Fifty Shades of Regency Grey

The heroine of my August release, Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah, writes erotic novels in which the main protagonist, the voluptuous Bella Donna, pleasures and humiliates men to an equal degree. In her real life, Deborah has enormous issues with her sexuality, but her alter ego is irresistible. Here is Bella through the eyes of one of her victims:

‘… quite the most exotic and alluring creature he had ever clapped eyes upon. Clad in a black velvet robe with a décolleté so daring it seemed to be held in place only by the sheer power of her considerable will, she was the stuff of every red-blooded man’s fantasy. Dark silken tresses tumbled down her back. Her skin was the colour of whipped cream. Her lips were full, painted harlot red. Her countenance sultry. The  black stock of the cat-o-nine-tails she stroked was thick and weighty. She was, overall, a perfect combination of the voluptuous and the vicious which sent the blood surging to the marquis’s most prized piece of anatomy. Charles Mumford  groaned. Whether in trepidation or anticipation only he could truly know.’

The idea of having my heroine write erotica came to me a while back, long before that trilogy hit the news and became a publishing sensation. Of course steamy books are hardly a new phenomenon - John Cleland’s Fanny Hill was first published in 1748 and it’s been a best-seller ever since, and I’m pretty certain that those Regency ladies who read the French translation of 1001 Nights were much more interested in the naughty bits than the story of Ali Baba and his Forty Thieves. But what’s different about Deborah’s ‘Bella Donna’ stories is that they are written for women by a woman – and in that sense, my heroine presages what many people will think of as a very 21^st Century phenomenon. It’s true what they say – there’s nothing new under the sun.

When it came to writing about Deborah and her relationship with her publisher, I ‘borrowed’ from real-life too – my own. While Mr Freyworth bears no resemblance whatsoever to my lovely editor, he speaks some of her lines. I almost expected the paper to burst into flames,  and this scene too had about it an authenticity which elevates your writing to a new plane, are almost direct quotes. Luckily for Deborah, there was no call to use the one that makes my heart sink, this has the makings of a great story!

Freyworth & Sons publish Deborah’s books under a different name, lest their reputation be tarnished. This was common practice for respectable firms wishing to cash in on the very lucrative business of ‘warm’ stories without risk. Others, the ‘grub street’ publishers, were less discreet. Edmund Curl, one of the most famous of those, was pilloried in 1728 when he printed Venus in her Cloister, an edifying tale of teenage nuns. One of the reasons ereaders have made erotica so popular is that no-one can tell what you are reading. In Deborah’s day, the solution was to wrap the book in a plain cover, or to sell it (from the back room of one of St Paul’s many bookshops) unbound, leaving the purchaser to disguise it between the covers of something more innocuous.

Deborah’s books don’t make her a fortune, but they do gain her financial independence. By pure coincidence, the first of her stories, which began as the antidote to Deborah’s own heartache, resonated with a huge untapped audience – women. Though I hadn’t heard the term when I wrote this book, I think ‘mummy porn’ could easily be applied to Deborah’s novels. If only she could have sold the magic lantern rights for megabucks, like her illustrious successor!

Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah is out now in the UK, US and Canada. Here’s what the Romantic Times said about it:

4 Stars. Daring. Dangerous. Delightful. Kaye’s new Regency romance is a riveting and thrilling adventure between a writer and a thief, both bent on revenge, and neither expecting to find love at last. Kaye has another winner on her hands, with an original plot, lots of sizzling passion and enough nail-biting action to satisfy every fan.

There’s excerpts, background and more about my books on my website here.  I’m always happy to chat on Facebook or Twitter. And if you want to see the ideas and inspiration behind some of my stories then check out my boards on Pinterest.

A Not So Respectable Gentleman?

Today is Release Day for A Not So Respectable Gentleman?
It should appear in bookstores today and can be ordered online. (ebook version is released August 1)

I'm both excited and a little sad that the book is finally here. A Not So Respectable Gentleman? is the last book in the series that began with the anthology, The Diamonds of Welbourne Manor and featured a motley set of siblings and half-siblings called the Fitzmanning Miscellany.

