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By Sherry Ewing
Patience, the young Dowager Countess of Seahaven has the weight of the world on her shoulders. With a bevy of stepdaughters under her care, a Season to find them all husbands is completely out of reach. But with the help of her family, they’ll scrap up enough money to see to a Season in York for the younger eligible daughters. Still… there’s been no chance at all for romance for Patience until fate intervenes. Will she allow herself time for love?
Richard, Viscount Cranfield has no desire to find a wife. He’s been perfectly content leading his carefree life until he’s charged with finding a suitable husband for his sister. He’ll travel to York for the Season only to become enchanted with a lovely young widow. Can he look past a ready-made family to possibly find love to fill his heart?
When several events have Patience and Richard crossing paths, she is hard pressed to forget her infatuation with the gentleman. Then there is the matter of her many responsibilities, along with Richard’s jealous ex-mistress who just may put an end to any sort of a relationship blossoming between Patience and Richard. Only time will tell if they can overlook their differences and allow love to conquer all.
Sometimes love finds you when you least expect it…
Released on 14 March: https://www.amazon.com/Countess-Remember-Sherry-Ewing-ebook/dp/B0BRK2DCS7
Professor Malcolm Marr waited with some trepidation while the elegant lady in front of him unpacked the box he had brought with him.
He was merely carrying out a commission, he reminded himself, and had followed his client’s instructions to the letter, so whether she liked the result or not, it was not his responsibility.
Still, he found himself anxious not to disappoint the Duchess of Winshire. She was a good and kind person, as well as a powerful one, and he knew the present was for her new husband. A love token. He might not have experienced romantic love himself, but he had seen it in others. He respected the notion.
She had moved aside the wood shavings and the strips of paper, and was lifting out the first item. “Oh! It is beautiful!”
“Chinese, Your Grace,” he explained. “From the Tang dynasty. More than a thousand years old. ” It stood four square on a small marble stand, its neck arched and its bobbed tail proud. The colours were still as bright as the day it was fired.
“How magnificent,” said Her Grace.
The second piece bore signs that it, too, had once been brightly painted, but now—except in the cracks, it was the white of the marble from which it had been carved. Another horse, this one caught forever in a trot, its mane and tail flowing in the wind of its silent passage. “Greek, ma’am, in the Hellenistic style, so just of two thousand years old.”
“Beautiful,” the duchess breathed. “Professor Marr, these are perfect.”
Her smile took years off her age and reminded Mal that she had once been the reigning beauty of her time. “Nothing from Egypt? I know that is your specialist area.”
“Nothing on the market at the moment, Your Grace.”
“You have done very well, my dear. Now drink your tea and I shall drink mine while gloating over these two wonderful statuettes. My husband will be as thrilled as I am.”
She turned the full force of her smile onto the two pieces, and Mal let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He had not made a mistake. He hated seeing the lovely remnants of the past in the hands of people who would not appreciate them, but that didn’t apply here.
He felt obliged to point out, however, that such horses were not rare, as such things go. “There are many such items available if one knows where to look, Your Grace.”
“As you do. You are not going to tell me that they are turned out in great quantity by a little workshop in East Wapping, I hope.”
He laughed at that. “No, Your Grace. They are genuine. They are also unique, in that every piece that is found is a little different from every other.”
“They are perfect,” she repeated. “You must not fret, Professor.” She changed the subject. “Now. I understand you are off to York. A public lecture, is it?”
“One for the York Antiquarian Society, Ma’am. I am taking in their full schedule of lectures while I am there.”
“You have a relative in York, I believe.”
“A godmother. Rose St Aubyn. I’ll be staying with her while I’m in York.”
“Oh!” The duchess sounded surprised, but she changed the subject, asking him about recent work, and they passed another thirty minutes in pleasant conversation before he took his leave.
Eleanor looked at the door as it closed behind the esteemed scholar. Perhaps she should have told him that Rose St Aubyn was away, and that the house was soon to be occupied by the daughters of the deceased Earl of Seahaven. But Eleanor remembered the eldest from her brief London season. Fiercely intelligent. Deeply interested in ancient civilisations. That had been years ago, of course, but Lady Elizabeth had not ‘taken’, and nor had she married since.
