Excerpt from Newest Romance:

PROLOGUE

Paris,

November, 1816

Standing in the drawing room of Lady Felicity Drummond’s Paris apartments, Chandler Rhys felt a wave of dizziness swirl through his aching head, the result of having been dragged around the city by one of the more affluent diplomats attached to the British Consulate. Celebrating the end of his two-week lecture series at the Sorbonne, Rhys, Lord Ardsley and others he couldn’t even remember had downed champagne, twenty-year old scotch and vintage brandy.

But not necessarily in that order.

And how many bottles?  He’d lost count after an even dozen.

Now he was seeing two of everything and felt incredibly hot.  He twitched at his cravat and hoped he could escape to his hotel before Felicity spotted him. It was bad enough that her very presence – there was so much of that delectable ‘presence’ -- rattled him badly.  After three months of slogging across the mountains of Norway in search of rare alpine plants for the Royal Horticultural Society, he thought he was safe from that magnetic pull she had spun around him back in Brighton last June.  He shifted his feet, making sure he could move without falling over. 

Bad idea. The dizziness started again and he stumbled a bit to the left.  Maybe if he could just get outside in the cold air, he’d be able to clear his head. 

Or his stomach of its contents.

Slowly he turned, hanging on to one of the Louis XIV chairs and made ready his escape, praying he could keep his dignity intact.  He felt a tap on his shoulder, and knew instantly who it was.  Damn that woman!  A hint of soft fragrance tickled his nose sending his stomach lurching.  He turned and drank in the woman standing before him.

Tonight she was a compelling vision with her thick auburn hair swept up into an intricate mound of curls and tendrils, laced with tiny gems that sparkled under the candlelight.  Her flawless skin was like cream, deep green eyes that he could easily drown in and a lower lip that begged to be kissed.  Rhys gave a slight bow, his eyes skimming the sweep of exposed bosom that lay like soft pillows above layers of silk and lace. He inhaled and blinked away the second set of bosoms. One set was tempting enough, thank you.

"Good evening, Felicity," he croaked.  He noticed that she was watching him closely, one eyebrow raised.

"Rhys, I didn’t know you were in Paris, otherwise I would have sent you a personal invitation to my little soiree.  How are you and how was your expedition to -- where was it again?" She snapped open her fan and waved it slowly in front of the deep cleavage, his eyes following for a moment. 

"Norway.  Very good.  Excellent specimens."  Unfortunately at that moment his eyes dropped to her excellent specimens displayed before him.  He stuttered.  "I mean plants, that is.  Alpine plants.  Lots of 'em up there, you know."  Her smile widened and she licked her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

He swallowed.

Hard.

"No, I don't know.  About alpine plants, that is.  You must tell me all about them sometime. But alas, not at this moment.  I believe Monsieur Bouchard is ready for the unveiling, and I must join him.  Here, you’re too far away to see it properly.  Come with me.”  She took hold of his arm and steered him through the crowd

Rhys let her lead him closer to the dais, then plant him on a loveseat by an open window.  As she walked to the dais he watched her hips sway, the gauze-like fabric doing nothing to hide her long legs and a bit of slender ankle. What were they unveiling, he wondered?  Probably some ancient painting with a bunch of Greeks or Romans slaughtering each other.  Bah!  He closed his eyes and waited for the grand event.  It was about all he was capable of doing at the moment.    

* * *

Chandler Rhys was an odd duck, she thought as she waited for Pierre Bouchard to begin the unveiling. When she had first met him in Brighton in June, she had found him dressed in a shabby linen jacket – probably standard scholarly dress for a university professor -- with spectacles sliding down his nose.  But his eyes, once the glasses were off, were of the strangest amber color, matching the thick, tawny hair he kept tied back in the old-fashioned manner.  But tonight he was quite handsome in his formal black evening jacket and silk cravat, the lengthy hair brushed back from his face, a face so browned from his travels she had the urge to layer kisses up one side and down the other.

She surveyed the crowd gathered in her drawing room, a glittering swarm of Parisian society here to witness the unveiling of her portrait by the famous artist, Pierre Bouchard. One could almost feel the growing excitement as Bouchard approached the dais, his fingers caressing the swathe of silk draped over the easel.

Felicity stood to one side, smiling and nodding at acquaintances, but a sense of ennui was ruining the moment. She was tired of Paris, and her eyes drifted to the large windows lining one side of the room.  A thin veil of snow was falling, and she wondered what everyone back home at Watersperry Manor, her family estate on the shores of Lake Windermere, was doing right this moment. Bouchard's words droned on in her ear until, at the mention of her name, she turned back to the artist.

