Author: Guest author Page 29 of 35

Secrets and Lies

On December 14, 2016

December 23rd

An occasional correspondent has sent along information of a most interesting turn. lady-wallingford A widowed marchioness (we shall call her Lady W) has been seen in town this winter after an absence of several years. Instead of taking up residence in her son’s elegant townhouse, she is staying with a certain Lady J and her daughter, Miss J. Our correspondent reports rumors of an impending betrothal between the younger lady and Lady W’s son, the current marquess.

And it has also been supposed that the nuptials will be soon, as we have learned that Lord W has returned from a lengthy sojourn on the Continent. Though, in an interesting turn of events, he also is eschewing his noble abode and staying with friends, the very same Lord and Lady H to whom so much scandal attached a year ago! Yes, and this is the very same Lady H who has been in such a delicate way that the midwife was spotted arriving late yesterday.

Never fear, Dear Reader. We are sending out inquiries and will report on this curious story tomorrow!

December 28^th

Dear Reader, scant days ago we told you about a certain Lady W and her son’s expected nuptials with a certain Miss J. The festivities of the past few days have prevented us from reporting further on this matter, for which we apologize and presume to accept your forgiveness, for as it is, we have news of a most interesting turn that will not disappoint!

j-_t-_mitchell_-_elizabeth_mary_and_augustus_william_hillary_-_google_art_project-11 Lady W has decamped most abruptly from the home of Miss J, moving lodgings to the very residence where her son, Lord W, is staying. And, furthermore, she has been spotted in the park with two children, reported to be the twin daughters of Lady H’s midwife. And, most shockingly, Lord W was seen arriving at Lord H’s one morning, escorting the very same midwife, and has not been seen since. We have learned that Miss J and her parents have left London, some say to travel to their home estate, others say to visit Bath, others, the Continent.

Mark my word, Dear Reader, there is an interesting story here, and we at the Teatime Tattler will uncover it.

January 15

Dear Reader, several days ago we reported on the curious behavior of Lord W and his mother. We promised to get to the heart of this mystery, and we keep our promises! One of our intrepid correspondents has received news that Banns have been posted at Lord W’s home parish announcing the nuptials of Lord W and a bride who is most assuredly not Miss J!

We will have more news for you tomorrow on this story. You won’t want to miss it!

About the Book: The Marquess and the Midwife

Once upon a time, the younger brother of a marquess fell in love with his sister’s companion. He was sent off to war, and she was just sent off, and they both landed in very different worlds.

Now Virgil Radcliffe has returned from his self-imposed exile on the Continent to take up his late brother’s title and discover the whereabouts of the only woman he’s ever loved.

Abandoned by her lover and dismissed by her employer, Ameline Dawes has found a respectable identity as a Waterloo widow, a new life as a midwife, and a safe, secure home for her twin girls. Called to London at Christmas to attend her benefactress’s lying-in, she finds herself confronted by an unexpected house guest–a man determined to woo her anew and win her again.

But, is loving the new Marquess of Wallingford a mistake Ameline cannot afford to repeat?

The Marquess and the Midwife is specially priced at 99 cents through December 31, 2016

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~Excerpt~

Ye gods, but her ladyship needed more maids, and a couple more footmen with both arms and both legs, at least for this type of fetching and carrying.

Ameline chided herself for being insensitive and balanced the steaming bucket. She set down the lamp momentarily to gather her skirts, along with the lamp handle.

A pair of men’s boots moved into view and the lamp bobbled. Fine boots they were.

She sighed, gritting her teeth. Lord Hackwell’s visits had unnerved his lady, and Ameline had counseled him to leave.

Very well, she’d thrown him out, once almost literally. He would wonder what she was doing below stairs. He might send for the accoucheur he was mumbling about, and his lady would not like it.

“I’ve just popped down to the kitchen for a word with Alton, my lord,” she said. “All is going well, except he’s a bit short on staff.”

“We have noticed that.”

The skin on her back rippled and she shivered. This wasn’t Hackwell—it was him.

