Emily Larkin's Blog, page 2

Introducing Edward and Mattie, Part 2

In my last post, I showed you Edward, the hero of The Spinster's Secret, through the heroine's eyes. This time I'd like to show you the heroine, Matilda Chapple, through the hero's.

Firstly, though, the preamble to this scene. It's after dinner, and Edward has just had a glass of port with his host, Sir Arthur Strickland.

Strickland struggled to his feet, leaning on the cane. “Please join us in the drawing room.”

Edward stood. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

Strickland made his way slowly to the door. Edward followed. They traversed the corridor at a snail’s pace. “My niece reads to us in the evenings,” Strickland said, stopping outside a paneled door.

“How delightful,” Edward said, remembering her contralto voice. “Poetry?”

“Sermons,” the old man said, opening the door.

Sermons? Edward almost balked. If you can face Napoleon’s army on a battlefield, you can face an evening of sermons, he told himself, and he squared his shoulders and followed his host into the drawing room.

And now the scene itself:

Miss Chapple opened the leather-bound book. She looked at Edward. “I shall be reading from Sermons to Young Women,” she told him. “By the Reverend James Fordyce. Are you familiar with the work, Mr. Kane?”

“Er . . . no.” He sat back in the armchair and composed his face into an expression of interest.

“Sermon Two,” Miss Chapple read aloud. “On Modesty of Apparel.”

Edward stopped paying attention. He gazed at the fire and allowed Miss Chapple’s voice to flow over him.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, the clock hands had advanced fifteen minutes.

Edward sat up straight, blinking. He uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way.

“The less vanity you betray,” Miss Chapple read, “the more merit we shall always be disposed to allow you.”

He focused his attention on her, trying to guess her age. She was well past girlhood. Somewhere in her twenties, but precisely where was hard to determine; her skin was as smooth as that of a girl in her teens.

Edward studied her, trying to see a resemblance to Toby and finding none. Miss Chapple’s hair was an indifferent mid-brown, her nose unremarkable and quite unlike Toby’s jutting beak. An ordinary face, although he thought she might have dimples when she smiled. The only feature of note was her mouth, which was too large for beauty. But a lush mouth could never be a fault in a woman.

Miss Chapple’s figure was as generous as her mouth; she had none of Toby’s leanness. The gray gown was overlarge, as if attempting to hide her abundant curves.

Edward’s gaze lingered on her breasts for a fleeting moment before he wrenched them away. She’s reading a sermon, he admonished himself.

How much longer could the wretched thing be? Miss Chapple’s voice was as soporific as a lullaby . . .

The jerk of his head dropping forward woke him. The clock told him he’d lost another five minutes. Edward glanced around. No one had noticed. He swallowed a yawn and managed not to rub his eyes.

So, there you have it: Edward nodding off during an evening of sermons. Poor Edward!

Introducing Mattie and Edward, Part 1

Today I'd like you to meet Edward Kane, the hero of The Spinster's Secret. Edward fought at Waterloo and carries the scars of that battle with him.

Here he is seen through the eyes of Matilda Chapple, the heroine. Two points worth noting: (1) Mattie is six foot tall, and (2) her cousin Toby died at Waterloo.

Mattie studied Mr. Kane surreptitiously while she ate. Goliath, Toby had called him, and she understood how he’d come by that name. He was an uncommonly large gentleman, taller than she was by a good half foot, and solidly built. He looked as if he could carry the weight of a coach-and-four on those broad shoulders.

Mr. Kane had dark hair and a tanned face crossed with pink scars. She knew his age: thirty. The same age Toby would be if he were alive.

Mattie traced the scars scoring across his brow, bisecting an eyebrow, curving down his cheek. She examined his left ear. Most of it was missing. Her gaze dropped to his hands. They bore scars similar to those across his face. Three fingers were missing on his right hand, and one on his left.

Had his sword been cut from his hand? Did that account for the missing fingers?

