for her family’s loss of home and fortune. Nora’s life takes a turn when the handsome Lord Shefford becomes the orphanage’s landlord. Either she proves the orphanage’s worth to him in two weeks or becomes his convenient bride in order that he may produce an heir. She refuses to lose the orphanage she has worked so hard to preserve and so accepts his offer to marry.

Sparks fly as proximity forces them together, the better to know each other. Yet, how may romance overcome such hazardous beginnings when resentment has stacked the dice against them?

Amazon – https://www.amazon.com/Earl-Shefford-Noble-Hearts-Wicked-ebook/dp/B08GJDTLQL

BN – https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/earl-of-shefford-anna-st-claire/1137596286?ean=2940162961482

Kobo – https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/earl-of-shefford

Goodreads – https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/55296151

BookBub – https://www.bookbub.com/books/earl-of-shefford-noble-hearts-series-book-three-wicked-earls-club-28-by-anna-st-claire-and-wicked-earls-club

Read an excerpt:

Finally! Here was a chance to set the wheels in motion for the fencing club he and his brother had talked about for years. Winning this building had become a prompt in his mind to make it happen. He would have the building renovated to his brother’s specifications and Jonathan would run it. He was the expert in the duello. Their father had encouraged the skill, often sparring with his sons. Colin considered himself more than proficient at the art of fencing; however, Jonathan’s skill was far beyond mere competence. He almost equaled the legendary Angelo.

Besides, Colin reasoned, he was much too busy to run a club. He had taken the bet on faith, being previously unaware of the building’s existence, let alone having knowledge of its condition. Upon reflection, there had been little—if not naught—trustworthy about Wilford Whitton. The nasty knife wound in his own arm, that was still in danger of infection, was proof of that. However, he could no longer tolerate staring at the four walls of his room.

Still involved with the Crown, and now with his estate, Colin found fencing an excellent way of releasing pent up emotion and helping him to feel bobbish. He felt sure this entertainment would also be a welcome diversion within his set at the Wicked Earl’s Club. The gentlemen met almost nightly, and no matter the requirement for amusement, the club could, for the most part, meet it. As yet, it had not provided a fencing saloon.

The sport itself had diminished somewhat in status, overtaken by the popularity of shooting; however, it remained an effective and punishing method of defense that, if vigorously practiced, kept a gentleman’s body at peak performance.

Caught up in the excitement of his thoughts, he picked up his cane and whipped it into a parry at an imaginary opponent—only to be immediately reminded of the stitches he had received only two days ago.

His arm ached, and that Whitton had caused it pricked his pride. He should have been more careful, expecting something from the man. He pulled out his pocket watch, mindful that Bergen and Lord Morray were meeting with him soon.

Where was Joseph? His valet was taking an inordinate amount of time to find a suitable coat. He fingered the frilled cuffs of his shirt distractedly. The man had pursed his lips anxiously when the bandage around Colin’s upper arm did not easily fit inside the brown wool coat he had chosen for today and had hurried from the room, muttering about fetching one with a better fit. Some minutes earlier, he had informed Colin that his black coat had been returned, repaired by his tailor. Presumably, therefore, the man had gone to fetch the garment.

Colin turned his head at the slight knock at the door. “Come in.”

“My lord, I apologize for the delay. I took the liberty of remeasuring the arm openings, in order to compare them with the brown coat. They are just as required and should provide room for your injury. It has also been cleaned.”

“God’s teeth, man! I was wondering where you had gone. I had hoped to view an investment before meeting with my brother.” Colin stretched his arms into the sleeves as Joseph fussed with the shoulders. “It looks better than new. Thank you, Joseph,” he acknowledged in a milder tone. The black coat would suit for what he needed to do today.

Joseph was the grandson of his father’s valet and had proven himself more than capable. The man had become indispensable in the three years he had been in his service.

“Mr. Weston has attached a new sleeve,” Joseph responded abstractedly, still twitching with the back.

Colin wanted to set out. “Have the footman summon my carriage to be brought around, if you will.”

“I anticipated your need, my lord. The carriage is already at the front, awaiting your convenience,” Joseph said, smiling. “Lord Bergen has arrived and is waiting in the drawing room.”

“Your ability to predict my requirements never ceases to amaze me, Joseph.”

“It is merely a part of my duties, my lord. I apologize for not considering the need to accommodate your bandage.”