Panic flared in her and her hands and ankles began to tingle. He carried no light. She let her own lantern dip lower and stepped to one side. What was he doing on the servants’ staircase in the middle of the night?

If he saw her, he would remember her, but he would not want to, unless he would think to befriend her again. Heat flamed in her.

She took in a breath. “Let me pass, Lord Hackwell,” she said.

“Let me carry that bucket for you.”

“No.” She forced in another breath, willing herself to speak calmly. “That is, no thank you. I shall send a servant for you when it is time.”

Footsteps scurried on the stairs. “Mrs. Dawes?” Jenny called, breathless.

Her heart raced again. She’d tarried too long in the kitchen. “I’ll be right—”

Heat touched her hand as the bucket came out. The lantern, too, lifted higher, and she looked up into the face of Lord Virgil Radcliffe, now the latest Lord Wallenford.

“Mrs. Dawes?” His eyes widened and then narrowed, and his lips curved down.

Anger spiked in her. “Lord Wallenford.”

He moved down to the step below her, putting them at eye level, and crowded her against the hand rail.

“Give me the bucket, sir. I can manage quite well without your help.” Quite, quite well.

“Can you, indeed?” he drawled, sounding just like his brother the day he’d sacked her.

Blast him. Blast the Wallenfords. Blast the Hackwells. “Alton has a bottle set out. Best go and fetch it.”

His lips quirked.

She gritted her teeth. “Give me the blasted bucket, Virgil.”

About the Author

Award winning author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature, but her true passion is the much happier world of romance fiction. Though her roots are in the Midwestern U.S., after six very, very, very cold years in Chicago, she moved to Southern California and hasn’t looked back. She shares a midcentury home with her husband, her spunky, blonde, rescued terrier, and the blue-eyed cat who conned his way in for dinner one day and decided the food was too good to leave.

She is the author of the 2014 Book Buyer’s Best winner, Rosalyn’s Ring, a 2015 RONE Award finalist, Bella’s Band, and a 2016 National Reader’s Choice Award finalist, Liliana’s Letter, as well as her latest release, The Marquess and the Midwife. She is hard at work on her next series of Regency romances, but loves to hear from readers!

Visit her at:

http://alinakfield.com/
https://www.facebook.com/alinakfield
https://twitter.com/AlinaKField
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7173518.Alina_K_Field
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Vagabond or Dropped From Grace?

By Guest author

On November 30, 2016

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

(Overheard within the confines of a fashionable and oft-crowded tea room, in the month of April)

Our state of Pennsylvania in this April of 18— can either be fairylike or devilish in temperament. As of late, the mud and damp have forced the ladyfolk of our area to the embracing arms of parlors and tearooms. The tempestuous weather—and, it seems, one specific bit of gossip—have congregated the women into swarms.

tea “I overheard it at the jeweler’s,” the anonymous reporter overheard one women say between pouring the Early Gray and reaching for a buttered scone. “That dear Mr. Godfrey was resetting a stone in my necklace, and Miss Emmeline was talking about that boy, Lou, I believe his name was? Laurence? Larson?

“Louis,” a second woman (wearing quite an outrageously plumed hat) chimed in. “But I believe he pronounces it like the French king did. Very much putting on airs, if you ask me. He and his mother live in a shack, I believe!”

A daintier girl in the gathering raised her eyes from her cup and saucer. Her quaint, narrow face pinched a little at the mouth. “What did you overhear, Mama?”

“Oh, you know—Miss Emmeline, what a gorgeous girl, even though she has that unfortunate Irish coloring. Freckled all over like a brown egg, but anyhow—the young miss was, quite boldly, if you ask me—demanding of Mr. Godfrey if he’d received any letters from Louis. Quite odd!”

The tea circle hmm’d and yes-quite’d.

“He’s gone away to London, you know,” the dainty girl in blue murmured. Her gloved hand reached for a slice of pound cake so prized at the tea house.

