Maggi Andersen's Blog, page 64

I can recommend this! A gripping story based on the life of Elizabeth Murray's life, Royalist Rebel by Anita Seymour released 17th January 2013!

ROYALIST REBEL by Anita Seymour


Intelligent, witty and beautiful, Elizabeth Murray wasn’t born noble; her family’s fortunes came from her Scottish father’s boyhood friendship with King Charles. As the heir to Ham House, their mansion on the Thames near Richmond, Elizabeth was always destined for greater things.
Royalist Rebel is the story of Elizabeth’s youth during the English Civil War, of a determined and passionate young woman dedicated to Ham House, the Royalist cause and the three men in her life; her father William Murray, son of a minister who rose to become King Charles’ friend and confidant, the rich baronet Lionel Tollemache, her husband of twenty years who adored her and John Maitland, Duke of Lauderdale, Charles II’s favourite.
With William Murray at King Charles’ exiled court in Oxford, the five Murray women have to cope alone. Crippled by fines for their Royalist sympathies, and besieged by the Surrey Sequestration Committee, Elizabeth must find a wealthy, non-political husband to save herself, her sisters, and their inheritance.

Royalist Rebel by Claymore Books, an imprint of Pen and Sword, is released on 17th January 2013
PUBLISHER: Claymore Books, an imprint of Pen and Sword.
For a little background on the novel, see Anita’s Book Blog:BOOK BLOG
The National Trust Website of Elizabeth Murray’s former home, Ham House, at Petersham near Richmond, Surrey:NATIONAL TRUST ~ HAM HOUSE
ANITA'S BLOG

Christmas Eve here in Australia. Have a wonderful Christmas holiday and a happy and safe New year!

Don't forget to lock up your pets before the fireworks on New Years Eve. Many go missing at this time.
Cheers,

Maggi

FREE ON KINDLE TODAY! THE RELUCTANT MARQUESS

AMAZON KINDLE
Also available in print!

Blurb: Charity Barlow wished to marry for love. The rakish Lord Robert wishes only to tuck her away in the country once an heir is produced.

A country-bred girl, Charity Barlow suddenly finds herself married to a marquess, an aloof stranger determined to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. She and Lord Robert have been forced by circumstances to marry, and she feels sure she is not the woman he would have selected given a choice.

The Marquess of St. Malin makes it plain to her that their marriage is merely for the procreation of an heir, and once that is achieved, he intends to continue living the life he enjoyed before he met her.

While he takes up his life in London once more, Charity is left to wander the echoing corridors of St. Malin House, when she isn’t thrown into the midst of the mocking Haute Ton.

Charity is not at all sure she likes her new social equals, as they live by their own rules, which seem rather shocking. She’s not at all sure she likes her new husband either, except for his striking appearance and the dark desire in his eyes when he looks at her, which sends her pulses racing.

Lord Robert is a rake and does not deserve her love, but neither does she wish to live alone.

Might he be suffering from a sad past? Seeking to uncover it, Charity attempts to heal the wound to his heart, only to make things worse between them.

Will he ever love her?


