Jude Knight's Blog, page 71

Tea with a duke

Today’s Monday for Tea post belongs between To Wed a Proper Lady and To Mend the Broken Hearted, and is referred to in A Baron for Becky. It follows on from a post I wrote just over two years ago, from the point of view of the new Duke of Winshire.

Eleanor was tempted to fan herself as she waited. From Aldridge’s expression, he regreted impatiently following the butler to be announced — undoubtedly he expected his mother to be embarrassed at breaking in on three gentlemen in dishabille. In their shirtsleeves, or at least James’s two sons were in their shirtsleeves. Their father — Eleanor’s lips curved — was naked from the waist up, and his knitted pantaloons hugged hips and thighs that made no account of his decades and owed nothing to padding.

As a woman in her fifties, Eleanor came from a bawdier time than this mealy-mouthed generation, and was well accustomed to listening as her contemporaries assessed the bodies of the young men who pranced the drawing and ballrooms of Society. She had never contributed when such conversations turned salacious. She could admire male beauty of form in flesh, stone, or paint, but it left her cold. She was not cold now, and it hadn’t been the younger men who moved her.

The entry of servants with refreshments forced her to compose herself and turn her attention to the purpose of her call. Would James sponsor the bill she intended to propose? She marshalled her arguments, and was cool and composed by the time he entered the room.

Spotlight on Suffering, Hope, Romance and a new release

 

Eggs are a symbol of hope. Hence the saying about counting chickens before they are hatched.

In much of the Christian world, people are celebrating Easter Sunday, and its message of hope. We’re on Monday here in New Zealand, and I’ve been reflecting overnight about pandemics, lock down, the resurrection, and historical romance. Romance as a genre, in fact. The common thread, I think, is hope.

The message of Easter is that happy ever after is possible. Suffering during the days and nights of pain, but at last comes the dawn of the day of joy. Most religions, I think, have a similar message. Bad stuff happens to good people, but endure. This too shall pass. In the end, it’ll all work out.

As for pandemics, we’ve been here before. You’ve probably heard that the Black Death wiped out a third of the population of England. At the time, they thought it was the end of the world, and it was the end of the world as they knew it. But they replaced it with a one that was in many ways better — no more serfs, for a start. After the 1918 to 1919 flu epidemic, the world bounced into the buoyant and productive years of the 1920s. For each disaster, there is a recovery.

Lock down — being shut into a small space alone or with your nearest and dearest — is going to end. Hope helps us to come through better than before. I’ve decided I’m not in lock down; I’m on a retreat! (Spiritual, writers, or gardeners, it varies according the day and the weather). For children, it is the temporary normal. I strongly suspect that, decades from now people will be telling their children stories of the things they did as children in the Covid-19 lockdown. For many of them, it will sit in their minds as a golden period during which they had the attention of both parents, though I know that isn’t all the story. Some families have been forced to make hard decisions about putting their children with relatives while they continue to work in essential services. Some households are not nice places to be at the best of times. Still, there is always hope for a better tomorrow.

(See the lovely New Zealand series, Inside my bubble, for what New Zealanders are doing on lockdown. This is microbiologist Siouxie Welles, who has become a bit of a media star for her clear, calm, interesting explanations about the pandemic.)

Suffering, leavened with hope, and ending well, is a pretty good description of the romance genre. Without a bit of a challenge, sometime a lot of a challenge, we don’t have a story. But it’s a romance precisely because it promises that things will work out in the end. Personally, I prefer to read books where the stakes are high, and the dangers real. I can enjoy them, knowing that my hero and heroine will fulfill the promise of happy ever after, and their near brushes with disaster make things even better. Romances aren’t the only happy endings, though. Many people find their fulfillment in their jobs, or friendships, or craft, and that, too, can be a happy ever after. Still, romances — and specifically historical romances — are my escapism of choice.