"Madame, would you do the honors, or shall I?" he asked.  She extended her hand to convey that he, as the artist, should do so.  She knew how much Bouchard was banking on this exhibition to bring him more patronage.  France was still struggling from the war years and art commissions had dried up for the moment.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Woman for all Time,” and he whisked the cloth off, letting it slip to the floor.

Although framed in heavy gilt, the painting was rather small, a size that conveyed a degree of intimacy as if this work would be in someone’s private chambers, not on display for the public.  Under the candlelight, shadow and light played across the outstretched body of Felicity as she reclined on a red velvet divan, her back to the viewer.  She was completely nude except for a length of silk draped across her bottom.  One extended arm hid most of her breasts, and her dark red hair cascaded  down her back onto the divan, mixing with the plush velvet. But it was her expression, with just that hint of a teasing, enticing smile, that caught one’s eye.

Felicity heard the intake of breath as the guests viewed the portrait, but she wasn't concerned.  Bouchard had assured her that a semi-nude would be accepted in Paris. Perhaps not in London, but certainly in Paris.  Had not Ingres exhibited his "Odalisque" just a few years ago?   But Felicity sensed an undertow of criticism, mainly from the women in the room.  The men were busy ogling the painting, then studying her as if to see if both were one and the same.  She felt herself blush, despite being an experienced woman, widowed for seven years now.

* * *

Once the veil had dropped, Rhys swung his aching head to look at the other guests. Vaguely he registered the degrees of surprise, shock, but more disturbing was the reaction of the men.  They surged forward, quizzing glasses raised, sly smiles breaking through the bland expressions.  He turned to see Lord Ardsley stand and lean forward, his eyes alight with -- what?  Something hard and possessive.  Then Rhys looked to his left and gazed at the painting. 

He stopped breathing.  It was the smile that was his undoing, the smile of a woman in love, an entreaty to her invisible lover.  Something broke inside him.

"No!"  It was a howl that rang through the room, and Chandler Rhys lunged toward the dais, his eyes locked on Felicity's.

Instinctively she raised her hands to ward him off, ready to block Rhys' progress. "Please calm yourself, Rhys --"

Oof!

Rhys picked her up like a sack of potatoes and tossed her over his shoulder, then stooped and slid the silk back over the offending painting.  With Felicity kicking and yelling, he turned and made a quick bow to the crowd.  A moment later he was barreling down the hall as Felicity pummeled him with her fists.

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt -- I love Felicity and Rhys and hope you'll follow their journey by clicking on this link for purchasing options!  

Threads of Feeling

In "Captive for Christmas" (just released last week; see Books above), I wrote a brief scene between Felicity Drummond and Chandler Rhys in which she shows him a one-hundred year old scrapbook that her grandmothers and mother kept of the orphans who came to live at the family estate over the years. This is based on true fact, and that is what I love about historical fiction -- using facts and events to create a world more rich for the reader.  

archives, Foundling Hospital Museum

sample fragment left with a female child

The Founding Hospital was founded by Thomas Coram who wanted to give abandoned children a decent life. The hospital opened its doors in 1741, and children were accepted anonymously so women were not publicly shamed into abandoning their babies elsewhere.  The mothers were encouraged to leave a small token, which was then added to the admission books with the details of the child. The tokens include ribbons, fabric scraps and baby clothes. The scraps range from plain rough worsted to the occasional piece of fancy silk brocade, indicating the mothers came from all levels of society. 

The exhibit, Threads of Feeling (2008), displayed some of these tiny tokens that mothers left with their babies when they gave them up, and there are over 5,000 pieces in the Museum's archives.  The book, Threads of Feeling, by John Styles is still listed in Amazon,  and in the Sept/Oct 2010 issue of Selvedge Magazine (UK), Shelley Goldsmith wrote a wonderful article about the exhibit.

New Release:

Felicity Drummond had fallen in love with Chandler Rhys the moment she'd laid eyes on him the previous summer in Brighton. But that didn't mean she'd make a fool of herself, especially after he'd ridden off on another expedition, leaving her with just a kiss, a note and a bouquet of wildflowers.

Chandler Rhys suspected that his feelings for the beautiful widow went deeper than just a passing fancy. But she was so intimidating with her sensuous beauty and wealth, often leaving him to feel like a fool. What man would succumb to that?

