Lady Rosamund first in series is only 99 cents!

 

For a limited time, Lady Rosamund and the Poison Pen is available at various vendors for only 99 cents!  Here's the link: https://books2read.com/Lady-Rosamund-Poison-Pen. Why the special price? It's because next week - June 18th - Lady Rosamund Confesses, a brand new novella in the series, will be released! More on that in a couple of days. 

Meanwhile, here's more about Lady Rosamund and the Poison Pen:

Lady Rosamund Phipps, daughter of an earl, has a secret. Well, more than one. Such as the fact that she purposely married a man who promised to leave her alone and stick to his mistress. And a secret only her family knows—the mortifying compulsion to check things over and over. Society condemns people like her to asylums. But when she discovers the dead body of a footman on the stairs, everything she’s tried to hide for years may be spilled out in broad daylight.

First the anonymous caricaturist, Corvus, implicates Lady Rosamund in a series of scandalous prints. Worse, though, are the poison pen letters that indicate someone knows the shameful secret of her compulsions. She cannot do detective work on her own without seeming odder than she already is, but she has no choice if she is to unmask both Corvus and the poison pen. Her sanity—and her life—are at stake.

Here are a bunch of individual links instead. $0.99 is the US dollar amount; prices in other countries will differ but be greatly reduced as well. Also, some vendors may take a few extra days to reduce the price.

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B087BBLLNL/

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B087BBLLNL/

Amazon Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B087BBLLNL/

Amazon Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B087BBLLNL/

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/lady-rosamund-and-the-poison-pen-barbara-monajem/1136829963

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/lady-rosamund-and-the-poison-pen

Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/lady-rosamund-and-the-poison-pen/id1507264864

 

Twitter Tuesday 17 March 2pm GMT

A reminder that 2 pm gmt  on 17 March Harlequin Historical authors will be discussing  the Regency.
Janice Preston, Diane Gaston, Marguerite Kaye, Georgie Lee and others will be there. Please come and join in the fun.

Regency Cross-dressing Female Swindler!

Have you ever read an historical romance where the heroine dresses as a boy - and were you dubious about whether she could ever have got away with it in real life?
Well, here's an example as reported in The Statesman Newspaper for August 1808 and what is incredible is that the woman in question managed it not just for a day or two but for long periods. Is it genuine or a Regency myth, a good story for the newspaper?

 

The lady appeared at Amabrie, Perthshire, Scotland, an area known for excellent shooting and fishing, dressed as a man and calling herself Captain Watson.. "He" put up at the inn and, with beds short, shared with the inn keeper's two sons. During the course of the summer Captain Watson proved very popular. "In horsemanship, in angling, in shooting, in jumping, in walking, in singing, and in dancing, the accomplished Watson excelled; but he never could be prevailed upon to show dexterity in swimming." The Captain was invited to balls and parties and credit was extended until he had run up debts of £300 - plus £100 advanced by his doting landlady to allow him to travel to Liverpool where, he explained, he would pass the winter with his guardians. He said that he was a Ward of Chancery, with large expectations but, for some reason, a promised bank draft had not reached him.
Watson visited the next summer, and the next - by which time there was growing disquiet about the amount he owed. Watson charmed the doubtors and was invited to a grand ball at Perth. But, "As Watson was walking the day after the ball with two gentlemen in the High-street, a physician of eminence, accompanied by another Gentleman, following at a little distance, said to his friend, 'that person,' pointing to Captain Watson, 'is not a man but a woman.' The hint took wing; and in less than an hour after no Captain Watson was to be seen.... Report adds that, after playing the same game in the county of Inverness next summer, under the name of Dodsworth, wth some little success, she was apprehended, tried and convicted...'
The article goes on to saythat she was sentenced to seven years transportation, but the sentence was never carried out. 'What is become of this wonderful character is unknown.'

What do you think? Fact or a newspaper 'silly season' story?

Louise

THE ILLEGITMATE MONTAGUE

Welcome!

I am so pleased to be part of the Castonbury Park Series, and for my characters I chose to write more about "downstairs" characters - in fact, my main characters are outside the big house altogether!

