social ruin

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Ruination on WIP Wednesday

The fear of ruination was real in a society in which rank, power, and wealth depended on male primogeniture–that is, inheritance based on the eldest legitimate son being heir to everything. Of course a man wanted no doubt that the baby the wife delivered after their wedding was, in fact, his. Hence, even being alone with a man, if you were a maiden of the upper classes, could be enough to cause all other men to avoid you. Who knew what you had been up to? Of course, the consequences for the maiden were dire, and that is why historical romance writers find the situation so tempting! Here’s the first part of my new newsletter subscriber story:

A country road in the Midlands, 1815

Miss Amber Williamson muttered insulting epithets as she stalked down the road. “Arrogant idiot.” Stamp. “Stupid fool.” Sniff. “Despicable loon.” With her chin in the air, she gave another stamp, which proved to be mistake, for her slipper landed in a puddle she had not noticed until then. The displaced water splashed across her calves and petticoat, and the standing water soaked through both footwear and stocking to chill her foot.

“Botheration.” Amber wished she knew a few worse words, for if ever there was a time for unladylike language, this was it.

Slippers were not made for country walking, and she must have at least another two miles to go. At least that awful man was not likely to be after her. In fact, she would be surprised if he dared chase her even when he did finally manage to escape from her knots and the room she had locked when she left.

Dare to kidnap me, did he? Try to force me into marriage? Intolerable! “I should have shot you. I hope you do follow me, you swine. It will give me an opportunity to repair that oversight!”

Just in case, she would stop and load her muff pistol. It had worked well enough unloaded at that nasty little inn the not very Honourable Wilbur Menningham had chosen as a place to change his horses and ravish his victim. But she could not rely on the stupidity of other villains she might encounter.

“Bird-witted blaggard.” Menningham had believed her frail little lady act. Didn’t he know her better by now? He had been courting her for weeks, ever since her cork-brained brother had doubled her dowry. Again.

Amber amended her first assessment. While Menningham was largely and most immediately responsible for her current state, Kit’s ridiculous and increasingly desperate attempts to marry her off by increasing her dowry had also played a part.

From the moment Menningham had attacked her, Amber’s instinct had been to play helpless and dumb. Fighting back then would not have worked, for she was a slightly-built woman. She had no choice but to let him drag her into his carriage, shove a handkerchief into her mouth, and tie her up.

What she could do, though, was pretend he had subdued her—that she was weak and frightened. She had, in fact, been scared. But not witless. At some point, he would have to stop. At some point, he would have to untie her. And then, she could surely escape, for the man was a fool.

The opportunity had come sooner than she expected.

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Spotlight on My Christmas Knight

For fans of Elizabeth Hoyt and Sherry Thomas comes a Christmas novella about how a mistaken identity forces two strangers to realize that love can bloom` from a marriage of inconvenience and social ruin.

Sir Dennis Fairplace, knighted war hero of Crimea, has had enough of England and family. Overwhelmed by Christmas Day celebrations, he flees his family’s home to board a train northward, but a run-in with brawlers interrupts his plans.

Blanche Badnarrow, cloistered ward of her uncle, the cruel Bishop Badnarrow, secretly plans to elope with her lover to Scotland. But at the last minute, he abandons her at the station. That leaves the bishop determined to make someone—anyone—wed his “ruined” niece.

Enter Dennis, who stumbles into the bishop’s private rail car while trying to avoid a brawl, and finds himself a captive bridegroom.

Blanche and Dennis must escape their prison before her uncle grows tired of their reluctance to wed and throws Dennis from the moving train. As they plot their getaway, the couple begin to wonder—would marriage to one another be so bad after all?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DGFGQTSZ

Anne Knight has been writing stories since she was three years old. Before she could read or write, she followed her parents and babysitter around, begging them to dictate her words. Eventually she learned the alphabet and began writing herself. She sneaked her first romance novel when she was thirteen, but did not become an avid reader or writer of the genre until after college.

Anne lives in Arkansas with her real-life swoony hero, four children, and two cats. The cats are named Cyrano and Ivanhoe.

 

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Compromised on WIP Wednesday

In Chaos Come Again, a neighbour of my hero’s grandfather discovers him with the runaway heiress he has rescued.

“Lady Blaine,” Colonel O’Toole said. “It is Lady Blaine, is it not?”

The lady lifted a lorgnette to examine him and raised both brows. “Surely you must be Lionel O’Toole? Lion, my dear boy! How charming to see you. But what are you doing in Darlington? No, do not tell me. Of course, you are going to Persham Abbey. Is the earl dying at last?”

“As far as I know, my lady, my grandfather is as fit as ever, and will outlive us all. But yes, I am bound for Persham Abbey.”

She rapped the colonel’s arm with her lorgnette. “Ruthford is very proud of you, Lion. Every time you are mentioned in despatches, we hear about it from him, and when you made colonel, one might have thought you had been appointed king. He won’t tell you, of course. Too proud. So, I am letting you know myself.”

Colonel O’Toole looked startled, but he said, “Then I thank you, my lady. May I ask after Anthony?”

“He is Lord Blaine now, and can you believe that his eldest daughter will be making her come-out in two years? Ridiculous how time passes. He will be delighted to hear I have seen you. I daresay he shall ride over to visit you while you are at the Abbey.” She turned to Dorothea. “But I am being rude, my dear. You must forgive me. Lionel and my son Anthony were great friends in their school days.”

Mrs Austin inserted herself. “This is Miss Brabant, my lady.”

“My betrothed,” the colonel added, taking Dorothea’s hand and squeezing it in an unspoken message.

“The Brabant Mills heiress,” Lady Blaine said. “Oh, well done, Lion. Congratulations. And my very best wishes to you, Miss Brabant. Lion is a splendid fellow. I am sure you will be very happy. But you are in a hurry. We will leave you to your lunch and hope to see you during your stay at the Abbey. Come along, Mrs Austin.”

Dorothea protested as soon as the door shut behind the two women. “Betrothed?” Her heart had given a jump when he said it. He didn’t mean it, of course. There was no use hoping he did, and the sooner she heard him say it was a ploy, the better.

“We’ll discuss it in a minute,” the colonel promised. “Corporal, give them the signal to serve lunch, would you?”