by

Spotlight on The Legend Begins: Book 1 in the Forevers from Fenwick series

Ah, Fenwick On Sea! A humble village, somewhat forgotten by time. But not for long if the innkeeper has his way! Rumor of a fae blessing upon his inn is exactly what he needs to draw crowds back to the neglected village. Of course, it’s only talk. Or is it?

When an earl takes up residence on a nearby estate, Barnaby Ash thinks his task to catalogue the gentleman’s library will be a simple one. However, among the many volumes, he is intrigued to find an ancient, illustrated folio. He certainly does not expect its effect on him to be quite so alarming. Barnaby is far too sensible to believe in magic, but there is no denying that he is changing. And when he realizes someone has actually tampered with the manuscript, he is determined to unearth all its secrets.

Joy Tully, the church warden’s adventurous, outspoken, and—sigh, still-unmarried—daughter, volunteers to help Barnaby solve the mysteries surrounding the strange book. His earnest approach to everything soon wins her over. And Joy is exactly the sort of free spirit to stir Barnaby’s quiet heart.

Just in time, too. For their growing feelings are at the heart of bringing Fenwick’s Blessing of Forevers to life. Cassandra Richards, a lady’s companion of questionable birth, meets a man and his horse on a stormy afternoon, two love stories unfold. One will reveal her past and show her how to escape the attentions of a not-so-gentlemanly gentleman. The other… Well, let’s just say you’ll be hearing it from the horse’s mouth.

The Legend Begins is the first book in a new multi-author novella series by the Bluestocking Belles.

Buy links:
AND

Excerpt from The Legend Begins:

Rev. Taylor stepped forward, waving at Barnaby to join him. “Mr. Tully, we have a learned visitor here. He is staying up at Hill House and has made a most fascinating discovery. Show him, Mr. Ash.”

Barnaby looked around at the expectant faces. “I’d rather not open the manuscript in the garden, if you don’t mind. It’s very old and valuable.”

“Well, you’d best come in then,” said Miss Tully, throwing the door open wider for Barnaby to enter.

The crowd pushed forward to follow.

“Oy, not you lot,” cried Mr. Tully. “Just the reverend and this Mr. Ash fellow. “Me parlor ‘as just been swept. Come on in, Reverend, and wipe yer feet.”

Grumbles of protest emerged from the bystanders, but Mr. Tully was not moved. He simply ushered his unwanted guests inside and shut the door—perhaps a little more firmly than necessary.

“What’s this about a manuscript?” he said, turning to face Barnaby and glaring uncharitably at the parcel in his hands. “I’m not a scholar meself. I can keep the records well enough for the church, but I don’t know as why you’d be showing me the fancy stuff.”

Barnaby unwrapped and laid the book open upon the low table.

A gasp from Miss Tully caused him to look up. Her eyes—blue and bright—were rivetted upon the page. She leaned closer, tucking a few dark-blonde strands of hair behind her ear. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“You can read it?” asked Barnaby, his heart hitching into his throat.

“Oh no,” she replied, straightening again. “But the pictures are…” She searched for the right expression. “Almost other-worldly. The colors…” Her words trailed off as she gazed once more upon the page.

“Is it one of them old bibles wot the monks used to copy in olden times?” inquired Mr. Tully, seemingly curious in spite of himself.

“No,” answered Barnaby, turning the page with great care. “You see.” He gestured at the illustration of the dancing fae. “It speaks of fairies. Fairies that were sighted here, in Fenwick.”

Tully wiped the back of his hand across his nose and sniffed. “Can’t be holding with that sort of nonsense. I’m a God-fearing man, I am. Why do you bring this into my home, Reverend?” He looked up at the clergyman, his eyes narrowed. “You’re not one of them types who muddles up Scripture with the Old Ways, are ye?”

“Certainly not!” The young vicar’s habitual smile melted clean away. “I merely hope to help Mr. Ash here solve something of a mystery.”

“A mystery?” Miss Tully’s eyes shone up at Barnaby. “What sort of mystery?”