“Think naught of it,” Colin responded, suddenly feeling guilty about the way he had spoken to the young valet. The lanky young man that shadowed his grandfather in those last years of the older man’s service had matured into a fine young man. Tall, with blond hair, broad shoulders, and bright blue eyes, he was a favorite among Colin’s staff. Surprisingly, it was more for his willingness to help anyone that needed an extra pair of hands than his masculine stature. “Thank you, Joseph.”

Humming to himself, Colin grabbed his cane and joined his friend downstairs. Adam Beaumont, the Earl of Morray had not yet arrived. The Earl was the one gentleman in Colin’s set he had counted upon to give him a realistic idea of the popularity of the venture he had in mind. He was not only a friend, but a frequent sparring partner at Jackson’s Saloon. His opinion on both the location and the popularity of the investment meant a great deal to Colin.

Less than an hour later, his coachman pulled the town chariot into a short, circular drive. Colin and his two friends stepped out of the carriage and stared up at a three-story, faded pink building surrounded by iron railings on a corner, north-east of Mayfair. Russell Square was a respectable if not fashionable neighborhood, yet not considered a dangerous one. He did not wish customers to be set upon by riff-raff. He found it was close enough to his prospective clients, while far enough removed for discretion. The location pleased him.

“Not a bad locality,” he remarked, hoping to spur his friends’ opinions. An instant later, he thought he saw movement in a window and squinted. Are those curtains? It looks inhabited. According to Whitton, this was supposed to be an empty building.

“I thought you had mentioned the building being empty. Unless my eyes deceive me, I saw a woman’s face—a rather charming woman’s face—in that upper window,” Morray said, pointing to the large second-floor window, centrally placed above the door.

“Then I was not seeing things,” Colin retorted in some chagrin. He regarded Bergen, who stood next to him, smiling, having not uttered a word.

Colin prompted Bergen with a slight nudge of his elbow. “He said the building was empty, did he not?” he queried.

“He did. However, he also tried to weasel out of the bet. I am thinking the reasons he failed to share are currently residing in that building, and she has no notion she is being evicted. Unless my memory fails me, this used to be an orphanage before it closed some years ago.” He eyed his friends. “Could it be that it has become so again? I say we should meet the young woman inside and find out. I would like to have a complete story to share with Elizabeth when I return home.” He laughed sardonically.

Colin tried to be irritated with his friend, but he could lay nothing at Bergen’s feet. In fact, he almost envied his friend. Bergen was happily married—something he could never achieve himself. He was uncertain he was even ready to consider marriage at this time. Thomas Bergen had married Lady Elizabeth Newton over five years ago, after discovering her living a quiet but remarkable life, caring for her children and abandoned animals. He had brought her an orphaned donkey he had found while on the way to London, having heard she adopted strays of all types. The donkey, Clarence, had found a home and his friend had found a wife he had not been seeking. Besides the three children she had already adopted, they had twins of their own—a boy and a girl. Lucky fellow, he thought irrationally.

“I cannot see the humor here,” Colin said, irritated. This created a whole new wrinkle in his quest to help his brother. He pulled out the deed and glanced first at a brass sign attached to the railings and then back to the deed. “We have the right of it. Shall we find out what more there is to this story?” It incensed him to be caught like a flat through accepting a chance wager.

“You should probably determine the legitimacy of the paper he gave you,” Morray added in a droll tone. “Yet we are here. I propose we meet the chit and find out what we can.”

Morray was always willing to meet the chit, Colin thought miserably. “She occupies my property and is not grist for your mill, Morray. This may very well be an orphanage.” Even to his own ear, he sounded testy. Perhaps it was the combination of being injured and swindled. He had thought things might not be as Whitton represented, and rather than follow his intuition, he succumbed to the lure of the game. Winning the building presented a suitable solution to his and Jonathan’s desire to honor their father.

Morray snorted. “Ownership remains to be seen, but fear not, my fine fellow. You know innocent ladies are not to my taste. I prefer, shall I say, a more savage entertainment. Your young woman is safe.”

“She is not my woman,” Colin snapped.

“I say, Shefford, you are letting this become bothersome. I have found that the biggest surprises can sometimes turn out to be the best ones. I, for one, am eager to meet the face behind the curtain.” Morray jerked his head toward the same curtain which had moved earlier, revealing a lovely face framed by soft, blonde ringlets staring down at the three of them.

The large oak door at the top of the steps had recently been rubbed down, most likely to prepare for a fresh coat of paint. Colin took in the neatened appearance of the portico and lifted the plain brass knocker to announce their presence. Less than a minute later, a small hatch above the knocker slid open and an older woman’s face appeared for a moment before the opening closed and the door opened.