That’s why I’m still launching the first novel in my Mountain King series on Wednesday. I thought about delaying To Wed a Proper Lady when Amazon offered to let people off their usual punishment for not keeping to release dates (usually, if you miss a release date, you can’t do preorder for a full year).  But the world is in lock down, right? Escape is a great idea! You can read more about it and find buy links by clicking on the name, and that page also has a link to the prequel novella Paradise Regained (which is free on most platforms, and will soon be free on Amazon, I hope).

I’ve also written a prequel novella about the Duchess of Haverford, who appears throughout the series. This one isn’t a romance. Eleanor gets her happy ending, but it’s the other kind (although, to be fair, this is only the end of the novella — for the end of her story, you need to read the whole series). You’ll get access to a copy of Paradise Lost if you’re a subscriber to my newsletter, but as a teaser, here is the cover.

All the very best from my household bubble to yours in this time of hope.

Whistling in the dark

In some interpretations, the pied piper story is about the black plague

There’s nothing funny about a global pandemic, but it’s human nature to make jokes when things are out of control. For half my adult life, my beloved was a paramedic. I have a son-in-law and several other relatives who are police officers. I’ve several relatives in the armed forces. They all share a black humour that helps them deal with carnage and danger.

Now’s a good time to follow their example, so today I have some links to some history-themed plague humour.

https://www.newyorker.com/humor/daily-shouts/what-shakespeare-actually-did-during-the-plague

https://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/b/bubonic_plague.asp

And, okay, this one is not humour, but why not? You have to laugh, right? https://www.jetsetter.com/magazine/quarantine-memes/

And if you’d like an academic article on humour in the time of cholera, here’s a couple that are very readable:

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2996527/

https://www.intellectualtakeout.org/plague-humor-is-good-for-you/

Stay safe, out there, folks. As our Prime Minister keeps saying, Stay kind, Stay patient, Stay safe, Stay strong.

We’ve been here before, folks. Not us, personally, but every person on the planet is the descendent of those who survived a previous pandemic. We can do this.

Gossip and scandal on WIP Wednesday

So many of our historal romances, especially Regency romance, hinge on gossip and scandal. Is it a trope you use in your writing. If so, please put an excerpt of your current work-in-progress in the comments.

Mine is from To Mend the Broken-Hearted. My hero has just received a letter from my heroine’s brother.

He opened the letter, looking at the signature first, while Crick buttoned him into his clean shirt and put his feet into a pair of indoor shoes. Not the duke. Drew W. Lord Andrew Winderfield then, Lady Ruth’s brother. He read through quickly, surging to his feet so quickly that Crick fell backwards. “My lord,” the valet protested.

Val returned to his seat, but though he held his body still, but for presenting his wrists for the cuff buttons, and his neck for his cravat (build in discussion earlier), his mind continued in ferment. Lord Andrew wrote of the latest scandal seething through the beau monde, and Val was its object. Val lifted the letter so he could read the salient points again, while Crick fussed over his cravat.

“… your injuries have driven you mad, so that you are as much a monster within as you appear without…” No mealy-mouthed skirting around the point, there. Were all the Winderfields as direct?

“… you killed your brother and your wife, and your brother’s wife escaped by inches, having first hidden the children away for their own safety…” Which was no more than had been spoken in the village before they grew to know him again, though at least they knew that Val’s brother had been dead a fortnight before he arrived home, too sick to be a threat to anyone.

“… even the local villagers shun you, knowing of your madness…” Also true, or at least, it used to be.

The gossip wasn’t just about him, however.

“… would have warned you anyway, but this gossip also touches my sister’s honour. The common thread in the rumours about her is that you lived together for weeks. Some say you abducted her. Some say she came willingly. Either way — or so the rumours claim — you ruined her and cast her off when you had sated your lust.”

Drew seemed more amused than indignant when he wrote, “Those who believe that Ruth and her guards would allow such a thing don’t know our family very well. But they shall know us better, I warrant you.”

