Allyson Charles's Blog, page 3

Vacation Hangover

I recently went on a month long road trip (one of the top reasons to become a writer - your schedule is your own and you can write anywhere, but I digress), and while it was a hell of a lot of fun, it was a bit of a double-edged sword. It took me a day when I got back to go through my mail. A day to do my laundry. A day to figure out what my next step as a writer is. Okay, that's taking more than a day. But I think I finally have a plan. I started my trip with the unusual circumstance of having no deadlines in my future. All my projects were wrapped up; I have no outstanding contracts. My time was once again my own. So, what to do with it? I have so many ideas for books, it's hard to focus on just one. But my immediate game plan is to write the first in a series contemporary romance and send that to my agent to shop around. While that process is ongoing, I have a half-finished first in a new series small-town romance to finish. I plan on self-publishing that, so I'm sure it will come out before my straight contemporary book does. And then start plotting my new series in my historical world, a world full of spies and dominant men. And while that series is percolating, I hope to publish short stories in that world, a satisfying tease if you will, with two characters who will feature prominently in the new series. Anyone remember Cerise and Wilberforce from PLAYED BY THE EARL? These short stories are going to be all about them. And I also might have a historical fiction book I want to research and write. So even though I have no deadlines, I have plenty to do. That road trip might have to hold me vacation-wise for a good while. :) Anyhoo, here's a pic from my recent travels. Apparently a writer built a shack on a tiny island off the New England coast which has now been abandoned. He must have had crazy deadlines to meet. #writerscave #amwriting #roadtripsrule

Bound by the Earl now in audio!

Bound by the Earl is now an audiobook. Is is narrated by Audie-award winner John Lane, and ooh Nelly, does listening to him make me blush. It's over nine hours of listening enjoyment, so check it out now, if you like sexy and suspenseful reads. Audible Amazon Apple Google Kobo #audiobooks #boundbytheearl #lordsofkiscipline #audiobooklove #audible #audiobooklover #audiobooksrock #audiobooklife

DISCIPLINED BY THE DUKE has been chosen...

as one of 12 Hot & Erotic Books that feature BDSM by Wiki Ezvid! There are definitely some others on that list I'd like to check out. See the full list here. Thanks, wiki ezvid!

Sneak Peak of MARKED!

Sinclair returned, followed by a man and a woman bearing large platters of food and a jug of ale. Her husband sat across from her. “I hope you’re hungry. This establishment actually has some decent food. Black pudding and eels.” He rubbed his hands together. “I do miss good Scottish fare living in London.” The barkeep set plates of food down between them. “This close to the border you’ll find many of the public houses serve Scottish food. And you can enjoy it here without risking yer neck in the northern troubles. But none as good as my Bertha makes.” He beamed at the woman and took the platter from her hands. “Troubles?” Winnifred poked her fork at the pudding, not liking the look of it. “It’s nothing, I’m sure,” her husband said. “There have been reports of fighting breaking out in cities. Public property being destroyed. But with us having such a poor growing season, tempers will spike.” Sinclair ripped the end off a loaf of bread and used it to hold a bit of eel in place as he speared it. He swallowed and tossed back a swig of ale. “Very passable. My compliments to the cook.” The woman pinked. “It’s not often we have one as fine as yourself to cook for, Lord Dunkeld.” She dropped into an inelegant curtsy. “A marquess and marchioness eating my food.” She dropped another curtsy. “It’s an honor, milord.” “Now, Bertha, let’s let the happy couple eat in peace.” The barkeep took her elbow. “Jus’ holler if you need anything else, milord.” Sin nodded and tore off another hunk of bread. Dust from the road dirtied his cravat and coat, and tendrils of hair had escaped his queue. Her husband looked rough, uncivilized, yet utterly confident and content, like a man who knew he could control every space and situation he found himself in. Every public house they entered, Sin bought the laborers a drink and sometimes joined them for a hearty laugh over some ribald jokes. Every evening he ate his meal with gusto, satisfaction making the edges of his lips curl up. Her husband was a man of large appetites. Except, it appeared, for her. He took another swallow of ale. “You’re not eating. I can have them bring you something else, if you’d prefer.” Picking up her knife, she forced a smile. Never appear upset. Never give cause for concern. “This is fine. Besides, I’ll have to become accustomed to Scottish food.” He stared at her, unblinking. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” She placed a bite of the foreign sausage on her tongue and smiled around it, like it was the most delicious thing in the world. Her throat rebelled but she forced herself to swallow. Dear Lord, she would never become accustomed to this. “I thought we’d agreed to honesty.” He pushed his plate away. “Tell me what’s wrong.” She set her silverware down and clasped her hands on her lap. He seemed so sincere about wanting to hear her thoughts. But a woman who freely expressed herself was a dangerous thing. No matter how earnest her husband appeared, she could never let her guard down. Only bad things happened to those who did. “Winnifred? I’m waiting.” And he didn’t sound patient about it. “It’s truly….” The word ‘nothing’ died on her lips under his withering glare. She sucked on her bottom lip. Would voicing this particular thought truly be so bad? This was a concern that most wives would probably raise with their husbands. She wouldn’t be considered queer for mentioning it. She hoped. She fisted her hands under the table. “It’s only, we’ve been married for eight days now.” Eight days and seven empty nights. “I’m aware of that.” “And you haven’t… we haven’t…” She glanced around the room but no other patrons were within hearing distance. Still, she leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t you wish to produce an heir?” He pressed his lips flat. His eyes, a blue as deep as a sapphire, went as hard as that mineral. A small muscle ticked in his forehead. Sweat gathered at the small of her back, dampening her gown. “Any wife would wonder. My question is perfectly common.” Never appear different from the crowd. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I should have spoken of it before. But speaking of the act wouldn’t help my situation.” He shifted and cleared his throat. “There is a custom among the Archer family. Every Marquess of Dunkeld has bedded his wife for the first time in the ancestral bed.” A delicate flush stained his cheeks. “Perhaps it seems foolish, but I don’t want to be the first one to break that tradition.” “Oh.” A tradition without a reason was as illogical as a superstition to Winnifred, but at least it answered her question. Her husband intended to have an intimate marriage. Which left her with four more nights to fret over that particular marital duty. She wished it were over and done with. Lying next to her husband, wondering if he was going to touch her that night, dreading it yet always somehow disappointed when he didn’t, was its own form of torture. He was a big man. A strong man. And one who didn’t seem to care about the niceties. Yet he held her hand ever so gently. His contradictions intrigued her, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he would behave when he took his husband’s privilege.

