Jude Knight's Blog, page 144

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you

Double standards, much? An excerpt from A Baron for Becky

Aldridge, impatient now that they were back at the little girl’s house, hurried her into the parlour where he’d left the twin dolls and presented them to her. She, beautifully mannered as she had been all evening, curtseyed her appreciation, then hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Aldridge. They’re so beautiful. Look, Mama. Look how beautiful they are.”

Hugh looked. The mother, bending over her daughter who was excitedly showing the dolls’ wardrobe and their articulated arms and legs. And the child, her mother in miniature. Identical heart shaped faces; identical dark hair tied back but with tiny curls around their forehead, identical porcelain skin and cornflour blue eyes fringed with dark lashes.

So beautiful.

So intent, like the statues of the madonna he had seen in Catholic Portugal before he sold out, her eyes full of love for her daughter.

God, he needed a drink.

“Aldridge?” Aldridge was smiling fondly as he watched his mistress and her child. “Aldridge, is there any brandy in the house?”

“Not here, Overton.” Aldridge was impatient. “Just wait a bit, can’t you?”

Of course he could. It didn’t worry him at all to see this kept woman, this harlot, bent lovingly over her daughter; standing up to him—a head taller, a man, and an aristocrat—to protect her daughter. When his wife, damn her, had ignored her daughters; had regarded them as disposable pawns in her campaign to be the mother of a peer. It didn’t worry him. It didn’t.

“I’ll walk,” he said. “Miss Winstanley, my felicitations on your birth anniversary. Mrs Winstanley, my thanks for a pleasant evening. Aldridge.”

Hadn’t they passed a tavern two streets back? Surely they had.

Whatever they sold, he was drinking it.

Writer happiness and what comes next

I’m feeling peaceful but empty. The first draft of A Baron for Becky is done, all but the epilogue. And the epilogue is planned in my head, but waiting for me to have a couple of hours of uninterrupted time.

Still lots to do: editing, some rewriting, a bit of fact checking. Then proofreading, formatting, loading. The book’s journey to publication begins when the writer types THE END.

But I’m confident enough to be able to post the book for pre-order, so those links should be available within the coming week. I’m still hoping to publish late July, but I’ll set the preorder for 19 August, just to give me a bit of room to make the book the best it can be, and do all the stuff that goes with a launch: write posts for a blog tour, organise a fabulous launch event, invent swag, and so on.

In other news, Farewell to Kindness sold to more than 800 people in its first month, and Candle’s Christmas Chair, the free novella, will reach 50,000 downloads this week. I’m so grateful to all you wonderful readers who are taking a chance on this novice and nervous author.

Our choices create us

La Déesse Noire is one of those novels you keep thinking about long after you put it down. To me, the crux of the story is how the four main characters are defined and directed by the choices they make.

Kali Matai was born and raised a tawaif; one of the women entertainers who served those of the highest rank in the Murghal Empire of India. Her life was shaped by the choices made by her tawaif mother and the English peer to whom her mother was given. In England, she is the pawn of powerful men, but when all she loves is at risk, her choices give her a future she believed could never be.

Lord Birchbright once loved a tawaif and gave her two daughters. Given a choice between his forbidden family and the wealth and power waiting for him if he returns to England without them, he abandons them. His choice is to pursue power at all costs.

The book unusually has two male protagonists: Fitz and Rook. They, too, must choose between love and position. One chooses a lonely and ultimately self-centred life. The other is prepared to abandon everything he knows for the woman he loves. I loved them both, but I know which one was the hero.

Kali is one of the most engaging heroines I’ve read. I loved her dignity, her self-respect, her quiet humour, and her sharp intelligence. And I loved how hard it was for her to let her armour down; to become vulnerable; so that she could reach for her dreams. Her happy ending gave me goosebumps. I also very much enjoyed the interesting and believable secondary characters, both the villains and the friends and allies of the heroine.

Mariana Gabrielle has written a book about people on the edges; people discriminated against and even persecuted because they are different. She has done so with skill, sensitivity, and wit. She left me wanting more. I thoroughly enjoyed her Royal Regard and gave it five stars. La Déesse Noire is better. I wish I could give it seven on Amazon and Goodreads, but this is my blog, and my star system can be anything I like. So seven it is.