Winshire had ordered an investigation into the source of the gossip. Once Crick had placed his cravat pin, Val reached for the third page, which he read several times before allowing Crick to help him into his coat.

“Beyond a doubt, one person features as a common element in every story we have been able to trace back to its source. Your sister-in-law, the Countess of Ashbury, has denied all knowledge of the gossip, while making it clear that she gives it credence. However, every trail goes back to her, and everyone who admits to questioning her about the stories agrees that she supported them, with convincing detail. She told my cousin, who is part of her court, that she has sources who write to her from your household and the local village.”

Even without what they were saying about Ruth, Val would need to squash this nonsense for the sake of his girls. But the lies and half-lies about Ruth meant he needed to take action and be fast about it.

“Crick, tell Minsham that I need to see you and her in my study as soon as the girls go up to bed.” First step was to find the traitors under his own roof. Then the village. Then Society. Just a couple of months ago, he would have quailed at the thought of venturing to Brighton and even London. Now, any apprehension was swamped in the feeling that had him smile as he shrugged into the coat that Crick held ready. In a matter of days, perhaps a little over a week, he would see Ruth again.

Tea with the Duke of Haverford

This week’s Monday for Tea post is the second chapter in my new story for newsletter subscribers. It forms part of the novella Paradise Lost, which tells the backstory of the Duchess of Haverford in a series of memories, as she goes through the eventful year of 1812, in which her long-ago beloved returns to England with six of his ten children. See The Children of the Mountain King for more about the series to which this is a companion. If you’d like a copy of Paradise Lost, make sure you’re subscribed to my newsletter. A word of warning. It isn’t a romance; the Duchess of Haverford does not enjoy a happy ending with the man she loves in this novella, though she negotiates a life she can live with. Does she find true love? You’ll have to read the series for the whole story.

Haverford House, London, July 1812

Eleanor had withdrawn to her private sitting room, driven there by His Grace’s shouting. Her son Aldridge was as angry as she had ever seen him, his face white and rigid and his eyes blazing, but he kept his voice low; had even warned the duke about shouting.

“Let us not entertain the servants, Your Grace, with evidence of your villainy.”

Unsurprisingly, the duke had taken exception to the cutting words and had shouted even louder.

Could it be true? Had Haverford paid an assassin to kill the sons of the man he insisted as seeing as his rival? An assassin who had been caught before he could carry out his wicked commission.

His Grace’s jealousy made no sense. Yes, James was back in England, but what did that matter to Haverford?

He had been furious when James and his family attended their first ball. Eleanor had looked up when the room fell silent, and there he stood on the stairs, surrounded by members of his family, whom she barely noticed. James looked wonderful. More than thirty years had passed, and no person on earth would call him a fribble or useless now. He had been a king somewhere in Central Asia, and wore his authority like an invisible garment. And he was still as handsome as he had been in his twenties.

As she sat there with her tea tray, sheltering from the anger of her menfolk, she caught herself sighing over James like a silly gosling. She was a married woman, and he was a virtuous man who had, by all accounts, deeply loved his wife. Besides, women did not age as well as men, as the whole world knew. She no longer had the slender waist of a maiden, her hair was beginning to grey, and her face showed the lines her mother swore she would avoid if she never smiled, laughed, frowned, or showed any other emotion. Of course, she had not followed her mother’s instruction, but those who had were no less lined than Eleanor, as far as she could see.

Putting down her tea, she fetched a little box of keepsakes from her hidden cupboard. The fan her long dead brother had given her before her first ball. A small bundle of musical scores, that recalled pleasant evenings in her all too brief Season. Aldridge’s cloth rabbit. She had retrieved it when Haverford had ordered it destroyed, saying his son was a future duke and should not be coddled. Aldridge had been eight months’ old.

It had not been the first time she secretly defied her husband. She had been sneaking up to the nursery since Aldridge was born, despite the duke’s proclamation that ladies of her rank had their babies presented to them once a day, washed, sweetly smelling and well behaved, and handing the infants back to their attendants if any of those conditions failed or after thirty minutes, whichever came first.

