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A Twist Upon a Regency Tale
Ruined heroine on WIP Wednesday
AI generated by hotspot.ai
And when I say ruined, I mean ruined. Poor Tammie. She was Tamsyn Roskilly long ago, and in the first scene of the book her boyhood love is thinking about going to London to find her. I’ve just started her book, Hold Me Fast, which is inspired by the folk tales Tam Lin, Thomas the Rhymer, and a host of stories about the Fairy Queen stealing away a musician to play at her feasts.
Every so often, Tammie Lind was struck by a sudden moment of clarity—a step into reality, as it were. Moments when she saw the company she was with, and her own behaviour, through the eyes of Tamsyn Roskilly. It was a sort of haunting, for Tamsyn had been killed long ago, smothered under Guy’s manipulations and Tammie’s own weaknesses.
Today, Tamsyn gazed with scorn at the fellow denizens of the laughing gas party. Ether was the drug of choice today. Tammie herself was as high as a kite, floating high above such mundane concerns as tomorrow’s rehearsal and the foolish fellow pawing at her. He was a peer of some sort. A boy with pretensions to being a songwriter. Guy would own him within a few weeks, and Tammie was part of his bait.
The boy was far too drunk on ether to do more than squeeze and prod. Tamsyn was indignant on her behalf. Silly Tamsyn. Tammie had not owned her own body in more years than she could, at the moment, count. She tried it anyway, numbering the years on her fingers, but she became lost in the mystery of whether a thumb counted as a finger and forgot the question.
She was vaguely aware that Guy was free from Tamsyn’s scorn. Tamsyn avoided looking at him. Wise Tamsyn. As usual, Guy sat a little apart, the untouchable Lord of Coombe, amused at the havoc he had caused. He seldom indulged in more than a taste of the various substances he supplied to his sycophants and the people, like Tammie, that he owned.
Tamsyn despised them all, and she hated Guy. Reality was overrated. Tammie no longer bothered with such emotions. She lined up for another turn at the gas, to nail Tamsyn’s soul back in the coffin of her imagination, but Guy stopped her with a word to the attendant.
“No more for Miss Lind. She has a rehearsal tomorrow. Tammie, time for bed.”
Tammie wanted to whine and howl. Instead, she turned obediently towards the stairs, but the sudden movement set her off balance, and as she steadied herself, she saw Guy nod towards the boy, who followed her to her room.
Tamsyn had made a mistake seven years ago, and since then, Tammie had paid and paid and paid. The boy was making a mistake now. Tammie felt a distant pity for him, but in the end, she would do as Guy ordered.
She took his hand. At least tonight was only the seeming of the thing. He would sleep off the ether and by the time he woke, she would be at rehearsal. Everyone would believe he had been favoured by the Devon Songbird. Perhaps he would believe it himself.
Sooner or later it would be true. Guy had used her that way before and she knew how it went. Blackmail material or bribery or simply yet another way to soften the boy’s resistance and break his spirit until he was putty in Guy’s hands.
Tammie was desperately trying to claw her way back to the floating sensation, but the harder she tried, the further it receded. Perhaps a shot of the gin she had hidden in her room. Guy had taken the last of her secret laudunum.
The boy threw himself at her as soon as she closed her bedchamber door. He clawed at her gown, increasingly frantic as the buttons refused to open for him. “Patience, my lord,” she soothed. “Lie down on the bed, and I shall prepare myself for you.”
He blinked at her, swaying on his feet, his surge of energy draining away.
“Lie down on the bed, my lord,” she repeated. She would sleep in the dressing room tonight. It would not be the first time.
She found the gin where she had hidden it, in a bag concealed within the folds of the new gown Guy had chosen for her to wear for a command performance at one of Society’s balls. Thank whatever diety looked after harlots and drunkards for this season’s fuller gowns.
Just a couple of fingers. She would be watched more closely now that he had her booked for so many performances. This would have to last until she could bribe or blackmail someone into supplying her with another bottle.
Without it, she would be dependent on Guy for each dose. He knew she needed a small drink of laudanum before a performance—on stage or in a drawing room. Just enough to quiet the jitters. Then, afterwards, if he was pleased with her performance, there would be something more powerful as a reward.
Tamsyn had tried to give up the substances that Guy insisted Tammie needed. More times than Tammie could count. Twice, she refused until he forced it down her throat. Once, she managed to evade her minders and hide until the craving turned to cramps and nausea, then vomiting as pain seized her whole body, then bad dreams so bizarre that they exceeded anything that she’d experienced while under the influence.
In one of those, the monsters that invaded the refuge she’d found proved to be men sent by Guy. Or perhaps the monsters were unreal and the invaders retrieved her while she was unconscious.
Whichever it was, Tammie woke up in the house Guy was renting at the time, in the half-floating half-dreaming state that said he had already given her something.
Tammie never allowed Tamsyn to run away again. Giving up opium and alcohol was hard enough, but worse was being brought back when she thought she was free.
It hurt too much to think about it. Tammie poured another two fingers. “You have had more than enough today,” Tamsyn scolded. “You will pass out if you drink that, too.”