This book is number 5 in the series and I wanted to tell the housekeeper's story. Hannah Stratton is a much loved figure at Castonbury, she has seen the children grow up and has a son of her own, Adam, whom she has not seen for ten years.  She has never spoken about his father, or told anyone her history, but in this book it is necessary for her to put the record straight.

The Illegitimate Montague features Hannah's son, Adam. He has been away from Castonbury for many years, making a name for himself first as a captain in Nelson's navy, then in the north of England, where he becomes a mill owner. As a manufacturer of cloth, he has plenty in common with Amber Hall, the clothier who owns a warehouse and shop in Castonbury, and I could see them both working well together in the future , making the most of the opportunities that would present themselves in the forthcoming Victorian era – once they have overcome all the obstacles that I throw in their way, of course!

Without giving too much away, I can tell you that there is a disastrous fire at one point in the story, and this started me thinking about insurance. We take if for granted now, but not so in the Regency. However, the idea of fire insurance goes back to the days of the great fire of London in 1666.

One man involved in the rebuilding of London after the fire was a property developer, Nicholas Barbon. In 1667 he set up a mutual society called "The Fire Office" offering fire insurance, this later became known as Phoenix Fire Office.In 1682 it cost 30 shillings for the company to insure a property for £100 for a period of 7 years. The company employed its own men complete with liveries and badges employed to extinguish fires.
 
He is credited with setting up the first of several fire insurance companies formed around that time, others included the Friendly Society (1683), Hand-in-Hand (1696) Sun Fire Office (1710) and Royal Exchange Assurance (1720).
 
To identify that a property was covered by fire insurance, attached to the building, at a height easily seen from the street but out of reach of thieves, was a sign or emblem called a fire mark which was issued by the company. Each company had its own distinctive design which made identification of the property easier for their fire fighters and the company representatives. Designs included, for Sun Fire Office: a large sun with a face (like the image below); the Royal Exchange Assurance: their building; and Phoenix: obviously Phoenix rising from the ashes.

credit: Pauline Eccles [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Of course Castonbury was small village and did not have its own fire engine, but fire insurance companies were beginning to be set up in the larger towns such as Manchester and Buxton, so it is not impossible that businesses in Castonbury would have had insurance. I decided to include it in the plot, together with a rather unpleasant character called Mr Elliot a surveyor for the Twiss Fire Insurance Company (my own invention).I won't say any more, but I do hope you enjoy his part in Adam and Amber's story!

Sarah Mallory.