It took three more years and a major shock for her to openly defy him.

Haverford Castle, East Kent, 1784

The Duke of Haverford did not bother with greetings or enquiries about Eleanor’s health. He flung open the door without knocking and marched into Eleanor’s sitting room, saying, “What is it, duchess? I have a great deal to do today.”

Inwardly, Eleanor quailed as he stood over her, threat in every line of his posture.  Unlike her father, he had never beaten her in cold blood, but she had every reason to fear his temper.

But fear would not serve her here. She was fighting for her life and for the wellbeing of her son. She maintained an outward semblance of calm and gestured to a chair. “Will you not be seated, Your Grace? As I said in my note, I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

Haverford grumbled, but sat; even accepted a cup of tea. The delicate porcelain cup might not survive the next few minutes, but its sacrifice was a small price to pay for giving the discussion a façade of normality.

As she’d hoped, the good manners drilled into every English gentleman in the presence of a lady, even his wife, kept the duke sitting during the ritual of preparing the cup, but he burst out as soon as he accepted it from his wife’s hand. “Well, duchess?”

Eleanor prepared her own cup, glad to have a reason not to look at him as she spoke. “Your Grace, you will be aware that I have been very ill this past six weeks. It is, indeed, why I removed myself to Haverford Castle.”

“Yes, yes. And I’m glad to see you much improved, madam. I have need of you in London.” He condescended to provide an explanation. “The bill I am sponsoring—those idiots who will not listen are much easier to convince after you’ve given them one of your excellent meals, and invited their wives and daughters to your soirees. How soon can you be ready to travel?”

What an excellent opening. “I can pack tomorrow and leave for London the day after, Your Grace.”

Haverford smiled. “Excellent, excellent.” He put the cup down, shifting as if to stand.

“If I do not have a relapse,” Eleanor added.

Haverford sank back into his chair, frowning.

Now to get to the meat of the matter. Eleanor grasped hold of her dwindling supply of courage with both hands. This is about saving Aldridge. The situation in the nursery was fit to ruin him. His attendants had always indulged his every whim, egged on by the duke, who considered himself to be the only person the infant marquis needed to obey. Eleanor’s frequent visits and threats of dismissal allowed him to be raised with some sense of structure and decorum. He knew she would not tolerate rudeness or temper, to her or to his nurses and the maids.

After spending four weeks too sick to leave her bed, she found the nursery in disarray, the young heir ruling the roost. He was in a wild tantrum when she arrived, and the next hour left her drooping with fatigue, and she still had to hunt down the boy’s missing head nurse and find out why she had allowed such chaos to reign.”

The memory prompted her to deal with the minor issue first. “Your affair with Aldridge’s nurse, Your Grace.”

He straightened, and opened his mouth, but Eleanor spoke over the rebuke that was certain to come. “I have no objection, sir, but I assume you have not given her license to neglect your heir or to be impertinent to me.”

The duke frowned. “Certainly not. I shall have a word with the bitch.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. You have always required others to treat me with the respect due to your wife, and that is why I was certain I could depend on you for what I am about to ask.” Honey worked better than vinegar, one of the Haverford great aunts was fond of saying.

The duke smirked at the compliment and inclined his head, graciously indicating that she should continue.

Now for it. Best to say it straight out, as she had rehearsed a dozen times since she and Haverford’s base-born half-brother, who was also his steward, had concocted the strategy. “You may be aware, Your Grace, that I have been taking the mercury treatment for the pox. As I am a faithful wife, and have only ever had intimate knowledge of one man—yourself, Your Grace—I must assume it originated with you.”

As expected, Haverford erupted. “I will not—”

Eleanor held up a hand. “Your Grace has needs, and I would not normally comment on how you meet them, as long as any lovers you take within the household you have given me to manage are willing partners.”

