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Spotlight on “Always With You” in Moonlight Madness

Today, the first in a series of introductions to the stories in Moonlight Madness, the new collection from the Bluestocking Belles, now on preorder at a special introductory price of only $1.99

Buy Link:  https://books2read.com/u/4Dwnjr

Always With You

By Elizabeth Donne

Jessie and Florrie Dobbs live a simple, happy life selling fish at Weymouth docks. That is, until the Royal Navy press-gangs Jessie into service, forcing husband and wife apart without any idea of where he will be going, how long he will be away, or whether he will ever return.

Each must cope with their new challenges alone, bolstered only by memories of each other and the hope that they will be together again. All the while, the silence between them stretches on interminably.

Can Jessie keep his promise to return to Florrie? Or will they only be reunited in the next life?

An excerpt from Always With You

The hatch opened for the first time. The bright noonday sun blinded them. Perhaps another tactic to keep them on the back foot.

Jesse only knew that he could breathe again. The fresh salt air filled his nostrils. His lungs had hungered for it as his belly had for food and his parched lips had for water.

He closed his eyes, helping them grow accustomed to the blazing light. It still shone pink through his eyelids, and his head pounded with the needs his body wanted met. But he could inhale deeply, expand his chest, sip again a little of real life beyond the hellish hold. These small moments must be savored. They would be his salvation when dread threatened to overcome him.

“All right, you lot. Get up here!” called a voice from above.

The two youngsters were first up the laddered steps. The older men were not as keen to find out what awaited them.

One by one they surfaced onto the deck. It was manned by uniformed sailors and officers with swords. Beyond the gunwale, the coastline receded. This, more than anything, hit Jesse hard. His life had been on that strip of land. And it was slipping away.

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

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My September sales books

This month, I have my usual monthly sale, plus my quarterly sale of one series. You’re welcome!

Monthly sale

My September sale books are A Most Excellent Adventure (a novella in The Golden Redepennings series), the novel The Realm of Silence (book 3 in The Golden Redepennings series), and Paradise Triptych (a collection of two novellas and a memoir in The Return of the Mountain King).

A Most Excellent Adventure https://books2read.com/u/4DrxLO

The Realm of Silence https://books2read.com/TheRealmofSilence

Paradise Triptych https://books2read.com/Triptych

Quarterly sale

For two weeks in September, I have the series The Return of the Mountain King on sale, plus all the novellas for secondary characters who appear in the series.

The four novels are usually $4.49: the first novel is reduced to $0.99 and the other three to half price.

  1. To Wed a Proper Lady  https://books2read.com/CMK-ProperLady
  2. To Mend the Broken Hearted https://books2read.com/Broken-Hearted
  3. To Claim the Long-Lost Lover https://books2read.com/CMK-Claim
  4. To Tame a Wild Rake https://books2read.com/CMK-ToTame

The six other books are Paradise Triptych, which is two novellas and a memoir reduced from $2.49 to $1.49, and five other stand alone novellas, each reduced from $1.49 to $0.99.

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Spotlight on The Duchess Curse

Shadows rule the darkness. She must embrace them to find the light.

A transcendent daughter’s life should be carefree, but Guinevere’s life has always been a curse. Loving any man could kill him, so she swears to remain a spinster. And when her parents force her into an arranged marriage, she knows the only way to save the mysterious duke she could love, is to break his heart by leaving.

No matter how much Guinevere pushes him away, the Duke of Braxton knows she’s the only woman for him. His magic allows him to hide his identity and follow her wherever she goes. As she cultivates the reputation of the most notorious potion maker in England, he abandons the role of duke for that of Guinevere’s bodyguard Bran.

Years later, a Queen’s command forces them to meet once more as man and wife, duke and duchess. But he can’t keep his secrets forever, and when Guinevere finds out Braxton and Bran are the same man…

He’ll do anything to atone.
And she’ll do anything to keep him safe, even break her own heart.

Book 3 in this historical romantasy series has:
~ Gaslamp fantasy
~ hints of steampunk and witchery
~ a marriage in trouble
~ spicy open door scenes
~ love potion revenge
~ all the groveling
~ women in magical STEM
~Bridgerton meets magic

EXCERPT:

His eyes were golden and glowing, intense, and they’d caught her, trapped her until he stood right in front of her and took her jaw in his hands. A gentle touch that contradicted the angry angle of his jaw, the thin, disapproving line of his lips. Not a single waver in his glamour. It was entirely opaque, almost entirely real but for the sparks of gold around the edges.

Beneath the glamour, he wore no gloves. How odd that what she felt—warm, rough skin—put a lie to what she saw—the finest gloves of an almost blinding white wrapped around elegant fingers.