“Fair point,” Tammie conceded.
She slid open the door. The boy was sound asleep on the bed, flat on his back, snoring. Tammie moved him so that he lay on his side, with a pillow behind his back to keep him from rolling. There. If he vomited, it would go on the sheets instead of drowning him. She patted his cheek. “Run as fast as you can, my lord,” she whispered. “The Earl of Coombe is not your friend. He is not anyone’s friend.”
Even if he had heard, he would not listen. She returned to the dressing room, tossed down the gin, stretched out on the maid’s pallet, and waited for oblivion.
Definitely not falling in love on WIP Wednesday
Ruadh had asked Lady Stancroft about their plans for the evening. He told himself that a social connection with the earl and his wife would be advantageous, but it was with the alluring sister that he imagined dancing. Indeed, with dancing in mind, he had asked his friend Nate, who had changed his bandages today, to add extra padding and bind the arm tightly so that bumping during vigorous exercise wasn’t likely to set it bleeding again.
And there she was, standing with the couple and a girl who might be a friend, or perhaps another sister. That girl doesn’t look like my Rose. He caught the mental slip. Not his Rose. He didn’t mean it in the sense of a deep connection. After all, he scarcely knew the lady. Lady Rosalind, he should have said.
His internal argument left him off-balance as he reached the family group, greeting Lady Stancroft first, then her lord, and lastly Lady Rosalind.
“Vivienne, may I present Major Douglas, the Master of Glencowan?” said Stancroft. “Douglas, another of my sisters, Lady Vivienne Ransome. My sister Pauline Turner is not here this evening.”
Lady Vivienne was a pretty girl in an ordinary sort of a way. The sort of girl he’d seen at every fashionable event in London to which he’d been enveigled by friends. Fair curls, pale skin, figure like a stick with only the smallest of bumps to indicate that she was female. He bowed politely. “I am delighted to meet you, Lady Vivienne. Lord Stancroft must be the envy of the gentlemen here to be the escort of three such lovely ladies.
Lady Stancroft wore yet another mask, this one ornamented with jewels that complemented those she wore at her wrist, her ears, and on her neck. Did she always wear the mask? He wondered what her story was.
But even as he answered Stancroft’s question about his reception at his grandfather’s house, his eyes kept sliding back to Lady Rosalind who was, in his opinion, the finest jewel in Stancroft’s collection. “I shall return tomorrow, and we shall see what happens,” he finished explaining.
Should he ask Lady Rosalind for a dance? He was certain she must have already given all of them away, and indeed, a man had just asked Lady Vivienne and been turned away with a charming disclaimer that she had no dances left.
When the man walked away without speaking to Lady Rosalind, his assumption was confirmed. Then the orchestra began to play, a man whisked Lady Vivienne off to the dance floor, and Lady Rosalind remained, chatting quietly with her sister-in-law.
“Lady Rosalind,” Ruadh said, hurriedly, before he could talk himself out of it, “would you honour me with this dance?” Now she would tell him that she did not dance tonight or some such claptrap.
But she didn’t. She smiled and said, “I would like that, Major Douglas.”
It was a quadrille, a dance performed by four couples, and they quickly found a group of three pairs lacking a fourth. She danced with grace and enthusiasm, her bountiful breasts performing an interesting jig of their own that made him grateful to be in a kilt, so his body’s response was concealed.
He mostly managed to keep his eyes on hers, rather than letting them slip below her neck, and was rewarded by her lovely eyes, which in the light of the candles danced with golden flames as she smiled at him.
The dance was vigorous, so they were unable to talk. The arm protested some of the movements, but not enough to inhibit him. As he walked the lady back to her brother’s side, he had just enough time to beg her for the supper dance. He was surprised when it was available. What was wrong with the gentlemen of London? He couldn’t understand why her every dance was not taken, as her sister said hers was.
Some remnant of his mother’s teaching remained with him enough that he did his duty by other young ladies while waiting for his next dance with Lady Rosalind. To come to the ball and dance with only one lady was to call attention to her, and to raise expectations with her, her family and the onlookers.
The idea didn’t panic him. He poked at it as if it was a tooth that had once been sore, waiting for the wince and the recoil. Was he seriously considering Lady Rosalind as a possible wife? He was too old and too broken. He didn’t know her well enough. She was too young for him—not young enough to be his daughter, but still much younger. She was English, and close to her family, but his wife would have to live in Galloway.
He was only here for a dance or two. That was all there could be.
Plot devices on WIP Wednesday
How did my goose girl equivalent come to be looking after sheep in the grounds of the castle of his betrothed? Amnesia seemed unlikely. And the goose girl trope of the thieving maid stealing her identity didn’t make sense to me, in a Regency context. (Though I’ve found a use for it.) So I have influenza, a snowstorm or avalanche, and a young man who doesn’t like fuss. This is how The Sincerest Flattery begins. (Don’t you love the cover?)
“Ride on ahead, Tris,” Percy begged. “Let them know I have been delayed.” At least, that is what he intended to say, though his stuffed up nose and raw throat garbled the words.