Disclaimer: I am a member of the same writers’ group as Mari Christie, who writes Regency novels as Mariana Gabrielle, and I was proof-reader for La Déesse Noire. This did not influence my enjoyment of my book. But don’t believe me. Read it for yourself.

More work on the Baron for Becky cover.

I’m perhaps halfway through the first draft of A Baron for Becky, which is proving to be a short novel rather than a novella. Once the first draft is done, I’ll firm up the publication date and put up a preorder. Meanwhile, I’ve been playing with the cover.

I’ve experimented with colour and text weight, and moved the tagline away from the image’s neck, but otherwise they’re all the same. I’d welcome your thoughts.

A Baron for Becky – this is how it starts

Aldridge never did find out how he came to be naked, alone, and sleeping in the small summerhouse in the garden of a country cottage. His last memory of the night before had him twenty miles away, and — although not dressed — in a comfortable bed, and in company.

The first time he woke, he had no idea how far he’d come, but the moonlight was bright enough to show him half trellised window openings, and an archway leading down a short flight of steps into a garden. A house loomed a few hundred feet away, a dark shape against the star bright sky. But getting up seemed like too much trouble, particularly with a headache that seemed to hang inches above him, threatening to split his head if he moved. The cushioned bench on which he lay invited him to shut his eyes and go back to sleep. Time enough to find out where he was in the morning.

When he woke again he was facing away from the archway entrance, and there was someone behind him. Silence now, but in his memory the sound of light footsteps shifting the stones on the path outside, followed by twin intakes of breath as the walkers saw him.

One of them spoke; a woman’s voice, but low—almost husky. “Sarah, go back to the first rose bush and watch the house.”

“Yes, mama.” A child’s voice.

Aldridge waited until he heard her dance lightly down the steps and away along the path, then shifted his weight slightly so that his pelvis flattened, dragging the rest of his torso over till he was lying on his back.

He waited for the exclamation of shock, but none came. Carefully— he wanted to observe her before he let her know he was awake, and anyway, any sudden movement might start up the hammers above his eye sockets—he cracked open his lids enough so that he could see through his lashes.

He could see more than he expected. The woman had a shuttered lantern that she was using to examine him, starting at his feet, pausing so long when she reached his morning salute that it grew even prouder, then sweeping up his torso so quickly he barely had time to slam his lids shut before the light reached and lingered over his face.

She’d been just a vague shadow behind the light, but the smell that reached him spoke of young woman. He held himself still while she completed her examination, which she did with a snort of disgust. Not the reaction he was accustomed to.

“Now what do we do,” she muttered. “Perhaps if Sarah and I…? I’ll have to cover him. What on earth is he doing here? And like that? Not that it matters. Unless he is something to do with Perry? Or the men Perry said would come?” Her voice was rising a little and becoming more shrill as she grew agitated. “Stop it, Becky.” She took a deep calming breath. “Stay calm. You must think.”

For all her efforts, there was an edge of panic in her voice. Aldridge risked opening his eyes a mere slit, and was rewarded by a better look at the woman as she paced up and down the summerhouse in the light of the lantern she’d placed on one of the window ledges.

Spectacular. That was the only appropriate word. Hair that looked black in the poor light but was probably dark brown, porcelain skin currently flushed pink with her agitation, a heart-shaped face, cornflower blue eyes under perfectly curved brows, and a perfect cupid’s bow of a mouth, the lower lip—which she was currently chewing—larger than the upper.

The redingote she wore was fitted to a shape of amazing promise, as far as he could see as the shawl over her shoulders swung with her movements. Even more blood surged to his ever-hopeful member. “Down, boy,” he told it, silently.

“Mama?” That was the little girl, returning down the path. “Mama, I can hear horses.”

The woman froze, every line of her screaming alarm.

Aldridge could hear them now, coming closer through the rustling noises of the night; the quiet clop of walking horses, the riders exchanged a word or two, then nothing. They must have stopped on the other side of the house.

“Sarah.” The woman’s voice, pitched to carry only as far as her daughter’s ears, retreated as she crossed the summerhouse. “Sarah, we must go quickly.”

“But Mama! The escape baskets!” the girl protested.

“I do not dare wake the man, my love. He might stop us.”