Women have always been kick-ass

Part of writing historical romance is research. Mucho, mucho research. While editing my latest (MARKED BY THE MARQUESS, coming soon!) I learned something interesting while on my fav website - etymonline, my go to resource to figure out if my characters would say that word back in the regency era. I looked up the word 'gun' to surprising results. First, yes, that word was in use so I don't have to keep writing pistol all the time. Sweet. But etymonline.com also mentioned the history of the word, and it is awesome. Apparently, the word gun is derived from a shortening of a woman's name, Gunilda. The name is from Old Norse and is a combination of gunnr and hildr, both meaning war. It is also pointed out that women are often associated with guns, with military weapons being named after them, such as Big Bertha for a howitzer. I am a bit of a gun enthusiast myself so finding out that the word is derived from someone must have been a kick-ass woman in Norse mythology makes me inordinately happy. And this is one of the reasons why I love writing historical romance. You never know what you're going to learn. #regencyromance #guns #history

#TeaserTuesday

This is a bit unedited and not the final version, but a taste of the upcoming MARKED BY THE MARQUESS. “Don’t be a halfwit.” Sin shifted his weight. The girls were still eyeing his friend like a hunting dog did a fresh kill. Pampered, scheming coquettes, every last one. “Can we leave, or are there any other unsuitable women you wish to flirt with?” “Every woman suits me.” Summerset gave him a lazy smile that set Sin’s teeth on edge. The hell of it was, his friend was right. Something about the sly fop had all the ladies raising their skirts. Luckily for the maters of the Beau Monde, his friend tended not to turn his attentions on innocent maids. “There’s a game at Halliwell’s tonight.” Sin cracked his neck. “Our time would be better spent there.” Summerset cocked a shoulder against the wall and scanned the room. “And miss a meeting with our esteemed friend? Who knows what delightful little caper he’ll send us on tonight. And stop tugging on your cravat. Not after my valet spent nearly an hour getting it just so.” Sin scowled but dropped his hands. “It was nary a minute I let your man fuss over me.” And only because Summerset refused to leave his home unless Sin’s ‘travesty’ of a knot was rectified. “Liverpool isn’t showing. I’m done here. Let’s go.” “One more drink.” Summerset swirled the liquid in his glass and sniffed. “But it can’t be this pig-swill.” “Fine.” Sin squared his shoulders. “I’ll get you some wine. The good stuff.” Anything to escape this rout. And sneaking into their host’s cellars was infinitely preferable to holding up the wall like a bluestocking. Without waiting for his friend’s response, Sin strode across the room, ignoring the raised hand of Lord Childers. The last thing he wanted was more stultifying talk on the merits of a Scottish referendum with a man who didn’t know Hadrian’s Wall from Stonehenge. The sounds of the ballroom disappeared as the door swung shut behind him. The hall was empty, and if Sin remembered the layout to this house correctly, the stairs down would be just around the corner. Without slowing, he plucked a taper from an elaborate silver candelabra sitting on a side table and trudged down the corridor. He lightened his step, softening the sound of his boots as he made his way down past the kitchens and into the cellar. Old habits died hard, and entering unknown territory clomping as loudly as a shire horse was never optimal for survival. He sighed. A mission right about now wouldn’t have gone amiss. Damn Liverpool for not showing. His mother’s letters urging his return to Scotland were arriving more frequently, and if he didn’t have a job soon to distract him, might become impossible to ignore. The small wooden door to the wine cellar stood open and a dim light flickered within. Sin hesitated at the entrance but heard no sounds. The steward might have left a candle burning if he needed to come down for more wine. If the cheap bastard Stamworth would let him. He strolled down one corridor, bottles climbing on either side. A slate sign at the top of each shelf listed the province and year of the wines across its dark surface. Hmm, a ’94 Bordeaux, an ’02 Malaga, a … Sin paused and lifted a bottle out of its slot. He blew dust from the brown glass. A seventeen eighty-three hermitage from the Rhone valley. Sin pursed his lips. He preferred a good dram of whisky to grape juice, but even he knew he was holding a quality bottle of wine. And if their host ever watered down this vintage, Sin would bloody the man’s nose himself. “Drat,” a soft voice muttered. Sin whipped around but his aisle