In 2007 the adventure began when Harlequin Mills and Boon editor Maddie Rowe invited Deb Marlowe, Amanda McCabe, and me out to dinner during the Romance Writers of America conference in Dallas, Texas. We thought she was just being nice. The Mills and Boon editors always do nice things like that for their authors during the conference.

Turns out she offered us a Regency anthology and each a book connected to the anthology. The Diamonds of Welbourne Manor was followed by The Shy Duchess (February 2011) by Amanda, and  How to Marry a Rake (April 2011) by Deb.  A Not So Respectable Gentleman? tells the story of the illegitimate brother in the Fitzmanning Miscellany.

Here's the back cover blurb:

Since Leo Fitzmanning returned to London, he’s kept his seat at the card table warm, his pockets full of winnings and his mind off a certain raven-haired heiress.
 Until whispers at the gaming hell reveal that Miss Mariel Covendale is being forced into marriage with an unscrupulous fortune hunter!
 Leo must re-enter the society he detests to help her before returning to his clandestine existence. But he hasn’t counted on Mariel having grown even more achingly beautiful than he remembered. Soon Leo realizes that there’s nothing respectable about his reasons for stopping Mariel’s marriage. 

Here's what the reviews are saying:

a lovely romance with a bit of suspense and the power and strength of a family....Gaston’s talents for evoking the era hold true to form....--Kathe Robin, RTBook Reviews

What made this book such an enjoyable read was the quick pace of the story, with characters that were allowed to be intelligent and practical people, while also being flawed...the romance that Leo and Mariel find again in one another kept my attention from beginning to end, and I closed the book with a smile for their future together.--Sara Anne Elliot, Rakehell

Because this was the last book, I made it a point to bring all the Fitzmanning Miscellany back. They play important roles in Leo's story. In fact, what Leo must learn in this story is that he can rely on his family when all else fails.

 Don't you think that is so often true?

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

To "Drop One Pious Friendly Tear"?

The hero and the villain face each other at dawn in some woodland clearing or quiet heath, far from the notice of the local magistrates. Their seconds confer with quiet seriousness about the weapons – pistols or rapiers. A doctor, reluctant and grumbling in the cold morning air, waits by the carriages.
It is an affair of honour of course – an accusation of cheating perhaps, or an insult to a lady. Both men are calm and show no fear: if they have been lying sleepless most of the night while they mentally review their wills they show no sign of it.

The seconds declare all is ready, the men take their weapons, pace out the distance, turn and wait for the signal to fire or to cross swords. The hero will win of course, or contemptuously delope, firing into the air. The villain will skulk away, or perhaps attempt a cowardly shot when the hero’s back is turned, but right will triumph and honour will be satisfied.
The print to the left, from the Sporting Chronicle, shows the hero, calmly awaiting the shot of his opponent who appears to be holding a pistol in each hand. The waiting man is stripped to the waist in order to prevent cloth being carried into any gunshot. The doctor peers nervously from the cover of a tree above, the seconds stand by and a carriage waits in the distance.

But was it really like that? Perhaps it was sometimes, but often duels arose out of misunderstandings or drink and resulted in tragedy. The last duel fought in Norfolk was on 20th August 1698. Sir Henry Hobart of the great Elizabethan house of Blickling Hall called out Oliver le Neve over words le Neve was supposed to have uttered when Sir Henry lost his parliamentary seat in an election.
Le Neve denied having said the offending words but, despite being left-handed and considered much at a disadvantage in a sword fight as a result, he was quite prepared to defend himself. His letter to Sir Henry survives –

Honored Sir,
I am very sorry that I was not at Reepham yesterday when you gave yourself the trouble of appearing there, that I might not only have justified the truth of my not saying what it is reported I did, but that I might have told you that I wrote not that letter to avoid fighting you but that if the credit of your author has confirmed you in the belief of it, I am ready and desirous to meet you when and where you please to assign. If otherwise, I expect your author's name in return to this that I may take my satisfaction then, or else conclude the Imputacon [sic] sprung from Blickling and send you the time and place; for the matter shall not rest as it is though it cost the life of
Your Servant
Oliver Neve

They met on Cawston Heath. Le Neve was wounded in the arm but he ran Sir Henry through the stomach and he died the next day at Blickling Hall in great pain. Le Neve fled the country and lived under a false name in the Netherlands, but when he heard he was being threatened with outlawry he returned, stood his trial for manslaughter and was acquitted in 1700.