He brushed his thumb over the curve of her cheek, and something like a growl rippled past the glamour. “What is this?” Voice low and controlled, every word clipped and precise.

“Wh-what is what?”

“I assume he’s objecting to the scratch,” Queen Victoria suggested. “You never did clean up the blood.”

“Who do I have to kill?” he asked, voice low as the rumble of a storm in the distance.

“It was nothing,” Guinevere said. “A small attack on my way here. My guard and I made short work of the fellow.” She stepped to the side, away from his touch and sat back at the table, whipping up the serviette and dipping it into her tea. Uncouth, but she needed desperately to wipe away the mark that drew her husband’s gaze.

He sat roughly beside her and yanked the serviette out of her hand, caught up her chin again and pressed the cloth to the scratch. He cleaned it gingerly, his glamoured face passive.

Queen Victoria clapped. “Oh, wonderful! I knew I was right. No one better than a husband to protect his wife.”

Meet Charlie Lane

Charlie Lane traded in academic databases and scholarly journals for writing steamy Regency romcoms like the ones she’s always loved to read. When she’s not writing humorous conversations, dramatic confrontations, or sexy times, she’s flying high in the air as a circus-obsessed acrobat.

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A lost soul in WIP Wednesday

In my story for the next Bluestocking Belles anthology, my hero meets my heroine in unexpected circumstances.

Barney had been staring into the library fire, trying to come to terms with his own death. Perhaps it would have been easier if he could remember it, but he had a blank space in his memory, between riding toward Farrington Grange and finding himself at the house party.

He heard someone enter the room, but he hadn’t bothered to react. After all, whoever it was wouldn’t see him.

The newcomer was the lady who had been playing pall mall with Feltonworthy. He had heard others in the party call her Miss Williamson. He had watched her playing charades partnered with that idiot Melville. They had mimed climbing up, and then climbing down again carrying something between them. After that, first Melville and then Miss Williamson fell down. Barney had guessed “Jack and Jill.” What else could it be?

Had he made it to the house party alive, he would have won the game. Did today’s experiences sum up the rest of his existence? Watching other people living while unable to communicate with anyone? Alone? Always alone?

His shudder was violent, and Miss Williamson turned around just as suddenly. And stared at him. Barney stood. “Can you see me?” he asked. “Can you hear me?”

Disappointingly, she did not respond. But she did raise her lamp to shine the light on the chair where he sat, and she did narrow her eyes in thought.

She cast a quick glance around the library and then focused on him again. At least, he thought she was looking at him, and in the next moment, she confirmed it. “Are you a ghost?” she asked. “Why are you here? Can I help you?”

No scream. No fluster. Three sensible questions. Why didn’t Barney meet ladies like that when he was alive? Clever and composed, as well as pretty.

“I think I must be,” he told her. “I don’t know why I am here or why no one else can see or hear me. Could you tell my parents and my sister? I’ve tried to talk to them, but you are the first person I’ve met that I’ve been able to talk to.”

Miss Williamson shook her head. “I am sorry,” she said. “I can see that you are talking, but I cannot hear a word you say.”

Barney was, as he could confirm by looking down at his own arms and legs, composed of something that resembled mist, but apparently that mist included a heart and guts, or the ghost equivalent, for his heart fell and his guts churned. Now what?

It transpired that Miss Williamson was equal to the challenge.

“I shall ask you some questions, sir, if you wish. Nod for ‘yes’ and shake your head for ‘no’.”

Excellent thinking. Barney nodded like a mad marionette, exaggerating his movements so there would be no possibility of confusion.

She had a rather adorable crease between her eyebrows when she was thinking, and a way of pursing her lips that set Barney thinking about kissing. Which reminded him he was dead, and presumably wouldn’t be kissing anyone ever again.

Unless he met a nice lady ghost. He supposed a single day, however long it seemed, was not evidence there were no other people stuck in spirit form wandering around the world.

“Have you been dead for long?” Miss Williamson asked.

Barney shook his head. His family and his friend looked no older than they had been when he last saw them, and they were at the house party where he was meant to meet them. A couple of days might have passed since his last living memory, but not more than that, surely?

“Did you die in Farrington Grange?” asked his pretty questioner.

He started to shake his head again, but had to pause. Though he thought he had been thrown from his horse, he wasn’t certain the fall had killed him. If he had died recently, and in this house, his parents would know and would be in mourning. Certainly, his mother would not be sitting in her finery calmly playing piquet with her friends.

