A Motto to Live Up To

WE HAVE A WINNER! The download of A Lady's Lesson in Seduction goes to commenter Katherine White.

Several years ago I visited Gawthorpe Hall in Lancashire, England. It’s a beautiful old house and well worth the visit. It started as a peel tower in the 14th Century, but the house as it now stands was constructed mostly in the Elizabethan age and renovated extensively in the 19th Century. Its history is connected with the witches of Pendle Hill, and Charlotte Bronte was twice a guest there.  

I spent quite a while squinting up at the mottoes on the central tower. One of them reads Prudentia et Iusticia. Even I, with my meagre Latin, could guess that it translates as Prudence and Justice. The other motto looks like Old English to me:  Kynd Kynn Knawne Kepe. I’ve found a few translations: Keep your own kin-kind or Kind friends know and keep, or perhaps Take care of your own. 

I’m not sure how I got from these mottoes to the entirely different one plaguing my hero, Camden Folk, the Marquis of Warbury, in my Christmas novella, A Lady’s Lesson in Seduction. Maybe it’s because Gawthorpe House is Elizabethan, like my hero’s – but Camden lives much farther south, in Oxfordshire. Perhaps it’s because I’ve always wondered how it felt to have a motto, and thought what a burden it might be if one felt compelled to live up to it.    
 
For Camden, living up to the Folk family motto presents an unusual problem. The first part of the motto is missing and has been for centuries, since before the house was built. All that’s left is Secundum, Non Nocere, which translates as Secondly, Do No Harm. Camden has no idea what he’s supposed to do first…although he and his cousins had fun dreaming up first halves for the motto when they were children.

Even though the Marquis has quite a reputation with the ladies, he always does his best to live up to the second half of his family motto and harm no one. This becomes a challenge when in a good cause (or so he sees it), he takes on the seduction of his friend’s widow, the lovely, vulnerable Frances Burdett. The story is full of Christmas customs and even has a wee hint of magic.

Here’s a blurb:

Once a notorious rake, Camden Folk, Marquis of Warbury, is now consumed by desire for only one woman: beautiful young widow Frances Burdett. The Yuletide festivities at his country estate present the perfect opportunity for seduction…

After her brief, unsatisfying marriage, Frances swore never to become tied to another man. Then a passionate kiss under the mistletoe reawakens longings she thought buried forever. Can she give in to the pleasures of the body with a rogue like Cam—without losing her heart?
 








And an excerpt:

Frances should never have agreed to go to the orchard with the Marquis of Warbury—to gather mistletoe, of all things. She sent him a fierce, furious glare. “If you must have it, I don’t enjoy kissing.”

He eyed her from behind the apple tree. “Not at all?”

“No.” She pressed her lips together.

“Come now,” he teased. “Surely you’re exaggerating.”

Her voice was low, suffused with passion. “You can’t possibly judge how that—that invasion made me feel.”

“That bad, was it?” The marquis reached up and snipped with his shears. “You’re right, I can’t judge, but the general popularity of kissing tells me you were merely unlucky.” He came around the tree, a sprig of mistletoe in his hand.

What a fool she was; in spite of bitter experience, she wanted to kiss him, wanted kissing to be wonderful. How stupid! She was much better off—much safer—as she was.

He kissed the fingertips of his gloves and blew. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Frances huffed.

He picked a berry from the mistletoe and dropped it. “We’ll make it a very light kiss,” he said, coming closer. “Short and sweet.”

She didn’t trust him; she wanted yet didn’t want—

A flurry of snow tumbled from the branches above, distracting her. He swooped in, dropped a swift, cold kiss on her lips, and drew away—but not far. “Was that too unbearable?” Another mistletoe berry fell to the snow.

“No, of course not,” she said, “but—”

“Well, then.” He took her hand and pulled her behind the tree. “If you don’t want me to invade you—accidentally, needless to say—you’ll have to keep your mouth shut.”

“You mustn’t do this—”

“Of course I must. No talking.”