His brother apparently understood, for he shook his head. “I shouldn’t leave you, Percy. I won’t leave you, at least until after I’ve spoken with the physician.”
“Can’t keep a lady waiting,” Percy insisted, but he might have saved himself the trouble. Tris might be ten months his junior, and mostly content to go along with his old brother’s plans and schemes, but when he dug his toes in, there was no moving him.
A knock on the door. Perhaps it was the physician? It was the innkeeper’s wife, with a tray. “Some chicken soup for the young lord,” she offered.
Percy didn’t want food, but Tris insisted that he would recover more quickly if he kept up his strength. So he succumbed to having his pillows plumped so that he could sit up, at least enough to have the tray put on the bed.
But his head hurt to much to lift it, and the spoon felt as if it was made of steel and ten times the size. In the end, Tris fed him, a spoonful at a time, until he covered his mouth after the sixth spoonful. “Enough. Let me lie down, Tris. There’s a good chap.”
The innkeeper’s wife, who was hovering, asked, “Did you understand him, my lord?”
“He has had enough, and wants to lie back down,” Tris explained. “I daresay your head hurts, old chap.” He had picked up the tray and handed it the woman, and was supporting Percy with one arm, while rearranging the pillows with the other. “You should let me stay and nurse you, Percy.”
Percy shook his head, a slow and tiny movement from side to side, so as not to burst his pounding head right open.
“Are you twins, my lord?” the innkeeper’s wife asked, as people often did. They were not identical, but they looked very alike. It was an impertinent question, but Tris lacked the arrogance to give her rebuke any of the other Verseys would have offered. It was one of the things they all loved about Tris.
“We are not,” he said.
Another knock on the door, and this time it was the physician. Tris hustled the innkeeper’s wife away and fetched Martin while the doctor did his examination. That was a relief. If he had brought Martin to listen to instructions for Percy’s care, then Tris intended to follow his brother’s instructions.
This was a journey to meet the girl to whom Percy was betrothed. It would be rude to keep Lady Aurelia waiting, and Percy could already tell—was unsurprised to hear the physician telling his brother—that he would be a week or more in bed with this wretched cold.
This ague, rather, which is what the doctor called it. It didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did except for the wretched head, the throat, the blocked nose, the cough that seemed to twist his ribs inside his chest and tear his muscles.
The doctor droned on, and Percy heard bits and pieces in between bouts of coughing and musings about Lady Aurelia. Her miniature was pretty. His father had met her and said she was a comely chit. She had never had a Season, but then she was only seventeen, just a few months younger than Tris.
Their parents had signed the marriage agreements. The wedding was to be in six months. No one seemed to think it necessary for the two principals to the marriage to actually meet before they gathered in the church to be made man and wife.
Still, when Percy came up with the scheme to ride north and introduce himself to the lady and her family, the duke his father did not object. All he said was, “Comport yourself like a Versey, xxxtitlexxx. And take young Tris with you.”
Of course, that didn’t prevent his father from organising their travel, complete with a train of carriages branded with the crests of the Duke of Dellborough and full of servants. Percy and Tris abandoned them on the first day out from home. So here they were, travelling on horseback with just Martin to attend them, a couple of days behind the letter announcing their visit and at least four days ahead of the carriages with the rest of their servants and luggage.
The doctor had apparently finished, and was turning back to Percy. “Rest, Lord xxx. That’s the best—the only possibly medicine. I have left instructions for various ways to soothe your symptoms, but sleep is what you need more than anything.”
He left, taking the innkeeper’s wife with him. Tris took Percy’s hand and looked into his eyes, worried. “I do not want to leave you,” he said.
Percy squeezed Tris’s hand. “Lady Aurelia,” he said, though it sounded more like “Laay Aweia.”
Tris sighed. “Yes, I know.”
“I will look after Lord xxxtitlexxx,” Martin assured Tris.
Still Tris stayed, supervising the administration of the potion the doctor had ordered, which contained something in it that soothed the throat and sent Percy into the prescribed sleep. Next time he surfaced, Tris wasn’t there, which was a good thing, but Percy could not remember why. It was a woman who spooned stuff down his throat—chicken soup and some more of the potion. He thought she washed his face, too, but he was sinking back into sleep, his last thought as he succumbed, “The innkeeper’s wife!” Yes. That was who she was.
***
Aurrie was the first to see the man as he came up the drive, hunched over his horse’s neck. It was a beautiful piece of bloodstock. That was her first impression, her eyes drawn to the horse ahead of the gentleman.
He was a gentleman, as witnessed by the greatcoat he wore against the cold bearing five capes and the top hat that he retained on his head despite his collapsed position. Was he hurt? She cut across the lawn while the horse followed the curve of the drive, and reached the arch to the stableyard just before the rider.
He had managed to draw himself up. His face was hectic with fever and his eyes looked through her without seeing her.
“Sir,” she called out, and for a moment his eyes focused on hers. “Lady Aurelia,” he said, clearly. “Profound apologies…” And then his eyes rolled back and he slumped again, this time so fully that the top hat finally fell.