She kept talking over his attempt to interrupt, hoping his temper would not override his manners. “I owe you a second son, Your Grace, and I fully intend to attempt to carry out that side of our bargain, but I have a request to make to keep me safe from falling ill again.”

He frowned, silenced for the moment. Eleanor thought it best to wait for him to speak. At least he was listening.

“Go on,” he said at last.

“My doctor has assured me that fewer than half of all people who contracted second stage syphilis moved into the deadlier third stage, and most of those had the disease multiple times. I would like to take steps to limit my risk, Your Grace.”

“What steps?”

In the end, Haverford lost his temper twice more before he signed the document she put before him. In it, he promised to not to require intimacy from Eleanor unless he had refrained from any potential source of the disease for six weeks, and had been inspected by a doctor.

She had delicately hinted at the retribution that would follow if he didn’t keep his word. A gentleman’s word was his bond, of course, but only when given to other gentlemen. Haverford would not hesitate to break an agreement with his wife, if it suited him.

Thanks to the duke’s training in politics, she knew all about the pressure to apply—in this case, the social contacts who would be informed of the whole disgusting situation if he broke his word. She had been a lady of the chamber to the Queen, was friends with several of the princesses, was sister to the current Earl of Farnmouth and sister-in-law to another earl and an earl’s second son.

Added to that there were all of her social contacts. Those she had been presented with were only the start. Being Haverford’s hostess had given her huge reach into the upper echelons of Society, especially those families headed by his political cronies and rivals.

One son, she contracted for, and a maximum of two pregnancies. Eleanor prayed she would conceive quickly, and that the child would not be a daughter.

To give Haverford credit, Eleanor conceded, he had stuck to the agreement. She put the cloth rabbit back into its box. Her copy of the agreement was still in the secret compartment, somewhere. Her co-conspirator, Fitz-Grenford, had a second copy, and the third had been given to her brother in a sealed envelope, to be opened only if she died unexpectedly or sent a message asking him to read it.

Presumably, that copy was somewhere in the papers inherited by her nephew. Perhaps she should ask for it back, for Haverford had not approached her with marital duties in mind since she announced that she was enceinte with the child who proved to be the wanted spare son.

She very much doubted that he ever would. After all, his mistresses and lovers were all twenty or thirty years younger than Eleanor.

On the other hand, he was behaving like a bad-tempered guard dog over James Winderfield’s return, and she wouldn’t put it past him to—mark his territory, as it were. The copies of the agreement had better stay where they were.

In truth, as long as the disease never recurred, Haverford had done her a favour. Without the incentive, she might have taken much longer to grasp what freedom she could.

At the firm rap on her door, she slid the hidden compartment back into place and moved the panels to return the escritoire to its normal appearance. She knew that knock. “Enter,” she called.

As expected, the visitor was Aldridge. Also as expected. He had been coming to her to be calmed after he’d worked himself into a fury since he was a little boy.

“Brandy, rather than tea, I think, my dear,” she said to him.

Spotlight on To Wed a Proper Lady

I’ve done a cautious prerelease of the first novel in the series The Children of the Mountain King. To Wed a Proper Lady is out on 15 April, and you can preorder now. But you can already buy it at Smashwords or from my SELZ bookshop. The prequel novella about the mountain king and his queen is now free in the same two digital shops, and when the price change filters out to Apple and Barnes & Noble, I hope to convince Amazon to make it free there, too.

Here are some of the early reviews.

A very well written story with wonderful characters. The pace is very good & drew me in from start to finish. I loved both James & Sophia, although they fell hard & fast for each other at first sight it then took some time for them to realise their feelings were reciprocated. The secondary characters also had depth, we met some new & some from other books, there’s one character whose story I’m impatiently waiting for! An engrossing, captivating read, which I didn’t want to end.