“Good day, my lords. May I be of help?” A short, mob-capped woman stood at the door, filling the opening.

“I am Lord Shefford, and I wish to look over my recently acquired property. I must admit to being somewhat startled to find the house occupied,” Colin began.

“Oh, dear! Beg pardon, my lord.” The short woman closed the door.

“I say, did you just get the door closed in your face?” Bergen gibed.

“Stubble it, Bergen.” He lifted the knocker and gave three quick raps.

“I am sorry, Shefford. I should not be fooling at your expense.” Bergen smirked, putting the lie to his apology. “’Tis just that this reminds me a little of my first meeting with Elizabeth. I think I am merely amused by the coincidence.”

“This has no similarity to when you met your wife, I assure you. I am not meeting my future wife,” he grumbled as the door opened again. The older woman had disappeared, replaced by a beautiful young woman dressed in a plain cotton dress of a deep navy-blue color, covered with a white apron. She had golden blonde hair, bound neatly in a loose chignon, and chocolate brown eyes—eyes a man could lose himself in. “May I speak with your employer, my dear,” Colin said politely.

“Good day, my lords.” She bobbed a curtsey. “My name is Miss Mason and I am the headmistress here. Please forgive my housekeeper’s lack of deference.” She paused, smiling sweetly. “We are unaccustomed to having many visitors, especially gentlemen as distinguished as yourselves. Have you come to make a donation to the school?”

Meet Anna St. Claire

Anna St. Claire is a big believer that nothing is impossible if you believe in yourself. She sprinkles her stories with laughter, romance, mystery and lots of possibilities, adhering to the belief that goodness and love will win the day.

Anna is both an avid reader author of American and British historical romance. She and her husband live in Charlotte, North Carolina with their  two dogs and often, their two beautiful granddaughters, who live nearby. Daughter, sister, wife, mother, and Mimi—all life roles that Anna St. Claire relishes and feels blessed to still enjoy. And she loves her pets – dogs and cats alike, and often inserts them into her books as secondary characters.

Anna relocated from New York to the Carolinas as a child. Her mother, a retired English and History teacher, always encouraged Anna’s interest in writing, after discovering short stories she would write in her spare time.

As a child, she loved mysteries and checked out every Encyclopedia Brown story that came into the school library. Before too long, her fascination with history and reading led her to her first historical romance—Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind, now a treasured, but weathered book from being read multiple times. The day she discovered Kathleen Woodiwiss,’ books, Shanna and Ashes In The Wind, Anna became hooked. She read every historical romance that came her way and dreams of writing her own historical romances took seed.

Today, her focus is primarily the Regency and Civil War eras, although Anna enjoys almost any period in American and British history. She would love to connect with any of her readers on her website – www.annastclaire.com, through email—annastclaireauthor@gmail.com, Instagram – annastclaire_author, BookBub – www.bookbub.com/profile/anna-st-claire,Twitter – @1AnnaStClaire, Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/authorannastclaire/ or on Amazon – https://www.amazon.com/Anna-St-Claire/e/B078WMRHHF?ref=.

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A Lonely Vicar for Valentine’s Day

Welcome to my stop on the Valentine’s Day Flash Fiction blog hop for 2021

Thank you, Tanya Wilde, for sharing your book, A Promise of Scandal, and for your Valentine’s gift of a story.

Here’s mine. [UPDATE: GIVEAWAY OVER but the story is still here.]

A gift on Valentine’s Day

When the knock came, Barney Somerville was writing a sermon for St Valentine’s Day. On Holy Love, not on the romantic love his younger parishioners giggled about and hoped for. He was not qualified to speak about romantic love, and was not likely to become so.

As curate for his father in this isolated parish, his only income was a stipend barely sufficient to clothe and feed him, supplemented by the generosity of those parishioners who could spare a couple of cabbages or a cod or two from a good catch of fish.

Love outside of marriage was against his calling and his morals. And marriage was beyond his means.

Just as well he had never met a woman he would care to spend the rest of his life with.

The knock disrupted his mournful musings, and was followed by another before he could reach the door. He opened to a woman he didn’t recognise. Unusual, but not improbable. He had only been in the parish for six months, and perhaps she lived in an outlying hamlet and had been unable to attend church. Or perhaps she was a traveller, passing through.

Certainly, she was dressed for travel, as were the infant perched on her hip and the boy behind her on the path, head down, kicking at pebbles. The two children were dressed in clothes that had been inexpertly dyed a deep mourning black.

He had time to make that assessment and open his mouth to ask how he could help when she demanded, “Are you Mr Somerville?”

