marriage across the classes

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Making enemies on WIP Wednesday

I’ll write the last scene of The Night Dancers before the end of the weekend, and have it out to beta readers before the following weekend. So here’s another excerpt, to celebrate. My hero and his brother have escaped their evil father, and are now looking for allies in their battle to stay free. To that end, they have been invited to dinner by the Duke and Duchess of Dellborough, where they will have the opportunity to put their case.

First, they heard the shouting from outside of the room, coming closer. Then the doors burst open and people scrambled into the room. First, two burly men in Teign livery, holding the Dellborough butler between them, his back facing the room as he protested, “My lord, their graces are at dinner. My lord, you cannot burst in this way.”

The men were holding the poor man by his arms so that his feet couldn’t reach the ground, and after them came several Dellborough and Teign footmen, shoving and pushing at one another.

Finally, the instigators of this riot—Teign himself, with Farnham at his elbow—strode into the room, Teign’s voice thundering, “I shall see Dellborough now, and those scoundrelly sons of mine. Dellborough, how dare you harbor these traitors!”

The Duke of Dellborough had risen to his feet. “Good evening, Lord Teign.” He looked down the long table to where his wife sat at the end. “My dear, are we harbouring traitors?”

The duchess remained seated, regarding Teign with the expression of a householder who has found a cockroach in the flour bin. “Lord Teign,” she said. “What is the meaning of this unseemly and violent invasion of our home?”

The marquess glared at her, looked around at the luminaries gathered at the table, and made a visible effort to rein in his temper. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he snapped, with a perfunctory nod in place of a bow. “I had to see your husband, to tell him not to support my sons in their rebellion. I shall just be taking them with me, and leave you to get on with your dinner.”

“Lord Kemble?” said the duchess. “Do you wish to go with your father?”

“I do not,” Allan replied, managing to keep his voice calm, despite the anger and grief he always felt in his father’s presence.

“And what of you other brothers?” said the duchess, managing to speak over Teign’s angry retort.

All seven Sheppard brothers replied. Where it was, a “no”, an “I do not”, or “not likely”, their answers amounted to the same.

“You have your answer, Lord Teign,” said her grace. “If you wish to pursue any complaint you have against my husband, please have your secretary arrange an appointment with Dellborough’s secretary.”

Teign sneered. “What kind of a man are you, Dellborough? Letting a female speak for you?”

The duke chuckled. “A wise and happy one,” he replied, and exchanged a warm glance with his duchess. What an inspiration! Thirty years or more, and their love for one another was palpable.

“A man who bows to a woman is no man at all,” Teign announced. He added, “A woman should know her place—silent, obedient, and in a man’s bed. If she forgets it, she should be beaten.”

Good work, you old sinner. You have now alienated all the great ladies Dellborough and his wife had invited to dinner and most of the men.

Dellborough lifted an eyebrow at his wife, and she commented, “An interesting if primitive view. Tell me? How has it contributed to your domestic and marital happiness?”

The duke smirked.

Teign’s sneer deepened, and he turned on his footmen. “Seize my sons, you fools. Have you forgotten what we came for?” Allan clenched his fist and prepared to leap to his feet.

“The marksmen in the minstrels’ gallery will shoot anyone who attempts to carry out that order,” Dellborough drawled. “Up to and including Lord Teign.”

Startled, Allan looked up. Sure enough, from the shadowy depths of the minstrel’s gallery, several rifle barrels pointed at Teign’s footmen, who were backing away despite the imprecations of their master.

Dellborough picked up his wine glass and leaned back in his seat. “My dear guests, I apologize in advance for the spilling of blood, but better to execute these invaders cleanly than to allow brawling in my duchess’s dining room. Teign, your language, sir! Please do remember that ladies are present.” His drawl edged into insolence.

From a lifetime of observing the marquess, Allan could tell he was on the pointing of losing his temper. Could he pushed over?

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Spotlight on Duke in Name Only

Duke in Name Only: By Caroline Warfield

Misfortune is an excellent teacher…
When Phillip Tavernash, Ninth Duke of Glenmoor, discovers his title is held fraudulently, he embarks on a journey to North America determined to succeed on his own. It doesn’t go well. He has no idea what a fish out of water he will be.
Nan Archer had to summon enough backbone to stand up to her father and older brother, who moved their family across the frontier every time civilization reached any clearing in which they’d made a stake. She has landed on the banks of the Mississippi and built something of her own, the tavern Archers’ Roost. She will go no further.
When Nan’s brother dumps a pathetic traveler, robbed, beaten, and wounded on her tavern floor, she takes him in as she would any wounded duck. That he called himself duke is cause for hilarity.
Attraction blooms easily, but can Phillip look past his life of privilege to find what he’s looking for deep inside himself? Can he convince her she’s the answer to his search?
Is he a duke or a bastard? Does it matter in the end?
Release 1 June.

Excerpt from Duke in Name Only

“So, who are you really?” demanded the ruffian at the rear of the canoe paddling through the changing currents of the Mississippi River. He spat over the side and grinned, gap-toothed, at his helpless passenger.

Wet, wounded, and weary, Phillip felt no humor whatsoever.

I’m the damned fool who walked away from the greatest house in Dorset, an army of servants, and great piles of money only to get bamboozled, robbed, and beaten into the bargain. Stupidity hurt worse than the bruises. The seeping wound in his side stuffed full of moss by his unlikely rescuer was another matter.

“I told you,” he groaned, his voice shaking with cold. He’d blurted out more than he should have in his delirium.

“Yer feisty for a man with nuthin’ but the shirt on his back at the mercy of a stranger’s kindness. Say the other again then. I need a laugh, and you sure as hell aren’t pulling your weight any other way,” the uncouth boatman demanded. A great mountain of a man, he smelled as foul as he looked—dirty, unshaven, dressed in filthy buckskins, with a nasty scar down one cheek.

Fair enough. Phillip sighed and forced the words drilled into him from his youth through shivering lips. “I am Phillip Roland George Arthur Tavernash, Sixth Duke of Glenmoor, Earl of Wentworth, Viscount Gradington, Baron Walsh.”

The boatman let out a bark of laughter so strong it rocked the boat. “Well, Artie, you’re entertaining. I’ll give you that. Folks may pay money to hear you say it with that fancy accent of yours. God knows you’re gonna need it.”

“What’s your name then? Perhaps I’ll laugh,” Phillip said, his voice growing weaker.

His companion didn’t answer. Experienced travelers told Phillip to expect the water of the great rivers, both the Ohio and the Mississippi, to be treacherous. No one warned him about pirates and swindlers.

The boatman put his back into his work and, with astonishing skill, neatly avoided a floating log that threatened to collide with them. He maneuvered the canoe through swirling eddies, slid around into a calmer channel, and guided the canoe south with the current.

“Luke Archer,” the ruffian replied a moment later. “The one you can thank when I drag your worthless carcass ashore.” He said nothing else, or if he did, Phillip didn’t hear it.

Several hours—or perhaps days—later, sharp pains brought him to awareness as he was dragged from the canoe, thrust over the man’s shoulders, and carried a short distance.

“Nan! Get yourself over here. I brought you a wounded duck!” his rescuer shouted as he dropped Phillip to a rough floor. Heat enveloped Phillip before, blessedly, the world went dark again.