Meet Elizabeth

Elizabeth Donne’s writing is a natural outpouring of a lifelong love affair with English literature. Although she has spent most of her life in Cape Town, South Africa, she now lives in the American Midwest, where she enthusiastically introduces her visitors to the joys of drinking rooibos tea. With a biscuit, of course.

by

Is he a ghost? on WIP Wednesday

This is a snippet from Moonlight Becomes You, my story for the next Bluestocking Belles collection. Is he a ghost? He doesn’t know himself! (I do, though.)

***

As far as Barnabus Radcliffe could ascertain, he was a ghost. He remembered being on his way to meet his parents and sister at a house party. Feltonworthy was going to be there, too, and he hadn’t seen Feltonworthy since the poor fellow became earl.

Was Barney thrown from his horse? He seemed to remember flying through the air, but the memory is faint and fractured. Certainly he didn’t remember dying.

But it must be true, for the next thing he remembered was seeing Feltonworthy playing pall mall with a lady he didn’t know. He called out, but no sound came out of his mouth. Feltonworthy continued taking his stroke, and the ball sailed straight toward Barney. And then through him, as if he wasn’t there.

Furthermore, when Feltonworthy followed the ball, and Barney tried to stand in his way, Feltonworthy walked right through him.

He did it again a while later, when he was leaving the pall mall course.

Yes. Barney must be a ghost.

He followed Feltonworthy into the house. He recognized where he was, now. The house belonged to the Farrington-Smythes, and it was to their house party he had been heading when whatever-it-was happened to him.

So his parents must be here, too. Surely they would be able to see him. And his sister! His sister was, as she was fond of telling people, sensitive. Even if his parents were blind to his existence, Amelia would be able to tell he was here. Wouldn’t she?

Being a ghost had the advantage that he could walk through doors and even walls, checking each room. It had the disadvantage that nobody knew he was there. Not his good friend Feltonworthy. Not his father. Not his sister. Not even his mother, whom he found playing piquet with Mrs. Farrington-Smythe.

He couldn’t make himself seen or heard. He couldn’t move any objects. He couldn’t chill the air, or do anything else that apparently alerted people to the presence of a ghost. What a complete have those ghost stories turned out to be!

Perhaps this was the afterlife. Looking in on the family who did not know he was dead, and seeing them carry on without him. But that couldn’t be the fate of everyone, for surely the place would be full of ghosts, if everyone just drifted around all the time? And he had not seen any other ghosts since he suddenly found himself in Farrington-Smythe’s shrubbery.

Was he being punished for his sins? He hadn’t been a bad man. Or, at least, he didn’t think he had been that bad. He had cut up a few larks, of course, but he hadn’t broken any of the Ten Commandments.

Unless you counted the one about adultery, although Mrs. Moffat had assured him she was a widow, so surely God would give him a pass on that one? Since his close encounter with Mr. Moffat when he was nineteen, he had been far more careful.

Wasn’t there also one about keeping Sunday’s holy? He couldn’t remember how it went, but he supposed he should have attended services more often, or at all, in fact. He sent up a hasty prayer promising to mend his ways if this turned out to be some kind of a weird dream. He really didn’t want to be dead. And he especially didn’t want to be dead if it turned out he would be spending eternity all by himself. While he was a man who liked his own company, one could have too much of a good thing.

by

Spotlight on “Duke and Destiny” in Dukes in Spring

When Cassandra Richards, a lady’s companion of questionable birth, meets a man and his horse on a stormy afternoon, two love stories unfold. One will reveal her past and show her how to escape the attentions of a not-so-gentlemanly gentleman. The other… Well, let’s just say you’ll be hearing it from the horse’s mouth.

Excerpt from “Duke and Destiny”:

The rainstorm had arrived, unannounced. Duke was drenched. The sporadic clouds had been whipped together by a strong wind, which had also appeared with no warning. Rain poured from the heavens onto Duke’s back, running down in rivulets along the hairs of his legs. It was the same for his man, who sat huddled upon the wagon, his great coat shut tight against the weather, his hat drooping under the onslaught of so much water upon it.