The Marriage Mart - It Wasn't All Almack's

One of the abiding images of Regency life (alongside that of the Prince Regent’s waistline expanding to match the domes at the Pavilion) is of anxiously scheming mamas and of fathers sighing over the dressmaker’s bills as their daughters entered the polite shark-pool that was the Marriage Mart.
To obtain vouchers for Almack’s was the pinnacle of ambition of course, but what if you couldn’t afford a Season in London? How were you to find an eligible husband for the girls? The answer was your closest market town with its modest theatre and, most importantly, its Assembly Rooms.
Sometimes these were purpose-built, sometimes the town’s largest inn would have a room of sufficient size to host dances. It is not clear which variety was the setting for the ball at which Miss Elizabeth Bennet was so comprehensively snubbed by Mr Darcy but the room obviously had plenty of space for seating the young ladies who, like Elizabeth “…had been obliged to sit down for two dances…” due to a shortage of gentlemen.
Dancing was not always an elegant and refined affair. Many of the measures were country tunes and ladies could find themselves quite overcome by the heat and effort as this delightful drawing of 1816 above shows.
Balls would be held on moonlit nights so that carriages from the surrounding countryside could travel safely, although if they came from any great distance they would probably put up at a respectable local inn or stay with friends or relatives in the town. Longbourn was obviously close enough for the Bennets to make the return journey that evening and in time to find Mr Bennet still up, reading in his study.
I was in Swaffham, a busy little Norfolk market town, the other day. Usually we drive straight through on our way towards London, but this time we stopped and explored and I realised there was much more to it than I had realised – it has been called the finest predominantly Regency town in East Anglia.  This part of Norfolk in the 18th and early 19thc was one of the richest in England, a wealth built on agriculture and trade by sea, river and road into London. Grain, cattle and poultry all grew abundantly and it was from this area that thousands of turkeys and geese, their feet protected by “boots” of tar, were walked into London in time for Christmas.
As a result the local gentry had money to patronise assemblies, routs, theatre performances and shops; they had daughters to marry off and now they had good roads and well-sprung carriages to make local travel easy and comfortable.
The streets around Swaffham’s central market square with its elegant rotunda (1781) topped by the goddess Ceres with her sheaf of wheat are as lined with handsome Georgian houses as the floor of the large church is with the flamboyantly carved ledger slabs of the local gentry.
Swaffham had a flourishing theatre which would act as the venue for the travelling players working their circuit around the market towns of East Anglia. In 1806, Lord and Lady Nelson stayed in the town with their daughter Lady Charlotte and Nelson’s mistress, Lady Hamilton and her daughter, Horatia Nelson Thompson. That shocking ménage must have caused a certain twitching of the curtains and thrilling gossip for the local ladies! While they were there they “bespoke” the play She Stoops To Conquer at the local theatre which must have greatly gratified the players. Nowadays there is no sign of the theatre, although Theatre Street remains.
By 1817 the demand for social events was so great that an Assembly Room was built and it is still there, a sad shadow of it its former self, disfigured by internal alterations in the 1960s and ugly 20thc extensions. It can be seen in the background of the photograph of the market square, the depressed concrete-faced low building behind the market stalls.
As well as the church there is also a large Methodist chapel built in 1813, an indication of the strength of non-conformity in the area if such an imposing building in a prime site could be afforded by the local congregation. At the same time older buildings were being refaced and “modernised”. Then with the agricultural depression of the later 19thc things began to decline. The Assembly Rooms lost their elegance, the theatre vanished, the gentry who could afford it could reach London by train. Now Swaffham is bustling again and the elegant buildings of its Regency heyday are taking on new uses – shops, a museum, even a Russian restaurant!
Do you have a favourite place where it is possible to dig beneath the modern face to find a fascinating history?

Louise Allen
www.louiseallenregency.co.uk

TABLOIDS OF THE REGENCY

I find the modern-day tabloids almost impossible to read. I glance at the headlines while waiting in the supermarket line and usually think either, “What a load of garbage,” or “How can they be so unkind to {insert name of celebrity}?” Sometimes, I actually get back out of line to read an article—but that’s rare.

But when it comes to fiction, I find the Regency equivalent – the caricature – fascinating. Maybe it’s because those unkind cuts happened two hundred years ago, so they don’t hurt anyone anymore. Or maybe it’s because being rich, famous, and always in danger of mockery and even ruin make such good story fodder for historical romance.

Lots of people must read the tabloids, or they wouldn’t appear week after week on the supermarket shelves. It was the same back then. The rich would buy the latest caricatures; the poorer classes would gaze at them in a print shop window, with the written parts explained by anyone who could read.

In my new novella, To Rescue or Ravish?, the heroine faces scandal, mockery, ruin—and caricature—when she runs from an unwanted marriage. She doesn’t get away scot-free, but she does have a happy ending. :)

Do you read the tabloids? Why or why not? Do you think celebrities should be left alone, or are they fair game? Are most of the stories about them true, false, a combination of the two, truth with a twisted spin, or what...?

To Rescue or Ravish? is available now from Harlequin, Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.  I have a free download to give away to someone who comments on this blog.

Blurb:

When heiress Arabella Wilbanks flees a forced betrothal in the middle of the night, the last person she expects to find at the reins of her getaway hackney is Matthew Worcester.  It’s been seven long years since they gave in to their mutual desires and shared the most incredible night of their lives, but Matthew still burns with regret for leaving her without a word.  He should escort her to safety, but the chance to reclaim and ravish her once more is proving impossible to resist!