She gave up, shutting both her mouth and her eyes. It was her own fault for coming to the orchard this morning, but she’d enjoyed their time together in the middle of the night so very much. It was only a kiss.

Nothing happened. She opened her eyes again. He was contemplating her mouth from under his lashes. “You have lovely lips.”

Through her teeth, she said, “Get it over with.”

“I’ve never kissed a martyr before.” His lips curled in a lazy smile, and then he pressed his mouth coolly to hers and withdrew again. “It requires a more careful approach than we disgustingly hasty men are used to.” He flicked another berry off the sprig.

She couldn’t help but watch his mouth. What was he going to do, and when?

“Close your eyes, and whatever happens, keep your lips together.”

This time his mouth lingered on hers a few seconds, then pressed light kisses from one corner of her lips to the other. Kiss. “One.” Kiss. “Two.” Kiss. “Three.”

Bite.

***
   
Any ideas of what the first half of the motto should be? Any suggestions of other stately homes I should visit on my next trip to England? Favourite Christmas customs you’d like to see in a story? I’d love to give away a download – for Nook or Kindle – to someone who comments here.

The Man Who Broke the Rules

Over on the Harlequin Community blog at the moment, there’s an excerpt posted from the November 1816 edition of Derby Mercury. Admittedly it’s not a genuine excerpt (it was in fact written by me!), but it contains a fascinating account of the visit of a Mr Virgil Jackson to Castonbury village school. A visit which features in my story in the Castonbury Park series called The Lady Who Broke the Rules.

Lady Katherine Montague, scarred by her failed betrothal, shunned by society as a result, decides to pour all her energy into philanthropic causes – such as the establishment of a village school. Virgil Jackson, my freed-slave hero, is determined to use his hard-earned wealth to provide the opportunities for other slaves which he struggled so hard to earn. So naturally he’s interested in Kate’s school. His interest in Kate herself, however, is something he’s less keen to admit to.

Kate’s village school takes its inspiration from Robert Owen’s model village in New Lanark, not too far from Glasgow where I went to university and made my home for several years. Finding my day job at the time pretty unexciting, I started studying history with the Open University, and it was one of my tutors here who first introduced me to New Lanark. I was, from the start, fascinated by it’s creator’s vision.

If you ever get the chance, the village and the beautiful Falls of the Clyde, which were the powerhouse driving the mills, are well worth a visit. It was established by David Dale in 1786 to provide homes for his cotton mill workers, but it was Dale’s son-in-law, a Welsh philanthropist called Robert Owen, intent on testing out his ideas for social reform, who was the real trail-blazer.

I’ve learned enough about Owen to suspect that he would be quite a difficult man to like, but then social reformers need to be strong-willed and single-minded, don’t they? Owen possessed such a singular vision as to make anyone else’s views on any matter – well, irrelevant. He was very religious and very moral, with an incredibly strong work ethic – so woe betide any slackers or back-sliders in his work force. Basically, I think it would have been  his way (which became known as utopian socialism) or the highway – but what a revolutionary way it was.

New Lanark.Photo Credit Stara Blazkova via Wikipedia 

Most of the mill workers came from the poorhouses of Glasgow, some from the slums of the city’s east end, with a good dash of Highlanders on the run from the dying embers of the Clearances. In New Lanark, they lived in tenements, many with just one room per family, but even this was a vast improvement on what they’d left behind. The actual working conditions at the mills were good in comparison to other such places, with less injuries and fatalities, good ventilation and so better general health. And Owen’s workers didn’t just get on-site accommodation – provided they toed the company line which insisted on regular attendance at church – there were a host of other benefits. Their children were educated at a school which was not only heated, but at which learning was intended to be fun. Then there was the Institute for the Formation of Character, through which Owen hoped to demonstrate in practice his theory of practical determinism – basically, that character can be formed and is not innate. The institute opened in 1816 and became the focus for education in the village – for all ages, with classes of all types including drill, dancing and instructional lectures.