Perhaps the professor and the bluestocking might suit? Stranger things had happened. And if the young man thought to stay in the house the young lady occupied, they would certainly meet.
Malcolm Kentigern Marr is the hero of Rue Allyn’s “The Butler and the Bluestocking”, a story in Desperate Daughters. And he certainly does meet the lovely Lady Elizabeth. Now published by still only 99 cents. Price goes up to $5.99 after 23 May.
Sometimes love finds you when you least expect it…
Patience, the young Dowager Countess of Seahaven cares for a bevy of stepdaughters, and a Season for each to find husbands seems out of reach. There’s been no chance for romance herself but fate intervenes in the form of Richard, Viscount Cranfield, in York for his sister’s Season. Will Patience allow herself time for love?
Patience smiled at the girls while her toddler came and plopped herself on her lap. She gave brief introductions to the stepdaughters Richard had yet to meet before she continued. “As you can see, we can be a somewhat rambunctious group, and it was too nice a day to leave the younger children at home.”
Richard nodded. “No reason why they shouldn’t enjoy the outing. With the weather particularly warm for April, an al fresco party is just the thing.” Were they chatting about the weather again, and this time initiated by him? He almost groaned aloud. Surely, he could think of another topic of witty conversation to amuse her besides the weather.
Milton excused himself to speak to the other young ladies on the next blanket giving Richard a small amount of privacy to have Patience all to himself.
“You look particularly lovely today, Lady Seahaven.”
“Thank you, Lord Cranfield,” she said bouncing the child on her lap.
Complementing her came as easily as taking his next breath, and her blush only enhanced her beauty. Dressed in a white gown, the square cut of her garment just rising above her breasts was decorated in tiny embroidered rosebuds, and he wondered if she had taken the time to sew them herself. Not that it mattered if she could sew or not… He was generally more interested in getting a woman out of her gown than into it. But the dress became her along with her matching bonnet. Was he becoming some sort of dandy? Thinking of the intricate detail of a gown would be more in line with something his friend George would consider and talk about. God forbid if Richard was becoming more like him!
As he continued to watch Patience with her daughter, Richard had a vision of his own child held in the arms of the countess. Given their kiss the other night, he knew his feelings were reciprocated no matter that they had only just met. Could this possibly be the start of something that could last a lifetime? Only time would tell. If anything, they had a friendship that was blooming right before his very eyes, and he had to admit he had missed her company since the ball. A smile came to his face as he remembered having the opportunity to have two dances with her. A waltz had kept her in his arms. A faster-paced dance kept their fingertips touching and laughter on their lips. At the time, he had wished he could have danced the night away with her. However, that would have caused a scandal.
He realized Patience was struggling to rise with a wiggly toddler balanced on her hip. Rushing over, Richard held onto her elbow until she finally stood on solid ground. She raised those glorious blue-grey eyes to him in obvious gratitude.
“My chivalrous knight coming to my rescue,” she quietly said, beaming up at him with those glorious eyes before continuing, “Will you perhaps show up next on a white steed?” Her twinkling eyes told him much, and he couldn’t resist the smile that turned up the corners of his mouth.
“If my lady so commands me, I will be more than happy to come to your rescue whenever you have need of me. I just so happen to have a white horse in my stables to await your pleasure.”
Her laughter rang out, causing Richard’s heart to swell. “I really think I’m going to have to be careful around you, my lord. You continue to turn my head with such flattery,” she teased.
He leaned forward. “I would never tire of giving you the compliments you so deserve, my dearest lady,” he murmured for her ears alone, before stepping back as protocol dictated.
Before she could comment, the squirming toddler made it known she no longer wished to be held by her mother. Patience put her down and before she could grab hold of her hands, the young girl wobbled over to Richard and grabbed him around his legs. His eyes widened in surprise until the little crumb crawler with curly auburn hair raised her blue eyes up to him and spoke.
“Papa up!” she demanded holding up her tiny hands for him to take.
“Jane!” Patience moaned in embarrassment.
See the project page at the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more information.