Here's an excerpt:

London, January 1802

Arabella rapped hard on the roof of the coach. It lurched around a corner into darkness broken only by the glimmer of the hack’s carriage lamps and stopped.

She put down the window. “How far are we from Bunbury Place?”

The jarvey got down from the box and slouched against the coach, a nonchalant shape with an impertinent voice. “Not far, love. Changed your mind, have you?”

“I have not changed my mind. I am merely asking for information.” She put her hand through the window, proffering the guinea. “I trust this suffices. Kindly open the door and point me in the right direction. I shall walk the rest of the way.”

He didn’t take the coin. After a brief, horrid silence during which she concentrated on thinking of him as the jarvey and not her once-and-never-again lover, he said, “Can’t do that.”

“I beg your pardon?” She pushed on the door, but he had moved forward to block it.

“It’s not safe for a lady alone at night. This, er, Number Seventeen, Bunbury Place—it’s where you live, is it?”

How dare he? “Where I live is none of your business.” She shrank away from the door and kept her hood well over her face.

“So it’s not where you live. Who does live there, then?”

Why couldn’t she have just told him that yes, she lived there? Must every man in the entire country try to order her about? “Let me out at once.”

“Sorry, love. When I rescue a lady from deathly peril, I see her home safe and sound.”

Some shred of common sense deep inside her told her this was extraordinarily kind of him, but it made her want to slap his craggy, insolent face. Home wasn’t safe for her anymore. Nowhere was safe, and meanwhile Matthew Worcester was playing stupid games.

“Cat got your tongue?”

She exploded. “Damn you, Matthew! Stop playing at being a jarvey. It makes me positively ill.”

There was another ghastly silence. It stretched and stretched. Good God, what if he actually was a jarvey? Surely he hadn’t come down that far in the world. A different shame—a valid one—swelled inside her.

“You recognized me,” he said at last. “What a surprise.”




***


To find out about my other Regency novellas, please visit my website at www.BarbaraMonajem.com

Lady Ambleforth's Afternoon Adventure - Chapter Ten

Lady Ambleforth's 

Afternoon Adventure

Chapter Ten ~by Elaine Golden

 Araminta had made it some considerable distance into the tunnel before she realized that it was already occupied. What should have been a darkened cavern was aglow in rushlight and the sound of unintelligible male voices rumbled from around the bend ahead.

     What was this? The tunnel shouldn’t be in use, shouldn’t be known by anyone in the vicinity so far as she knew. Years ago, when her husband had shown her the hidden entryway, it had been filled with nothing more than cobwebs and stagnant, musty air. It had been merely the curious remnant of a bygone era and ancestor, crafted to ensure the owners of Ambleforth Manor (or some hapless Catholic priest) had an escape route should the need arise.

     Had that Jim-Bob highwayman set up a smuggler’s den in her secret passageway? Well, that wouldn’t do at all!

     With grim determination, she started forward and then abruptly halted as she recalled Lord Torquil’s intimation that there was a French spy operating in the area. Somehow, that seemed ever much more sinister than a mere brandy-runner’s operation. Because everyone knew that brandy was l’eau de vie –the water of life –and there wasn’t a drawing room in England that didn’t continue to serve it, trade embargo against Napoleon notwithstanding. So, really, smugglers were serving the common good, at least to Araminta’s way of thinking.

     Should she at least try to determine what nefarious activity was taking place or should she trust that Lord Torquil’s fishmonger tale wasn’t the mad fiction is seemed and seize the chance to slip away and alert the others? Oh, and where had she lost her pretty parasol? Even as filthy and tattered as her dress now was, it would at least have served as some sort of weapon to defend herself should the need arise… again.

     As was always the case, curiosity got the better of Araminta, and she tiptoed further until she could peer around the sharp bend. Then nearly gasped aloud and revealed herself.

     Nearly a dozen men were sprawled about, some playing cards or chatting, some eating, and some apparently trying to sleep atop the wooden crates that lined the corridor. And, now that she could make out that they spoke to each other in French (and there were no telltale barrels of brandy lying about) it seemed she’d found the spy. Or spies, as the case may be.