But life has a way of turning things on its head, and a freak accident leaves the two reluctant lovers captive for the Christmas holidays, surrounded by crazy relatives, a passel of waifs and strays, not to mention two voracious wolfhounds!

click here to order

Captive for Christmas (a Regency novella ebook)

Cheers!

Images that Inspire

One of the problems I faced when starting Book #3 in the Merry Widow series was how my hero, Chandler Rhys, evolves from a somewhat quiet, scholarly type as portrayed in the second book (he was introduced in Betrayed in Brighton as a secondary character) into a man more passionate about the heroine, Felicity Drummond.  Still keeping the light-hearted spirit of the holiday season, what could be the inciting incident that ignites that passion?

Jealousy was a good starting point, I thought.  But I needed something quick, right up front at the beginning of the story (since this is a novella, the timing is much tighter than in a full-length novel).

Felicity is assertive in her own way and quite sensuous in nature.  As a matter of fact, in the second book, her somewhat forward manner throws Rhys for a loop.  So I started looking at classic paintings from this period, but also other images that might capture the "feeling" of what could set off Rhys' jealous bones, as well as capture Felicity's teasing, sensuous nature.

I've always loved the work of Alphonse Mucha (late 19th-century) and this image of his Job cigarettes poster made me think of Felicity --

Certainly the hair was a factor, her heavy waves of deep red hair, but it was that "come hither" look that made me chuckle.  This was a bit over the edge, but it worked for me.  Then I turned to Ingres' painting of the Odalisque --

Ingres painted this in 1814, near enough to the timing of my story (1816), so I took this idea and image and ran with it.  I think you can guess where I'm going with this and soon I'll share an excerpt.

Who was Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (August 29, 1780 - January 14, 1867)?  Ingres was a French Neoclassical painter, and although he considered himself a painter of history in the tradition of Nicolas Poussin and Jacques-Louis David, by the end of his life it was his portraits, both painted and drawn, that were recognized as his greatest legacy.

Is it my imagination or does this woman seem to hold a secret?  Her look reminds one of the Mona Lisa -- that hint of a smile, the quiet gaze almost intimidating in its sense of assuredness.

This is what intrigues me about writing historical fiction -- the ability to use actual incidents, fashions, trends and manners of an era, to build a world for the reader and sometimes to use as trigger points in the plot or characterization.

Stay tuned for "Captive for Christmas" -- Book 3 in the Merry Widow series, -- due out in mid-November!  Why not sign up for my newsletters for further news and other fun things?

Free eBook:

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Book #3 will be coming out

next month, so grab Betrayed now

(and, as always, a review would be most welcome).

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The Scoop on Widows:

 Readers have asked me, "Why do you write about widows, especially in a romance?"  

I chose to focus my Regency novella series, The Merry Widows, on young widows for several reasons. As opposed to a young miss who is seemingly (or truly) innocent and ignorant about love and sex, a widow has probably experienced these aspects of love and marriage. Notice I wrote "probably". There were many arranged marriages in those days, but putting marriage and sexual relations aside for a moment, a widow offers the writer an opportunity to explore a nuanced life -- multiple layers of experience, whether happy or sad or tragic, a more complex character who knows her own mind more at 30+ years of age than when she was a mere girl of 18 years or so. This opens up a vast field to play in, from the writer's perspective, especially in terms of the growing relationship with the hero. 

Now the play of seduction can go both ways. One of the most lusty widows in literary history is Chaucer's Wife of Bath. She was not shy; she was bawdy and full of life. She had survived some hard knocks, only to come back fighting. And she grew powerful and rich through taking over her first husband's position in the merchant's guild, a growing phenomenon for merchant women in the Middle Ages. The other two examples of the expansion of power for women at that time was the lady of the manor, who usually ran the castle in her husband's absence in the Holy Wars. Not all, but certainly quite a few. Author Maureen Ash creates a medieval mystery series, which features a strong Lady of the Manor and a retired Knight Templar. The third example would be women in the religious field. In a convent or abbey, women could learn to read, write, transcribe and illuminate manuscripts, as well as learn medicinal practices and such. A wonderful series of medieval mysteries was penned by Margaret Frazer in the 1990s and early 2000s. Sadly she died a few years ago, but her Dame Frevisse series lives on.

