11/29/17

Excerpt from Newest Romance:

books2read.com/u/3J0ewe



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!  

11/21/17

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.

11/15/17

New Release:

www.clairehadleigh.com/books

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!


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