remained empty. He padded to the end of the row and peered around the corner. The unmistakeable figure of a woman stood feet away, her back to Sin, the candle she held flickering precariously close to an escaped curl as she tugged at something by her leg. “Release me, you infernal bit of metal,” she muttered. “Madam?” Sin glanced around the cellar, searching for a companion. The woman’s gown wasn’t the rich jewel tones common of married women at these types of functions, nor was it the washed-out pastels favored by the chits making calf-eyes at Summerset. Was she a miss? “Are you—” She whipped around, eyes wide, and pressed a hand to her heart. The candle in her other hand tilting ever closer … Sin leaped forward, snatching her wrist, and eliciting a muffled shriek. Her chest heaved. “I assure you I carry no coin upon my person. If your intent is to rob me, you will be sorely disappointed.” Sin grimaced and dropped her hand. Summerset might jest that he looked a ruffian, but he was a marquess, damn it. He might refuse to wear the ballocks-hugging silk pantaloons and jewel-encrusted boots so many of the aristocracy favored, but he hardly looked a pauper. “You were about to set your hair on fire.” He slid his gaze down her figure. She was young, early twenties, he guessed. Her dress had a modest neckline, and lacked the ribbons, bows, and other whatnot he so detested. Her form was sturdy, and the top of her head reached his shoulder. A very tall woman, indeed. “Missus …?” She held the candle further from her body. “Miss. Miss Winnifred Hannon. And I assure you, I was not. I am most careful when it comes to flammable materials.” “What are you doing down in Lord Stamworth’s wine cellars?” He looked over his shoulder, but still no companion or liaison of hers appeared. “Are you a guest of his?” “I am.” She pressed her shoulders back. “My father is a friend of Lord Stamworth’s. And you are, sir?” She hiccuped softly, and pressed her free hand to her mouth looking adorably abashed. “Sinclair Archer, Marquess of Dunkeld, at your service.” Lifting his own candle, he held it up to her eyes. They were a lovely light blue with deep, dark centers. He leaned toward her and sniffed. “Are you intoxicated?” “I beg your pardon?” She glared up at him, her chin lifting in a manner that made him smile. “Why, I would never”—hiccup—“do something so disreputable.” Setting his candle down, he leaned around her and plucked two bottles of wine from the top of the barrel behind her. One was uncorked, the other still retained its wax seal. He raised an eyebrow. Cocking her head, she pursed her lips. “There is a perfectly logical explanation for those.” “I was certain there must be.” He widened his stance and settled in to hear it. Truly, he should have spent the whole of the rout in the wine cellar. It was certainly more entertaining. “A colleague of my father’s wanted to taste a vintage from 1812, preferable a Madeira, and was having trouble finding one on his home island.” The lass narrowed her eyes, looking as put upon as a tutor whose student hadn’t learned his tables. “Trade ships aren’t sailing to Java every day, you know.” His lips twitched. “Of course not.” “So, knowing that Lord Stamworth keeps an excellent cellar, and also knowing my father was loath to ask him for a bottle …” She raised her hands, like the solution was obvious. “You came down to take it.” He nodded. He could appreciate such a direct resolution to a problem. “And the second, open bottle?” She flushed. “Mr. Raguhram’s theory concerning the influence of volcanic eruptions on agriculture was persuasive. I wanted to taste it for myself.” Sin blinked. Whatever he had expected to hear, that wasn’t it. Was she in earnest, or spewing nonsense due to her half-sprung state? He raised the bottle to the candlelight; half the bottle remained. “That was quite the taste.” Miss Hannon pressed her lips flat. “I only had a sip or two. The rest I spilled over there.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Now, I really must be returning to my father.” She took a step forward and was pulled up short. She sighed. “Once I free my skirts from a nail.” Sin returned the wine bottles to the top of the barrel. “Here, let me.” Squatting down, he pushed her skirts aside, ignoring her sharp intake of breath, and found where she was snagged. The slippery fabric of her gown refused to slide back over the nail head. Sin pinched the skirt above the nail and pulled, a loud rent echoing in the cavernous cellar. “There.” He stood. “You’re free.” She thrust the candle into his hand and twisted her skirts, stooping to examine the muslin. She stared at the tear in her skirt, glared at him and slowly straightened. Sin cocked his shoulder against the nearest shelf, preparing for his