NOTE: I don’t appear to have referenced Percy’s heir by title in the books where he has been mentioned, so I’ll have to think of one for the heir to the Dellborough dukedom. My first drafts can be fairly messy
Happenstance in WIP Wednesday
Chance and coincidence play a larger part in real life that we like to admit. And also, of course, in fiction. This segment introduces the heroine in Hook Lyon and Sinker, my little mermaid reinterpretation. Chance has just come to her rescue, though it might not feel like it at the time.
If the kitten had not lost his ball behind the sofa, Lady Laureline Barclay might even now be moving inexorably towards her wedding day.
She was behind the sofa on her hands and knees when her brother and her betrothed entered the room. She stayed there when she realised they were talking about Tiber’s wish to postpone the long-expected event yet again.
“Not if you want Laurel’s dowry, you won’t,” her brother told him. “If she is not married before she turns twenty-five it all goes to a home for indigent gentlewomen. Our father changed the conditions the first time you put off the wedding, when Laurel was nineteen.”
Laurel frowned. She had not been aware of that. She would be twenty-five in a matter of months.
Tiber was surprised, too. He let loose a word that Laurel hadn’t heard before. “But you are joking, Ben, surely. Or making it up to force my hand.”
“Tiber,” said Benjamin, “you are my best friend, but you are a careless ass. Do you mean to tell me that you still haven’t read the marriage agreement? Even after agreeing—and then changing—five wedding dates? Six, now.”
That fetched a deep sigh from Tiber. “For good reason, Ben,” he insisted. “The first time, at least.” His voice brightened. “But you are earl now,” he reminded her brother. “Just change the agreements.”
“Can’t do it,” Ben disclosed. “The money for her dowry is in a trust, and I’m not a trustee. Besides, the trustees are bound by the terms my father set. Anyway, I’m not sure I would if I could. You have messed the poor girl about. Father was right to be suspicious of your motives. And don’t suggest I give her a dowry. My money is all tied up in property.”
That set Tiber off into another string of what Laurel was certain were expletives, accompanied by the sound of boots walking back and forth.
“If you don’t want my sister,” Benjamin added, “just break the betrothal, or ask her to do so. She needs to be married by the time she is twenty-five. I’m sure I could find someone to take her off my hands. She might be old for a bride, but she is comely enough. And she has a whopping dowry.”
The footsteps ceased.
“I esteem her dowry,” Tiber admitted. “I even quite like the lady. She is pretty enough. A bit too strong-minded for my tastes, though. I think she will make the devil of a wife. But I have promised to marry her, and so I will. I don’t dislike the idea of marriage so much that I would leave her to dwindle into a spinster, for I doubt anyone else will have her at this late stage. And at least her dowry will allow me to set up another mistress.”
Laurel was over her first shock, and was in a tearing fury. She bounced to her feet and declared. “However, I shall not have you, Captain Lord Tiberius Seward. Consider our betrothal at an end. Benjamin, I shall find my own husband, thank you very much. One to my taste and not to yours.”
Both Tiber and Benjamin tried to change her mind. Tiber promised to be faithful, looking so doubtful about the idea that Laurel laughed.
“You can barely bring yourself to say the word, Tiber. Do not make me and yourself look ridiculous. You know as well as I do that our marriage would be miserable. I would indeed make you a devil of a wife, and you would make me a devil of a husband. Count your blessings, Tiber. Being jilted by me is certainly one of them.”
After Tiber left, Benjamin told Laurel she would be sorry when she realised what she had done, for Laurel had loved Lord Tiberius since she was seventeen. Laurel replied thatshe had been foolishly infatuated with Tiber when she was seventeen, but had lost her respect and even her affection for him over the interceding years. “You must know, Benjamin, that I have been convinced for some time that going ahead with this marriage would be a mistake. We do not suit, Tiber and I.”
Mama, when she was told, said she entered into Laurel’s feelings, but Laurel was foolish to think that Lord Tiberius would be faithful, for men were not. And besides, what would everyone say if she broke the betrothal? “Every one will think there is something wrong with you. You will be sorry when everyone jeers and calls you an old maid,” she said.
The gossips already thought there was something wrong with her. She had been betrothed for five years and the wedding had been postponed five times already. “People can call me what they wish,” Laurel replied. “I will not wed Tiber.” Mama had an attack of the vapours and retired.
Laurel remained adamant. Marry Tiber she would not. She retreated to her bedroom to think of a plan, but only after begging a couple of sardines from the cook to feed to the kitten as a reward.
Meet my “Little Mermaid with a Twist” in WIP Wednesday
Angelico Warrington made his painful way from the parlour of his employer down the stairs to the main hall of the Lyon’s Den, where he was nearly due to play another set with the other musicians. His progress was slow, but with a crutch on each side to take part of the weight off his damaged feet, Angel did make progress.
That was an improvement over those excruciating months after his friends rescued him from the French camp. They had insisted on sending him to London to see the best doctors, but he remembered little of the journey from Spain, and not a great deal of successive failed treatments. Except for the pain. He remembered the pain.