“I am. How—?”

She interrupted. “Mr Barney Somerville?”

“Yes. May—?”

The woman thrusted the infant at him. “Then these are yours. Boy! Carry the bags for your uncle!”

The boy looked up, disclosing the countenance that had been hidden by the cap. Barney didn’t have time to take in more than the dark skin and angry eyes before he had his arm full of little girl; a blond moppet who stared solemnly into his face then gave a deep sigh and tucked her head into the crook of his neck.

His sister’s children. He clutched the little one close. Annabel. Her sunny little darling, his sister had called her in her letters. He had still not replied to the last one, dated only two weeks ago and delivered yesterday.

“I am feeling somewhat better this past week, Barney. Perhaps my little brother has been praying for me. Perhaps I will not need, after all, to burden you with my treasures, though it feels wrong to call them burdens when they have been my greatest blessings. My clever lad, with the heart and soul of a hero, and my sunny little darling, his sister.

When you wrote to say you would offer us all a home — you cannot know how it eased my mind, dear brother. I hope I will be able to come, but Barney, I am so grateful to know you are willing to have the children should anything happen.”

Tears in his eyes, his mind a whirling blankness, he could barely muster words of thanks to the woman, who was announcing that she had delivered the children, as promised, and must hurry to rejoin her husband, who would have procured a change of horses by now. “We want to be in Yarmouth by nightfall. You! Boy! Be good for your uncle, hear?”

She was through the lych gate and on her way down the lane before Barney had wrestled his grief into submission enough to speak again.

“You are very welcome, Daniel,” he said to his nephew. “Are you hungry? Come inside and I will see what there is to eat.”

Something to eat. A place to sleep. He had five spare rooms with bedframes and mattresses, left by the previous incumbent, although he had no idea of their condition. He had been using only the one bedchamber. Would there be sufficient linen and blankets to make up beds for a boy and a little girl? Surely.

He should send for Mrs Withers. She was paid five shillings a month to come daily to cook and clean, but turned up four or five times a week and usually limited her culinary contributions to heating a pie or a stew gifted by another parishioner.

He managed to occupy his mind with such practical necessities, while underneath the grief raged howling. His sister was dead. Dead to him, by his father’s decree, more than a decade ago, when she married against their father’s will. But he had known that she was still living in the world, and just these past three months they had found one another again.

Now she was gone. She who had been a little mother to him when he was not much bigger than Annabelle, his friend and confidante when he was Daniel’s age and she a girl on the threshold of adulthood. She had given him a card each Valentine’s Day until her father exiled her, made with her own hands, and he had drawn her pictures of hearts and written inexpert poems praising her chocolate cake and her roast lamb.

They would never meet again in this life, and all that was left of her sat at his kitchen table, eating day old bread and cheese, toasted over the kitchen fire. Her last Valentine’s Day gift to her little brother.

He left Daniel to supervise Annabel and went upstairs with some sheets he had found to make their beds. Silently, he addressed his Maker. “I don’t know how to do this, God. Raising two grieving children on my own? Father won’t increase my stipend. He is likely to demand I hand them over to an orphanage, and that I will not do. I cannot believe You expect it of me.”

The turmoil within stilled. Barney took the warmth that spread in its place as an answer. “They will stay with me, and I will trust you to look after us,” he said.

He hoped, though, that God planned to send them some help.

***

Six weeks on, a sullen and angry Daniel has annoyed half the parish and Barney is more frazzled than ever. Then a storm comes, and with it the miracle he didn’t quite like to pray for.

Read Barney’s unexpected romance in When Dreams Come True, a novella in Storm & Shelter, currently on preorder at the special discount price of 99c.

Storm & Shelter

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

A collection of eight all-new novellas. See blurbs here. One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming stories.

Books2Read link

 

Download Chasing the Tale

GIVEAWAY OVER–It’s still available here.

Escape into another place and time just long enough for a lunch or coffee break in eleven short stories from the imagination of award-winning author Jude Knight. Nine Regency plus one colonial New Zealand and one Medieval Scotland.

Go in the draw to win a gift card

The contest was open for long Valentine’s day—from sunrise on 14th February in New Zealand (noon on February 13 U.S. EST) until midnight on 14th February in Hawaii (or 5 AM February 15 U.S. EST). When the contest ended, we collected all comments on all 15 blogs in the hop.

The winner of the gift card to the value of US$75 was Traci Bell. Her comment on Alina K. Field’s blog was the one drawn at random from the 300 comments across the 15 blogs.