The duel is commemorated in the Duelling Stone (above) which stands in what was the garden of the Woodrow Inn beside the road to Norwich - a memorial to wounded pride.

At least Sir Henry was the aggressor in this and refused to listen to le Neve’s protestations of innocence. An even more tragic memorial is a tombstone in the old churchyard of Sawtry St Andrew, next to the old Great North Road in Huntingdonshire.

James Ratford. 25th Day of June 1756. Aged 37 years.
Near to this stone, who’ere you art, draw near
In Pity drop One pious, friendly Tear;
Far from His native Home, He lost His life,
By One who seem’d His Friend, Ill timed strife.
The best of Husbands; to His Children, dear,
Courteous to all, and to His Friend, Sincere.
Resigned to his Fate, well may the Wretch feel woe
While He in endless Bliss and Pleasure go.

The local archives confirm that this was a duel. James was far from his home in Leicestershire. What had happened between him and the friend to whom he had been so “sincere” to result in the death of the best of husbands and a dear father?

These two real-life tragedies haven’t stopped me writing about duels if they fit into one of my novels, but they have made me pause and think about the truth behind the dashing image of duellists at dawn.
What do you think? Is a duel a good opportunity to see the hero at his courageous best, or would true valour lie in walking away?

Louise Allen

We have a winner for the Beach Bag Giveaway!

The winner of the Grand Prize, the Kindle Fire for the Beach Bag Giveaway is Kathryn M! Congrats.

Merrick St. Magnus is here! A yummy cover!

Lady Araminta's Afternoon Adventure

Chapter Twelve ~ by Ann Lethbridge


     Thoughts racing, Araminta stepped out of the tunnel into bright daylight. A broad shouldered fellow blocked her path. Dazzled after the dimness in the tunnel, she blinked. Her mouth dried. Her head spun. While the strong physique resembled that of the highwayman she’d kissed minutes before, the unmasked features slowly taking shape were those of...


    “Gabriel?” Her knees gave way. Darkness swallowed her up.


     Seconds later she came to her senses cradled in a pair of strong arms and sitting once more on those delectably strong thighs. But looking down at her anxiously was the face of her... her dead husband. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Who are you? Some long lost relative come to claim the title?”

     He groaned. “Minna. Oh dearest Minna, forgive me, I did not wish to alarm you. I felt sure you would guess it was me when we kissed.”

     Well yes the kiss had felt achingly familiar, and no one else ever called her Minna, but... “You died. I went to your funeral. I wept.” She struggled in his arms. “What is this? Some sort of horrid jest?”

     “Please, darling, let me explain.” He took a deep shuddering breath. “And then if you cannot forgive me, you will never have to see me again.”

      Never had she seen her stern husband so anxious. He who had been as cold as granite and twice as strong. She stilled in his arms. “Very well, explain.” She folded her arms across her chest.

    “Remember our last conversation. When you railed against my wrapping you in cotton wool, keeping you from having any fun?”

     She winced. She’d been feeling very guilty about what she’d said that last time. Even if it had been the truth. “I remember,” she said far more calmly than her racing heart would suggest.

     “That day, I realized how selfish I’d been. The first time I saw you, a chit barely out of the schoolroom, I knew I wanted you as my wife. You were the one. So lovely. So full of life. How could I let you loose on the town and risk losing you to some other fellow with far more address, far more charm? Look at the way these other men fell at your feet today.” He glowered, then straightened his shoulders, which seemed broader and more muscular than before. “That day, you showed me how wrong I’d been. Losing my parents at such a young age made me overprotective. Unable to bear the idea of losing you too, I locked you up in an ivory tower, guarding you from harm. I should have trusted you.”

    “Yes, you should have. I am not a possession. I am a person.”