Aldridge responded to the fear in her voice. “I won’t stop you. I’m not a danger to you.” As he spoke, he swung himself upright, wincing as the headache closed its vices around his skull. Though he screwed his eyes with the pain, he kept them open enough to watch the woman, turned to a statue by his voice, her hand on the framework of the arched entrance as if without that support she would fall.

“Mama?” The girl’s fearful voice freed the woman from her freeze, and she moved to block the child’s sight of him. “Sarah. Watch the house. Do not turn around until I say.”

Eyes wide open, he could confirm his initial assessment as she spun to face him. Spectacular. Then she shone the lantern straight on him, and he flinched from the light. “Not in my eyes, please. I have such a head.”

She made that same disgusted sound again, then stripped the shawl from her shoulders and tossed it to him, taking care to stay out of arms’ reach.

“Please cover yourself, sir.”

Fun with covers

I’m working on a cover for July’s release. I need to do some more work to make the text pop, but what do you think of this one?

A Baron for Becky

This is an excerpt from the novel (or possibly long novella) I’m writing for release in late July. This story grew out of the adventures that the Marquess of Aldridge had at the Bluestocking Belles inn. Catherine Curzon and I wrote a long chase, a mixed courtship and negotiation, between my Aldridge and her 18th Century Mrs Angel. They could meet only in the timeless world of the inn, but they inspired this novel.

Mrs Darling is by no means Mrs Angel. She is an altogether more naive and vulnerable creature. But Aldridge continues to be Aldridge, and has no idea of the Pandora’s Box he is opening when he conceives a retirement plan for his mistress of three years.

What follows is not Aldridge’s story. But it is Becky’s, and it is Hugh’s.

This excerpt comes near the beginning of Becky’s story, when she and Aldridge are still negotiating.

After an anxious start to the visit, Becky decided to take it as a holiday. The Marquess of Aldridge left to ransom her and Sarah from the man Perry owed money to. At her insistence, he’d taken her few good pieces of jewellery—far fewer than she’d hoped. Next time, she would have any presents checked by a jeweller!

The press of Aldridge’s hands, and the warmth in his eyes when he made his farewells, gave her hope that he might be her next time.

Meanwhile, the Earl and Countess of Chirbury treated her like a guest, and Sarah was in heaven in the upstairs nursery, with the Countess’s daughter and sister, both of whom welcomed a new playmate. For a few days, she could pretend to a life far further up the ranks of the gentry than she would ever have achieved, even if she hadn’t fallen before her sixteenth birthday.

Aldridge returned triumphant.

“Smite agreed,” he told her, catching her alone in the rose garden where two or three late roses clung to the last remnants of their blooms. He sat down beside her on the stone seat, taking up the centre so that she had to lean against the curved arm to keep some distance between them. “You and Sarah are free.”

“How can we thank you?” she said.

“I’m sure we can think of something,” he replied, leaning into her so she could feel his strength, but not his weight, his warmth sparking a responding heat. His complacent assumption, after five days of being treated like a lady, sparked a contrary impulse to deny him, at least for the moment.

She slid sideways off the bench and stood, focusing on smoothing her skirts as she said, “Perhaps you would accept a few pounds a quarter until the debt is repaid?”

“I would accept a kiss on account,” he said.

“Certainly,” she replied. “Sarah would be delighted to give you a kiss. You are quite her hero.”

The moment she spoke she wanted to take it back. She didn’t want to lose him, after all. But no, he was grinning at her, his head cocked to one side and a light in his eyes that said she had his interest. Ahah. The man enjoyed the pursuit. Well then, Becky  would lead him on a right merry chase.

“If you will excuse me, my lord, I promised to help the countess with her knitting.”

She dropped a curtsey and made her escape before he could think of a smart response.

He was waiting for her in the hall outside the countess’s sitting room an hour later.

“I had in mind something more personal than soulless pounds,” he said, without preamble.

“Perhaps I could bake you a cake,” she suggested.

“Certainly what I have in mind involves tasting,” he answered smoothly. “Some licking, undoubtedly. Perhaps a little gentle biting.”

Goodness, it was hot for October.

“A single meal, my lord?”

“Once would not be enough, dear Mrs Darling. Do you not agree?”

If she was not very careful, she would agree to anything he said. “An arrangement, then.”