Next up, Riana Everly

Thank you for joining me today. Your next stop is the lovely Riana Everly, author of romance and historical romance with a Canadian twist. Enjoy!

 

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Go Georgian Architecture hunting in London

Just a short post this week to share a few resources on Georgian townhouses.

Here’s a site I found that explores Georgian architecture in London, with lots of examples, useful labels and fun explanations.

https://artsandculture.google.com/exhibit/a-spotter-s-guide-the-early-georgian-townhouse/kAIy8l4S5n_gKA

This takes us inside:

https://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/2009/06/03/characteristics-of-the-georgian-town-house/

As does this:

https://austenauthors.net/peak-inside-the-typical-regency-era-townhouse/

Enjoy! And if you want more, look for architectural pattern books from the era! They were resources for builders, and are great fun.

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After the Kiss on WIP Wednesday

We can tell a lot about the people in the books we read by how they behave after a kiss. Are they embarrassed, happy, nonchalant? What are they thinking? Do their thoughts match or are they each believe different things about what just happened. I’d love you to show me an excerpt in the comments. Mine is from next month’s release, To Mend the Broken Hearted.

“Ruth…” he said her name on a groan, then again, this time more sharply, turning his head as her mouth followed his and tried to reconnect. “Ruth. Sweetness. We have to stop.”

Yes. Yes, they did. Heavens! Jeyhun and Zyba were somewhere nearby, perhaps just around the corner, and she was draped over the Earl of Ashbury like a tavern slattern. She jerked away from him, the heat rising in her face. Whatever did he think?

“I beg your pardon,” she murmured.

“I am the one that should apologise, but I find it hard to be sorry. That kiss…!” Val’s voice still sounded strained, as if he was in pain. Her doctor’s mind registered a point from her reading: extreme tumescence could be painful, and when she had been on his lap she had felt his… If her face got any hotter, it would melt.

She opened her mouth to make some sort of an excuse for her behaviour, or to change the subject to something innocuous. But what came out just added to her embarrassment. “I have never been kissed before. Was it…?” She wasn’t sure what she was asking. Was it exceptional? Was it meaningful to you? Was it something we could do again? Perhaps all of them.

Val, who had dropped his arms when she shifted away, lifted his good hand to cup her cheek and lift her face so that he could gaze into her eyes. “I have never had a kiss like that in my life. Ruth, you are an exceptional woman, and make me wish with all my heart I was a better man.”

She leaned into his hand. “You are a good man, Valentine Monforte,”

A burst of dialogue came from just beyond the hedge that shielded them. Jeyhun and Zyba were returning.

Val caressed her lips with his thumb before standing, allowing his fingers to trail over her cheek as he dropped his hand and stepped away. He was just in time. Jeyhun and Zyba rounded the turn in the path, and their stolen moment together was over.

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Tea with a mother-in-law

The Duchess of Haverford cast a practiced glance around the large room. As hostess, it was her task to ensure that all of her guests enjoyed themselves during the hour they allowed for social engagement after the monthly meeting of the Ladies Foundation for the Support and Encouragement of Gentlewoman Scholars, Artists and Artisans.

She narrowed her eyes at one group of ladies. Seated in a far corner, they had their heads together. Something about the way three of them leaned forward, eyes fixed on the fourth, set Eleanor’s hackles up.

The speaker was Lady Stanton—the Dowager Lady Stanton for a second time, since her widower son had recently remarried. Undoubtedly, she was sharing gossip and, knowing Lady Stanton, Eleanor was sure it would be unkind, and probably scandalous.

With a sigh, Eleanor set off around the room to see what damage was being done to someone’s reputation, and to try to set it right.

“So you see,” Lady Stanton was saying, “He is already regretting the match. I can only hope it is not too late to have the marriage annulled, for I could not countenance a divorce, even to remove That Woman from the family.”

Ah. The lady was attacking her new daughter-in-law again. “I find the new Lady Stanton to be charming,” Eleanor said, “and my son has nothing but praise for the way she conducts her father’s business.”

Lady Stanton was not so lost to propriety as to glare at the duchess, but Eleanor was sure she wanted to. Or perhaps not, for there was a gleam of triumph in her eyes. “She is in trade, like her father,” the nasty scold pointed out. “Not what a Stanton looks for in a wife.”

“Your son is old enough to make his own choices,” Eleanor reminded her.

“One would have thought so,” Lady Stanton said, the gleam appearing again. “But since his wife left him on their wedding night, I can only suppose that he is regretting that he did not listen to his mother.”