She imagined him weaponless, trying to ward off an attack...

Her ribcage tightened. Mattie looked away from Mr. Kane’s battered hands and forced herself to think of something else. Outside, rain came down in torrents. A cold wind leaked through the cracks in the window casement. The clink of cutlery was loud in the silence: the scrape of a knife across a plate, the tiny clatter of fork tines as her uncle speared a piece of boiled mutton.

What did Mr. Kane think of so silent a meal? Perhaps he was grateful. He didn’t look like a man skilled at small talk, a man who could turn a pretty phrase as easily as he could tie his own shoelaces. He looked like a fighter.

A fighter who’d lost a battle and had almost died.

So, there you have it: one rather battered hero. And while Mattie can clearly see Edward's physical scars, she's about to learn that he's carrying some emotional ones, too.

Ruining Miss Wrotham

Do you remember in Pride and Prejudice how fifteen-year-old Lydia Bennett runs off with Mr. Wickham? Elizabeth Bennett thinks that her family is ruined, but Mr. Darcy saves the day by finding the runaway pair and inducing them to marry.

Have you ever wondered what would have happened if Lydia and Wickham hadn't married? What would have happened to the Bennett family? And more importantly, how would Lydia's disgrace have affected her sisters' marriage prospects?

Nell Wrotham, the heroine of Ruining Miss Wrotham, knows exactly what would happen―because it's happened to her. When her sister runs off with a soldier, Nell finds herself ruined. Her fiance abruptly terminates their engagement, her Season is cut short, and life as she knows it is over.

And then along comes a man with a terrible reputation: Mordecai Black. Earl's illegitimate son. Notorious rake. And Nell's hero—although it takes Nell quite some time to recognize him as her hero!

If you'd like to meet Nell and Mordecai, you'll find them having adventures on the pages of Ruining Miss Wrotham.

Introducing Nell and Mordecai, Part 2

In my last blog post you saw Nell, the heroine of Ruining Miss Wrotham, through the hero's eyes. In this post I'd like to swap it around and show you the hero, Mordecai Black, through heroine's eyes.

Here's part of a scene from early in the book. The set up is this: Nell has very little money and she desperately needs to get to Exeter to find her missing sister, Sophia. Mordecai Black is a shocking rake and has just offered to help her. The scene takes place in a hackney carriage in London.

Black climbed in after her. The door swung shut and Nell was alone with him. Alone with Mordecai Black.

Awareness of him swept through her, the same unsettling mix of attraction and fear that had plagued her Season. Her pulse fluttered and her skin tightened and her breath came a little shorter. Don’t be silly, Nell told herself tartly. You don’t want him and he most certainly doesn’t want you.

She took a deep, steadying breath and turned her attention to Sophia. How long would it take to reach Exeter? Dare she accept Mr. Black’s assistance to get there? Should she accept it?

Nell gripped her reticule tightly and wrestled with her conscience. She ought not allow Black to pay for a post-chaise to Exeter. She could never repay him, therefore it would be wrong of her—and quite apart from that it would be grossly improper. She was an unmarried lady; he was Mordecai Black. Scandal clung to him. Any association with him would tarnish her.

But she was already tarnished. Scandal clung to her, too, and what did her reputation matter anyway? What mattered was finding Sophia as soon as possible, and if Mr. Black could help her, she would accept anything he offered. Even if it was improper of her to do so, and even if it put her in his debt.

Nell stole a glance at him and felt the familiar response: the fluttering pulse, the shiver. I want him. I fear him. Foolish, conflicting emotions. Emotions she ought to have mastered a year ago.