     “Oh, dear me. Now, what’s to be done about this?”

     Araminta spun around, heart racing and eyes wide. How could he move so quietly?

     “Mr. Hodges! How did you --? There’s a –“ She vocalized her jumbled thoughts even as the truth dawned. It was inconceivable that the curate could have simply stumbled upon the tunnel. He had to have known it was here, had to have a reason to be here now, which meant…

     He snorted as if it were all so very obvious and mopped his brow, the well-used handkerchief now as muddy as his coat from his tumble in the ditch.

     “So, you’re the French spy?” Really, it didn’t seem at all possible. Why, Mr. Hodges seemed as British as Yorkshire pudding. Was the ineptitude merely an act?

     “Oh, no, indeed.” He moved closer, filling the tunnel with his portentous self, and Araminta began to fear that she would be unable to slip by. She was well and truly trapped. “I’m just along for the coin, shall we say. I’m done with coddling helpless souls and living a threadbare existence.”

     Araminta gasped, outrage overtaking the feeling of alarm. What a selfish, hateful man. He didn’t deserve his loving, devoted congregation. She would take up the task to see him dismissed as curate the very moment she arrived home!

     “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” murmured a deep voice behind her and she turned to find that the occupants of the tunnel had noticed their presence and drawn close. Thankfully, they merely peered at her in curiosity, not as if they’d skewer her for stumbling upon their nest of intrigue.

     And, it would seem she was a veritable lech today. For, in truth, they were all very young and virile and… oh, my! She blinked then blinked again. They all looked alike, as if they were brothers, and most considerably like–.“

     “Your Grace! There you are!” Hodges said as he stepped aside to reveal the Duke of Dashing in all of his now dusty finery, hair a mess and brow furrowed in annoyance as he looked from Araminta to the cluster of men behind her and back to Araminta. He sighed heavily.

     “Well, my dear Lady Ambleforth, it appears you’ve stumbled onto something you oughtn’t. Something that Hodges was tasked with keeping you from. It grieves me to find you here; I had another use planned for you.” He reached past her for something, and then he stepped back, a pistol gleaming dully in his hand. “It would appear you have met my cousins.”

                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elaine Golden is the author of The Fortney Follies series.  Links and other details can be found on her website (www.elainegolden.com)

Come back tomorrow for the next installment of Lady Ambleforth's Afternoon Adventure! 

And don't forget to enter the Harlequin Historical Summer Giveaway, which continues till June 28th with daily contests and a grand prize. The calendar is here.

Lady Ambleforth's Afternoon Adventure

Chapter Eight  ~by Barbara Monajem


As if she had a choice! If she tried to run, the masked man would catch her in a trice, and besides that, what woman would flee a man with such a glint in his eye?

Glints must be a characteristic of dangerous, handsome men. Not that she knew whether the masked man was handsome. She would have to take that on faith. With those eyes, eyebrows, lips and manly chin, this wasn’t difficult. Thrills chased themselves up and down her spine. Desire rampaged through her. She closed her eyes and parted her lips for his kiss… 

What was the dratted man waiting for? 

At last his lips touched hers. A wave of nostalgia swept over her as he deepened the kiss. Ah, passionate kisses like this had been the best thing about marriage. How she missed them!

The sound of galloping hooves penetrated the haze of desire. The highwayman broke the kiss, and regretfully, she opened her eyes. Oh! It was Lord Torquil D for Domineering, riding the Duke’s stallion.

“How did you get a hold of that horse?” Araminta demanded crossly. “It galloped the other direction a while ago.”

Lord Torquil sprang from the saddle. “I whistled for him. He was mine before the Duke of Dashing won him from me by cheating at piquet.” He glared at the masked man. “Kissing the lady was not part of your mission. Unhand her, you rogue!” This order was entirely unnecessary, seeing as the masked man had already stepped away from her with a muffled curse.

 Araminta stamped her foot. “What business is it of yours if he kisses me?”