tongue-lashing. Women and their clothes. She’d been stuck; now she was free. Really, there was no reason for her to complain. But she surprised him. Dipping her chin, she said, “Thank you, Lord Dunkeld.” She picked up the unopened wine and cradled it to her stomach. “Now, I really must be going.” He held out a hand. “Wait.” He had too many unanswered questions for her to leave him now. “What is this Mr. Ragu…” “Mr. Raguhram,” she provided helpfully. “Mr. Raguhram’s theory? And why would tasting a bottle of wine help to prove it?” “One cannot prove a hypothesis.” She tapped the toe of her beaded slipper against the dusty floor in a rapid tattoo and peered over his shoulder. “Multiple tests with positive results may lead one to give the hypothesis a high level of probability, but replicated tests can only serve to disprove a theory.” “Is that right?” He should introduce this chit to Summerset. He was the chemist of their motley crew of spies and would find a woman with the same bent a delightful diversion. His gaze drifted down her well-built form. Then again, perhaps Summerset should stay well away from this one. She didn’t seem the sort to tolerate his friend’s easy virtue, and the earl might see her as a challenge. “You’re very decided in your opinions for one so young.” He forgo adding ‘and for a woman’, although in England that was certainly true. He received nothing but weather reports from the Sassenach females of his acquaintance. One spouting about volcanoes and experiments was certainly novel. All color fled her face. Sin unfolded to his full height. “Are you al—” “Fine.” She plastered an empty smile on her face, one that he’d seen practiced by society ladies the world over. “I’m merely repeating my father’s words on the subject. He is the man of science. If you have any questions about his or his colleagues’ theories, you should direct them to him.” Voices echoed hollowly from behind them, growing louder and more distinct as the men attached to them neared the cellar’s door. “… and I insist,” Summerset said. “But it really isn’t necessary for you to come down here yourself.” A man, Lord Stamworth most like, sniffed. “My steward and I are perfectly capable of fetching more wine ourselves.” Sin whipped his head over his shoulder but couldn’t see the entrance. Shelves of wine blocked his view. He looked back at Miss Hannon, who had frozen like a stag before a wildcat. He held a finger to his lips and motioned for her to go deeper into the cellar. If he could get Summerset and their host out of the basement without noticing her presence, all would be well. Nodding, she spun. One long, loose curl of sandy-brown hair swung out and kissed the flame of his candle. The tendril lit up with a hiss. “Confound it!” The candle dropped from his hands and sputtered out as he reached for her hair. He clapped at the flame, his fingers catching in her hair. She stumbled into him with a cry. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he steadied her. “Are you all right?” Nothing around her glowed, so he assumed the flames had all been extinguished. Her head scraped against his shoulder, but he couldn’t tell if it was a nod or a shake. Until the darkness lessened, and a light rose from the end of their corridor. Then he could see the horror etched on her face as Lord Stamworth called, “Winnifred? Is that you?” Grimly, Sin set Miss Hannon away from his body and stepped between her and the men peering at them from down the aisle. Summerset’s face matched Miss Hannon’s in alarm. Lord Stamworth merely looked shocked. Sin sighed, his shoulders sagging. He turned his back on his friend and faced Miss Hannon. “I’m sorry for this.” “I don’t suppose if we logically explained the chain of events that led us here it would be of any use?” She set her bottle of wine down and tugged at the hem of her sleeve. “I’m afraid not.” She nodded once, and a veil of dead calm dropped over her features. He never would have guessed that only moments ago she had been near panic. “Well, then, no need to apologize,” she said. “We can only accept life’s challenges as they’re presented.” A challenge? Acid burned in his gut. He supposed that was one way to look at it. A prison of societal expectations was another. She smoothed her hands down the stomach of her gown and gave him a placid smile. One he wished he could duplicate. His breath hitched. Who was this woman? She’d slipped on a mask as easily as a spy. Was she the lass who lectured about scientific process, the woman frightened of the future she’d just been thrown into, or the prim miss with an arsenal of false smiles? His shoulders hardened to blocks. No matter. Whoever she was, she was about to become his wife. #teasertuesday #historicalromance, #eroticromance, #regencyromance