There was no denying that Mordecai Black had a memorable face—the dangerous angles of cheekbone and jaw, the eyes so dark they were almost black, the Dereham nose. That nose had overpowered the late earl’s face, but it didn’t overpower Black’s face. It was in keeping with the rest of him: striking, strong. An assertive nose with a high and prominent bridge. The sort of nose a Roman emperor would have had. The nose stopped Black being pretty, as Roger was. It stopped him being classically handsome, despite his chiseled cheekbones. But it didn’t stop him being beautiful, because Mordecai Black was beautiful, in a way that was purely and aggressively masculine. He had a face that drew the eye. A face women looked at twice. A face that made other men’s faces appear soft and feminine by contrast.

Nell looked down at her hands gripping the reticule. Mordecai Black’s face was irrelevant. What mattered was his character. Can I trust this man?

So, there you have it: the hero of Ruining Miss Wrotham through the heroine's eyes. (You can imagine them in the back of this carriage if you like, heading towards all sorts of adventures...)





[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum collection of public domain images.]

Introducing Nell and Mordecai, Part 1

So, the fifth book in the Baleful Godmother series comes out later this month! It's called Ruining Miss Wrotham, and I thought I'd take a moment to introduce the hero and heroine to you.

Here's their first meeting in the book. The setup is this: our heroine, Eleanor (Nell) Wrotham has approached her former fiance, Roger, for help. Our hero, Mordecai Black, notorious rake and Roger's illegitimate cousin, witnesses the end of this encounter:

The drawing room door opened abruptly and a young lady strode out. “―hiding behind excuses. A hen has more courage than you!”

Mordecai halted.

He’d been truly and deeply surprised twice in his life. Once, when his father had come to claim him, and the second time when Henry Wright had stood up for him at Eton. This moment qualified as the third. He was so astonished that he gaped. Eleanor Wrotham was here? In Roger’s house?

“If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who has the gumption to do so!” Miss Wrotham was magnificent in her scorn, eyes flashing, voice ringing, cheeks flushed.

And then he saw the tears trembling on her eyelashes. She wasn’t merely angry; she was upset.

Miss Wrotham didn’t see him. She crossed the entrance hall briskly, flung open the door before the butler could reach it, and marched outside.

Roger emerged from the drawing room—red-faced and righteous, his blond hair sleek with pomade. Mordecai ignored his cousin. He strode after Miss Wrotham and shut the door firmly in the butler's face. “Miss Wrotham!” He took the steps two at a time.

Miss Wrotham halted on the flagway and glanced back. He saw surprise cross her face—a brief, wide-eyed flare of astonishment—and then the surprise snuffed out and she was once again her father’s daughter, haughty and aloof.

Mordecai stared down at her and knew in his bones that she was the one woman in all the world whom he was meant to marry. Not because of her appearance and her breeding—those had been Roger’s reason for offering for her—but because of what lay beneath those things: the clear-eyed intelligence, the suppressed passion, the spirit bursting to be free.

He trod down the last three steps. “I’ll help you,” he said. “Whatever it is, I’ll help.”

Miss Wrotham’s eyebrows lifted slightly. She looked him up and down.

Mordecai was suddenly acutely aware of what he must look like: sweaty, hulking, unshaven, dressed in clothes that had been elegant yesterday, but today were wrinkled and travel-stained.

He resisted the urge to tighten his neckcloth and brush the dust from his coat, but it was impossible not to feel embarrassed. Of all the ways he’d imagined meeting Miss Wrotham again, this wasn’t one of them. He felt a faint blush creep into his cheeks—and when was the last time he’d blushed? Years ago.

Mordecai endured her scrutiny, and wished he knew what Miss Wrotham thought of him. Not what she thought of his appearance—it was obvious what anyone would think of his appearance right now—but what she thought of him. Mordecai Black. Earl’s son. Bastard.

Society accepted him—his father’s sponsorship had seen to that—but not everyone liked him. Roger certainly didn’t. Miss Wrotham’s father—a high stickler—hadn’t either. He’d thought Mordecai unworthy of his daughter’s hand, but the man was dead now and the only opinion that mattered was Miss Wrotham’s. What did she think?