 Which leads to my next reason to work with widows as heroines. Sometimes a widow retained power and wealth if her husband died and had left all or part of his estate and holdings to her and his heirs. But if there were no heirs and no male relations to step in and take control -- well, the good woman could benefit and thrive.  As in the case of two of my characters, this was their experience. With land and money, there is little pressure to marry again -- except for love and children, perhaps. Society on both sides of the Channel was much more open to passion and a lust for life at this time. as the Regency years of England occurred within the larger framework of the Romantic Era, a time that encouraged a much more emotional reaction to life and nature -- Beethoven, Wordsworth, Percy Shelley, Mary Shelley, Lady Caro Lamb and Lord Byron, J. M. W Turner, are just a few of the most emblematic of the Romantics. 

And finally, a series based around young widows seemed natural in light of the period -- England had been embedded in wars for many years -- the War of 1812; the Napoleonic Wars and the subsequent Hundred Days War when Napoleon escaped Elba and marched on Paris. During the Battle of Waterloo, over15,000 British soldiers died or were maimed. So between the Army and the Navy, how many women lost their husbands?  One would think there would have been a significant increase in the number of widows during those years.

Nuance, texture, scope. Widows as heroines make a fine mixture for a romance novel. They seek affection, companionship, sexual relations and marriage just as single women do; if childless, they hope for babes of their own. And maybe readers who are a bit tired of the 20-something virgins might find that the experienced widow adds more depth to the novel, as well as a more satisfying HEA -- at least, that is my hope.

Stay tuned for an excerpt from the upcoming third novella of the series, due to release mid-November!  Why not sign up for my newsletter here? 

Fun Reads for the Last Weeks of Summer!

It's that time of the summer when the weeks have slipped by and Labor Day is fast approaching -- and you know what that means?  

Autumn . . . 

Then Winter . . .

OMG, where did summer go, and why am I suddenly thinking about food???  Not your healthy kind of food either. Absolutely not.


I'm talking creme puffs, apple pies, muffins, chocolate, cupcakes, chocolate and more. Did you just see my thighs blow up?

To me it's always a sign of impending autumn, swift breezes, candles and fireplaces glowing -- and, naturally, comfort food. It's a cyclical thing, I guess.


Anyway, here's a list of authors whose food-centered stories will make you smile, laugh, cry and sigh. 

Stacey Ballis
Jennifer Colgan
Vanessa Greene
Joanne Harris
Marsha Mehran
Meredith Meleti
Richard Morais
Jeanne Ray
Amy Reichert

 Happy Eating - uh, Reading!

 

Now on Amazon!

Yes, it's taken me awhile to get my ebooks onto Amazon. A slow learner, I suppose!  But they're loading up now, and I hope this brings my stories to more readers.

While summer is here -- although a bit soggy -- I'll be taking a break from writing to soak in some sun and do some gardening.  Because before you know it, summer will be slipping away and autumn will creep in.  

I plan to bring out Book 3 in the Merry Widow series in November -- "Captive at Christmas" -- and already have the cover. It's beautiful, and I'm truly excited about this story featuring Lady Felicity Drummond and Chandler Rhys, who readers met in Book 2.  

So stay tuned and don't forget to sign up for my Newsletter here!

Independence Day Sale

 

Happy 4th of July!  In honor of the holiday, Book One and Two of the Merry Widow Series are FREE for the next week on Barnes & Noble, Apple iBooks, Kobo and other popular ebook sites -- just click on the covers!

As always, I hope you enjoy these romances and reviews are always welcome.

Book Birthday!

Book Two just released on June 1st!  Amazingly, I made my deadline as planned, and now hope to relax for the summer months before beginning Book Three in the Merry Widow series.

Click here to order and I hope you enjoy the story (Psst -- reviews are always welcome, too!)

Update on Next Release

Very excited, getting close to the release date for "Betrayed in Brighton!"  It's funny, but in Book #2 of the Merry Widow series, Lady Alexandra and Major Pendleton are the heroine and hero of this Regency romance novella.  They appeared as secondary characters in Book #1 (Snowbound Seductions), and I liked their relationship so much that I decided to feature them in the second novella.

It was almost a natural progression in terms of a timeline: by March 1815, only a few months after the end of Book #1, Napoleon escaped St. Helen's and re-joined his armies. So after only about two months together, Pendleton is sent away by Wellington and the War Office, undercover behind enemy lines.

But Alexandra had no idea of his assignment, assuming the British would strike and be done with the pesky Napoleon. Time seemed not to matter; time was on their side, wasn't it? And so, as I worked on this story and these two special characters, the layers of betrayal -- time, war, desire and one bloody-minded traitor -- seemed to grow and add depth to the story line. 

