A Twist Upon a Regency Tale

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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.

 

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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.

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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.

 

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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.

https://amzn.to/3RMDcmI

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.

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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

Enter the contest: https://judeknightauthor.com/2023/02/09/week-3-of-lady-beasts-bridegroom-launch-giveaway/

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.”

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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.

 

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Proposals on WIP Wednesday

I have The Talons of a Lyon ready to go to Dragonblade, and am just waiting till the end of tomorrow in case the last beta reader has some comments. Meanwhile, I wanted to share with you Lance’s third proposal. He mucked up the first two.

“I asked Elaine for some time alone with you, Seraphina. Can you not guess why?”

“Oh,” she said, and to his dismay cast a longing glance at the door before abruptly sitting down on the nearest chair. “You mean to propose again.”

However hard he tried; he could not interpret her tone as encouraging. Nonetheless, he sank to one knee.

She leaned toward him, her hands up as if in protest. “You should not, Lance. You have done so much for me already. I cannot let you sacrifice your chances of a match with someone worthy of you.”

His surge of anger was not at her, but at all the people who had convinced her of her unworthiness, with her father and Lord Frogmore at the top of the list. “It is I who am not worthy of you, Seraphina. Your courage, your devotion to your family, your determination, your dignity—they humble me. As for sacrifice—the shoe is quite on the other foot, but I am more selfish than you. You could do much better than the left-over spare of a duke, whose brother has sons and a grandson to take his place. I’ve never achieved much in my life beyond good manners and a well-tied cravat. I don’t deserve you, but I am asking, anyway. If you will have me, I will be the best husband and father that I can.”

Seraphina stood to stamp one foot. “You shall not say such things. The left-over spare, indeed! No one could have done what you have done for me. Ever since you gave me hope that day in the park, you have always known exactly the right person to help me, and how to persuade them. If not for you, I would still be living in Pond Street, separated from my children, my reputation in ruins. I am so grateful, Lance. That is why I cannot take further advantage of your generosity.”

Lance felt like stamping his own foot. Might have, if he’d not still been on one knee. “Dammit, woman, I am not being generous. I love you.”

She sank back into her chair, one hand fluttering over her chest. “What did you say?”

He felt his cheeks heat. “I beg your pardon, Seraphina. Language unbecoming. I don’t know what came over me.”

She waved his apology away. “Not the curse, Lance. You said… did you really say you love me?” Tears trembled in her eyes, but she was smiling, almost glowing.

“I love you,” Lance repeated, hope almost choking the words. He swallowed hard and continued, “I cannot imagine facing the rest of my life without you. Will you marry me, Seraphina? Even if it is just because you need a guardian for your children, let it be me. I will ask nothing you are not prepared to give. Only the privilege of being your husband, of loving you.”

She slipped off her chair to kneel before him, slipping her hands into his. “I want to give you everything,” she told him. “I love you, Lance.”

“You will marry me?” Lance needed her to say the words, so he could start to believe them.

Her smile spread. “I will marry you.”

His eyes focused on her lips, turned up towards him, and his mouth lowered almost without his volition. “I am going to kiss you, my love,” he warned her.

Seraphina said nothing, but lifted her mouth to meet his.

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Tea with Arial

 

This is an excerpt post from Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, now on preorder on Amazon, and out on 16 February. My heroine Arial has been the victim of a scurrilous caricature campaign. Then our Duchess throws the weight of her approval behind Arial and her husband. (This is not a scene in which they have tea, but I like to imagine that she invited Arial to visit shortly after.) The scene begins with Peter showing Arial the caricatures.

Arial raised her eyebrows at the pictures and blushed at the indecent ones. She was inclined, though, to be optimistic about their likely impact. “They have gone too far, Peter.” She raised one of the worst and put it down again. “Our friends will be as indignant as you are, but even those who are mere acquaintances will recognize these as outrageous rubbish. The viciousness of the lies may work in our favor by garnering us the sympathy of Society’s leaders. After all, if people can be made outcasts on the basis of provable fictions, nobody is safe.”

Peter shook his head, doubtful. However, on the drive through Hyde Park and at the theater that evening, many people approached with invitations, compliments on Arial’s gown or her mask, and even outright statements of support. Even one of the patronesses of hallowed Almack’s sought them out to assure Arial that she would be sent tickets.

Then the Duchess of Winshire, one of society’s most influential matrons, cast the weight of her reputation on their side. She had one of her stepsons escort her to the Ransomes’ theater box, where she reminded Peter that she had known his mother. She further claimed to have kissed Arial when she was a baby. She took a seat next to Arial, in full view of the rest of the theater, chatting for several minutes.

When she stood to leave, she said, “You are doing the right thing, my dear Lady Ransome. Facing down these ridiculous calumnies is your best option. It is unpleasant, I know, and takes courage, but I and my friends have seen that you have plenty of courage and are of good character, besides.”

She held out her hand to Peter. “You have found yourself a treasure, Lord Ransome. Young ladies who are beautiful on the outside are common enough in Society. Young ladies who are brave, wise, and honorable are much rarer—and my friend Cordelia Deerhaven assures me your wife is all three.”