He had been working for Mrs Dove Lyons for a calendar month, completing the trial period she had offered him at the behest of her chief guard. Her wolves, she called them. Titan, their leader had served with some of same officers as Angel, but at different times. Still, at the request of one of his friends, he had put in a word with Mrs Dove Lyons, who had declared herself willing to employ Angel for a month. And after that, she said, they would see.
He had not doubted his ability to prove himself. Angel had always been a capable musician, though he had been a better singer. Once. Before he screamed his throat raw over and over during the month he had been in the hands of the French.
He had been a good dancer, too, once.
No point in repining. He could have been killed when the explosives he’d been setting under a bridge went off early and trapped his feet under piles of rock and his head under the water. He could have died at the hands of the French who rescued him, imprisoned him, and tortured him to find out what he knew about the movements and plans of the British army.
He could have passed away after his friends got him out, since by then the wounds in both feet were infected. Or he could have lost his feet altogether. The surgeons had been keen to cut off the poor mangled objects that remained after his captors had repeatedly rebroken the bones, over and over.
Instead, he was alive, free, and mostly recovered. He was even mobile, sort of. And he now had a permanent job. Mrs Dove Lyons had pronounced herself satisfied with his performances in the post month. She had offered him a contract and an increase in his wages. He could possibly move from the fourth floor room he shared with one of the other musicians, if he could find a cheap enough place on the ground floor somewhere.
He was smiling as he reached the intermediate landing and executed the manouver that allowed him to change directions, but one foot came down more heavily than he intended, and he shut his eyes against the pain that stabbed up from every poorly set bone in the dismal appendage.
As he did so, a warm fragrant body collided with him, and he lurched off balance into the wall, gritting his teeth against the agony, now from both feet as his crutches clattered to the floor.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” said a melodious voice even as a firm hand grasped his upper arm on one side to support him.
“Take a moment, Nereus. My lady, would you fetch my friend’s crutches?” It was Titan, the head wolf. Not that his true name was Titan, any more than Angel’s was Nereus. But Mrs Dove Lyon gave each of her workers a name—a stage name as it were. From Midsummer Dream, most of them, but not Angel. For him, their employer had strayed into Greek mythology. Nereus was the shape-changing god of the sea and particularly of its fish. Titan must have told the lady what Angel had done when he joined the Allied cause in Spain.
Titan’s was the firm hand, but not the melodious voice. Angel had to see who that was.
He managed to open his eyes, but the lady was wearing a bonnet with a thick veil. A pale blue rather than black, as was the fashionable gown that highlighted rather than disguising her figure. So not a widow. Wonderful. He had fallen in front of one of the customers.
“I truly do apologise Mr Nereus,” she insisted, as she handed Angel each crutch and he tucked them under his arms. “I was speaking to Mr Titan over my shoulder, and not looking where I was going. I do hope I have not hurt you. Well. I mean, I can see that I hurt you, but not worse, I mean.”
“Nothing that won’t pass, my lady,” Angel assured her. “As long as I keep my weight off my feet, they will be better soon.” Or as good as they ever were, which was the best that could be expected.
“Mrs Dove Lyons is expecting you, Lady Laureline,” Titan told the lady, and she smiled at Angel. “If you are sure you are unharmed, Mr Nereus,” she said, and continued on up the stairs.
Titan stopped to say “Stay there and I’ll help you down when I’ve seen the lady to Mrs Dove Lyons. He hurried after the lady.
Angel stayed leaning against the wall, it and his crutches doing most of the job of supporting him. He ignored the pain—it was a familiar companion. The thoughts that seethed in his mind took all of his attention. That was Lady Laurel.
Laurel Barclay. The girl he had once adored from afar. The girl he had saved from the sea when the ship they were on sank off the coast of Portugal. Eight years ago, that had been, in 1808. She had returned to her world and he had joined the British army.
Why on earth was Lady Laurel, virtuous sister of an earl, and flower of the English ballrooms, visiting the proprietor of a gambling den? Even such a gambling den as this, popular as it was with men and women alike, was not the place for an unmarried daughter of an aristocratic family.
A thought crossed his mind, but that couldn’t be her errand. Mrs Dove Lyon was a matchmaker for the misfits and the desperate. Laurel is betrothed. And if she does not like Lord Tiberius Seward9, and who could blame her, she can just choose another.
Titan caught him by surprise. “Nereus. You waited. Do we need to call a doctor?”
A fair comment. Usually, Angel refused help. “The lady,” Angel said. “I knew her once, a long time ago. I was curious about why she was here.”
Titan raised a brow. “Her business with Mrs Dove Lyon is her own. When did you have an opportunity to meet Lady Laureline? I thought you had only been in England for eighteen months.”
“It was long ago,” Angel said. “We were both on the same ship coming from Italy.” For part of the trip, anyway. Angel had been taken from his Sicilian home by pirates, and was on his way to the Tunisian slave blocks when the pirate vessel encountered a British naval patrol and came off the worst.