By the time I handed the manuscript over to my beta reader, I felt as if both characters, but especially Lady Alexandra, had grown beyond the two-dimensional. They had suffered, were still suffering, and the complexity of their emotions and misgivings made them real -- at least to me.

I'm still on target for a June 1st release and am anxious to send my creation to the public readership. I'd love to see Alexandra and Pendleton capture your hearts as they've captured mine.  As soon as the links are live, I will post them here on the blog, on my website and send out alerts on Facebook and Twitter.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms out there -- and pick up a romance novel to make your day complete! 

Swimming in Brighton

As I work on the first draft of Betrayed in Brighton, I find I'm enjoying the research into the history of Brighton as a popular seaside resort for the Regency period of England. Think Cape Cod, early 1800s!

Because of the oppressive heat wave in London during the Season, my characters will head to the shore and enjoy the restorative powers of sea bathing, fresh air and sunshine. The more I read about people bathing for medicinal reasons, the more intrigued I become. Numerous writers refer to this popular phenomenon, which became the thing to do in the mid-1700s.

Brighton, late 1700s  (bathing huts heading into the sea)

ca. 1829 - Dippers are on the left; lady preparing to undress; other women frolicing

Jane Austen, Fanney Burney and even the Prince Regent went bathing in Brighton's chilly waters, usually guided by "dippers," men and women who aided their forays into the salty waters of the English Channel --

Franny Burney, August 1773

“Ever since I went to Torbay, I have been tormented with a dreadful cold and very much advised to sea bathing in order to harden me…. I was terribly frightened, and really thought I should never have recovered from the plunge. I had not breath enough to speak for a minute or two, the shock was beyond expression; but after I got back to the [bathing] machine, I presently felt myself in a glow that was delightful – it is the finest feeling in the world, and will induce me to bathe as often as will be safe.“

Jane Austen to her sister, Cassandra, September 1804
“…I continue quite well, in proof of which I have bathed again this morning.  It was absolutely necessary that I should have the little fever and indisposition, which I had;–it has been all the fashion this week in Lyme…”

But one of the big questions that keeps arising is: did women bath or swim naked?  Apparently, there was a law passed against naked bathing/swimming later in the Victorian era; however, there's evidence that women (or some women) preferred to swim naked rather than wear the awkward flannel shifts we see in the above graphic by Thomas Rowlandson.

Rowlandson's version of naked swimming

There have been several fictional variations on this question -- Rosalind Laker's Sugar Pavilion (1993) has her heroine swimming naked in the early morning hours before the crowds come.  Jennifer McQuiston's Summer is for Lovers (2013) also has her heroine doing likewise. One of Marion Chesney's regency romances, Beatrice goes to Brighton (1991) has her hero strutting around in the buff in plain sight of the women. The predominant evidence seems to point to both ways as acceptable. Certainly the men could swim/ bath naked; the ladies seem to go either way.

Of course, this lady has the right idea -- use a telescope or spyglass to view the naked men. Smart lady!  

Book #2 in the Merry Widow series

I'm so excited by this beautiful cover for the next ebook in my Merry Widow series, which takes place in Brighton, England in the early summer of 1816!  The cover designer is Melody Simmons, who creates amazing covers for both ebooks and print.

Book #1, Snowbound Seductions, had a lighter, merrier tone as it was set during the Holiday season, 1814, and featured the growing love between Meredith Lambert and William Burnham, the Duke of Huntington. This story focuses on the Duke's sister, another young widow, Lady Alexandra Chase, and Major Fergus Pendleton. Theirs was more a romp than serious, in the first story, or at least that's how Lady Alexandra viewed it. But the good major was serious about marriage.

But then Napoleon rears his head once again in March, 1815. Life is like that, isn't it? Just when you thought it was safe to jump back into life, bam!  So this is where Book #2 begins.  A bit more angst, a bit more suspense.

Sometimes one just has to up the ante, don't you think?  I plan to release Book #2 in late May/early June, so please check back frequently -- and I'll be posting excerpts and such between now and then. Or you can follow me on my Facebook page for quick updates!

Free Ebook!

In celebration of Valentine's Day and to fuel the fire to read romance, Snowbound Seductions is free for the week! Hope you enjoy and reviews are always welcome! Click here to download! 

Working on new book!

Started work on Book #2 of the Merry Widow series -- "Betrayed in Brighton" -- very excited about this work since it will be a bit darker in tone than the first. When I found this quote by Frederico Garcia Lorca, I felt it captured the tone for Lady Alexandra and Major Pendleton. 