“Certainly, an arrangement.” He took her hand as he walked beside her, and placed a single chaste kiss on a fingertip before sucking the whole finger into his mouth in a far from chaste gesture.

“Do you garden, my lord?” Her voice was unsteady.

“Garden? No, I don’t garden.”

“I had a garden at Niddberrow. I thought the cottage was mine, you see. Perringworth promised me a house.”

“A woman should have her own house,” Aldridge agreed. “But a woman like you deserves a townhouse in London rather than a cottage in the country.”

“London is so large, though. If I lived in London, would I not need a carriage?”

“A phaeton perhaps, that you could drive in Hyde Park during the promenading hour,” Aldridge suggested.

“It does sound lovely,” she said, but lost what she was going to say next as he whisked her into a curtained alcove and proceeded to kiss her so thoroughly that she almost forgot her campaign plan.

He let Becky go, though, when she pulled back.

“Something on account?” she teased.

“A promise of things to come,” Aldridge said.

“Perhaps.” She peeked cautiously around the curtain and then hurried away down the silent hall.

Aldridge next approached her after dinner, sitting on the other side of the love seat she had deliberately chosen in a shadowed corner of the great parlour, out of the direct view of the earl, who was playing the pianoforte, and the countess, who was turning the pages for him.

“I love that dark blue on you, Mrs D,” he said.

She blushed. Her lovers had seldom bothered to compliment her to her face, though extravagant and excruciatingly bad poetry had been written to the Rose of Frampton by those who didn’t have her in their keeping.

“It needs something else, though,” Aldridge commented. He pulled out a tissue-wrapped package. “This is a nothing. Not the diamonds and sapphires I thought of buying. But when I saw it was just the colour of your eyes, I had to have it.”

‘This’ was a shawl in patterns of blue, so fine that it was small enough when rolled to fit into his jacket pocket, but large enough to wrap warmly around her shoulders. She jumped up to examine it in the mirror, and he followed her, standing inches away, but leaning forward to breathe on her ear as he said, “Exquisite.”

“Something on account?” she asked again.

“Not this time. A present, given freely, with no expectation of reward. Because I admire you, lovely Rose.”

She had to remind herself of every rumour she had heard about the man. And even then, if she hadn’t heard him working his charm on Smite’s men, she might have unravelled as he clearly expected. No wonder he had left such a string of broken hearts behind him.

“And in return,” she told him, “I freely give you my thanks, my lord.”

It was worth it to see the moment’s stunned amazement before the amused look reappeared. “Well played, Mrs D.,” he murmured, just before Lady Chirbury called her to the pianoforte.

A thriving tourist trade and a deadly volcano

In the 1880s, the geothermal area of Rotorua was home of New Zealand’s first thriving tourist trade. People came from all over the world to see the famous Pink and White Terraces. Formed over thousands of years, they comprised two staircases of terraces and terraced pools cascading down from two large geysers that sent silica-laden water down the hills at the end of Lake Rotomahana.

Hotels sprung up to hold the tourists, and the local Maori people cornered the guide and transportation business, escorting parties on the walk to Lake Tarawera, shipping them by whale boat to the other side of the lake, then escorting them on foot over the hill on the final 1 kilometre to the terraces.

In June 1886, aurges in the water caused some concern, but people ignored the warnings of the local tohunga (wise man), who said that his people were becoming too fond of the tourist dollars and were upsetting the ancestors.

Then travellers on the lake saw a war canoe – and none had travelled the lake in many years. Many saw it appear, come towards them, and then vanish.

Eleven days later, people in the nearby village of Te Wairoa were woken by a series of increasingly powerful earthquakes. By 2.30, craters the length of the mountain were venting scoria and ash, mud and steam, along a 17 kilometre rift.

As wet mud began to fall, many buildings where people had taken shelter began to collapse in the six villages around the lake. By morning, upwards of 100 people had died, though many had survived in the stronger buildings in Te Wairoa.

New Zealand’s first tourism operation had gone down in flames.

First kisses

Someone I know is publishing a collection of first kisses. I love the idea, so here are a few of mine!

Farewell to Kindness

“I think your brandy may be ready to drink.”

Anne started to lift it to her mouth.