     He took her hand in his and kissed the inside of her wrist. “A clever, spirited and lovely person.” He looked up at her, his eyes full of regret, and if she wasn’t mistaken, somewhat misty. Her heart gave an unsteady lurch.

    “That day, I knew I had to make amends,” he said.

    She stared at him, shocked. “So you faked your death?”

    “I was so ashamed. I...” his voice became husky, “I loved you so much. And I had treated you so badly. I wanted you to have your heart’s desire. The freedom you craved. To choose the man of your heart.”

    “Oh, Gabriel,” she whispered. “Then why all this, today?”

     He closed his eyes briefly. “I’m a new man. I’ve made a life in America based on my abilities. But God, Minna, darling, I can’t take much joy in it. Not without you. When Silverthorne told me you’d not danced on my grave and not found yourself a new man, I had hope. Still, I was determined you should have your choice."

     His chest rose and fell. “You can choose any of these fine men. Honorable. Good friends. Or at least, any but the Dashing cousins. They are a lot of loose screws. Or you can go to London and have your pick. I won’t stand in your way, but I wanted a second chance. To be in the running. To tell you how much I loved you.”

    A spurt of indignation coursed through her. “So what happened today was all staged?”

    “Not entirely. Those men have adored you from afar for ages. But it was what you said you wanted. Life. Adventure. Freedom to be yourself. And very daring you were too. Kissing a highwayman.”


     She raised a brow. “I notice you were the only one who offered a kiss.”

    “The others knew they’d be dead if they tried anything of the sort,” he said with a rueful smile. “But whoever you chose, I would abide by the decision. I’m not coming back, Minna. Gabriel, Lord Ambleforth is gone. I’m simply Gabe Blackhawk now, trapper and hunter extraordinaire, farmer. And I am begging you to be my wife, my partner, my own true love.”

   Her eyes felt hot and prickled with tears. “Oh, Gabe, I realized how much I loved you only once you were gone. It broke my heart that I never told you, not once, how I felt. You were always so distant. So self-assured. I always felt like a silly schoolgirl.”

    “Not silly. Beloved. I was an idiot. Bound by the stupid rules of the ton that never let me tell you how much I truly loved you,” he whispered brokenly, his heart in his eyes. “Kiss me, darling girl, say you forgive me and will be mine henceforth.”

   “I do, Gabe. I will.” She reached up and did something she would never have dared in the old days. She kissed him full on the lips, with all the passion she could muster.

   When they finally came up for air she glanced around. “Where is Deepwater? Oh and what about all those poor men, trapped in the tunnel?”

     He had the grace to look shamefaced. “The other end was never closed. We couldn’t kill off all those Dukes, now, could we? They are all in the Great Hall at Ambleforth, awaiting your decision. If they haven’t killed each other.”


    A laugh bubbled up and she set it free. “You have some very good friends Mr. Blackhawk.”


    “Mmm,” he murmured nibbling on her ear. “And by the way, Silverthorne’s D stands for devoted friend. As I am devoted to you, my dearest darling heart of my soul.”

    Joy filled her smile. “Dear Gabe. Thank you for my splendiferous afternoon. Now let us free the rest of your cast of characters and set sail for a new adventure, just you and me, together. For the rest of our lives.”


   “Darling Minna, I do not deserve you, but I am far too selfish to give you up.” On that he rose and side by side they wandered off, hand in hand, with only the occasional kiss to delay their progress as they started their lives anew.

---

Dear Readers,

I hope you enjoyed this tale as much as we enjoyed writing it. Believe me, it was not easy picking up where another author left off, but as writers and risk-takers we could not resist the challenge. Will we do it again? Who knows. Let us hope so.   Check back to the blog from time to time and find out.

If you want to know more about me and my books you can find me at http://www.annlethbridge.com

Lady Ambleforth's Afternoon Adventure

Chapter 11 by Julia Justiss

It took a moment before Araminta recognized the only reason that could account for the Duke’s presence in the tunnel.  “You are the French spy?” she gasped.  “Or…spies?” she added, looking around at the cousins.

 “We are Dashings; what could we be but French?” the Duke replied.  “A land that has always been the epitome of culture, fashion and a certain je ne sais quoi elegance.  Though I am not at all happy about the deprecations the job plays upon one’s wardrobe.”