“Left him?” Eleanor asked. Her son Aldridge had met up with Lord Stanton the night before last, when both had been changing horses at a posting inn during that dreadful storm. “Went ahead of him to their country estate, rather, when Lord Stanton was called out on government business.”

“Is that what you heard, Your Grace?” Lady Stanton was now smiling with perverse satisfaction. “I think not.”

“We shall see,” Eleanor told her, coldly. “In the meanwhile, Lady Stanton, I am certain your son would not wish to hear that you have laundering the family linen in public.”

She retired with honours in the bout, but took a moment to say a prayer for the newly-weds. Where on earth could they have gone in such dreadful weather?

Lady Stanton is wrong. Her successor has not left her husband, but is on a mission to find her missing ship, or at least her undercover agent, who has escaped France and should have been aboard.

Lord Stanton’s Shocking Seaside Honeymoon: Cerise DeLand

She is so wrong for him.

Miss Josephine Meadows is so young. In love with life. His accountant in his work for Whitehall. Her father’s heir to his trading company—and his espionage network.

Lord Stanton cannot resist marrying her. But to ensure Wellington defeats Napoleon, they must save one of Josephine’s agents.

Far from home, amid a horrific storm, Stanton discovers that his new bride loves him dearly.

Can he truly be so right for her?

And she for him?

Storm & Shelter: A Bluestocking Belles Collection With Friends

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas.

Find out more on the Bluestocking Belles’ project page. 

Only 99c while on preorder. Published April 13th.

 

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A time to remember; a time to grow

It is Waitangi Weekend in New Zealand — the day we commemorate the treaty on which our nation is founded. New Zealand is a country with three languages: English, Maori and New Zealand sign. It is also a multicultural land, with many threads interwoven to form a rich tapestry of life in the South Pacific. Waitangi Weekend reminds us that, in a sense, it has only two peoples: tangata whenua (the people of the land, who were here before the whalers, the sealers, the missionaries and the settlers) and tangata tiriti (all the rest of us, who are here by right of the Treaty of Waitangi, a treaty signed between a representative of Queen Victoria and the Maori chiefs of New Zealand 181 years ago). As our national anthem, God defend New Zealand, says: “Men of every creed and race gathered here before Thy Face”.

At Mass today, we sang the national anthem – it is, after all, a hymn. We sang the first verse in Maori, and then in English.

I’ve often thought how peaceable our national anthem is – so many other anthems are military in origin and martial in flavour. Every time I hear it, these words strike me: ‘from dissension, envy, hate and corruption guard our state’. How many other countries pray for freedom from corruption every time they sing their national anthem?

I looked it up this evening – there are websites that have collected over 400 national anthems from all over the world. It was intriguing.

Only a small percentage are prayers/hymns; most of those ask God to save or bless the country/the monarch, many ask Him for victory over enemies… “Send her victorious,” “God who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.” The national anthem of the Isle of Man celebrates the gifts of God, and in particular the seas that keep the Isle of Man safe.

The Japanese national anthem is a tanka, a five line, 31 syllable poem: “May the reign of the Emperor continue for a thousand, nay, eight thousand generations and for the eternity that it takes for small pebbles to grow into a great rock and become covered with moss.”

Some of the words of national anthems have been left behind by time. Perhaps the US Americans don’t sing anymore the verse that includes the words: “Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave.” Australia has officially dropped the verses that refer to Mother Britain. Stirring though the music is, the words of Flower of Scotland don’t seem to me particularly encouraging, suggesting, as they do, that Scots are no longer as brave or as powerful: “when will we see your like again?” Ireland’s national anthem also recalls past battles: “In Erin’s cause, come woe or weal, ‘Mid cannons’ roar and rifles peal.”

As far as my researches reveal, a prayer for protection from corruption is unique among national anthems. Today, in the light of the events of 2020, I was particularly struck by the line in the first verse that asks “Make her praises heard afar.” Well, that happens.

As well as some amazing images of my lovely country, the video above has all the verses of God Defend New Zealand, including this one – we may be peaceful, but we’re not pushovers:

Peace, not war, shall be our boast,
But, should foes assail our coast,
Make us then a mighty host,
God defend our free land.
Lord of battles in Thy might,
Put our enemies to flight,
Let our cause be just and right,
God defend New Zealand.

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A word from your King and more

Have you seen the Georgian Papers Programme website?

The GPP is a ten-year interdisciplinary project to digitise, conserve, catalogue, transcribe, interpret and disseminate 425,000 pages or 65,000 items in the Royal Archives and Royal Library relating to the Georgian period, 1714-1837.