On the other hand, he had no idea how much time had passed. Perhaps he had been dead for a year, and his family had already put off mourning? He put his hands out to the sides, holding them up and open, and gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

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The Assassination of Spencer Perceval

The novel I’ve recently sent to the publisher is set against the background of civil unrest in 1812, and the assassination of Spencer Perceval, the only Prime Minister of England ever to have been killed while in public office. Here’s what I wrote in the Author’s Note about those circumstances.

The assassination of Spencer Perceval is an historical fact. He is the sole British prime minister ever to have been assassinated. He was killed at about 5.15pm on May 11th 1812 by a Liverpool merchant with a grievance against the government.

Perceval’s determination to continue the war against Napoleon had led to harsh measures that added to the poverty and unrest already besetting the country, but that wasn’t what upset Bellingham. He blamed the government for his financial losses over a business deal gone sour in Russia. The Russians took the side of merchants who had Bellingham arrested over a debt owed by a business associate. The British ambassador refused to intervene, as the point at issue was a civil debt. Bellingham refused any compromise, and made such a nuisance of himself that the Russians imprisoned him, and it was not until 1809 that he returned to England, determined to seek compensation for his imprisonment and financial losses.

After spending more than a year petitioning every level of government, Bellingham apparently decided that he had only one recourse. By killing Perceval, he believed he would have a chance to put his case to a judge, and be vindicated at last.

It is true, as I show in the novel, that there was widespread rejoicing on the part of hungry workers when Perceval was killed, and widespread grief amongst his friends and colleagues. The ruling classes initially feared that Perceval’s assassination was part of a revolution, or might cause one, and the government responded by calling out the Foot Guards, mounted troops, the City militia, and the local watches.

It is also true that his trial was held a few days after the shooting, on Friday 15th May. His execution followed on the following Monday. A week after Perceval died, Bellingham was hanged. While justice delayed is justice denied, justice rushed so fast that the accused has no time to prepare a case must also be flawed.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Andro Linklater, author of the book “Why Spencer Perceval Had to Die.” It was from this book that I learned many of the details that form the background of the story. I am particularly indebted to Linklater for pointing out that Bellingham suddenly found a source of income in the weeks immediately prior to the assassination. He paid his rent, purchased two guns and ammunition to go with them, bought new clothing, and took his landlady and her child out sightseeing.

Linklater’s theory is that powerful merchants on both sides of the Atlantic resented Perceval’s continued fight against the slave trade. He makes a good case for his choice as Bellingham’s paymaster, and perhaps he is correct. Read the book and see what you think.

For my purposes, I chose another historical character, General Isaac Gascoyne, who apparently knew the identity of the victim without being told, claimed not to recognize Bellingham though he had met him several times, and changed his testimony several times.

All the other members of my conspiracy and their opposition are fictional.

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Books on sale August 1st to August 31st

Jude’s August sale books are Lost in the Tale (a collection of Regency novellas), the novel One Hour in Freedom (book 3 in the Lion’s Zoo series), and Melting Matilda (a novella aligned with The Return of the Mountain King).

Lost in the Tale https://books2read.com/LostintheTale

One Hour in Freedom https://books2read.com/LionZooOHiF

Melting Matilda https://books2read.com/MeltingMatilda

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Spotlight on The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

The lady least likely to: let a pretend courtship become real.

She’s got her heart set on the role of leading lady.

Cerys Evans ran away from her family to make her way on the stage, wanting a name that was all her own. But when the theater burns down, her options are to slink home a failure, or help her troupe build new premises and finally prove her place among them. The only obstacle: she’ll have to work with the arrogant Dante Manelli, Cheltenham’s rising architect, who is most decidedly not a gentleman.

He’s set his heart on her.

Dante Manelli has fought for every inch of his success, and he’s not going to let the taunts of a saucy actress distract him. But she’s offering a project that can cement his career, and when she creates a ruse to free Dante from an old nemesis, she soon has all of Cheltenham believing they are not just co-conspirators but lovers. The more time he spends with her, the more tempted Dante is to make their play real.

But Miss Cerys Evans is meddling with a dangerous rival—one who will do anything to end her hopes. And when her past comes back to find her, Dante must fight to prove himself the gentleman worthy of her hand and deserving of her heart.

For two souls struggling to establish their place in the world, there might be only one place they each belong: together.

Here’s an excerpt featuring their first kiss:

“I might have led her ladyship to believe you have a tendre for me.”

“You little—” The words ended in a growl. “Minx. You enjoy toying with people, don’t you?”

Cerys raised her chin to stare him full in the face. His entire body tensed. The visible eyelid flickered. He was like a figure from a masque, half light and half shadow, half angel, half dark god.

“And you, manipulative baggage that you are, intend to rescue me.”