This story grabbed me on the first page when James Winderfield accompanies his father who returns home after thirty-five years in the mountains of the east, summoned by his dying father. After decades as The Mountain King, the elder Winderfield faces a step down to the title of English duke, and the challenge of shepherding his children, whose mother is a Persian princess, into the life of the ton with the respect they deserve and their innate dignity intact. The family bond, loyalty, and affection radiate from every page. James, as his father’s oldest accepts—if he doesn’t precisely embrace— a courtesy title as next in line, and can handle English society, but he detests his one large challenge. Both his vile grandfather and his loving father expect him to marry a proper English lady, a prospect distasteful for its implication his blood isn’t blue enough and a sense he’s being set out to stud for family purposes. What he wants is a loving marriage like his parents enjoyed. His journey held my heart from start to finish.

This was such a good read! I loved the characters of Jamie and Sophia. James was handsome, charming and honourable. Sophia was caring, not only for her family but also for various charities that she helped. When James first met Sophia, he felt he had met his soulmate. Although Sophia felt the same, she had her doubts, given that she was always overlooked when compared with her sister. I liked that Jamie saw Sophia for herself. They both had a strong love for their immediate families. There is also an old enmity that causes problems and the mystery as to who is trying to cause Jamie and his family harm. This was a very engaging read and I look forward to reading more in this series. Although this can be read as a standalone, I would say that the previous novella would give the background story to their life abroad. I received a copy via Booksprout and have voluntarily reviewed it. All thoughts and opinions are my own. However, I did preorder my own copy.

I really liked this skillfully crafted story. New to English society, James is confronted by prejudice and mistrust as he looks for a suitable bride with the hope of a love match. Suspense is added by the dealings of the Duke of Haverford, who has taken upon himself to cause trouble for the Winderfield family, not just in encouraging his sycophants to cut the family, but he also raises doubts regarding the Winderfield children’s legitimacy.

As can be expected in this genre there is a happy end. The journey there was very interesting and entertaining. Now to wait for the next installment.

Virtual historic tours

If you can’t go to the wonderful historic sites that we write about, you can still visit. Here are some links to get you started.

Heritage virtual tours: 360 virtual tours of incredible heritage sites, including British Royal Palaces; the Royal Opera House; historic buildings and castles like Wrest Park and Bovey Castle, as well as renowned distilleries such as Remy Martin and The Balvenie; galleries, museums and their exhibits, such as unique historic aircraft.

Virtual tours, panorama, and models from the BBC History division

The Louvre, where you can check out virtual tours of the Egyptian antiquities collection, remains of the Louvre’s moat and the Galerie d’Apollon

The Sistine chapel, with its incredible art.

Some of the most walkable sections of the Great Wall of China

The British Museum, the world’s oldest national public museum.

And more:

https://www.countryliving.com/uk/wild...
https://www.standard.co.uk/go/london/...
https://www.history.com/news/10-best-...
https://www.travelandleisure.com/cult...

Self doubts on WIP Wednesday

Often — perhaps mostly — one of the major barriers my characters face in finding happiness is their own opinion of themselves. Is it the same for you? If so, how about sharing an excerpt where your character experiences self-doubt. Mine is from To Mend the Broken Hearted, the second novel in The Children of the Mountain King. My heroine is explaining her family to my hero.

His question, when it came, was not what she expected. “And your mother? Did she not come to England with you?”

Mami. The queen of their small kingdom and the heart of their family. Sometimes, Ruth could barely remember her face, and then a word or a sound or a smell would bring a memory and it was as if she had just stepped into another room.

“She died twelve years ago,” she told Ashbury. After a moment, she added, “I sometimes wonder if my father might have stayed in Para Daisa Vada had she lived. She always insisted she would not come to England and that Father should not, either. The old duke sent for Father when his second son died and it seemed likely my remaining uncle would have only the one heir and him sickly. He wanted Father to repudiate us all and go home alone.”

“Your father refused.” Ashbury didn’t phrase it as a question, but Ruth nodded anyway.