But onward they must. They had promised a delivery to Chadwick Hall, and Master Reid took his role as farmer very seriously. Besides, it was barely a mile to go now. They were already soaked. It couldn’t get any worse.

As if the storm would say otherwise, a bolt of lightning tore through the darkened sky, splitting and arcing in two fierce spears, one cracking a branch free from a nearby tree, the other triggering a scream a short distance behind them.

Duke would perhaps have let out a cry in shock too, but the sight of a mare tearing past them at great speed startled him doubly, so that he came to a complete stop to gather himself in silence.

From out of the moody purple air came a call.

“Help!”

It wasn’t very loud. Certainly, it struggled to be heard against the backdrop of the thunder and downpour that dominated the scene.

“Help!” came the call again. A little closer this time.

Duke’s man jumped from his seat, crying, “Whoa!”, which Duke thought rather unnecessary, as he hadn’t moved a muscle since they had stopped.

The sound of Master Reid’s running feet splashing through muddy puddles was largely ignored by Duke. He merely waited patiently, despite the rain’s attempt to soak him beyond his already saturated state. Duke was a very steady sort of fellow. He worked hard. He ate well. He enjoyed the company of others. It was a simple life. Which was why he barely shifted his weight while Master Reid charged off back down the road.

It wasn’t long before his man returned with company. Duke did not even have to turn his head to know from the perfume that the new human person was of the mare persuasion. Yet even in the rain, he could smell another, more familiar scent. The huge muscles in his shoulders flexed as he bent his neck to the side, breathed more deeply, and concentrated.

Willow. The scent was unmistakable. It was imprinted upon him. He raised his chin and neighed into the distance, as if Willow—for it must have been she who had bolted past them a minute ago—could hear him.

“Steady on there,” said Master Reid kindly, misunderstanding his call. “We’ll get you to shelter soon.”

With the young, dark-haired woman now seated next to Duke’s man, they set off again, Master Reid talking in low, reassuring tones to her as he would to Duke if he had had a fright.

They had barely covered a hundred yards when a horse came racing down the road toward them with some fellow on his back. At the sight of the young woman on the wagon, the man pulled at the reins, the smell of relief rolling off him in dense waves.

“Miss Richards!” the man shouted over the noise of the storm. “You’re safe! When I saw your horse come back alone, I was so worried!”

“You’re the groom from Chadwick Hall, aren’t you?” asked Master Reid. When the man nodded, Master Reid did the same, adding, “I’ll bring Miss Richards to the house. Got a delivery to make there, anyway. Tell a maid to ready a warm blanket and a bowl of hot water for the young lady’s feet.”

“I’m sorry for the trouble, Shelton,” said the young woman. “Willow surprised me with her enthusiasm to be off. It was not my intention to leave you behind. I had barely gained control of her when the storm broke. Then she was just as eager to be home again. Unfortunately, a lightning strike deepened her enthusiasm to return, and I was promptly unseated. Only a bit of a bruise on my rump to show for it, though.”

Duke liked her voice. She did not fight against the elements by shouting as the groom had done. She spoke clearly and her words carried well enough to those who were right beside her. The worst of her misadventure behind her, she was calming already, her heartbeat slowing.

“Glad to hear it, miss,” said the groom. He hesitated. He looked at Master Reid and the young lady.

Humans were so complicated. They always worried that pairs of them would get up to natural activities if they were left alone. As if that were such a bad thing. Well, they weren’t alone. Duke was there, after all. Besides, it wasn’t as if Master Reid would have his way with the young woman in the storm. Even horses knew better than to risk being struck by lightning for a bit of play.

Meet Elizabeth Donne

Elizabeth Donne’s writing is a natural outpouring of a lifelong love affair with English literature. Although she has spent most of her life in Cape Town, South Africa, she now lives in the American Midwest, where she enthusiastically introduces her visitors to the joys of drinking rooibos tea. With a biscuit, of course.

by

Welcome to Dukes in Spring


Are you ready? Coming on April 24th, Dukes in Spring, the latest anthology from Dragonblade Publishing. It includes my take on family feuds, but with a happy ending.

Spring has arrived—and with it, dukes destined to fall.