I'll let you know what Nell thinks of Mordecai in my next post! Until then, here's a picture of Nell marching out of Roger's house.



[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum's public domain collection.]

My Lady Thief

So I have a bottle of bubbly nestling in the fridge, ready for tonight, because one of my favorite ever Regency romances is back on the shelves: My Lady Thief.

Someone asked me why it’s one of my favorites and it was hard to come up with a single reason. I love this book for a multitude of reasons!

I love the verbal sparring between the two main characters. (This is an enemies-to-lovers romance.)

I love the cat burglary scenes.

I love Arabella, who (as one of my readers said) is a heroine with agency. If a wrong needs to be righted, Arabella is the woman to do it!

I love the scenes in the slums.

I adore Jeremy, Lord Revelstoke (who will get his own book one day).

But I think the thing that I love most about this book is Adam St. Just’s character arc. Adam is the grandson of a duke and has been raised to think very highly of his pedigree. If there is one word for him, it’s snob. At the start of the book Adam’s only redeeming feature is his sense of humor . . . but during the course of the story all his beliefs are turned upside down and he realizes that it’s not a person’s birth that is most important, but their character. And that’s what makes this one of my favorites: Adam’s transformation from snob to hero.

Lady by day, Robin Hood by night.

Arabella Knightley is an earl’s granddaughter, but it’s common knowledge that she spent her early years in London’s gutters. What the ton doesn’t know is that while Arabella acts the perfect young lady by day, at night she plays Robin Hood, stealing from the wealthy to give to the poor.

Adam St Just is one of Society’s most sought after bachelors. He’s also the man responsible for Arabella Knightley’s nickname: Miss Smell o’ Gutters—a mistake he regrets, but can never erase.

Bored by polite society, Adam sets out to unmask the elusive thief … but he’s not prepared for what he discovers.

(Please note that My Lady Thief was originally published as The Unmasking of a Lady under my old penname Emily May, so if the blurb sounds familiar you may already have read it.)

Introducing Adam and Arabella, Part 2

My Lady Thief is an enemies-to-lovers Regency romance. Last week I showed you Arabella through Adam's eyes. This week I'd like to show you Adam through Arabella's eyes.

In this scene, Adam has asked Arabella to dance—and not because he likes her! (The only information you need to know is that physical proximity to men makes Arabella very uncomfortable because of events in her past).

Read on...

It was the first time in seven years that Arabella had walked onto a dance floor with Adam St. Just. She was aware of heads turning and sidelong glances of astonishment. She was equally astonished. Why had St. Just asked her to dance?

The answer came as she glanced at him. St. Just’s jaw was tight, his mouth a thin line. He’s going to tell me off.

Arabella lifted her chin. Let him try!

They made their bows to each other. As always, the opening notes of the waltz filled her with dread. She took a deep breath and forced herself not to tense as St. Just took her hand, as his arm came around her.

They began to dance. The feeling of being trapped was strong. A man is holding me. Panic rose sharply in her. All her instincts told her to break free. Arabella concentrated on breathing calmly, on keeping a slight smile on her face.

“I would appreciate it, Miss Knightley, if you’d refrain from giving my sister advice about matters that are none of your concern.” St. Just spoke the words coldly.

Arabella met his eyes. There was nothing of the lover about him; on the contrary, his animosity was clearly visible.

Her panic began to fade. She raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Would you?”

St. Just’s jaw clenched.

Arabella observed this—and began to feel rather more cheerful. “I was only trying to help,” she said, widening her eyes.

His grip tightened. “It is none of your business who my sister does—or doesn’t—marry.”

Arabella ignored this remark. “Why do you wish Grace to marry so young?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“Grace is little more than a child. She has no idea what she wants in a marriage―”

“I shall decide what she wants!” St. Just snapped.