“After that, though, he kept telling us that we might one day have to come to England, especially Jamie, who might well inherit an English dukedom rather than Father’s kaganate — kingdom, I suppose you would say.”

Father and Mami had argued over Father’s sense of duty, though even as a child, she had understood that their bond was far too deep for any surface sound and fury to do more than ruffle the surface. Almost certainly, if Mami had lived, she would have come to England with Father. She gave a short bark of laughter at the thought of her mother in England.

“If she had come, she would have withered the likes of Haverford with a single glance. My mother was a queen to her fingertips, a warrior of great skill, and harem-raised by my great grandmother, who was an adviser to kings. Father says that Nano was the best politician he ever met, and Mami was nearly her equal.”

“She raised a strong daughter,” Ashbury observed.

At his admiring tone, Ruth’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away. “You should meet Rebecca, my older sister. She led her own guard squad by the time she was eighteen. She can outshoot and outride most of the men. When a rival kagan held her hostage, she escaped and kidnapped his son, and they fell in love, wed, and now command the forces of my brother, Matthew, who remained to take over Father’s kingdom. Rebecca inherited a full measure of Mami’s warrior talents, and Rachel, my eldest sister, the queenly ones. Her husband came to learn statecraft from my father, and took Rachel home to Georgia to rule beside him as his wife.”

Four sisters, and three of them exceptional. Rosemary, was a paragon of the womanly arts. She was an exquisite dancer, her paintings and poems were beautiful, and she navigated the fickle politics of the women’s side of the house with ease and tact, so that even the most difficult of females liked her. In the more mixed society of England, she applied the same skills to the gentlemen they met. In fact, even the old duke, their grandfather, made a pet of her, and he hated everyone.

And then there was Ruth. Awkward in company, impatient with polite nothings, always wearing a mask behind which she felt uncertain and out of place. Mami called her ‘my little scholar’,  and certainly as a child she was happiest with her books, though she dutifully took the same training in warrior craft and household management skills as the other girls.

Tea with the children

Eleanor smiled at the family gathered in her favourite sitting room. Matilda was pouring the tea, and Frances was carefully carrying each cup to the person for whom it had been prepared. Jessica was sitting on the arm of Aldridge’s chair, regaling him with stories about the New Year’s Charity Ball he had missed when he left the house party early. Cedrica sat quietly, as usual, but the distracted smile and the glow of happiness were new, and her thoughts were clearly on her French chef, whom she was to marry in a private ceremony in the Haverford House chapel in just a couple of weeks.

Only Jon was missing. A month ago, he had sailed from Margate in Aldridge’s private yacht, and just this morning, a package had been delivered by a weary sailor, with a report from Aldridge’s captain for the marquis, and a brief note from Jon for his mother. “Married. Safe. More news later.” Which raised more questions than it answered, not least of which was why he’d not had time to write more. Brief though it was, it set her heart at ease as much as it could be, when he was deep in war-torn Northern Europe. Not as war torn as it was when he set out, while Napoleon’s army was retreating in the face of the severe northern winter. Thank goodness that somehow, through the battle-scarred and frozen country, the messenger had managed to get this note back to Aldridge’s captain, anchored of the coast of Latvia to wait for word.

Aldridge looked up from his conversation with Jessica and gifted her with the warm smile he saved only for the women of his family. “Jon has landed on his feet again, Mama,” he told her. He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t know how he always manages to do that!”

***

Jon’s hasty trip from Margate is mentioned in To Wed a Proper Lady, which also introduces Cedrica and features the house party. His story is all planned out, but has to wait till I have finished The Children of the Mountain King series, of which To Wed a Proper Lady is the first novel. It’s on preorder and will be published 15 April. Aldridge’s story is novel 3 in the series. All going well, you’ll have it in July or August. Cedrica’s part in the house party, and her romance with her French chef, is in the novella A Suitable Husband.

Spotlight on To Enchant a Highland Earl

Congratulations to Collette Cameron on her new release.