“Pays well enough to purchase new, though,” one of the cousins remarked
.
At that, fury at their comments and the fact of having had, for the second time in the same day, a pistol drawn upon her, overcame Araminta’s better judgement.  Heedless of her safety, she turned on them in rage.
 
“Mr. Hodges, have you no shame?  A vicar, abandoning the succor of innocent souls for lure of filthy lucre?  And you, your Grace, a peer of the realm!  How could you—all of you”—she gestured toward the cousins, “repay your country so?  I wouldn’t allow you to rescue me, even if you had your white destrier here!”

“I think you’ve said quite enough,” the Duke retorted.  “So, what am I do with our lovely, albeit tattered, prize, gentlemen?  I’d thought to charm her into agreeing to allow us the continued use of this tunnel.”

“You thought to charm me into treason?” Araminta exclaimed.  “How could you believe such a thing possible?”

“Well, I am a Duke, which means I can charm any female.  Indeed, usually they fall at my feet, or onto to their backs, at the mere mention of my title.  Don’t you find it so?” he asked, turning to address his cousins.

“Bien sûr!” “Oui!” “Absolutely!” the cousins murmured in agreement.  “Best part of being a Duke,” another added
. 
“Aside from the possession of vast estates, numerous manors, countless hounds and horses, armies of servants to do our bidding, and immense wealth,” Dashing observed.

“How could you play the spy against a country that provides all that for you?” Araminta demanded.

“Country didn’t provide it,” the Duke objected.  “We got it by being Dashing.  And dukely.  ‘Tis the same, after all, but that’s neither here nor there.  Now that you’ve stumbled upon us before I had the chance to seduce you into acquiescence, I fear I shall have to remove you, as we do any impediment that gets in our way.  Do we not, gentlemen?” he asked, waving the pistol negligently toward his cousins.

Fear belatedly chilled Araminta and she regretted her bold talk.  Should she attempt to fall at the Duke’s feet—she no longer felt inclined to fall on her back—and try to charm him into letting her go with some false protestations about a sudden conversion to their cause?

Before she could decide, she heard—once again—the unmistakeable click of pistols being cocked.

From out of the gloomy rushlight, a stranger walked forward with a pistol in each hand, one trained upon the Duke, the other upon Hodges
.
“Free the lady, your Grace, and neither you nor Hodges move, or this breath will be your last.”

Hodges cowered, but the Duke merely laughed.  “Have you forgotten I am still armed?  Shall I shoot you now, or let my cousins disarm you?  Thirteen--or rather twelve now--against one are odds that favor me, sir.”

“You’ll get no help from them; I drugged their brandy,” the intrepid stranger replied.  Indeed, as Araminta peered into the gloom, she discovered the assorted Duke-of-Dashing look-alikes had all dozed off.

“At this range, I can blow a hole through you before you can get that pistol back into firing position,” he warned as the Duke made a motion to raise his weapon.

Upon closer inspection, though well-built, dark-haired and ruggedly handsome, the Duke’s challenger did not resemble him as much as she’d initially thought.  As he stood there, stoutly defending her, his aura of powerful masculinity nearly palpable, Araminta felt faint, while heat rushed to her nether regions.
 
Instinctively she knew a lady who fell on her back for him would end up very satisfied indeed.  Lusty images of the two of them, their limbs entangled in the gloom, invaded her mind.  Trembling, she tried to shut them out.  Oh, what had come over her today?

To divert herself, she cried, “Who are you, then, sir?”

“Andrew Dubois Eugene Deepwater, corsair by trade,” he replied.  “Though my ship and Caribbean crew are now signed on to serve the Crown.”

She gasped again as the meaning of his words penetrated.  “You are a…pirate, you mean?”

The Duke grunted.  “Thought you didn’t look that familiar.  Shouldn’t have believed that story of your being the by-blow of Great Aunt Thelma’s cousin’s sister’s run-away youngest son, but how was I to know?  You speak French so beautifully!  And with so many cousins and all of them Dukes, how can I be expected to keep track of them?”