Arabella laughed, as much from amusement as to annoy him. The sense of being trapped had evaporated. For the first time in her life, she was finding pleasure in a waltz. Each sign of St. Just’s irritation—the narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his jaw, the gritting of his teeth—was something to be noted and enjoyed.

“You find that amusing?”

“Yes. Grace is still learning who she is. Until she knows that, how can she—or you—have any idea what will suit her in a husband?”

“A man of good breeding.” He swung her into an abrupt turn. “A man of respectable fortune and―”

“No,” Arabella said. “I’m talking about a man’s character.”

St. Just looked down his nose at her. “If you imagine that I’d allow Grace to marry a man of unsavory character―”

“You misunderstand me again, Mr. St. Just. I’m talking about those qualities that are more particular to a person. Qualities that have nothing to do with one’s bloodline or fortune, or even with one’s public character.” Her smile was edged. “Let us take, as an example, your search for a wife.”

St. Just stiffened. He almost missed a step. “I beg your pardon?” he said in a frigid tone.

As you can see, Arabella and Adam have a very prickly relationship. It's hard to imagine them falling in love, isn't it?

Here they are waltzing. While an observer might think they're enjoying themselves, you and I know better!



[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum collection of public domain images.]

Introducing Adam and Arabella Part 1

Today I'd like to introduce you to Adam St. Just and Arabella Knightley, the hero and heroine of My Lady Thief.

Arabella and Adam have been acquainted for several years, but their relationship is prickly. Adam is responsible for Arabella's nickname among the ton, 'Miss Smell o' Gutters', a mistake that he regrets but can never erase.

Here's a wee snippet from Chapter One—Arabella Knightley as seen through Adam's eyes:

Miss Knightley looked up as he approached. Her coloring showed her French blood—hair and eyes so dark they were almost black—but the soft dent in her chin, as if someone had laid a fingertip there at her birth, proclaimed her as coming from a long line of Knightleys.

His eyes catalogued her features—the elegant cheekbones, the dark eyes, the soft mouth—and his pulse gave a kick. It was one of the things that annoyed him most about Arabella Knightley: that he was so strongly attracted to her. The second most annoying thing was the stab of guilt—as familiar as the attraction—that always accompanied sight of her.

Adam bowed. “Miss Knightley, what a pleasure to see you here this evening.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Truly?” Her voice was light and amused, disbelieving.

Adam clenched his jaw. This was the third thing that annoyed him most about Miss Knightley: her manner.

As you can see, this hero and heroine do not like each other!


This picture is the closest I've been able to find to Arabella. I think it looks quite like her!

[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum public domain collection.]

The Earl's Dilemma

Today is definitely a bottle of bubbly day! The Earl's Dilemma is now on the shelves again, freshly edited and with a lovely new cover.

The Earl's Dilemma was a real milestone book for me and holds a very special place in my heart. Here's the blurb:

He’s running out of time…

James Hargrave, Earl of Arden, urgently needs a wife. He’s resigned himself to a marriage of convenience and has even chosen a bride: Kate Honeycourt, his best friend’s sister.

Kate has been on the shelf for years. Why, then, does she turn him down? Surely she can’t be holding out for a love match?

But Kate has a proposal of her own: she’ll find James a bride he can fall in love with.

Armed with a list of requirements, Kate sets out to find James the perfect wife. But things don’t progress as either of them have planned…

I showed you the proposal in my last post. Poor James wasn't happy! However, he sat down with Kate and compiled a short list of the qualities he required in a wife. Here's a wee scene snippet:

Kate looked at the list once James was gone. It contained only four items. She frowned as she read them.

Sense of humor.
Moderately intelligent.
Not straight out of the schoolroom.
A gentleman’s daughter.

The requirements were certainly adequate for a wife James could tolerate, but not for one he could love.

Pretty, Kate wrote firmly on the sheet of paper.

And thus the hunt for James's wife begins!

Let's just say that the list of qualities is rather long by the end of the book—and that the search doesn't turn out how either of them expect...