Desperate Daughters was published on 17 May. You can still get it today and tomorrow at the preorder price of 99c. After that, the price goes up to $5.99.
What the musicians at an event were given for refreshments varied by country, Jack had found. In Austria and in some parts of Italy, they were treated as honoured guests, welcome to eat the same supper as their audience, and even to mingle if they so desired. In other places, they might be served lukewarm tea or a light ale with, if they were lucky a slice of bread. At times, they even needed to forage for themselves, or bring their own meal and a flask of something.
Tonight’s soiree in Paris was proving to be exceptional, much to Jack’s surprise. When he was hired to perform, he expected to be ignored most of the evening. Tonight’s hostesses were a pair of English duchesses. The English, he had discovered in Vienna, tended to regard musicians as hired help, and his growing reputation as a composer made no difference to that assessment.
He thought the audience would be more focused on conversation than on music, and that he’d need the brioche in the bag he had tucked into his music satchel. He was wrong on both counts.
He had been introduced by the elder of the two duchesses, Her Grace of Winshire, who had instructed everyone to sit and listen. Which they did. They were both attentive and appreciative, and the first hour and a half flew by.
Then, when the younger duchess, a daughter-in-law of the Duchess of Winshire, announced supper, the elder led a team of servants over with supper for the orchestra, and carried Jack off to a table for two, where a tempting array of food was laid out for his selection.
He ordered ale from the waiting servant, since he never drank anything stronger when he was performing. The duchess’s preferences must already be known, for someone brought her a service of tea.
“You must be wondering why I have taken you to one side like this, John Sutton,” Her Grace said, after the ale was served and the servants retreated.
If the lady had been twenty years younger, Jack would have assumed a seduction attempt, but as it was, all he could do was incline his head in agreement.
“You are John Sutton, known as Jack, the musical second son of Baron Allbury.” She stated it as a fact. Jack could not have answered anyway. His mouth was open as he wondered how she knew.
“It is my job, Jack. May I call you Jack?” He nodded, and she continued, “I have been a duchess since I was in my teens. Knowing the peerage and all their connections is part of my obligation to my position. I was not personally acquainted with your father, but I knew your mother, a little, and a cousin of hers told me about your split from the baron, and its cause. In my opinion, having heard your music, the world would be a poorer place if you had obeyed Lord Allbury.”
Jack’s lips twitched into a smile, but he sobered, thinking of his father.
“The former Lord Allbury, that is. I am sorry for your loss, Jack. Father and brother. That is a hard blow.”
Jack rather liked this duchess. He’d known other English ladies who would be congratulating him on inheriting a barony. Not that he wanted it. Her Grace, though, started with condolences. “Thank you,” he said.
“Will you be going home?” she asked, then gave a short laugh. “Your eyes say ‘not the old besom’s’ business’, and you are quite right.”
The twinkle in her eyes soothed his irritation and he answered her. “I have not made up my mind, Your Grace.”
“Going home is not committing yourself to accepting the burdens of the title, Jack. Why not go and have a look. Perhaps a last goodbye. Perhaps not.” She rose. “Now. I shall let you have the rest of your supper in peace.”
Jack Sutton is the hero of Mary Lancaster’s Concerto”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication. Price goes up to $5.99 after 23 May.
After years of putting up with her late husband’s rowdy friends, Honoria, Lady Twisden has escaped to York where she can paint, investigate antiquities, and enjoy freedom. Then her stepson appears with a long-lost relation in tow. Promised York’s marriage mart and the hospitality of his cousin’s doddering stepmother, Major August Kellborn is shocked to find that his fetching hostess is the one woman who stirs his heart.
Major August Kellborn, late of his Majesty’s army, beat back an impulse to seize young Sir Westcott Twisden by the neckcloth and shake him.
He’d had long experience beating back that sort of urge with the young nodcocks he’d shaped into officers. He could do so now as well.
Gus paced to the window and looked out a sparkling clean pane onto the narrow street. Their traveling chaise wasn’t visible, but Sir Sancho stood unaccompanied, busily watering a lamppost.