Ignoring Dashing’s complaining, Deepwater replied, “Though some have called me ‘pirate,’ I prefer to think of myself as a sea-going adventure capitalist.  In any event, I do my sailing at the bidding of England now, and I’ve been tracking this bunch of ne’er-do-wells for some time.”
 
“You are in league with Lord Torquill and Jim, er Bob, the highwayman, then?”

Deepwater gave a disgusted huff.  “Torquil’s been too distracted by his voluptuous mistress to be of much help, and Bob too attracted by profits from smuggling and fish.  But the work is finished now.  You two,” he inclined his weapons toward Dashing and Hodges, “back into the corner with rest.  And I’ll have that pistol, Dashing.”

“Never!” the Duke roared.

Unflinching, Deepwater merely replied softly, “Loath as I am to distress a lady, move that hand another inch upward, Dashing, and I’ll shoot you where you stand.  And don’t think to flee,” he warned Hodges.  “I’m perfectly capable of shooting with deadly accuracy from both pistols at once.  How do you think I captured the many prize ships that have made me so fabulously wealthy?”

While Hodges whimpered, Deepwater and Dashing glared at each other.  After a moment, the Duke, apparently realizing neither his rank nor his wealth nor his charm would allow him to prevail against the privateer, carefully laid down his weapon.
 
“Never dreamt a duke could be bested by a pirate,” he said sulkily. “And one not even truly related!”

Advancing slowly, Deepwater backed the two men into the alcove containing the Duke’s gently-snoring cousins.

Tossing her a quick glance over his shoulder, he said, “Won’t you come with me and give testimony about the sabotage of your carriage, the plot you’ve uncovered, the men you’ve discovered to be involved, and the wreckage of your parasol?” 

“If we leave, won’t they simply flee?” she asked.

“I’ve contrived a way to seal off tunnel; it’s already barred at the Ambleforth House end.  There’s food and water here, enough for them to rest snugly until we return with the authorities.”

“Rush him!” the Duke snarled to Hodges.

“Impossible!”  Hodges wailed.  “I’m much too overheated already to run!”

In the next instant, Deepwater tossed down one of his pistols, which fired in the direction of the Duke, halting him in mid-stride.  Grabbing her arm, the corsair raced with her toward the tunnel’s secret entrance. 

Just before they reached it, he halted abruptly and kicked at a bracing timber.  With a creaking groan, the tunnel ceiling buckled, then fell in a rush of dirt, debris and crashing beams.  As the dust settled behind them, Deepwater led her out into the daylight.

“So, my lovely lady, will you come with me?  Make for the ship I’ve stationed in the river, sail to London and present this vital evidence before the Crown?  The courageous Lady Ambleforth, who thwarted a clever secret ring of British aristocrats spying for French, would be the toast of the capitol.  And Queen of my heart,” he added in a murmur.

Araminta stood irresolute, a hand to her throat where the pulse beat wildly.  What should she do?
 
Abandon caution and go to London with this dashing pirate-turned-King’s-agent?

Find Sir Ed and beg the devilishly attractive local entrepreneur—she had another vision of him rising, naked, from the pond--to escort her safely back to Ambleforth, where she could write out an account of what she’d learned for Deepwater to present to the authorities, while she recuperated from the excitement of today’s adventure? 

Claim one last kiss from Jim-Bob before she became respectable Lady Ambleforth again, and returned home to discover whether Groom Jack should be rewarded for rushing to her aide--or sacked for aiding the Duke’s sabotage scheme?

As she debated, Deepwater kept his smoldering gaze fixed upon her.

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

JULIA JUSTISS is the author of 17 Regency historical romances.  Her new series, THE RANSLEIGH ROGUES, will debut in 2013 with Max's story and Will's story.  Find news about her books on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and her website, www.juliajustiss.com.

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 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.”

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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! 

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Lady Ambleforth's Afternoon Adventure

Lady Ambleforth's Afternoon Adventure.

Chapter 9.  By Annie Burrows

The highwayman's horse proved that it was indeed Ed Deppity's nervous gelding, by rearing, tearing its reins free from their loose tethers, and galloping off again.

