Dearest Readers,
It would appear we’ve stumbled upon an interesting tidbit regarding a friend of a young lady mentioned once in our paper not too long ago. She’s the daughter of the Earl of G and an alumna of Lady Helford’s School for Recalcitrant Girls in Greymoor Wharf, as was her friend, Lady B.

The rumors we’ve heard are connected indirectly to the reasons for Lady M being sent to such a place of discipline. We’ll not comment on the accusations being made ~ honestly, what young lady raised in a noble family would ever have the need to resort to thievery?

Additional rumors have connected Lady M with a certain viscount, Lord H. Have you ever imagined a more eccentric pair than these two? Perhaps those eccentricities will be the glue that binds their hearts into a marriage to last a lifetime.

Stranger things have happened.

Excerpt from Stealing the Viscount’s Heart:

Lady Martha drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them, hugging herself tightly. Of all the men she had ever met, Lord Haworth was perhaps the only one she could imagine growing to love in the slow, measured way she imagined love was meant to happen. Not the gasping, reckless infatuations the girls at school had rhapsodized about, but the sort of affection that began with admiration and grew, season by season, into something like loyalty. She had always suspected she was built more for loyalty than for passion.

Which, if she were honest, wasn’t what books had led her to expect from romance. Her mother had hinted at it once, a memory so small Martha had nearly missed it at the time. Love, real love, was not a thunderclap. It was a tide, relentless and quiet, that changes everything in time.

She had nodded then, trying to look wise, and thought, but I should like at least one thunderclap.

If this was a thunderclap, it was a curiously gentle one. The world hadn’t split open, only turned a new angle toward the light. Even her own name felt newly minted.

She let herself imagine what it would mean to marry him. She played it out, as she sometimes did in idle moments with less promising prospects, but this time with an attention to detail allowed by having a real suitor.

Where was his country house? She assumed he had one, though they would be in London while Parliament was in session. Martha imagined the chaos of all her books, and Bran and, eventually, children. She imagined herself at the breakfast table reading a book, with Nicholas in his shirtsleeves arguing about whether toast ought to be cut before or after the butter was applied. The children would, she decided, be brown-haired like her, obstinate, and deeply loyal to their own opinions. Although, one son should have black hair like his father.

She smiled at the ridiculous picture.

Of course, there would be difficulties. There always were. His mother would dislike her, perhaps for a year, perhaps forever. The ton would talk, and so would the servants, and her father would find some new way to embarrass her at every dinner party.

But she could see a life with him, and the thought didn’t frighten her.

That was, she realized, the difference.

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About the Author

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

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

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