Peter bowed and mimed a kiss above the back of the duchess’s hand. “I am fully sensible of how fortunate I am, Your Grace. My wife is a delight to my eyes as well as a true friend and partner.”

“Good answer,” the duchess replied. “Come along, Drew. Your father will wonder what is keeping us.”

 

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Making her an offer in WIP Wednesday

The Proposal. John Pettie, R.A. (1839-1893). Oil On Canvas, 1869.

Proposal scenes can be fun to read and to write. Especially when the hero gets it wrong! I’ve written three in the past month. Here’s the one from The Flavour of Our Deeds (out in March). My heroine demands an accounting:

“What can I do for you, Kitty,” he asked.

She took a sip of her brandy without taking her eyes off him. There was that chin again, lifted in the air as a signal that her calm tone of voice hid a wealth of feeling: trepidation and irritation mixed, if he knew Kitty. And he did. “You said you loved me, and that you couldn’t live without me. You said we would make it work. What did you mean?”

A fair question. The first part was easy. “I love you. I want you to be my wife, Kitty, to have and to hold for the rest of our lives.” His voice had dropped to a low rumble as his love for Kitty and, yes, his desire threatened to overwhelm him. “I thought to wait to propose until I could make a home for you, but if you wish, I will ask this very minute.” He set the brandy aside and fell to his knees at her feet to take her own glass from her unresisting fingers and possess himself of her hands.

She leaned towards him, moistening her lips so that a spear of lust shot straight to his groin, her eyes glowing in the candle-light.

“Will you promise to marry me, Kitty,” he begged. “If I could, I would be a younger man for you, one with greater wealth and a noble heritage. But no one could love you more than I. No one will cherish you more than I. Will you be my future, Catherine Mary Stocke? My wife, my life partner, my reason for my work and my comfort in my leisure, the mother of my children, should God bless us?” He leaned to meet her, and if he was confident of her answer, it was not arrogance. She had given him good reason.

She did not disappoint. “My answer, of course, is yes.” Then, being Kitty, she had more to say, leaning away from his kiss to say. “However, I have some questions.” Her tone hinted that she had better like the answers. He should have expected her to challenge him. He suppressed a smile. How he loved this woman!

He sat back on his heels. “Ask,” he invited.

This one is from The Talons of  Lyon, which will be published in April by Dragonblade Publishing. This is the first proposal, made in front of a courtroom full of people. He has two more go’s to get it right:

The third magistrate took a turn. “One matter remains to be discussed. The guardian appointed in the will is dead. The guardian appointed as a replacement by the court in Norwich has proven unsuitable. The children will be in the custody of their mother, but they need a male guardian. If Lady Frogmore were to marry, the choice would be simple.”

The chief magistrate looked across the room directly at Lance. “Lord Lancelot Versey, you have been dedicated in your support for the lady and assiduous in your attentions. May we expect an announcement?”

Lance threw caution to the wind. “I wish for nothing more, Your Honours, but I thought it wrong to court the lady while she was in such trouble. We have not discussed the matter. My affections are fixed, but I have no notion whether the lady returns my esteem.”

Serafina, who was half fainting on Mrs Worthington’s shoulder looked up at that., her eyes widening. A tentative smile trembled on her lips.

“Well, Lady Frogmore?” asked the second magistrate.

Lance opened his mouth to object to the question, but the chief magistrate did it for him.

“Now, now, Wallace, we must not put pressure on the lady. The question of guardian can wait for another day, though until it is settled, the children and their mother will need to live in the household of a responsible and reliable gentleman approved by the court. Lady Frogmore, you are living with the Barkers, are you not? If Lord Barker is willing, you may have the children with you there.”

There wasn’t a lot more to be said. The magistrates discussed another hearing on the guardianship issue, and agreed with Mr Forsythe that they could make a decision on timing over the next days…

[The scene goes on to talk about closing of the case, but ends with this paragraph.]

Lance had to admit he was disappointed as the lady who held his heart walked off on Barker’s arm. Seraphina had not commented on his proposal? Was it a proposal? He had made his intentions clear, and she didn’t react at all. What did you expect, you idiot? She is desperate to see her children.

And in Perchance to Dream, the last novel in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale, also being published by Dragonblade, the hero asks for the heroine’s hand in his daughter’s sickroom. They’ve been nursing her through diptheria. It’s scheduled for publication nearly a whole year away.

“I think you are right,” John replied. “But I didn’t want to talk about Tenby and Augusta, Pauline. I wanted to talk about us.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean,” she asked.

The words John had been rehearsing all afternoon had gone completely out of his head. “Pauline.” That was as good a place as any to start. “I wondered… that is to say, would you consider…” She was looking at him attentively, her brow slightly furrowed in question.

“I mean,” he explained, “you and I get on very well together, and I would count myself the happiest of men if you would consent to be my wife.” There. It was done. He waited anxiously for her reply.”

If he had to categorise her expression, he’d call it more bewildered than delighted.

“Because we have been alone together,” she said.

“No,” he replied adamantly. “That’s not it at all. I know we have been alone together and Tenby tells me there is talk…” From the way her eyes widened, he should have kept that to himself. “I already intended to ask you, Pauline. I have been unable to stop thinking about you since our kiss.”