Lord Torquil gave her a supercilious stare. “My dear Lady Ambleforth, this is Cheat-gallows Jim. I cannot permit such a man to kiss you.”

A blush of excitement swooped up her cheeks. “The Terror of Penenden Heath? How thrilling!”

The highwayman grinned and blew her a kiss. Which was all very well, but she wanted another real kiss! She pouted.

Lord Torquil huffed. “He’s also Brandywine Bob, leader of the notorious Medway River and Estuary Smuggling Consortium.”

Araminta clasped her hands to her breast. “A smuggler, too? You are a very busy man, sir!” How dare Lord Torquil Dictatorial order her about? She would never get a chance to be kissed by a smuggler dash highwayman again. 

“I’m never too busy to kiss a lovely lady,” the masked man murmured. “And those are only two of my aliases.”

More aliases? This man became more fascinating by the minute! “Tell me all about them,” she purred.

“Definitely not!” Lord Torquil said. “That would be, er, unsuitable for a lady’s ears.”

“Come now,” said Jim, or should she think of him as Bob? “Surely we can trust Lady Ambleforth. You’re a patriotic Englishwoman, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart? Now that was going too far. “Just because I allowed you to k—” Belatedly, it dawned on her what he had just said. “What has patriotism got to do with it?”

 Lord Torquil drew himself up to his full height. His hair was disheveled from the fistfight, his breeches were muddy, and a sprig of cow parsley clung to his collar, all of which made him far less impressive than before. “This is for your ears only, Lady Ambleforth. I am in the service of England, and this fellow is my assistant. We are in pursuit of a dastardly French spy.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “The one who purposely damaged my phaeton, I suppose?”

“Precisely. He seeks to use you for his own diabolical ends.” 

Araminta crossed her arms. “And why would I believe the word of a disgraced man?”

Lord Torquil stiffened. “It’s the word of an Englishman, dash it all.”

She tapped her foot and glowered at the highwayman. “Or that of a criminal?”

The masked man grinned. “Some of my aliases are respectable, but they are all in the service of the Crown, as are Lord Torquil’s layers upon layers of disgrace.”

Lord Torquil grunted. “Believe me, it’s not easy for a duke’s son to get himself cut off from family, banned by society, forced into seclusion in a godforsaken backwater—”

“Seclusion?” Araminta blushed at the thought of Lord Torquil and his voluptuous mistress ensconced in the ivy-covered mansion on the hill.

 “Dear lady, if you knew how much it cost me—or rather, the Crown—to persuade my mistress to rusticate in Kent … where was I?”

“At your layers of disgrace.” The highwayman winked at Araminta.

“Ah, yes,” Lord Torquil said. “After a number of increasingly worse scandals, my family finally cast me off for setting up as a fishmonger. But in the service of one’s country, one must make sacrifices, even if it means smelling of the shop.” 

“Literally.” Jim-Bob wrinkled his nose. 

“As you well know from hiding kegs of brandy under rotting fish!” Lord Torquil retorted. “But that’s neither here nor there. We must whisk you to safety, Lady Ambleforth. Any moment now the spy may catch up with us and charm you into believing he is another loyal Englishman.”

A shot rang out!

Barbara Monajem's latest novella, To Rescue or Ravish? goes on sale July 1st. Visit her at www.BarbaraMonajem.com.

Lady Ambleforth's Afternoon Adventure

Chapter Seven - by Louise Allen

‘Never!’ Araminta cried. A highwayman, here in their quiet country parish? She glared up defiantly at the tall but slender figure on the big horse. His face was covered by a mask, his hair by a slouch hat pulled low. His long legs…