Wow. Just wow!

As you would expect, the archive, the research papers based on the archive, and the blog based on the research papers are a treasure trove for anyone interested in the era. For example, who knew that Prince Frederick, the Prince of Wales, went truffle hunting?

When I think of truffle-hunting (which is not that often), I think of pigs rooting around in Italian forests, not dogs in the English countryside. Indeed, most of the recent literature on truffle-hunting dogs implies that the use of dogs to find truffles is a relatively recent development. Frederick, Prince of Wales’, rental of two truffle hunting dogs for three months in 1750-51 tells us that using dogs to find these valuable fungi is a much older idea than most modern truffle-hunters realize.

Frederick’s account books do not mention the breed of these rental pups. The Italian Lagatto Romagnolo, a curly-haired water retriever, is renowned for its truffle-hunting abilities, but Labrador retrievers, poodles, and even Chihuahuas can be truffle-hunters. Indeed, dogs are better for hunting truffles than pigs, because dogs are far less likely to eat the truffle once they’ve found it!

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Secondary romances

 

Do you enjoy romances with a second courting couple? Perhaps they are the couple for the next book in the series. Or perhaps they are a foil and contrast to the main protagonists. Sometimes, as in the excerpt that follows, the secondary couple have their romance arc over the whole series. Feel free to share an excerpt with your secondary courting couple. Here are the Duchess of Haverford and the Duke of Wellbridge, meeting alone in the third novel in the four novel series Children of the Mountain King: The Return.

James followed Eleanor across a small entrance hall to a cosy little parlour, where a fire burned in the hearth and a tray with a tea set waited on a small table between two chairs. Eleanor took the seat closest to the tea pot and waved her hand to the other. “Be seated, dear friend. Would you care for tea?”

Tea was not what he hungered for. For ten years after Mahzad’s death, he had thought himself beyond desire, but Eleanor brought it roaring back the first time he saw her on his return to England. Getting to know her again had only increased his longing; she was even lovelier, both within and without, than when they had first met long ago, before James was forced into exile and Eleanor was made to marry Haverford.

He kept his feelings to himself. If he told her his hopes, and if she shared them, he didn’t trust himself to be alone with her like this without besmirching his honour and insulting hers.

Eleanor was a married woman and virtuous, even if her husband was a monster. Even if the old devil was rotting from within and locked away for his own good and to protect the duchy. He accepted the offered seat and the cup of tea; asked after the duchess’s children and caught her up to date with his own; exchanged comments on the war news and the state of the harvest.

“James,” she said at last, “I proposed this meeting for a reason.”

“To see me, I hope. Since Parliament went into recess and we both left London, I have missed our weekly visits to that little bookshop you frequent.”

Eleanor smiled, and James fancied that he saw her heart in her eyes for a moment, and it leapt to match his. But her smile faded and her lashes veiled her eyes. “That, too, my dear friend. I have missed you, too. But there is another matter I need to bring to your attention.”

She grimaced and gave her head a couple of impatient shakes. “It seems I am always muddying our time together with gossip and scandal. I am so sorry, James.”

“One day, I hope we will be able to meet without subterfuge, and for no reason but our pleasure,” James said. The last word was a mistake. He might be old, but at the word ‘pleasure’ his body was reminding him urgently that he was not dead yet.

Eleanor seemed unaffected, focused on whatever bad news she had to give him. “You are aware, I am sure, of the history of your niece Sarah’s ward?”

“Her daughter?” James queried. Of course Eleanor knew. She was a confidante of his sister-in-law.

“Indeed. What you may not know—what I have just found out—is that Society is making that assumption and spreading the story.”

James shook his head. “I assumed the gossips and busybodies would reach that conclusion, but without proof or confirmation, and with the family firmly behind her, the rumours will die.”

“True, if that was all. But James, you may not know—Sarah may not know—that her little girl’s father is back in England and, if my sources are accurate, seeking a bride.”

James stiffened. “The coward has returned?”

“As to that,” Eleanor said, “Grace always suspected that Sutton and Winshire had something to do with his disappearance, and it is whispered that his father bought him out of the navy, where he had worked his way up to being a surgeon, after being press ganged.”

“And your sources are connecting Sarah and her child with this man?”

Eleanor shook her head. “Not yet. The two rumours are separate. But if the two of them meet, people may make connections. Especially if the child resembles her father.” She shrugged, even that small elegant movement unusually casual for the duchess. “It is all very manageable, James, but you needed to know.”