“No. Wait,” Rede said. “Swirl, sniff, and then sip. Here, let me show you.” He leaned forward and cupped his hand around the glass over hers.

“Swirl.” He moved her hand gently in a small, tight circle.

“Sniff.” He held the glass several inches from her nose and again swirled it slightly, then shifted it closer.

“Now sip. Just a small amount, slowly. Let it slide over your tongue.”

Anne followed his directions, not taking her eyes off Rede. This time, the brandy seemed a lot smoother. The flavour filled her mouth, the fiery liquid warmed her throat.

Rede had not removed his hands, and now he leaned forward still further, his eyes holding her motionless.

He came closer and closer, slowly. He would stop if she protested. She should protest. She would not.

The first brush of his lips on hers was brief, and light as a feather. He drew back enough to look into her eyes, then leaned in again. This time, his lips landed and stayed, moulding to the shape of her mouth. After a moment, he began to move, cruising along her upper lip with tiny pecks and then along the lower. He settled again, this time his mouth slightly open. Was that his tongue, sliding along her lips? How odd. How… pleasant.

She opened her own lips, and was rewarded with a hum of approval before he dipped his tongue into her mouth. Tentatively she touched his tongue with her own, which sent a tingle down through her breasts to her belly.

He hummed again, this time almost a moan.

So he liked that, did he? She began to copy, doing to him what he was doing to her. At some level, she was conscious that he had removed the brandy glass from her hands and set it to one side. With that out of the way, he came to his knees before her chair, and she found herself widening her legs so that he could press up against her.

She was aflame with sensation, barely aware of all the ways he was touching her; his hand on the curve of her waist, pulling her into his body; his lips, teeth and tongue teasing and tasting. His other hand had somehow found its way inside her robe, and was lightly stroking its way up her breast, ever closer and closer to the nipple, which had pebbled so hard it was almost painful.

Candle’s Christmas Chair

And then she pressed her sweet lips to his and he was lost. With a groan he enfolded her in his arms, slid his hands up behind her head, and deepened the kiss.

It could have been a minute; it could have been months. Time ceased to exist as he explored her mouth and she followed his lead. Her tentative movements, bold and shy at the same time, intoxicated him and he was conscious of nothing but the burning need to sink into her softness. Until a piece of gravel on the path turned as he shifted his knee, and dug into his skin.

He drew away from her with a groan.

Had he done that? Her lips were swollen and red, a sleeve was pulled down baring her shoulder, and one glorious breast was nearly tipped out of her dress. Another nudge, and he’d see…

He blinked, and shook the idea out of his head. “Min, my own dearest love.” He had to be calm. She looked as dazed as he felt. Probably more so, given her innocence. If his world was shaken, hers must be reeling.

“I would help you put yourself to rights, beloved. But I don’t dare touch you.”

She straightened her dress, repinned the lace cap she wore in her hair, rewrapped her shawl around her, all the while sneaking peeks at him and colouring each time their eyes met.

Before they left the succession house, he put a finger on her now clothed arm.

“Min, will you accept my apology, beloved? I meant no disrespect, I promise you. I should never have kissed you. I know how powerfully I react when we touch.”

To his surprise, she suddenly grinned. “Ah but Ran, you forget. I kissed you first.”

Encouraging Prudence (wip)

“Prue?” He lifted on hand to gently stroke the side of her face, his own eyes suddenly unguarded. She responded to the concern and, yes, the yearning, leaning towards him as he moved to meet her lips with her own.

She had come home. Except for that one night five months ago, Prue had been a stranger, an outsider, living hidden in the margins all her life, but here in David’s arms she was known; she belonged.

For a long moment, she let herself revel in the feeling, but she knew it wasn’t true. She had no home. She had to remember that if David knew all, he would reject her. But — as he shifted himself closer to her chair to deepen the kiss — at least she had been wrong about his indifference to her. This close to him, she couldn’t doubt that he wanted her physically.

He was the first to draw back.

“Prue.” Just her name, but with a wealth of longing in it.

Her defences down, she spoke what she thought, “Not just friends, David,” and was rewarded by the flare in his eyes.

“Friends… and lovers too?” His voice was tentative, as if he expected to be rebuffed.

She reached for him, answering his question with a kiss, stopping only when the turnkey knocked.

David crossed the room to the door before saying, “Enter!”