Robert Owen left New Lanark for the new world in 1824, where he established the Community of Equality of New Harmony in Indiana. In my story, Kate is inspired by Owen’s book, New View of Society, and Virgil, who visits Owen, although he has some reservations, is also inspired enough by the underlying philosophy  to spend some of his own wealth on establishing another such community.

It astonishes me sometimes how people I’ve admired, characters I’ve read about and places I’ve visited in my own past find a place, almost by osmosis, in my stories. I do wonder though, what on earth my austere Open University professor would make of finding his beloved New Lanark featuring in a Harlequin romance. Do you have a favourite person or place from your past you’d love to see feature in a romance?

The Lady Who Broke the Rules is out now, print and digital in the UK, digital only in US and Canada, though it will be released in print as a duo in December.  

'Your rebellion has not gone unnoticed...' Anticipating her wedding vows and then breaking off the engagement has left Kate Montague's social status in tatters. She hides her hurt at her family's disapproval behind a resolutely optimistic facade, but one thing really grates...For a fallen woman, she knows shockingly little about passion! Could Virgil Jackson be the man to teach her? A freed slave turned successful businessman, his striking good looks and lethally restrained power throw normally composed Kate into a tailspin! She's already scandalised society, but succumbing to her craving for Virgil would be the most outrageous thing Kate's done by far...

Castonbury Park

Flirting with Ruin (Undone! Prequel) - Marguerite Kaye, June 2012

The Wicked Lord Montague - Carole Mortimer, August 2012

The Housemaid’s Scandalous Secret - Helen Dickson, September 2012

The Lady Who Broke the Rules  - Marguerite Kaye, October 2012

Lady of Shame - Ann Lethbridge, November 2012

The Illegitimate Montague - Sarah Mallory, December 2012

Unbefitting a Lady - Bronwyn Scott, January 2013

Redemption of a Fallen Woman - Joanna Fulford, February 2013

A Stranger at Castonbury - Amanda McCabe, March 2013

There are excerpts, background and more about Castonbury Park and all my other books on www.margueritekaye.com. I’m also always happy to chat on Facebook or Twitter. 

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

Using one Medieval Palace to help build another...

Betrothed to the Barbarian is set in Byzantium in the eleventh century.   Much of the story takes place within the walls of the Imperial palace complex, known as the Great Palace in Constantinople.

Constantinople as such no longer exists (it is now Istanbul) and at first glance it's not easy finding out what the Great Palace might have been like.  It certainly took up a lot of space, and most of it lies beneath modern Istanbul.  It was sited on the peninsular bordered by the Sea of Marmara and the Golden Horn.     A city in itself, there were dozens of buildings in the Great Palace, which included residential palaces, baths, stables, a garrison, banqueting halls, churches.  There's even a polo ground - the hero of this novel is a keen polo player...

There are maps that give an idea of the scale of the Great Palace.  The one below is from Wikipedia.  The Imperial Palace was separated from the rest of the City by vast walls.  It was guarded day and night.  You can see from this section of the map that some of the buildings overlooked the sea.  The women's quarters, where Princess Theodora has her apartment, is in this area of the palace - it was known as the Boukoleon Palace.

Since not much of the Imperial Palace complex is left today, a recent visit to the Tower of London proved fruitful when it came to imagining some of the furnishings that might have been found in the Imperial apartments.
As one would expect, there's a distinctly twelfth century look to the Tower of London furnishings and the colours - red rather than Imperial purple - are not quite right, but they do give a feeling of luxury.

There are paintings on the walls.  In the Great Palace, some of the walls would have been painted, others would have been glittering with mosaics.

The last picture shows a painted shutter.  Shutters have been used for centuries to keep out the wintry blasts, and they would be equally useful in a palace overlooking the Sea of Marmara as in one overlooking the River Thames!

For more about Betrothed to the Barbarian, please see the monthly release list for August, or visit my blog site: Carol Townend.

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

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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.

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