The New Year Chronicles

Ah, January. The start of the new year when everyone is hopeful and fresh and full of optimism. Or not. How can it only be two weeks into the new year and I'm already behind on my yearly schedule? Perhaps it was because I got absolutely nothing done in December. Sigh. But I am back to work and closing in on the final words on MARKED BY THE MARQUESS. I'm still shooting for a March 15th launch, and hope to have preorders up by Valentine's Day. On the Allyson Charles side of business, I'm through with edits on my last two projects with Kensington Publishing. I've seen some drafts of my cover art for FOREVER WILD and will share as soon as I can. I'm now debating which new series to start (I have ideas for so many different ones). Last year I wrote some words for a potential series set on the Lost Coast of California featuring a family I've already come to love, so that might be the direction I go. The town it would loosely take place in is a fictional version of Mendocino, California, which, if anyone of you has been there, will know is beautiful as all get out. But does Lost Coast Love sound depressing, or like the charming small-town romance I hope it will be? Hmm. Too many decisions. But at least the ideas are rolling. I hope I never get to the point where I can't think of anything else I want to write. But what about the marvelous readers? What are some tropes you all love to read? #romancereads #missedanotherdeadline #whatsnew

Christmas optimism and idiocy

Hi everyone! I hope your holiday season is going swimmingly. I, in the throes of what can only be seasonal lunacy, promised I would get the fourth book of my Lords of Discipline series to my editor January 1st. Yeah ... that's not going to happen. I still intend to publish March 15th, but I'll need to finish it up after the holiday crush is over. I don't know why every year I think I will be productive in December, but I'm always wrong. One would think I would learn. On happier, more productive news, I finished edits on both FOREVER WILD, the third in my Allyson Charles Forever series, and in LOVE SPELLS DISASTER, a Halloween novella that will come out next year with fellow authors Kate Angell and Donna Kauffman. That was a fun project and I can't wait for you all to read it. And there are recipes! And the family recipe I included I just baked yesterday. Hmm, perhaps if I did less baking in December I'd have more time for writing .... Nah. That couldn't be the issue. Anyhoo, I wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas. I hope it is filled with loved ones and good food.

December 1st updates

Well, it's December 1st, and I need cute puppy pics. I did NanoWriMo for the first time, and it wouldn't have been so difficult if I hadn't been traveling for 10 days of it. But I got 50K words on paper on Marked by the Marquess; only about 40K left, and a butt-load of editing! I'm hoping to get it up for preorder this month, but it will depend on when I get the first couple of chapters edited so they'll be decent enough for previews on the ebook sites. I'm planning my production schedule for next year, and besides books 4 and 5 in the Lords of Discipline and starting a new small-town contemporary series (featuring the Martineau family!), I have something a little ... odd on tap. I don't want to say too much right now, but my dilemma is whether to publish these off-the-wall romances under yet another pen name, or stick with Alyson Chase since they'll have similar heat levels. Something to debate. But onto fun news, I have the cover for MARKED BY THE MARQUESS, and this model's chest is pretty mouthwatering. Here it is, the first time I've posted it. Tell me what you think!

Of brogues, burrs, and accents

November is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), and this is the first time I’ve participated in it. I’m frantically getting words down on my fourth Lords of Discipline novel, MARKED BY THE MARQUESS. I hope to have preorders set up soon. Once I get the first draft done, I’ll start dropping excerpts here. This book has taught me the importance of researching before plotting. Finding out that it will take my hero and heroine at least ten days to travel from London to his home in Scotland instead of the three I was for some reason assuming, has thrown my timeline into a kink. And I don’t even know if the average man was still wearing a kilt in Scotland in the early nineteenth century. Costume adjustments will need to be made in editing. And don't even get me started on writing the Scottish accent.