As the world stirs from winter’s long shadow, London’s most powerful men emerge with darker desires and restless hearts. Beneath the gaiety of the Season linger brooding, dangerous dukes—men shaped by ambition, secrets, and passion—who are about to meet the women bold enough to challenge them.

From glittering ballrooms to intimate encounters behind closed doors, this vibrant spring collection brings together acclaimed historical romance authors in a celebration of heat, heart, and irresistible temptation. Leave the cold behind and surrender to tales of moody dukes and the women who awaken them to love.

Indulge in a season where romance blooms—and nothing is quite as it seems.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GNNZJW78

by

Married love in WIP Wednesday

 

This is an excerpt from Twisted Magic, which I have just sent out to the beta readers. Twisted Magic is book 2 of Many Kinds of Magic, my regency romantasy series, and in this excerpt, the hero and heroine of book 1 are seen discussing the heroine of book 2.

***

Delia spent at least part of every day with the magical beasts she had been adopting in the months since her marriage, and it was in the stable block that had been converted to a menagerie that Jasper found her.

He stood for a moment outside of the stall where she was cuddling a kitten that had been born with wings, and so tormented by its brothers and sisters that the farmer’s wife whose cat was its mother had brought it to Delia, “For it’ll need to be hand-raised, my lady, and that I cannot do, what with it being sowing season, and the children being in school each morning, and all.”

That was a dig at the Baradines, for the farmers and their wives had been most indignant at the decree from the manor requiring all children aged between six and twelve to attend three hours of lessons each day. Most of them grumbled about the loss of labor, but none of them dared to openly defy the dragon.

Jasper put his foot down when Delia declared her intention of keeping the kitten in their bed chamber so she could feed it hourly. He deputed the youngest stable-hand to the job, releasing him from all other duties other than keeping the menagerie clean and the animals’ water troughs full.

It had worked wonderfully well. The kitten was healthy and growing, the boy was in heaven, and Delia was considering giving him permanent work as aide to her animal keeper. The poor man was so overworked that last night he failed to latch the cages of the hawk-dogs, and one of them had escaped and wreaked havoc on some of the gardens, digging to hide bones.

Delia had been quite distressed over the extra work that had made for the gardeners, but Jasper had pointed out that they had always intended to give the beasts away once they were old enough, and if they could fly, they were old enough.

“I know you are there,” she said. She always did, though he had been standing still and making no sound. It was the catalyst gift, she had explained. One strand of her power was permanently connected to Jasper, and she had progressed in her control enough that she could follow that one strand to find Jasper wherever he went.

“How is the cat-bird?” he asked.

“Misty is well, thank you,” she replied. The little creature had been sitting purring on her lap, but now stood, stretched, and bounded across the stall to greet Jasper, its wings flapping as it ran.

He bent to scoop it up by a hand around its belly. It had been a mere palmful weeks ago when Delia adopted it, but on a diet of goats’ milk had already grown large enough to hang down both sides of his hand.

Delia had called it Misty for its color—both its fur and the down that covered its wings and the backs of its hind legs were varying shades of gray. He cupped its behind on the palm of one hand, let it lean against his chest, and scratched it behind its ears. It rewarded him with a loud purr.

“At least one of our foundlings shows some gratitude,” he commented.

“Is Persephone sulking again?” Delia asked, sympathetically.

“She is always either sulking or scorning,” Jasper grumbled. “I try hard to sympathize, dear heart. She was, after all, left motherless as a child, neglected by her father and then exiled, and—from what the man who collected her from Shropshire said—alternately ignored and abused by her grandmother. But she has an inflated sense of her own importance and a huge chip on her shoulder.”

“She is not an easy person,” Delia admitted. “I believe she is very unhappy, Jasper. Apart from anything else, it cannot be easy having a traitor for a father. Did her lessons go poorly? I had to leave early, as you know, but she seemed to be working hard.”

Jasper sighed. “Yes and no. She is getting the kinds of result to be expected from a completely untrained and unusual power. She, however, expects perfection, and when her gifts don’t behave exactly as she wishes, she loses her temper. Not with me, I hasten to add. With herself. And then she accuses me of being patronizing when I try to tell her she is doing well.”