“The commodore was Lady Laureline’s uncle—Lord Somerford’s brother. I can’t say that we met, exactly. She was well chaperoned, and I was working with the crew. Then, off Portugal, a storm struck the fleet. It was scattered and our ship was blown onto rocks and foundered.” Angel shrugged. “Lady Laureline was the first person I rescued.”
“Which means,” Titan observed, “that you went back into the sea. More than once if I was to guess. How many people did you rescue, exactly?”
Angel shrugged again. He had no idea. Just the memory of aching heavy muscles as he forced himself through the waves again and again.
Spotlight on Snowy and the Seven Doves
Will Snowy be able to prove his identity, claim his birthright and make Margaret his viscountess before his stepfather succeeds in eliminating him forever?
The child found beaten and half dead in an alley has grown to a man. Seven soiled doves rescued him and raised him in their brothel. Now he must rise above his origins to hunt down the enemy who tried to kill him.
When she found herself in the wrong place at the right time, Lady Margaret Charmain’s life was saved by the man she knows as Snowy White. So when his self-titled aunt asks Margaret to help him make his way into the ton, she agrees to help, not knowing he intends to use the opportunity to confront his wicked stepfather.
Margaret upends Snowy’s negative conceptions about Polite Society, especially as her associates and friends come to his aid and to help him reclaim his stolen title from Viscount Snowden. Before long, he realizes his destiny includes her as his wife; after all, she wakened him to his true self with her kiss.
But the fraudulent Lord Snowden will stop at nothing to hide his misdeeds, even murder.
Published 10 August. Purchase now: https://amzn.to/3TIM5in
Excerpt
Snowy had to admit that the countess sounded as if she knew her herbs. Besides, Jasmine could do with the help. She was the oldest of the seven soiled doves who had pooled their resources to start the House of Blossoms. (“Soiled doves” was one of the politer terms the gentlemen visitors used for the women who serviced them.) Jasmine had been having unpleasant cramps during her woman’s inconvenience for as long as Snowy could remember, and they had become worse in the past three years. He hoped Lady Charmain’s remedy would give her some relief.
Like Poppy and Lily, Jasmine no longer accommodated the gentlemen visitors. Her piano playing, though, was a favorite entertainment for those who were waiting for the girl of their choice, recovering from a bout of mattress thrashing, or just spending an evening out.
A surprising number of gentlemen came to the House of Blossoms merely to play cards, listen to the music, enjoy Poppy’s cooking, and talk. Lily, who had been one of the most sought-after courtesans of her generation, taught the girls that listening to their clients with every sign of fascination was an even more important skill than those they exercised upstairs.
Other residents of the house were also troubled each month by the same complaint, if not as badly. If the poultice proved successful, it would make a difference to them, too.
Snowy relaxed once he saw how Lady Charmain addressed Poppy. He knew she was polite to Lily, but Lily had a presence about her that demanded respect. Even the most drunken and arrogant of lordings spoke respectfully to Lily’s face, whatever they might say behind her back.
Poppy was a different matter. She had no such air of command, though she certainly demanded perfection from the girls who worked in the kitchen. She still spoke with more than a trace of the accent of the county from which she hailed. And she was a cook—a lesser being in the eyes of the likes of the countess.
But Poppy had a kind heart and a happy outlook on life. Of the seven women who had raised Snowy, she was the one he had gone to with a scraped knee or hurt feelings. She had always had an encouraging word, a hug or a kiss, and something delicious to eat. So even though Snowy was protective of all the original Blossoms, Poppy had a special place in his heart.
Lady Charmain had greeted her with courtesy. The countess was now paying serious attention to Poppy’s questions and answering them politely. She even laughed when Poppy made a joke. Perhaps, she was not that bad, after all.
Spotlight on One Perfect Dance
Hurrah! My second book in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale is out on Thursday. Buy it now at only 99c.
One Perfect Dance
Elijah was the man Regina could never forget. Now he is back in England, but someone wants to kill him.
Regina Paddimore puts her dreams of love away with other girlish things when she weds her father’s friend to escape a vile suitor who tries to force a marriage. Sixteen years later, and two years a widow, she seeks a husband who might help her fulfil another dream—to have her own child.
Elijah Ashby escapes his abusive step-family as soon as he comes of age, off to see the world. Letters from his childhood friend Regina are all that connects him to England. Sixteen years later, now a famous travel writer, the news she is a widow brings him home.
Sparks fly between them when they meet again. Regina begins to hope for love as well as babies. Elijah will be happy just to have her at his side. However, Elijah’s stepbrothers are determined to do everything they can—lie, cheat, kidnap, even murder—so that one of them can marry Regina and take her wealth for themselves.
Love and friendship must conquer hatred and spite before Elijah and Regina can be together.
Excerpt from One Perfect Dance
In a moment, she was a warm fragrant bundle on Ash’s lap, her curves draped across his torso, her arms wrapped around him, her face tucked into his shoulder as she cried.