Gus had been in his cups the day he’d met Twisden at a horse market in Brampton, else he wouldn’t have allowed the young pup the informality of his first name, respectable though Wes was. The malaise of his first long winter’s sojourn at Whitlaw Grange, his new estate near what was once the Debatable Land, had made him more sociable than was his wont.
Still, he’d found the friendly lad more sensible than most his age, and the family connection had intrigued him. His late mother had written frequently about the Twisdens, the jovial late baronet and his amiable wife. He knew of their mutual ancestor, Sir Ebenezer Twisden as well, and so, he’d jumped at the chance to visit Twisden Hall. His very resemblance to the old warrior was astonishing, and Gus had been impressed with the well-run estate. Much of it the late baronet’s sensible widow’s doing, Gus’s valet had learned.
And so, when Wes proposed visiting his stepmother and attending the York races and then sweetened the deal with the notion of a marriage mart—it had been a very long, lonely winter—Gus agreed to this sojourn in York.
He turned back to his young erstwhile host. “Practically doddering, you said.”
Wes looked up from pouring spirits from a flask into a tumbler. “What?” His blue-eyed innocence was genuine. Wes saw his stepmother as an ancient, when she could scarcely be much beyond thirty. He ought to have paid more attention to his mother’s descriptions of the Twisdens.
“I cannot stay under your stepmother’s roof, Wes.”
“Whyever not?”
“She is not by any means doddering. She’s a widow, and one young enough that even with you here some of the time…” Wes had planned to depart for several days to visit his Grandmother in Harrogate. “The presence of a single man in her household might stir gossip.”
“She’s three and thirty and is known to be very proper. Plus…” He glanced back at the closed door and lowered his voice. “Though she’s clever and good, she’s plain.”
Gus gazed back at the now empty street. Perhaps plain was the right word to describe each of Lady Twisden’s entirely unremarkable features. But taken as a whole, he would call her appearance amiable, moving, and in fact… pretty. The spark in her eyes when she spotted him, the color rising in her cheeks, those had stirred him as well.
See the project page at the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more information.
Desperate Daughters is on preorder for publication on 17 May. Order now to get the preorder price of 99c
The two girls paused in the doorway. They were as alike as two peas in a pod, and the expression on both faces said, why has this duchess asked to see us?
“Come on in, ladies,” Eleanor said. “Please, take a seat. Which of you is Iris and which Ivy?”
They were both beauties. If their stepmama managed a Season in York for them, they would be a huge success, even with little dowry. And Lady Seahaven would give them that chance, if Eleanor’s information proved to be accurate.
“I am Iris,” said the girl whose cream-coloured gown was trimmed with purple ribbons. The other, in a dress nearly identical except for the green ribbons replied at the same moment. “I am Ivy.”
“I should say Lady Iris and Lady Ivy, should I not?” Eleanor asked.
The sisters looked at one another.
Eleanor spoke before they could decide what to say. “I had the pleasure of meeting up with your sister, Lady Dorothea, last week, when I asked to meet the cook of the delightful cakes I enjoyed with my tea. Speaking of which, how do you take your tea? Milk? Cream? Sugar?”
Another of those looks, full of the kind of communication known only to twins. Iris spoke for them both, asking for tea with a small quantity of cream and a half spoon of sugar.
Eleanor continued speaking as she prepared the cups. “Hearing that the lovely miniatures of the landscape had been painted by a pair of Bigglesworth twins, I remembered that Henry Seahaven had twin daughters. By his third wife, was it not?”
Iris nodded. “Did you know our mother, Your Grace? We do not remember her.”
“I am sorry, Iris. I did not have that pleasure. I knew your father. He came to London to vote his seat in Parliament, and we were occasionally at the same entertainments, but your mother married here in the north and stayed here through most of her marriage. You appear to have inherited her artistic talent, young ladies.”
The girls blushed, duplicate roses blooming on their cheeks.
“Tell me about yourselves,” Eleanor invited.
Shyly at first, but with increasing confidence, they spoke of their lives in a little cottage in a village near Harrogate, where they sold their artwork to tourists such as Eleanor, who had come to take the waters.