Sparks fly whenever they meet…not the sensual kind.

Pick up book 5 in the best selling Heart of a Scot Series today! Read for FREE with Kindle Unlimited!

She knows precisely what she wants…

And it’s not the obstinate Highlander, Broden McGregor. Even if the handsome brute did recently inherit an earldom and a sizable fortune and now must wed to produce an heir. So why doesn’t Kendra object when the womanizing libertine boldly steals a kiss? And why does his promise of more sensual encounters thrill, rather than infuriate?

Fate turned his life upside down…

Not only did Broden inherit a title he never anticipated, someone wants him dead. At great peril to herself, Kendra saves his life, and the stunning lass he once regarded as his nemesis, becomes something more. But as his best friend’s adored sister, she’s off-limits. Besides, Kendra is prickly, opinionated, and holds him in contempt, though he has no idea why.

Antagonism transforms into sizzling desire…

Neither can deny nor resist the passion between them as secrets, temptations, and long-hidden love are revealed. But at what cost?

 

If you enjoy reading Highlander love stories brimming with mystery and suspense, a dash of humor, and gripping emotion, then you’ll adore Collette Cameron’s mesmerizing HEART OF A SCOT Series. Buy TO ENCHANT A HIGHLAND EARL and settle into your favorite reading nook for a rousing Highland adventure you can’t put down.

Though this book can easily be read as a stand-alone, most readers prefer to read the series in order.

HEART OF A SCOT:

To Love a Highland Laird

To Redeem a Highland Rake

To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

To Woo a Highland Warrior

A Christmas Kiss for the Highlander

To Enchant a Highland Earl

Amazon – https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0859MCHYF

Goodreads – http://bit.ly/2TkeKva

BookBub – http://bit.ly/2PvuSZV

Excerpt

Now, as he guided Kendra down the passageway, her honeyed heat, mere inches away, beckoned him. As did her perfume, light and tempting with a promise of spring. Fully aware, he flirted with danger and perhaps risked a slap, as well, he bent his neck and inhaled deeply.

Her womanly scent tunneled through him, an intoxicating elixir of femininity and Kendra.

She glanced up, curiosity rather than censure in her amused gaze. A winsome smile played around the edges of her soft, plump lips. “Are ye sniffin’ me, Broden?”

He chuckled as they turned the corner leading to the top of the stairs. No sense in denying the obvious. “Aye, I am. Ye always smell amazin’.”

His superior height gave him a delicious view of the tantalizing hills and valleys her bodice revealed. He was a lecher for taking advantage of it but, damn his eyes, if he could haul his attention away from the lush display.

Desperate for a distraction, he said, “Yer fragrance contains lemon?”

Those winged eyebrows of hers that so often pulled together in annoyance and scorn when in his presence, shied skyward, as a smile just this side of teasing, curved her mouth.

“Are we truly havin’ a discussion about my perfume?” A giggle escaped her, and she clapped a palm over her mouth.

He adored her laugh but was rarely gifted the chance to hear it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m no’ laughin’ at ye. It just seems so ludicrous when a week ago, I wouldna have believed ye even aware I wore perfume.”

Oh, he was aware.

Too damned aware of everything about Kendra MacKay. That was the root of the problem. He couldn’t rid his consciousness of her. Even when he wasn’t with her.

“Never mind. It isna important.” Broden felt a sheer fool. He, who had his choice of any number of women, couldn’t hold an intelligent conversation with the only woman that mattered.

Her fingers tightened on his arm minutely, and she said, “If ye must ken, there is lemon in it. And camellia, along with the merest bit of juniper. That gives the fragrance a wee hint of mystery.”

“A bit of adventure and sweetness and mystery. And zest,” Broden murmured low, finding the conversation oddly arousing.

Did she dab the scent behind those delicate ears? Between her superbly ripe breasts? Inside her shapely elbows? Elsewhere?

Lord, help him.