He patted her shoulder, murmuring comfort. “There now. You’re safe now, Ginny. He’s gone. He won’t bother you again. I have you, my darling. I have you.”
He had not seen Regina so discomposed since she was a child, grieving the loss of a kitten. He wished he’d hit Deffew harder. He’d thought he and Charles were in time, but if the swine’s violation had gone beyond what he’d seen, the dog would die for it, Regina’s opinion notwithstanding.
Charles poked his head around the door, his eyes widening in alarm when he saw the state of his mistress. Ash pointed to the brandy decanter he could see on a sideboard. “Two,” he mouthed, ceasing his patting to hold up two fingers then resuming again, barely breaking rhythm.
Charles nodded and tiptoed to the decanter to pour two glasses of brandy, then tiptoed back across the room to place them on a side table next to Ash’s elbow, setting them down so carefully they did not clink.
Ash briefly wondered whether the young man wanted to save Regina the embarrassment of knowing her emotional collapse had been witnessed, or whether he feared she might expect him to do something about it if she knew he was there. Whichever it was, he faded back across the room and out of the door, pulling it shut behind him.
The footman was not important. Not when the lady he loved was in his arms, her soft curves molded to his body, the aroma of roses, honeysuckle and something indefinably Regina filling his nostrils. He yearned to hold her closer still, to show her how much he desired her, though the way her lovely rear pressed into his groin, she would notice soon enough.
She was still crying, but the angry storm was gone, fading into heart-wrenching sobs that twisted Ash’s gut even more than the initial outburst. “There now, Ginny,” Ash soothed. “Let it out, dearest. You’re safe now, my love.”
She turned her face up at that, drawing back so that her tear-drenched eyes could meet his. “Am I, Elijah?”
“Yes, of course. He has gone, and I won’t let him near you again.”
She thumped his chest softly, an action so reminiscent of the child Ginny that he had to repress a smile. “Not that,” she scolded. “The other.”
He retraced his words in his mind. “My love?” At her tiny nod, he repeated, “My love.”
She raised her eyebrows in question, the imperious gesture only slightly marred by the shuddering breath of a leftover sob.
“I love you, Ginny. Did you not know?”
She thumped him again, another gentle reprimand. “You never said,” she grumbled. “You never even tried to kiss me.” The last two words were disrupted by a hiccup, but he understood them well enough.
“I am abjectly sorry, Ginny,” Ash told her, managing to keep his voice suitably solemn while his heart was attempting to break out of his chest and into hers. She has been waiting for my kisses! Missing them, even. “I have never courted anyone before. I am clearly not very good at it.”
She hiccupped again as she put up a hand to cradle Ash’s cheek. “I am sorry to be so cross, Elijah. I hate hiccups. I hate crying, and it always give me the hiccups.” She proved it with another shuddering hiccup.
“Have a sip of brandy, beloved,” he suggested, and he picked up one of the glasses and held it to her lips. “It might help. And if it doesn’t, perhaps a kiss will cure them.”
Ash was very aware that she had not returned his declaration of love. However, she wanted his kisses. He would start there and hope for the best.
Ginny took the glass from his hand and had another sip, followed by another hiccup.
“It will have to be the kiss, then,” he suggested. He lowered his head to hers, slowly, giving her plenty of time to turn him away. Instead, she lifted her face to bridge the gap, her mouth reaching inexpertly for his.
He pressed kisses to each corner of her mouth, then settled his mouth over hers, stroking her lips with his. She clutched him, some of the brandy spilling from the glass so she drew back, apologizing with another hiccup.
Ash put the glass out of harm’s way and drew Ginny to him again. This time, he ran his tongue across the seam of his lips, seeking entrance. She hummed but didn’t open. If he hadn’t known she’d been a wife for more than three years before her husband’s accident, he would have thought she’d never participated in a kiss.
“Open for me, sweetheart,” he suggested, his lips still touching hers as he spoke.
“Open what?” she asked, and he took the moment to slip his tongue inside, into the soft warm cave of her mouth, gently teasing the sensitive skin inside her lips and at the roof of her mouth. She tasted as wonderful as she felt: a deeper richer version of the Ginny element of her perfume.
Spotlight on Lady Beast’s Bridegroom
Welcome to book 1 in the new series with an exciting new twist on traditional fairy tales!
Lady Ariel lives retired in the country after being badly scarred by a fire. She hides her burns from others by donning a mask, only enticing more gossip by Society who has dubbed her “Lady Beast”. Now, her second cousin, who inherited her father’s title but not his private wealth, wants to have her committed so he can manage—and steal—her fortune. Only finding a husband will prevent the cousin from having his way.
Peter, Lord Ransome, a man so handsome Society has dubbed him “Beau”, inherits not only his father’s debts but also his burdens. He must manage and care for a stepmother who loathes him, her daughters, and his own two half-sisters, who spend more money than the estate can provide.
His only recourse is to find a wealthy bride to save his estate and his family. For him, that means marrying “Lady Beast”. It’s merely a business transaction, after all. But then Beau learns that true beauty lies in the heart.
When Society tries to turn them away, is the union and love of Beauty and the Beast strong enough to overcome prejudice and rejection?