Brigitte had just begun the finishing touches to Charity’s toilette, when a knock sounded at the door. Charity gave a nervous start. “That must be Robert.” Had he come to inspect her and see if she looked regal enough? She swallowed as feelings of inadequacy consumed her. A footman bowed. “Lord Southmore is below, my lady. He wishes to attend while you dress.” “Watch me dress?” Appalled, Charity frowned into the mirror and pulled her wrap over her bosom. “What can he mean?” “He asks to come to your boudoir, my lady,” Brigitte said, “to assist with the placing of your patches, jewelry and hair adornment. It is often done.” “Indeed?” Charity thought this a most deplorable fashion. “You would insult him should you refuse, my lady.” Charity remembered Robert’s warning about his friend, but it only served to make her rebellious. Would Robert be just a little jealous to find he’d been here? “This is the way of things?” “Oh yes, my lady. I have seen it many times.” She was sure that Lord Southmore didn’t wish her to look regal. “Have him come up,” she said. Shortly afterward, the elegant man, dressed in peach satin, entered the room and came to kiss her hand. “Lady St Malin.” How civil he was. And quite attractive, she hadn’t noticed that before. She felt sure that a man such as he would never give a woman a moment’s heartache. “Lord Southmore.” He settled on a chair beside her as Brigitte opened the box containing patches. “Now let me see. One here, I think.” He traced her cheekbone with a feather light touch. “And one at the very corner of your mouth, to highlight one of your best features.” He brushed her bottom lip with the tips of his fingers before withdrawing his hand. Charity wanted to giggle, but as Lord Southmore appeared quite serious, she said, “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your assistance.” His gaze moved over her, the warm light in his eyes failing to match his impersonal tone. “Now for the hair.” He turned to study her waiting gown. “An excellent choice. That lovely shade of green will pay homage to your eyes. For your hair, those silk gardenias are perfect.” Brigitte began to tuck the flowers into Charity’s hair. “Superb,” Lord Southmore said. “Now, I recommend — “ “Emeralds,” a sharp voice came from the doorway. Charity turned to find her husband entering the room, a muscle clenching in his jaw. She trembled at his steely expression, but raised her chin and held his gaze. Lord Southmore rose and bowed. “St Malin. You are just in time for the gown.” “So I see,” Robert said through his teeth. Charity hurried behind the painted screen. She slipped off the wrap. Brigitte helped her step into the gown, then her deft fingers worked at the hooks. Brigitte smoothed a silk ruffle. “There, my lady.” Charity stepped out to face the two men. “Perfect. I was right about the color enhancing your eyes,” Lord Southmore said, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t you say, St Malin?” Robert’s eyes narrowed, and he didn’t answer. He opened a velvet box. She expected the diamonds, but he drew from it an exquisite emerald necklace. The deep green stones, set in a bed of diamonds, looked like pretty spring flowers. He tossed the box to the maid and clasped the necklace around Charity’s throat. Charity felt his fingers at the nape of her neck. She anxiously watched his face in the mirror. He looked as if he would prefer to throttle her rather than adorn her with jewels. She would not allow him to spoil the evening. “Thank you, St Malin.” The use of his title felt strange on her tongue, and she saw by the surprise in his eyes that she’d scored a hit. “Another beautiful necklace. I declare you spoil me.” She turned to Lord Southmore. “And my thanks to you, my lord, for your skillful artistry.” Lord Southmore bowed. “A pleasure.” She took her cloak and gloves from Brigitte. “Shall we go, gentlemen?”


Compliments of the Season!

Maggi Andersen
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T'was the Night Before Christmas Poem

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.



When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" Vintage  Images

Writing Sex Scenes, the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

I'm writing Taming a Gentleman Spy and it's time to construct a sex scene again. Always a challenge, I thought I'd look at how others do it and found a great article in the newspaper this morning.




Writing sex is a minefield where writers try to avoid the "sleazy innuendos, dubious metaphors and strings of turgid adjectives," says Darryn King in Spectrum - The Sydney Morning Herald December 15, 2012. Even good writers can make an awful hash of it. 
Here is an  extract from Nancy Huston's book Infrared, the winner of the Bad Sex in Fiction Award. "This is when I take my picture, from deep inside the loving. The Canon is part of my body. I myself am the ultra sensitive film - capturing invisible reality, capturing heat." 
And som helpful advice from Anais Nin: "'Sex', must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine."

More helpful advice from The Joy of Writing Sex by Elizabeth Benedict:
"Sex in real life doesn't have to be about anything but sex, but in fiction it has to reveal something about who the characters are, what they want, what they might not get, what they think they can get away with, or what this collision of bodies has to do with everything that comes before and after your story."
From the same book: Stephen McCauley, (1995) Madame Bovary, for example, is filled with lush, sensual descriptions that heighten the reader's awareness of the erotic tension between the characters. The way Flaubert describes the texture of soot on a fireplace or the sound of water falling on a silk parasol or the look of Emma's tongue licking the bottom of a glass of liqueur conveys a powerful sense of sublimated sexuality. Flaubert's attention to all the senses is so exact and exquisite, he can write a powerful erotic scene with no physical contact. I suppose it helps to be a genius.

In movies, too, sex scenes can be downright awful like Madonna's Body of Evidence or the passionless sex between Kidman and Cruise  in Eyes Wide Shut? 


In January, the Opera House, Sydney, will present its own sexy readings event, My First Time. myfirsttime.com has collected anonymous first person accounts of what D H Lawrence called the "tormented tangle".   

I'm sure there are many examples readers can think of. I'd love to hear of them.

Looking for something to read at Christmas? How about a romance with a Gothic setting in Cornwall?

NIGHT GARDEN
AMAZON BUY LINK:
Laura Palmer marries the mysterious baron, Lord Nathaniel Lanyon, and goes to live in his ancient home in Cornwall. A dark cloud hovers over Wolfram. The death of Nathaniel’s first wife has never been solved, and some of the villagers believe him responsible. Struggling to understand the distant man she married, Laura tries to uncover the truth. With each stone unturned, she comes closer to danger.