And thank you to everyone who not only read the recent excerpt from Book #1 (Snowbound Seductions), but to those readers who picked up my freebie last week (Passionate Persuasions) -- although free, I sold over 900+ copies worldwide! It's now back to its original price of .99 cents (US).

Excerpt from New eBook Novella:

I've never done this before, but thought I'd give it a try (face screwed up in terror) -- posting an excerpt from Snowbound Seductions, which released 12/16/16.  So here goes -- hope you enjoy and feel compelled to link to the purchasing options. If not, that's okay, too.

Excerpt from "Snowbound Seductions" -- 

CHAPTER ONE

Huntington Ridge, England

Early December, 1814

"I can't stand this boredom any longer!" Lady Alexandra Chase, young widow of Sir Jonathan Chase and sister of the Duke of Huntington, jumped up from her chair and paced the gloom-filled room.  Her cousin, Hettie Neville, followed her movement, left to right, right to left, until she thought she'd faint from dizziness. But that didn't stop Hettie from snatching another tea cake. She munched lazily while Alexandra flounced about. After so many years, Hettie was used to her cousin’s melodramatic ways. Alexandra stopped and turned to her cousin.

"How can you stand it, dearest? It's been over a year since your husband died. And for me, it's been almost three."

 

Hettie nodded, but said nothing, all the while eyeing the last tea cake. As she gazed up at Alexandra with large blue eyes, she slipped the cake onto her china plate. Rainy days and gloom always increased her appetite. Alexandra spun on her heel and faced the mirror that hung on the wall of the morning room, inspecting her complexion and teeth intently.

"We've been cooped up here in the country without nary a dance or an outing in months. And now my brother is heading home from London, and that will simply put another nail in our coffin. We are doomed, Hettie, doomed to a life of widowhood and boredom!" Alexandra threw herself into the chair opposite, her clear gray eyes squinched up in a most unbecoming manner. Both women sighed as they watched the incessant rain dribble down the windows, casting further gloom over the two young women.

"Well, dear, I would rather be doomed with you than anyone else, if that helps," Hettie muttered, smoothing her skirts of black bombazine. Frederick Neville, her husband that was, had been the village vicar and she missed him terribly. Well, not terribly. Actually she had become quite adjusted to having the vicarage to herself. But now something loomed on the horizon that worried her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a much-folded piece of paper.

"What's that?" demanded Alexandra, eyeing the wrinkled paper. Then she noticed Hettie's bottom lip quivering, the tears that threatened to spill over onto her plump cheeks. She leaned forward and took her cousin's hand.

"Oh, come now, it can't be all that bad. Tell me what's bothering you." Alexandra was not a patient woman, but now was not the time to push Hettie.

"Well, you know that my uncle, the bishop, granted me leave to stay at the vicarage until he could find a replacement for . . . for . . ."

"For Frederick?" Hettie nodded vigorously, wiping a tear with the back of her hand.

"And?"  Sometimes Hettie’s reticence could drive Alexandra to the brink of madness. She waited, counting to ten. Then she would pelt her with a pillow. 

"I received this letter yesterday from a Reverend Oliver Pierce. He's asking when I can vacate the house as he wants to be settled in before Christmas. He is a widower and has a young child." Now Hettie began to wail, letting the flood gate of tears open. Alexandra poured a fresh cup of tea and, on second thought, went over to her sewing basket and pulled out a slender silver flask from under the linens. She slipped a bit of brandy into Hettie's cup and handed it to her,

"Drink up, dear. It will do you good." Hettie slurped up the tea and took a deep breath.

"What shall I do, Alexandra? It's not possible for me to find a new home and move by then. And he mentioned coming in a few days to 'inspect' the vicarage. How dare he? What does he think we did to it? Punched holes in the walls and ran pigs through the parlor?" Behind her hankie, her eyes searched desperately for another tea cake.

Alexandra was glad to see a spark of fire in Hettie's eyes. She poured more tea and another dribble of brandy, then did the same for herself. They sipped in silence, each brooding over their different plights.

"I have it, Hettie!" Once again Alexandra jumped up and began pacing, although this time she weaved a bit to the right. This only made Hettie dizzy again, trying to follow her back and forth. Hettie hiccupped, blew her nose delicately, then sniffed.

"You have what?"

Alexandra grabbed her hands and laughed. "You shall move in with us. We have plenty of rooms to spare at Huntington Ridge. You could have the entire east wing, if you want." Hettie's eyes lit up. 