She closed her eyes briefly at the effect his gravelly voice had on her.

“Hardly a rescue.” She forced her tone to lightness. “A negotiation. I am making you indebted to me so you will build us a theater.”

He shifted slightly. The space between them lessened. He smelled wonderful, a blend of port and orange and spices.

“You suppose,” he ground out, “that spreading tales about my affections is the way to put me in your debt?” “Do you disdain to work with actors? Can we not elevate you enough that a commission from us would be worth your time? No, we are not lords or wealthy tradesmen, so perhaps you despise—”

She stopped when his hand covered her mouth. Her knees nearly buckled at the contact of his skin, the weight, the maddening heat of him.

His fingers cupped her cheek, the lightest touch. She sucked in air.  The part of his mouth she could see quirked in a smile. “Lady Disdain is going to lecture me about contempt? I am in no position to look down on anyone.”

She couldn’t seem to haul enough air into her lungs. She’d never kissed a man, not an actual man, not a proper kiss. What if it was awful? She couldn’t understand why she wanted so badly something that might be so terrible, and she stared at his lips, willing him, willing him—

“I go too far.” He loosened his arm from the wall and stepped back. “I—”

With a small, inarticulate groan, Cerys buried her fingers in his cravat and pulled his face to hers.

His mouth touched her mouth, and it was marvelous. A spark caught and then flared as those lips moved on hers, tentative, searching.

“Minx,” he growled in warning.

This was wrong. This was madness. She dug her fingers in his cravat, holding him. She wanted more of this. Dante, kissing her, forever.

Meet Misty Urban

Misty Urban is a medieval scholar, freelance editor, and college professor who likes to write stories about misbehaving women who find adventure and romance. She lives in the Midwest in a little town on a big river with a handsome park ranger, two budding authors, and an ever-growing collection of books.

Find out more:

Buy the book: https://books2read.com/u/m2gZBO

More about Misty: https://www.mistyurban.com

Find Misty online: https://linktr.ee/mistyurban

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A different approach to parenting on WIP Wednesday

I’m expecting Twisted Magic back from the editor within the month, so it is on my mind. In the following excerpt, my heroine is hiding from pursuers in a forest that is home to the fae. And she is comparing their way of living with that of people outside of the forests.

Sephie felt as if she was free for the first time in her life. Free from the expectations—and disappointment—of others. Free from responsibilities. Free from all the restrictions that built prickly hedges of “thou shalt nots” around well-born ladies.

The fae did not live like that. Like other humans, they all had different gifts, both magical and mundane, but they did not rank them, making one more important than another. A person with a gift for magical weaving was not less nor more important than a person with a gift for weaving without magic, and a person who could cause a tree to grow a branch broad enough for a house floor was not less nor more important than a person who could teach mathematics to the children and any adult with an interest, or throw a perfectly proportioned pot.

The only expectations, as far as Sephie could discover, were to find what one was good at and do it well, to treat one another kindly, and to cherish and protect the children.

She spoke to Taz about it one morning. The fae had not yet arrived and they had the rooms to themselves. “I did not know families could be like this. Is it only the fae? But Lord and Lady Baradine love their adopted children just as fiercely and completely. Did you know love like this when you were a child?”

Taz shook his head. “From my mother, perhaps. Before she died. I was only eight, and I cannot be certain what I remember and what I merely wish to have been the case. Especially since, for years, I couldn’t bear to think about her at all.”

He fell silence, staring into nothing, and she took his hand as a gesture of sympathy. He turned hers over and placed a kiss in it. “What about you, Sephie? Did your mother love you the way these fae folk love their children?”

No. Not in Sephie’s memory. But perhaps, as Taz said, she was too young to know. “I am like you. I would like to think so. But I have few memories of her. Just a person in clothes that rustled, jewelry that glittered in the candlelight and a cloud of perfume. I think my nursemaid used to take me to see her when she was dressing for dinner. She would kiss my cheek when she saw me. If she was in a very good mood, she would hug me and rain kisses all over my face. And then she would tell the nursemaid to take me away.”

She sighed, the memory so distant that it seemed a dream. “Fae mothers see their children more than once a day, I think. Like you, I was eight when she left. She was running away with a lover, and died when her carriage went over a cliff.”

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Spotlight on Along the Road to Ruin

Somewhere along the road to Gretna Green, Lady Beatrice Johnson fell in love—but not with her betrothed!

Desperate to escape the life her guardian and brother Lord Shermer has planned for her, Bea accepts the proposal by Edwin Mills, who she’s known for only a short time. Instead of taking her to Gretna Green as she’d been told, he takes her to the tiny town of Fenwick-on-Sea, where she’s soon found by her brother’s man, Charles Robinson.