It was clear that they had no thought of a Season or of romance. Their attention was all on helping their family. What charming and well-behaved young ladies these Bigglesworth girls were! Eleanor determined to help them if she could. Perhaps, if the opportunity she had heard about came through, Eleanor could put the word in the ear of a few hostesses to ensure that the girls had plenty of invititations?
Iris and Ivy Bigglesworth are the heroines of Elizabeth Ellen Carter’s “The Four to One Fancy”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.
Lady Josefina would much rather spend her time studying plants and their healing properties, but her father, the Earl of Seahaven, has died and left the family impoverished. Marriage seems her only alternative until she meets the handsome Duke of Bourne in an apothecary in York’s ancient Shambles. He offers her an intriguing proposition, a fake betrothal and a king’s ransom as reward if she returns with him to his estate and finds a cure for his sister’s illness. But will the true reward be his heart?
Josefina regarded him as though he were demented. “Marry you? Marry you? You are asking me to marry you?”
She did not realize their steward had just come up behind her and had heard her repeat his proposal. The man rushed to the major domo to report the news, was overheard by several other stewards who were now reporting it to the patrons they were charged to serve.
It took no more than a minute for the whispers to swell to an excited buzz around the tea room, as though a thousand bees were now buzzing around their hive.
Josefina was now laughing at the preposterous notion, a response the other patrons mistook for joyful acceptance. After all, who would not be overjoyed to marry the Duke of Bourne?
Was he not the catch of the season?
The catch of a lifetime?
Well, he had truly gotten himself into a fix.
He had meant to say, a pretend marriage…or rather, a pretend engagement. Then he could scoop her away to meet his sister and aunt, all proper since everyone would believe she was his betrothed. After she had reaped her plants and turned them into medicinal powders and tinctures, he would have dumped an enormous monetary settlement on her and allowed her to quietly end their betrothal.
But he had said ‘marry’.
Forgotten that crucial word…pretend.
There was no help for it now.
He took Josefina’s hand in his and raised it to his lips. “Smile, Josefina. Everyone is looking. And yes, I am going to marry you.”
See the project page at the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more information.
Desperate Daughters is on preorder for publication on 17 May. Order now to get the preorder price of 99c
Harriett Staunton offered Eleanor another cup of tea. When the young lady had offered her resignation to the committee for the Foundation for the Education and Enrichment of the Lives of Ladies of Talent, she had explained merely that she intended to move to York.
Eleanor invited her to stay on after the meeting. A girl with Harriett’s questionable birth faced many challenges on the marriage market, and those challenges were magnified in London. Eleanor would help, if she could. But she needed to understand what motivated Harriett.
“Why York, Miss Staunton? Are you escaping your family or London Society?”
Perhaps Harriett picked up Eleanor’s genuine concern, for she did not take offence. “Perhaps a little of both, Your Grace. I have been educated as a lady, but my birth in the merchant classes means that I would not be accepted at the upper levels of London society if I was even invited to any of the events here.”
She took a deep breath and continued, “And the irregular nature of my birth means that the merchant classes also reject me.” A shadow of pain passed through her eyes. Eleanor, who knew more than most how less honourable men think, wondered at the insults the poor girl might have suffered from those who thought their birth on the right side of the blanket entitled them to look down on those less fortunate.
“So you do hope for a husband,” Eleanor concluded. “And, very sensibly, you think that a Season in York is likely to give you the opportunity to meet men who are not so fixed on status and on impressing other people.”
“In a nutshell,” Harriett agreed.
“I wish you every success, Harriett,” Eleanor said. “How can I be of assistance? Are you planning to stay with friends?”
“You are very kind, Your Grace. I have rented a townhouse, and will be living with trusted staff members, including my companion. But I very much appreciate your good wishes.”
“I shall write to a few of my friends and ask them to make sure you are on their invitation list, my dear. Please write to me and let me know how you get on.”
Harriett agreed, and they spoke for a while about places in York that Eleanor had visited and that Harriett might enjoy.
When the guest had left, Eleanor called for her writing desk and set quill to paper. She knew just the person who might take Harriett’s quest to heart.
“Dear Lady Beaumont…”
Harriett Staunton is the heroine of “I’ll Always Be Yours”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.
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