A Twist Upon a Regency Tale
Lady Beast’s Bridegroom
One Perfect Dance
Snowy and the Seven Doves
Perchance to Dream
Published this come week. Get it now! https://amzn.to/3uJByrr
Excerpt:
In his bath, Peter contemplated his own disappointment that he’d been exiled to another bedroom. He should be grateful that, after their first joining, she had removed the mask in the dark and gone to sleep in his arms. She had trusted him that much, and when she woke in the night and reached for him, he had had the joy of kissing her without any obstruction in the way. Which had led to round two.
In the morning, he woke to hear her behind the dressing screen, and when she returned to bed, the half mask was back in place. He expected too much, too soon. She had trusted him enough to give him her body. It would take time before she could bear to be naked with him.
The small bit of distance was to his benefit, too. This marriage was a civil arrangement. He did not intend to spoil it by becoming besotted with his bride.
He was already serving his breakfast when Arial arrived in the dining room. He had not been joking about his hunger. Despite the crumpets, he was ravenous.
And not just for food, he decided, when she entered the room and his male organ stood to instant attention. It seemed he could not get enough of his wife. It was probably just that he hadn’t been with a woman for a long time, though that thought seemed so disloyal that he quelched it immediately.
Whatever the reason for his sudden surfeit of lust, he had to content himself with a peck on the cheek and a cheeky comment whispered in her ear so the attending footman could not hear it.
Her blush would have to be satisfaction enough for the moment, especially as Miss Tulloch took that moment to join them.
The girls had already eaten but came hurrying down from the schoolroom when they heard the newly-weds were up and dressed. They were delighted with the day’s plans but took exception to Arial’s plain mask.
“But the one you made for my wedding will not go with this gown,” she protested. It was some tailored confection in a dark maroon, almost the color of a good port. Peter had signed for payment of enough dressmaker bills for his stepmother and stepsisters to know that daytime costumes could fit into categories of day dress, walking dress, and afternoon dress, but which this was he had no idea. It was charming, anyway.
Rose agreed. “Not at all, but we can do something quickly with pastels. I think some of the ones that old artist gave me are the right colors. Come on, Vi.”
Introducing a character on WIP Wednesday
The reader’s first sight of a character is crucial. Here’s Seraphina Frogmore on her first appearance. She is my Frog Princess, turned into an outcast who lives on Pond Street on the edge of the slums. She is the heroine of The Talon’s of a Lyon, my Lyon’s Den connected world story, which is coming out in April.
Seraphina, Baroness Frogmore, hid behind some bushes in St. James’s Park so she could spy on two little girls while they walked—marched, almost—along the gravel path beside the pond, their eyes fixed longingly on a group of less regimented children who were feeding the ducks. She could not see the baby; only the baby carriage in which he was, presumably, asleep.
Helena, the younger of the two, took a step out of line towards the forbidden activity near the pond, and the stick the stern governess was carrying crashed down in front of her erring feet. She scurried back into line.
While the governess was still nodding her smug satisfaction, Hannah, the elder, touched her sister’s hand then whipped it back to her side just in time to miss another swipe with the stick.
Seraphina, trembling in her hiding place with the effort not to leap from the shrubs and wreak vengeance on the monstrous women, was comforted to know her brother-in-law and his minions had not yet broken the girls’ spirits or their love for one another.
Tears in her eyes, she watched them out of sight.
This was the fourth day she had seen them since she’d learned that they walked in St. James’s Park each morning. Each day was the same. A solemn little procession, with two nursemaids in the front, then another pushing the baby carriage, then Seraphina’s two black-clad daughters followed by the governess, with two footmen bringing up the rear.
Did her brother-in-law think that she would abscond with them if they were not well guarded? He was probably right, though the solicitor she had consulted had advised her to resist any such temptation.
“Until you can disprove the calumnies against your name, Lady Frogmore, any attempt to take the children will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, and you will lose any chance of getting them back.”
Which left the other option. She needed to find a way to change Society’s opinion about her. As her solicitor had advised, “Your uncle has convinced people you are little better than a tavern wench, if you will excuse my bluntness, my lady. He says you are stupid, coarse, illiterate, and ill-mannered; a shopkeeper’s daughter unfit to have the care of your husband’s children. Anyone who meets you will see immediately that the charges are not true. Unfortunately, you have not been much in Society.”
Not, in fact, at all. Her husband Henry, Baron Frogmore, had said there was no need; that she would not enjoy it anyway, that he expected her to stay at home and keep his household. Meanwhile, he went to London for the Season and Leicester for the races and Brighton to wait upon Prinnie, all the while telling the stories his brother had exaggerated to steal her children.
Henry had liked to present himself as the handsome prince who had married the beggar maid. He’d never had much acquaintance with truth, justice, kindness or even a critical look in a mirror.
Her children were gone, and Seraphina needed to return to her lodgings to finish the chores she had been assigned in lieu of rental on her room. She had saved every penny to spend retaining the solicitor, only to find that following his advice was impossible.