Years ago, Charles realized the futility of any romantic feelings he had toward Bea and forced them aside. When Shermer sends him to find Bea he’s more than happy to go. Knowing that Shermer has already arranged a marriage for her to another man, Charles isn’t eager to return her to her brother.

Old feelings reawaken as Charles and Bea await the carriage Shermer is sending to bring them home. All the reasons Charles has for not confessing his love to Bea seem less important. Could she love him in return? And is he bold enough to do what’s best for Bea? 

Meet Aileen Fish

USA Today Bestselling Author Aileen Fish is an avid quilter and auto racing fan who finds there aren’t enough hours in a day/week/lifetime to stay up with her “to-do” list. There is always another quilt or story begging to steal away attention from the others. When she has a spare moment, she enjoys spending time with her two daughters and their families. 

She also writes steamy romance under the pen name Ari Thatcher.

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Unsuitable suitors on WIP Wednesday

 

This week’s excerpt has a hero with an unusual trade, and a heroine who can spot a fortune-hunter at fifty yards. It’s from Set in Stone, which is on preorder for August 4th.

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Once they’d crossed another stile, Arianna could see the harbor, where half a dozen boats floated, some of them tied up to one of the long wooden quays, and a couple at anchor further out in the water.

Most of them looked old and battered, but Mr. Medlock pointed to one that looked newer, fresher, and in better repair than the rest. “That is the Cormorant, Miss Westbrook. And the shape on the deck is the diving bell.”

Arianna had met Mr. Medlock’s partner, Mr. Benniston. When they boarded the Cormorant, he introduced her to his other partner, Captain Arkright, and the two gentlemen conducted her all over the ship.

She saw the diving suits, and the copper helmets with their little windows and the weird leather tubes for air. The diving bell had the same kind of tubes, but bigger. She asked if she could look inside the bell, but its rim rested on the ground, and when she tried to look through the glass windows near the top, she couldn’t see anything but shadow.

They also showed her the pumps that took the air from the surface to the divers. Arianna tried to move the handle, but was not strong enough.

Then she was permitted to look into the cabins where the gentlemen slept when they were onboard. Mr. Medlock and Mr. Benniston shared, and the captain’s cabin was also their meeting place, with a big table that Mr. Medlock said was for charts and meals.

They passed the door of the cabin were the four divers slept. The sailors, Captain Arkright said, slung their hammocks behind another door that they also passed. She saw the galley, though, where the meals were prepared.

Then, when they went back up on deck, she discovered the two gentlemen had arranged for a couple of the sailors who were aboard at the time to winch the bell up so she could crouch down and then straighten up inside. It was all so fascinating.

Both men were so interesting, and so willing to answer her questions. Arianna would have stayed longer, but Brownlee pointed out that they had been gone for nearly two hours. “Your Mama will need me to help her dress for dinner,” she said.

“We had better go back,” Arianna admitted. “Mr. Medlock, Captain Arkright, thank you so much. I have enjoyed myself enormously.”

Mr. Medlock insisted on escorting Arianna home, though she assured him she would be safe with Brownlee. Captain Arkright came as far as the inn with them, but Mr. Medlock walked them all the way to Mrs. Peabody’s door.

Inside, Mama was awake, dressed, and angry. “I have had enough, Arianna Westbrook. You turned down two perfectly respectable gentlemen to go walking with that… that… tradesman. You are trying to ruin yourself. Well, I won’t have it. Do you hear? That nice Mr. Mills has made an offer for your hand, and I have accepted on your behalf.”

“I refuse, Mama,” said Arianna. “I will continue to refuse. In private and in public. At the church itself, if need be. I shall not marry Mr. Mills.”

“We shall see about that,” said Mama, and suddenly she moved, giving Arianna an almighty shove so she stumbled backward into the visitor’s parlor. Someone caught her before she could fall, wrapping his arms around her from the back. She could feel him behind her, her body leaning against his, and when she looked over her shoulder, there was Mr. Mills, fake smile and all.

“Miss Westbrook, Arianna, at last!”

Arianna struggled to escape his embrace. “Unhand me, you villain!” It sounded like a line from a farce, but Arianna wasn’t finding any of this funny. Mama had slammed the door shut, trapping her alone with Mr. Mills. Furthermore, she had heard the key turn in the lock.

“Now, now, Arianna, no need for maidenly alarms,” said Mr. Mills. Perhaps he meant to sound soothing rather than patronizing. If so, he failed. “We are betrothed, dear, and betrothed couples are permitted time alone together.”

“I reject the betrothal,” Arianna told him. “I refuse to marry you.”