Excerpt:
 The carriage drove along a river and through a green valley ringed by forest. The misty
scene muted the cries of a flock of birds disappearing into the fog like magic. Stone walls crisscrossed the countryside, confining sheep to the meadows. Finally, at the top of a rise, the clouds
shifted and Laura caught sight of water, turned gauzy gold under a westerly sun.
“I can see the sea!” she said, craning her neck.
“I’m sorry about the fog.” Nathaniel said. “This was not how I planned your first sight of
Wolfram.”
She patted his hand, resting on hers. “I shall love it. I just know it.”
They drove down the hill to Wolfram village. Laura looked eagerly about her as they
passed small houses hugging the warren of narrow, cobbled lanes leading down to the bay. The
fog was even thicker here. The smell of the sea, salty and unfamiliar, washed over her. Gulls
cried, swooping above them in the grey sky, the horizon cut off by the wall of fog.
The carriage traveled down the hill to the harbor where fishing boats were moored along
the quay. A row of houses, shops and an inn rimmed the seawall. A curtain of spray from
surging waves sent fingers of foam over the promenade. Nathaniel nodded towards an ancient
Tudor inn bearing the sign The Green Feather. “We’ll have some refreshment.” He jumped
down and turned to assist her.
“Why? Can’t we go straight home?”
“The causeway’s underwater, your ladyship,” Jarvis said, holding the horses steady. “We
must wait for the tide to turn before we can take the carriage across.”
Laura raised her eyebrows and looked at Nathaniel. “Causeway?”
The abbey is cut off at high tide,” he explained.
Laura fell silent, dumbstruck that he had not felt the need to explain this to her before.
She felt unnerved at the idea of being cut off from the mainland. Beyond a glowing description
of the abbey’s history, Nathaniel had told her very little of his life here. And nothing of his first
wife at all.
“We’ll take the boat,” Nathaniel said to Jarvis. “You can follow with the luggage. My
bride is eager to see her new home.”
“Right you are, your lordship,” Jarvis said touching his cap.
Laura walked with Nathaniel along the harbor foreshore where a fishing boat was
unloaded of its catch onto the wharf. The men doffed their caps at Nathaniel and studied her
with open curiosity. The smell of fish was overpowering and the noise of the gulls jangled at her
nerves. Nathaniel stopped in front of a rowboat tied up at a wharf, bobbing about in the water.
He picked Laura up and descended the mossy steps, placing her into the boat. “Sit there
in the middle and don’t move.”
Laura did as she was bid. Feeling unstable in her high-heeled boots, she clung to the hard
wooden seat as the boat danced on the waves.
Jarvis untied the rope and kicked the boat away from the wharf as Nathaniel picked up
the oars. He began to row strongly. Laura watched, admiring him. Within minutes, they were
well out into the bay. The boat dipped and spray splashed over the side, running towards her
feet. The ultramarine sea rushed by alarmingly close. The thought that she couldn’t swim and
would sink quickly in her heavy suit and boots made her swallow nervously. She clung to her
hat knowing it would be limp as an old cabbage leaf but it did shield her eyes from the glare.
“It’s not far,” Nathaniel pulled at the oars.
“It’s on an island?”
“Only at high tide.”
 Laura gave up trying to question him further as he rowed effortlessly on. Suddenly, a
narrow wharf loomed out of the mist. Tied up to it a small sloop rocked on the waves.
“Welcome to Wolfram,” Nathaniel said, a note of pride in his voice.
As he secured the rowboat to the wharf, Laura looked up at the abbey, its tower, as
unyielding as a mountain peak, emerged from the fog as the sky began to clear. Nathaniel
helped her onto the wharf. She caught sight of a garden of flowering trees and shrubs and her
heart leapt. Laura followed him along the path.
Nathaniel gave a low whistle. Excited barking rent the air. Two red setters raced down
the path, their glossy ears bouncing, their tongues lolling. They pounced on their master in
delight. “Meet Orsino and Sebastian.”
Laura laughed in delight. “From Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night?” Her husband constantly
surprised her.
He grinned. “One of my favorite plays.”
The dogs barely gave Laura a glance, their love for their master took all their attention.
After he rubbed their ears and gave them a pat, they continued up the path, the dogs rushing
ahead.
They passed through a gate in a stone wall.
The garden, with its rose-pink magnolia and white azaleas that had touched her, proved to
be a graveyard filled with ancient gravestones, the scent of jasmine on the air suddenly cloying.
She was not sure what she had expected, it just wasn’t this. It looked so ... forbidding. “Your
ancestors?” she asked.
Nathaniel glanced away over the grounds. “Yes.”
She bit her lip. Of course, Amanda would be buried here.

Season's Greetings!

The release of THE FOLLY AT FALCONBRIDGE HALL has been delayed until 2013

I'll give more details after Christmas.