The kitten rubbed its head against his hand, clearly indignant he was ignoring it, and he obediently resumed his scratching.

“Our approach to training gifts is not widely accepted,” Delia commented.

by

An excerpt for WIP Wednesday – Unexpected Magic, coming soon

This is the opening of the first book in my new series, Many Kinds of Magic. In Unexpected Magic, my heroine’s life is upended all in a day, starting with a miniature massacre in the henhouse.

***

On the morning that changed everything, Cordelia Nettleford was woken by a cacophony from the henhouse. The sound of panicked hens squawking blue murder suggested that a fox or a stoat had somehow managed to enter the enclosure, despite the protection charm that should have prevented any such invasion.

Delia groaned, and reached for the clothes at the bottom of her bed. The hens were her special charge—or one of her special charges. No doubt everyone else in the manor was snuggling back down under the blankets, smugly content in the knowledge that it was not their problem.

“And I shall be blamed if this means fewer eggs,” she grumbled, as she dressed any-old-how under the covers, left the bed, wriggled her toes into an extra pair of socks, grabbed a warm wrap, lit her lantern with one of the fire spells that waited on the mantel, and hurried downstairs.

The hens kept up their noise as she pulled on a coat, boots, mittens, and a knitted cap, and let herself out the back door, first grabbing the wooden club that rested in the umbrella stand. Were there fewer hens? It sounded like it. She hoped they had not been massacred. Probably they had not. Probably some of them had taken to the high perches out of the way and were hiding there, pretending to be feathered statues so the fox—or, as it might be, the stoat—did not come after them.

It was so early that dawn had barely touched the edges of the sky above the hills, though a full moon gave sufficient light for her to see beyond the lantern’s reach. Not enough for the other person out this morning to seem more than a darker shape within the shadows under the stable eaves. Delia froze in place, peering into the gloom with no success.

The voice was a relief. “Miss Nettleford? Are you going to check the hens?”

It was Millie Pickard, the stable girl, carrying her own club. She was a workhouse brat, taken on when she was twelve to work in the stable. Delia had been teaching her to read, though not where Delia’s mother could see. In Mama’s view, the daughter of even such an impoverished manor should not associate with stable hands.

Delia, on the other hand, felt the need to do something useful beyond the manifold duties that her mother had abdicated onto her slim shoulders,  duties for which Mama nonetheless still took credit.

Marriage was clearly not going to be an option. She was, after all, twenty-three years of age and those gentlemen who had seen her at local assemblies had long since ceased taking an interest.

By teaching Millie, she was making a difference to one other person, and it was an accomplishment all her own. Not something Mama would claim as her work.

As to why Millie was here with her in the dark, no doubt Millie’s fellows had decided it was her job—an orphan, and a girl at that—to leave the warm rooms in the loft above the stables and find out what the noise was all about.

“Yes. That protection charm was only applied a week ago. It must have something wrong with it.” Delia kept walking to the henhouse, and Millie fell into place beside her.

“It was one of Madam Greensmith’s charms,” the girl objected. “Her charms are famous.”

“The hens are complaining about something,” Delia pointed out. Though as they walked it sounded like fewer and fewer of them, and when they came through the orchard gate only two or three of the eighteen hens that should be there still raced, flapping their wings and squawking, up and down the run, chased by something Delia could not quite make out.

“Not a fox,” she said. It was too small for a fox. Too small for a stoat, too, she thought, but moving so fast it was hard to make out. What is it?

In a dozen more paces she was standing by the run, and the little creature had stopped, mainly because it had caught, and was ripping the throat out of, another hen. “Millie,” she said. “Run and get the carry cage for chicks. I’m going to have to try to catch it.” Clubbing the beast was not an option. Not given what she now recognized.

“Miss Delia,” said Millie, in the heat of the moment forgetting that the correct form of address was Miss Nettleford, “is that what I think it is?”

“It is. It’s a dragon,” said Delia.

by

Spotlight on Her Beast in Brighton

What if the beast you are running from is your prince charming?