“Marrying me?” Pauline’s eyes expressed doubt, but also, if John was not mistaken, longing.

“Yes, you and I,” he said. The silence stretched, until he added, “We deal very well together, you and I.”

***

Pauline’s heart yearned to say yes, but she did not want him looking back and regretting this day. How dreadful to be tied for life to yet another woman whom he did not set out to marry.

“John,” Pauline pointed out, “you were forced into marriage once, because a girl was compromised. I am not a girl, and my life will change very little if my reputation is damaged in some quarters. My family will still love me. You don’t have to do this.”

“This is what I want,” he insisted.

Pauline saw almost everything she had dreamt of within her reach. She could stay with John and Pauline and have the right to call them family. She could enjoy John’s kisses and more, perhaps have babies of her own. But would he come to resent her in time?

“If you are ready to marry, John, wouldn’t it be better to choose someone younger, who could give you half a dozen children? I am thirty, John.”

John rejected the suggestion with a fierce frown and a wave of his hand, as if throwing it away. “I want you. I want my friend, the lady I trust, the lady I can see as a partner for the remainder of my life.” His voice turned coaxing and he possessed himself of her hands.

“I know Cumberland has long winters but we grow good roses. I can build you as many succession houses as you want, and the garden will be yours to do with as you please. As for children, if I have Jane and you, I have enough, but you are still young enough to give me more, if we are so blessed. I will certainly try to fill you with my babies, and enjoy doing so, if you are willing.”

Was the room suddenly warm? Or was it John’s words, and the heat in his eyes, melting Pauline’s core. She would do it, she decided. Perhaps he did not love her, but he wanted her, and she loved him. It would be enough. And perhaps they would be happy after all, for had not Arial once said that it was marrying a friend that led to love between her and Peter?

John was still trying to persuade her. “We can move from Cumberland closer to your brother, if you prefer. Or I could take a house in London so we could spend part of each year there, with Jane and any other children we have, so they can grow up knowing their cousins.”

“Cumberland will do just fine, but I like the idea of visiting London from time to time,” Pauline told him. “Wherever we live, I would be proud to be your wife.”

John whooped, and grabbed her off her feet to swing her around in a circle, so that she laughed out loud. As he bent his head to kiss her, a voice from the bed asked, “What are you doing?” They had awoken Jane.

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Nasty relatives on WIP Wednesday

 

I seem to have a lot of nasty relatives in my stories. A Regency romance trope that can be very useful. Here is my heroine from my Lyon’s Den story, The Talons of a Lyon, which is coming out with Dragonblade next April.

Despite the size of the rooms and the number of facilities, there was a queue for the dressing screens. Mrs Worthington insisted on Seraphina going first, and Seraphina conceded, since she had had a glass of champagne and two of punch in the course of the evening, and the matter was becoming urgent.

When Seraphina came out from behind the dressing screen, Mrs Worthington was nowhere to be seen, so she must have taken her turn.

Seraphina stooped to peer into one of the mirrors, and fiddled with a couple of her pins to fix a lock of hair that had fallen down. Focused as she was on the mirror, the first she knew of the presence of one of her enemies was when the woman’s reflection appeared in her mirror.

She turned to face her. “Virginia,” she said.

“You nasty common little bitch,” her sister-in-law hissed. “How dare you come here, swanning around on the arm of your fancy man, pretending you are fit for the company of your betters.”

“You insult Lord Lancelot Versey,” Seraphina replied, pleased that her voice was steady, though inside she was shaking like a blamange. “He is a perfect gentleman, and you are wrong to speak such untruths.”

Virginia didn’t listen, which came as no surprise. “Marcus and I will see to it that you are put back in the gutter where you belong, and I can promise you that you will never see your children again,” she snarled.

Mrs Worthington had emerged and was standing behind Virginia. “I have a promise for you, Virginia Frogmore.” When she spoke, the woman started, and twisted to see who was there.

“You and your husband,” Mrs Worthington continued, “have lied and cheated to see Lady Frogmore deprived of her place, her fortune, and her children. I promise that your sins have been uncovered, and you will not be allowed to enjoy the fruits of your lies and deception. Now go home before I tell Her Grace of Winshire that you have been threatening another of her guests.”

“You cannot support her!” Virginia whined. “She is not one of us!”

“You are not one of us, Mrs Frogmore,” Mrs Worthington declared. “Ladies do not spread false gossip. They do not cheat widows out of their income. Lady Frogmore has powerful allies. If you are wise, you and your husband will return the children and retire to somewhere you can afford without stealing from the little baron. I believe Italy might be suitable.”

Seraphina realized that everyone else in the room had stopped what they were doing and were listening avidly. Virginia must have noticed the same thing, because she suddenly put both hands over her face and rushed from the room.

The starch went out of Seraphina’s knees and she sank onto the stool in front of the mirror. Her breath, as she released it, was ragged.

Mrs Worthington sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “What a horrid woman,” she commented.

Seraphina’s laugh was as shaky as she felt. “You do not know the half of it,” she said.