“I appreciate it, Eleanor.” He sighed. “English Society is more of a snake pit that the court of the Shah of Shahs or the Ottoman Sultan Khan. Tell me, what is going on between my niece Charlotte and your son Aldridge?”

Eleanor’s answer was hasty, but her eyes slid away from his. “Nothing. There can be nothing between Charlotte and Aldridge.

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Tea with fears for Letty

“But you will let us know if my niece contacts you, Your Grace.” The impertinent man was not asking, but demanding.

Eleanor allowed a haughty eyebrow to express her opinion of his attempt at command, but did not flatter him with a response. “My butler shall show you and your son out, Kent.”

“I am her betrothed,” the younger fool insisted. “I have a right to know where she is.”

Eleanor ignored him, exchanging a glance with her butler that had him summoning the footman from the hall to insist that the two men leave.

“I doubt it,” her friend Grace observed, as the door closed behind them. “I have seen Miss Lovell in the company of the younger Mr Kent, and I very much doubt she is amenable to his suit.”

“I would hope not,” Eleanor said. “I do not know Miss Lovell well, but I have formed a good opinion of her sense, and no woman of sense would take on an overgrown schoolboy like that one. He and that father of his would strip her fortune in no time.”

Grace frowned as her friend poured tea. They had been about to partake when the Kents had been announced, their message begging help to find a missing niece and ward guaranteeing them a few minutes of the duchess’s time. Their unpleasant personalities and the holes in the story they told meant she ignored the waiting refreshments and had them removed as quickly as possible, though not before she had told them, truthfully, that she had not heard from the missing heiress, and had no idea where she was.

“Did she come to you, Grace, or to Georgie or Sophia?” The Winshire women ran a village refuge for women who needed to escape intolerable situations, but Grace was shaking her head. “Not that I have heard. I imagine she is trying to reach her uncle Robert Lovell, who is in Brussels, I believe.”

“I hope she has reached him, or found refuge elsewhere,” Eleanor told her. “The storm in the North Sea is terrible, or so my son says.”

Letty Lovell is caught up in the storm, and her ship goes down in the sea near the village of Fenwick on Sea. She is rescued by an improbable hero in the first story of the new collection, Storm & Shelter, on preorder now.

An Improbable Hero

By Mary Lancaster

A runaway heiress, a mysterious stranger.

When Letty’s ship founders in a violent storm, she forges a rare bond with her rescuer.

Simon is a troubled man on a final, deadly mission—until the spirited yet soothing Letty makes him question everything. Hiding in plain sight among the refugees at The Queen’s Barque, Simon is more than capable of protecting them both. But when the floods recede, can either of them say goodbye?

Storm & Shelter: A Bluestocking Belles Collection With Friends

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas.

Find out more on the Bluestocking Belles’ project page. 

Only 99c while on preorder. Published April 13th.

 

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Spotlight on A Baron for Becky

Now for a throwback. In 2015, I published A Baron for Becky, a book in two halves, with a different hero in each. A woman’s story that also included a romance. A new review prompted me to feature it this weekend. It’s still one of my favourites. And it’s timely to feature it again, since I’m working on the story of the left-over hero, who will finally follow his heart a bit later this year.

Here’s the blurb:

The pampered courtesan. Becky dreams of a future for her child that does not depend on beauty, sex and the whims of a man.

The scarred and haunted baron. Hugh wants a future for his name, as impossible as that may be for a man who cannot father a child.

The wealthy and charismatic heir. Aldridge’s riotous ways conceal a good heart. His future as one of the foremost dukes of the realm keeps him from allowing it to rule his private life. Personal happiness is not for him, but can he give it to two people he loves?

But even a future duke cannot command the happiness of others. If their pasts don’t break them first, Becky and Hugh must build their own future, together.

And here’s the lovely review that popped up unexpectedly in my Amazon author central report, by Charlotte Brothers. Thank you, Charlotte.

A Baron for Becky was an extremely immersive read. Far from being a “churned” story that glosses over the darker, and emotionally complicated sides of the Regency rake and the women that they swept into their arms and beds, the characters are believably complex, and completely pulled me in.

I would describe it as a heartfelt and gritty tale—sexy, but with realistically vulnerable and damaged people. I mean by that, that it shows how value affirming sensuality can be, and also how destructive and dangerous.

The book has what just may be my favourite first chapter start.

Aldridge never did find out how he came to be naked, alone, and sleeping in the small summerhouse in the garden of a country cottage. His last memory of the night before had him twenty miles away, and—although not dressed—in a comfortable bed, and in company.

For more information, a few snippets from editorial reviews, and buy links, see my book page.