Introducing Kate and James Part 2

James Hargrave never expected to inherit an earldom, but he has. He's also inherited the home of his dreams: Elvy Park. But while the earldom is his for life, Elvy Park is only his if he marries before he turns 30. And so James, who always wanted a love match, now faces a marriage of convenience—a prospect that does not fill him with joy.

Here are some snippets from before, during, and after James's proposal to Kate Honeycourt, the heroine of The Earl's Dilemma...

James was resigned to his fate. He’d realized a month ago that there was no hope of making a love match before his thirtieth birthday. It had been a bitter moment. There was nothing he wanted less than a marriage of convenience, but, equally, he didn’t want to lose Elvy Park. His world had seemed very bleak—until he’d thought of Kate. She wasn’t a woman he could imagine loving, but she was one whom he liked. She would make an excellent wife and the emotion that he felt now, on the morning of his proposal, should be relief. It wasn’t.

Kate, he thought, as he fastened his shirt. One of the buttons came off in his hand. He stared at it and swore, a crude oath, from the stables. It made him feel marginally better.

“Sorry, Griffin,” he said. “I’ve done it again.”

The valet glanced up from where he was laying out James’s waistcoat. “I’m getting used to it, my lord.”

James frowned at the button. It wasn’t the first one he’d pulled off this week. Damn, who’d have thought he’d be so angry? It wasn’t Kate’s fault. It was his father’s. He swore again.

Griffin paused. “Another one, my lord?” he asked, in a startled tone.

“No, no.”

James manages not to pull of any more buttons. He goes downstairs and finds Kate writing letters in the morning room...

Now that the moment had come, James found himself reluctant to make his offer. He walked across the room and halted beside the fireplace, his shoulders tense. He unclenched his jaw and made himself smile at Kate. She would make him a fine wife. She was no termagant, no silly chit who’d giggle at him and be frightened by his frowns.

James realized that his smile had faded. His neckcloth felt too tight. He controlled the urge to loosen it and reminded himself that he’d faced worse moments than this. Briefly, the smell of cannon smoke and blood came to him. He pushed the memory aside. “Kate, will you marry me?”

As a proposal it was blunt and abrupt, and he was instantly ashamed of his lack of eloquence. He could have done better.

Kate’s expression became completely blank. “I beg your pardon?”

James abandoned the fireplace. His gait was stiff as he crossed the room, his legs moving awkwardly. He sat opposite her on a silk-covered chair, tense. “Will you marry me, Kate? Please?”

He wanted her to say Yes, but instead she asked: “Why?”

James explains the tangled legal situation, and then repeats his offer:

“So, please, will you marry me?”

Kate clasped her fingers in her lap and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry, James.”

His first emotion was astonishment. His second was relief. His third was panic. “What?” he said. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t wish to,” she said, looking past his shoulder at the fireplace.

He blinked. “Are . . . are your affections otherwise engaged, Kate?” It was the only reason he could think of for her extraordinary answer.

Her eyes came back to his face. “Otherwise engaged?” She shook her head. “No.”

His astonishment and relief were replaced by pique. Kate was refusing for no other reason than she preferred spinsterhood to marriage with him?

She smiled at him. “But I’ll help you find a wife.”

“What?” James said, in no mood to be humored.

“I’ll help you find a wife. Tell me what you’re looking for.” She picked up the quill and drew a fresh sheet of paper towards her. Her head tilted at an enquiring angle.

“Kate.” There was a bite of frustration in his voice. “I have less than two months left.”

“I know,” she said calmly.

James stared at her. He clenched his jaw. This morning was not progressing as he’d planned.

Kate shrugged at his silence, and dipped her quill in the inkwell. “What sort of wife would you like?”

And thus begins The Earl's Dilemma. Poor James, he's not having a good day. This is rather what I imagine him looking like at this point -- stern and arrogant and trying not to frown.




[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum collection of public domain images.]