"Do you think Cyrus and William would allow that?" Hettie was afraid of Alexandra's rascal of an uncle. He drank, he rode, he hunted and always smelled of dog, sometimes leaving trails of dog hair throughout the ancestral estate. She lowered her voice a bit more and whispered, “And what of the Duke?” Although cousins, William was a force to contend with and he was such a stickler for peace and order.

"Oh, men! What do I care?" Another dribble of brandy was shared, and then Alexandra continued, albeit wobbly, with her route about the room. She stopped suddenly and glared at Hettie. Was she seeing double? Of course not.

"Between my uncle and my brother, my life has become an endless grind of taking care of their wishes, their demands. I propose that we break free and issue some demands of our own."

"Demands of our own?" Hettie whispered. Oh, this did not sound good. Mutiny was not something Hettie looked forward to. "Are you sure?" Her stomach rumbled loudly. She could feel the tea and brandy sloshing about inside. Hettie did not think well when hungry. She pouted. "What kind of demands?"

Alexandra stopped and stared up at the ceiling, but that proved to be spinning a bit  -- or was she?  She giggled. "We will declare our independence, just like they did in the colonies."

"And with what money, pray tell? I have a meager annuity that Frederick left me, plus some funds from my grandmother. That's not much to live on, you know."

Alexandra screwed up her face, thinking hard. She knew she'd come up with something, but right now she felt a headache building behind her eyes. "Give me time. I'll find some way that we can free ourselves from this drudgery. After all, we deserve it, especially during the holiday season."

The two women fell silent once again, more from the effect of the brandy than from the lack of anything to discuss. The clock ticked and the rain fell. Alexandra reflected on their earlier lives when they both had been married and happy.

She had married at nineteen the Baronet Sir Jonathan Chase, recently graduated from the Royal Military College, and had several years of married life before he was shipped off to the Peninsular War. Within six months she found herself a widow. Because of straightened finances, she was forced to sell the townhouse in London and move back to Huntington Ridge to live with her uncle and her brother.

At first it was what she needed -- to be surrounded by all that was familiar and reliable. But once her period of mourning was over, she grew restless. She missed the life of London, the parties, the officers and their wives, the young cadets in training who would stop by the townhouse for tea and sympathy when her husband had been alive. Now life seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, months and years of the same, dull routines. No dancing, no kissing, no . . . well, one could not bear to think of that when there seemed little hope of experiencing it again -- love, passion, those sweet times of being chased around the parlor and up the stairs, romping under the covers. Alexandra rubbed her temples, willing the dull ache to disappear.

Now she organized the household of Huntington Ridge, took care of the bills and the servants, while her uncle galloped about the countryside and her brother buried himself in London throughout most of the year, making money and traveling on diplomatic errands for the Crown.

Hettie's plight was even worse. Married to a childhood sweetheart, she had thrown herself into the life of a vicar's wife, doing good deeds and aiding those in need of succor. Frederick had been a somewhat staid fellow, and Alexandra had often wondered why there had not been any children as her cousin was quite pretty and full of life. And then Frederick upped and died of influenza, gone within days, leaving Hettie with nothing but a pitiful annuity and a dim future.

What were they to do?

There was a knock on the door and the butler stepped into the room. "The Countess Roberge to see you, milady." He bowed and then skipped back a step as a tall, commanding woman glided into the room in a ripple of silks and furs with a small dog perched in her arm. She was a striking older woman with pale blond hair piled high above a face serene and gracious, with a set of flashing blue eyes.

"Ah, my sweet, it has been too many years since I've seen you!” Alexandra broke into a smile and leaned in to hug her old friend and neighbor, the former Lady Caroline Lambert, now the Countess Roberge. Hettie stood slowly, gathering her equanimity about her as best she could. She vaguely remembered the Countess from earlier days, but their orbits had not crossed all that much in the past.

"What are you doing back in England?" Alexandra eyed the woman's silk gown and matching fur-trimmed pelisse, which the Countess casually slung about her shoulders. The countess rapped her on the arm with a hand-painted silk fan that must have cost a small fortune.

"Could you have Hudson build up the fire, dear? I'm still not adjusted to the damp and chill of England in December. In southern France it would still be quite warm." She gave a little shiver to emphasize her words.  Alexandra tugged on the bell pull and gave the butler instructions; also, to bring in a fresh pot of tea and more cakes. Hettie's eyes lit up at the thought of a warm fire and more cakes.