When Lady Calliope Turner opens a candle shop in Brighton, all she wants is to escape her wicked stepmother, two vile stepsisters, and a plot to marry her off. She never dreamed she would witness a crime one night on her way to meet her merchant. What’s a woman to do? Run away, of course! And pray she never gets caught. Only, in her haste, she not only draws notice, but she loses a very damning slipper.

Maxen Fury, one of the seven bastard sons of the Duke of Crane, also known as the ruthless beast of Brighton’s underworld, rules his territories with an iron fist. His only goal is simple: to build an empire with his brothers so powerful that they never have to beg, bargain, or bleed again. But when a secret meeting goes awry and his newest tenant proves to be bright, defiant, and far more dangerous than she appears, Maxen finds himself facing the most inconvenient complication of his life.

As suspicion ignites into fascination and danger closes in, Calliope must decide whether she can trust the very man who hunts her . . . and Maxen must confront the one thing he never planned for—a woman who dares to see the man beneath the monster.

Can a man forged in darkness learn to protect the light he wants to claim? Or will his world devour her first?

Buy link: https://www.amazon.com/Her-Beast-Brighton-Historical-Bastards-ebook/dp/B0GRX8NSL1

Meet Tanya Wilde

Award-Winning and Bestselling author Tanya Wilde developed a passion for reading when she had nothing better to do than lurk in the library during her lunch breaks. Her love affair with pen and paper soon followed after she devoured all of their historical romance books!

When she’s not meddling in the lives of her characters or pondering names for her imaginary big, white greyhound, she’s off on adventures with her partner in crime.

Wilde lives in a town at the foot of the Outeniqua Mountains, South Africa.

 

Author Website

Instagram

Amazon page

Facebook Page

 

by

Spotlight on backlist The Darkness Within

To save her, he must lose her

Ever since he escaped his childhood abuser, Max has killed for a living—first as a sniper and assassin in the war against Napoleon, and later ridding the world of those whose power on those around them allowed them to commit evil without fear of punishment.

The dead burden what is left of his soul, and he wants to retire, and kill no more. When a search for a missing comrade takes him into a religious community, he feels as if he has found a home for the first time in his life.

But there are cracks in the innocent surface the village shows its visitors. Max discovers hints at what lies beneath even as he falls for Serenity, who has recently been appointed Goddess-Elect, the designated virgin to take her place as three-month wife of the community’s leader, the Incarnate One.

The secrets of the community are worse than the secrets that burden Max’s soul. They put Serenity and others in dreadful danger. To save her, he must lose her, for if he draws on his hard-won skills, she will recoil from the darkness of his soul.

More about The Darkness Within

by

Guerilla warfare in the Peninsular War

My heroine in An Unpitied Sacrifice was part of the Spanish resistance to Napoleon’s invasion. This resistance was not only in the hands of regular forces. Ordinary Spanish people also fought against the invaders. These guerilleros, as they called themselves (from which we get the name guerrilla), constantly harassed the French army. One Prussian officer fighting for the French said: “Wherever we arrived, they disappeared, whenever we left, they arrived — they were everywhere and nowhere, they had no tangible center which could be attacked.”

For the most part, until the last stages of the war, the French were undefeated on the open battlefield, but their tactics and plans were less successful against irregular troops who could disappear into the population with ease and who knew the country like the back of their hand.

They were given official authorisation and support by the Spanish command, who in 1808 decreed the formation of guerrilla troops, and in 1809 gave them the right to keep any money, supplies and equipment they were able to take from the French.

In one notable case in 1811, a force of between 3000, and 4,500 men ambushed a French convoy, defeating 1,600 troops and taking 150 wagons of supplies and 1,050 Spanish and Portugese prisoners. The convoy was valued at 4 million reales.

In 1812, the reported number of guerilleros was 38, 520, divided into 22 bands. Counter measures proved largely ineffective, as they have against guerrilla warfare ever since.

It might have taken the allied armies to finally push the French out of Spain in 1813, but many historians argue that the Spanish irregular forces made it possible.