Excerpt: THE FOLLY AT FALCONBRIDGE HALL

Vanessa remembered passing the library on her first day and located it without difficulty. She entered the room, finding it empty. It was designed for masculine comfort. Bookshelves filled with tomes covered all available wall space. A tan leather chesterfield and two chairs were grouped in front of the fireplace, and a tiger skin covered the floor in front of the hearth. The Times, The Daily Telegraph and the Penny Press lay on a table, and the aroma of cigars and pipe smoke lingered in the air.A variety of magazines was stacked in a rack. Vanessa sorted through The Gentleman’s Magazine, Punch, The Strand, and the London Sunday Journal. She selected Punchand the Penny Press to take back to her room. She roamed the shelves searching for suitable books and found several on botany, including one by Lord Falconbridge on Lepidoptera. She piled them onto a mahogany table, along with the books and the notes she’d fetched from her room. Searching further, she spied Plato’s Symposium and climbed the ladder. It was just out of reach. Not wishing to climb down, she leaned across. Her fingers touched the binding, and she leaned farther. She almost had it.“You read Ancient Greek, Miss Ashley?” Lord Falconbridge asked behind her. Vanessa jumped, and her foot slipped off the rung. She lost her balance and fell into a pair of strong arms.He set her on her feet. The imprint of his touch remained as her heart beat madly. She huffed a wisp of hair from her eyes, sure her face was crimson. “Not with any degree of expertise, my lord.”His lordship moved the ladder, climbed up, and took down the book she’d been trying to reach. He held it out to her. “Are you all right? I’m sorry I startled you.”Still thoroughly disconcerted, Vanessa took it. “I’m fine, thank you.”He moved to the table and looked through the books she’d selected. “You are interested in reading Darwin?” He looked surprised as he put aside Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of the Species. “You aren’t bothered by the religious ramifications of his evolutionary ideas?”“I have not as yet read it, my lord.” “When you do, perhaps we can discuss it further. I approve of all of these, except for this one.” He held up a favorite of her mother’s. “Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus. I trust you’re not planning to turn Blythe into a suffragette?”Discomfiture flooded her face with heat. “It is for my own pleasure, my lord.” She wasn’t aware he knew about her mother.He gestured to the settee. “Please sit down, Miss Ashley.”“I thought you might like to see what I have planned.” She gathered up her notes with shaking hands. “This is a list of subjects I intend to cover and the books I brought with me.” Sitting in a chair, he took the notes and read them. Without comment, he flicked open the books. She took a deep breath. “My lord, I have to tell you I had not thought of botany. I’ll need some time to prepare.”“I gathered as much,” he said, without looking up. After several minutes, he closed the books. “These seem appropriate.” He gave a brief smile. “No need to concern yourself. I will teach my daughter botany.”Then why hadn’t he mentioned it? Did he enjoy making her feel awkward? She bit her lip before a note of outrage escaped. She’d spent hours worrying about botany lessons before falling asleep. She was sure it had caused her disturbed dream. “I would like to learn something of botany, myself. I became quite interested in the subject in Cornwall.”“You may attend the lessons if you wish.”“Thank you.” “Your choice of reading material is unusual, Miss Ashley. I too enjoy reading the Classics. Shakespeare also.”“Shakespeare is a favorite.”“Which of his works particularly?”“Henry V.”His brows rose. “I would have thought some of Shakespeare’s more romantic plays, As You Like It or Twelfth Night, would better suit your taste.”“History interests me more than comedy.”“Indeed.” His blue eyes studied her as he rose. “I think we’ve covered everything. What do you plan for Blythe this afternoon?” “I understand that Blythe has been under a doctor’s care. I thought a walk in the fresh air would build up her strength.”“An excellent notion. But please refrain from entering the wood.”“Poachers, my lord?” “We have had a poacher or two setting traps in the past, but I’m afraid it’s more serious than that. Some months ago, a young woman from a nearby village went missing. Her body was found in Falconbridge Wood. She had killed herself.”Vanessa drew in a sharp breath. “How tragic.”

FREE SHORT STORY from KNOX ROBINSON PUBLISHING

    BELINDA'S SECRET
By
Maggi Andersen Click here for free download: 
Miss Belinda Howard harbors a secret. She intends to do two things before settling into a dreary and unfulfilling marriage to the man her father has chosen for her: to inveigle a goodly amount of money for her orphans from a man of means, and to make love with a rake. In no particular order, but it seemed practical to obtain both from the same man. A likely prospect is Lord Hawkestone, a viscount with a scandalous reputation, who gained Belinda’s interest after they danced together at a ball. Were all the rumors about him true? Did he kill a man in a duel? Had an attempt been made on his life?
Derrick, Lord Hawkestone, bored and mistrustful, came in answer to Belinda’s entreaty, expecting to seduce a willing lady.
Neither could imagine how circumstances would force their goals to change.