The Countess leaned forward, "I have such news, such a sad story. Do you want to hear of my woes and miseries?" She settled herself on the divan, spreading out the silks and lace, her face a study in sweet sorrow. She patted the seat next to her. "Here, come sit by me, Alexandra.  And you, too, Hettie. You see, I do remember you."  Hettie edged her way to the chair across from them, keeping her eye on the tiny dog with the bulging eyes that lay in the woman's arm. Nasty bit, that thing. She sincerely hoped it didn't have a penchant for tea cakes.

"Woes and misery? Odd, Hettie and I were just dwelling on similar thoughts. What happened?" Alexandra leaned forward, always loving a good chin wag, especially with someone new.  "And what do we call you now? Countess? Lady Caro?" She discreetly slipped a bit more brandy into her tea cup and waggled it under her guest's nose.  Lady Caro nodded, then giggled like a school girl.

"Oh, I say, you are wicked, Alexandra. But it is so damned gloomy outside. One needs something to warm one's toes, don't you think?" The older woman settled herself back into the deep upholstered sofa, then put the small dog down on the Aubusson carpet. It proceeded to piddle, then edged its way toward the tea cakes. Hettie gave it a slight shove with her foot.

"Well, you know that Meredith and I moved to the continent after Sir Edward's death. And after roaming around in Paris for a bit, we headed to the warmer climes near the Mediterranean. And do you know what?" Dramatically, Lady Caro paused in her story, leaving the two young women hanging on her words.

"What?" Another slip of brandy was passed around, and the sound of sipping filled the room.

"I met Count Jean-Luc Roberge, a most handsome, manly man, if you know what I mean." She winked. Both women leaned further forward, intent on her next words.

"And after a whirlwind romance, we married. Of course, I made certain that Meredith was agreeable to the marriage."

''Was she?"

"Most agreeable. And Jean-Luc adored her, as well. We were quite content until last year when he contracted some kind of fever. Oh, it was terrible yet quick. Not anything like Sir Edward's slow and painful demise, if you recall."  Alexandra and Hettie nodded. The little silver flask was passed around as the three women pondered that time years ago.

"How is Meredith? She must be, what? Twenty-one, twenty-two?" Alexandra remembered a skinny little girl in old leather boots tramping around the stables, following her brother about the place like a puppy.

"My Meredith is twenty-three and quite the young lady. Although this past year, she has been somewhat melancholy. To be expected after her father's death, and then Jean-Luc's. That is why we've returned to England. I feel she needs to be back home at Lambert Hall and among friends and neighbors."

Lady Caro paused and eyed Alexandra and Hettie. "And you? What have you been doing with yourselves." Before the words were out of her mouth, the young women pounced on her with a list of woes, ending with their agreement to defy the men of Huntington Ridge. She clapped her hands in glee.

"Oh, goodness, you are the brave ones, aren't you? And what does your brother and uncle say about all this?" Silence. She cocked her head to the side. "You haven't discussed any of this with them yet?" Two heads shook vigorously. "When did you plan on breaking the news then?"  More silence as Alexandra gazed up at the ceiling and Hettie blew her nose loudly.

"I see." Lady Caro slowly stood and moved toward the mirror, making some adjustments to her richly-patterned turban. It truly was time to dump the thing since it hid her full head of still very blonde hair. She turned and studied Alexandra. "Where is your uncle, dear? I thought I'd just visit with him for a few minutes, perhaps mention the need for a celebration now that Meredith and I are home again." As her words sunk in, Alexandra jumped up from her chair and grabbed Lady Caro's hand.

"Oh, would you? Could you?"

"But of course. I think our best maneuver is to gain Cyrus' approval; then we will attack William upon his arrival. When is he expected?"

"Next week, perhaps sooner. He never announces his arrival. He just appears."

"Well, let's see how much we can plan in the coming days -- a small, intimate dinner at Lambert Hall, perhaps, followed by the village fete. And, of course, no holiday would be complete without a Holiday Ball, don't you agree?" She turned and dropped her reticule and cloak on the sofa, then primped in the mirror. "Why don't you both come tomorrow after breakfast, and we'll start work on the guest lists? I'll see that Meredith joins us, too. Now, I must see Cyrus before I leave."

As Lady Caro made her way down the hall towards the library she could hear whoops of laughter ring out from the morning room. It was good to hear laughter at Huntington Ridge. Years back it had always struck her as such a gloom-filled place.

End of Excerpt