She pulled herself together. She had seen rather too many pairs of magnificent legs today and she had no intention of coming any closer to these. ‘Begone before the magistrates hear of this,’ she said, hoping that she did not sound as alarmed as she felt. ‘And let that horse go – stealing such an animal will get you transported, if not hanged.’
     ‘I merely borrow it, my lady.’ The man’s voice was light, yet masculine. He was disguising it, she could tell. And he knows who I am, or at least, that I am titled, she realised with a shock.
‘Come here, my lady and give me your hand.’ He controlled the edgy gelding one-handed with ease.
     ‘Certainly not.’ She stayed firmly where she was. Behind her Mr Hodges’s gasps and cries had died away into silence, broken only by an occasional, pathetic, splash. At her feet the three gentlemen lay sprawled in the dust watching the highwaymen with lethal alertness for one mistake.
     ‘Which of these would you like me to shoot, then?’ the rogue enquired. ‘You don’t want Silverthorne. The man’s a rake and he’s far too engrossed with his buxom mistress to be serious in his attentions to any other woman just now. His Grace the Duke of Dashing? Do you want to play second fiddle to your husband all your life? He’s a smug, manipulative type, if you ask me.’
      ‘I did not ask you,’ Araminta interjected indignantly. At her feet Derek was choking in indignation and  all Torquil could manage was a hiss of fury.
     ‘Then there’s Ed Deppity. Damn silly name – do you want to be Lady Deppity?’
     ‘I’ll have you know it is an ancient name of great – ‘
     ‘Idiocy,’ the highwayman interrupted the affronted baronet. ‘So which shall I shoot, my lady? Rake, pompous smug duke or baronet with a name from a stage farce?’
     ‘None of them.’ To her horror Araminta discovered that she was finding this rather stimulating. She very much doubted that this scoundrel really meant murder, however much he was provoked. And the contemplation of his lithe body mastering that restless horse sent little shivers up and down her spine.
     ‘Then come here.’ He reached out again and she walked forward, skirting the prone, spluttering gentlemen to put her hand in his. Araminta found herself lifted up until her foot found his, then she was sitting on the saddle in front of him.
     His thighs, hard with muscle, supported her in the most delightful manner although the pommel of the saddle was rather obtrusive. If it was the pommel…
     ‘Unhand her!’ With a sound like a hundred boots being wrenched from thick mud Mr Hodges rose to his feet. Dripping with stagnant water, his hat gone, his hair full of brambles and cow parsley he looked like an indignant rural god wakened from his slumbers and ready to smite whoever had disturbed him with something unpleasant. Cow pats, perhaps, Araminta mused, caught up in her own fantasy.
    ‘Set down that lady immediately!’ The curate had found the voice usually reserved for hell-fire sermons when the villagers had been particularly active at the ale house.
     ‘Or?’ the highwayman enquired politely.
     The gelding sidled and Araminta found herself clutching his coat to keep her balance. He smelled nice, she realised. Not like a sweaty, unwashed criminal. She breathed deeply: hay, plain soap, horse and warm man. Yum.
     ‘Or… or…’ Mr Hodges stuttered to a halt.
     ‘Good day to you, gentlemen.’ The highwayman inclined his head with mocking courtesy, turned the horse and cantered off down the lane with Araminta clinging to the lapels of his coat, her face pressed against his chest and her heart thudding with mingled excitement and alarm.
     It could not have been more than five minutes before her captor turned off the lane into a little copse. In the centre was a glade, open to the blue sky and spangled with wild flowers. He slid her gently to the ground, dismounted and threw the reins over a branch.
     ‘And now, Lady Araminta…’
     He did know her name, it was not just a guess at her title. ‘What do you want of me?’ she asked. Standing in front of her he was tall, lightly built with a muscled grace and, she guessed, a little younger than the gentlemen who had been enlivening her walk home.
     ‘Just something I have been aching for these past two years,’ he murmured as he took her by the shoulders and drew her close. ‘Just one kiss.’
       Her hands closed on his forearms. He was so close now his breath was warm on her lips, she could see the vivid blue of his eyes, the arch of dark brows beneath the sweep of his hat brim. Those eyes! Did she recognise them? And then he bent his head and she had to decide. Stay or run…?

                                                    ...............................................................

Meet Louise Allen at www.louiseallenregency.co.uk, discover gorgeous prints from her collection of Regency images and sign up for her newsletter for a chance to win prizes