            Straight towards where they were standing.

            "Look out!"  The highwayman shoved Araminta out of the way as the gelding went galloping past.  She caught her heel on a tree root, tripped, grabbed at his coat to save herself from falling, and brought him down on top of her.

            There was another shot, and the sound of a bullet thunking into the tree trunk above their heads.

            And then a voice that sounded familiar, roared, "Get off her!"

            Lord Torquil loomed over them then, grabbed his associate by the coat collar, and yanked him to his hands and knees.

            But it was not his voice she'd heard.

            "You too!  Step away from her!"

            All three of them turned their heads in the direction the shots, and the voice had come from.

            It was Jack!  Her groom held a smoking pistol in each hand, his face grim.

            "You let my Lady up," he snarled.

            The highwayman glanced up at Lord Torquil, who still had his fingers curled into his coat collar.

            "He's fired both of those pistols," he murmured softly without moving his lips.

            "Just what I was thinking," replied Lord Torquil.

            Lord Torquil raised his hands in the air.  The highwayman scrambled to his feet.  They exchanged a look which boded ill for her groom.

            She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but the fall to the ground, or the landing on top of her of a large and muscular rogue, had combined to knock the breath out of her.  All she managed was an agonized wheeze as the pair of reprobates launched themselves at her hapless groom.

            Though Jack was outnumbered, and outranked, he stood his ground.  Dropping his pistols, he just had time to raise his fists before the others reached him.  

            Araminta groaned.  Not another mill!  Why must men always be fighting?

            She had to get to her feet unaided.  And as she did so, she discovered that her skirt was torn.  Her bottom lip quivered.  She'd lost a shoe when the highwayman had forced her onto his horse, she'd sacrificed her expensive bonnet to the cause of peace in the lane, and now this!

            She'd had enough of adventures.

            And of men.

            With a little sob, she made her way across the clearing, entirely unobserved since the three combatants were dancing round each other in the bracken, arms whirling like windmill sails.

            She paused to remove her one shoe before setting out on a path she thought she recognized, for her husband had often brought her on walks or rides out this way.  She flung it angrily towards the men - not that they took a blind bit of notice of her.

            But at least the sound of grunts crashes and thumps swiftly faded as she made her way, barefoot, deeper into the woods.

            Why they had all pretended to be so interested in her?  It was obvious they were all far more keen on besting each other.

            There was something havey-cavey going on around these parts.  In which some, or all of them, were involved up to their necks.

            Not that she believed in Lord Torquil's tales of smugglers and French spies.  She tossed her head and laughed rather wildly.  She might have believed him, had he not claimed to have opened a fishmonger's.  He was more or less admitting his story was fishy.  And after that, she wondered how on earth his accomplice, Jim or Bob or whatever he called himself, could possibly claim he was serving the crown by robbing innocent people travelling the King's highway.  When he wasn't running brandy, that was.  She might never have travelled beyond the borders of Kent, but that did not make her an idiot.

            There was something decidedly smoky about that Duke, too.  He could not stop talking about money, which her mama had taught her was vulgar.  Could a Duke really be that vulgar?

            And come to think of it, what was Jack doing lurking about the woods with those pistols?  He should have been half way to Midbury by now, seeing to the repair of her phaeton.

            As for Ed Deppity...an image of that naked torso, rising from the water flashed into her mind, slowing her steps.  Her lips curved into a pensive smile.  For the moment, she would acquit him of being anything except too attractive for his own good.

            Besides, she'd cheered up now that she'd escaped from the Dastardly Torquil and his accomplice with many names.

            And escape them she had.  Just down the next dip in the path, lay a cleverly concealed entrance to a secret tunnel.  A secret tunnel which would take her right back to Ambleforth House.

            Oh, but they would be mad as fire when they came searching for her, she thought gleefully, as she ducked behind the trunk of a gnarled old oak tree, and brushed aside a curtain of ivy.

Come back tomorrow for the next installment!

Annie has a July release from Harlequin Historicals: "An Escapade and an Engagement"

You can find out more about her works at www.annie-burrows.co.uk

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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…?

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