“Truly, Bridgette?” squawked her mother. “I heard that as well, I must admit—but is there any truth to it? Did the young man really propose to Miss Emmeline? He’s basically a vagabond—from what I heard tell of him,” she hastily added, reaching for her cup which shook indignantly between her fingers. “I never knew of him before now, and now he’s vanished like a ghost.”

Bridgette propped her chin primly in her hand. “I heard from Laura Ashford, down at Theresa’s knitting circle last Wednesday, that he proposed to Emmeline with a ring fit for a regent.” Her eyes sparkled. “Only, no one’s seen it.”

“How do you mean?” a severe-seeming gentlewoman piped up from behind the sandwich tier. “How do you know there was a ring if no one has seen?”

Her tone bit the air, young Bridgette fluttered her lashes as if threatened. “I only repeat what I heard. The family is all very hush-hush about it. Perhaps he stole the ring, Heaven knows! I heard he went to London to seek his fortune or some such. Has family in France.”

A round-cheeked maid who’d previously remained silent now broke into a smile. “Perhaps he’s a noble dropped from grace!” She turned to the severe woman. “Does France still have nobles, Aunt Clara?”

Her aunt’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t the faintest, girl.”

The girl’s mouth puckered. “It all sounds terribly romantic. A bit.”

About the Book: The Christmas Lights

“Where do Christmas lights come from?”
Those tiny bulbs of color that burn on a Christmas tree,
Or outside a house to shine in the night.
Does anyone really know where they originate?
What if someone told you
They weren’t intended for Christmas at all,
But really for a miracle?
That they were for love, a desperate idea, to light a boy’s way home?
In that case, you must have some questions. What boy? What love?

Have a seat. Allow me to tell you a story.

~Excerpt~
“Because your father requires…a dowry, of sorts. A guarantee you’ll be well taken care of.”

Emmy’s hand turned sweaty. “Oh, Louis. What does that mean?”

I swallowed the sour taste at the back of my mouth, nerves trembling in my fingers. “Our engagement lasts until December twenty-fifth. If by that time I’ve not returned—”

“Returned?” Emmy’s gaze burned me. “Louis, where are you going? Won’t my father give you a job?”

I didn’t move and barely opened my mouth to let the words escape. “He’s got me a job.”

“What?”

I loosened my shoulders and shrugged. “Marks Brothers pays their floor workers very well.”

“Who?”

“I’d stack inventory outside, in the clean air, and I’d work with a few fellows who’d watch out for me…” “Louis!”

“…I hear factories in London are much safer than here.”

“London! Louis, Louis, what are you talking about?” Emmy grabbed my face.

I squinted at two sparkling brown orbs. Was she crying?

“No.” Emmy covered her mouth with a hand. “No, you aren’t going to London. How could you? No one loves you there. No one knows you there…”

Your father seems to think it is my home country.

“Emmy. Emmy Emmy Emmy.” I held her close, stroking her hair. “I don’t plan to work there.”

She sat back. “What?”

“I’ve heard Mr. Godfrey talk about them. A London factory is the last place I should work. Your father means well, but I can’t do that. They wouldn’t take a blind boy.”

“Wh-where will you go, then? How on earth will you make money?”

“I have family in Paris. Mother says they have wine vineyards. I’ll work for them.”

“That…” Emmy’s fingers traced the veins on the back of my hand. “That’s much safer.” She was silent for the longest time. “You’ll be safe? And come home quickly?”

I pulled her hands away and stood, playing with the ring on her finger. “I will. I love you.”

“Louis…”

“Emmy. I don’t have a choice. You want to marry me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. But, Louis…”

“Yes, love?”

“How long will you be gone?” How long? How long to board a ship, to find a place I’d only heard about, to earn and save an impossible amount of money? How long, indeed.

I set my expression. “I’ll be home by Christmas.”

Buy Links

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OMFS0S8
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Lights-Rachael-Kosinski-ebook/dp/B00OMFS0S8/
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-christmas-lights-rachael-kosinski/1120609560
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-christmas-lights
https://www.omnilit.com/product-thechristmaslights-1653973-162.html
https://www.scribd.com/book/243684383/The-Christmas-Lights
https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/romance/historical-romance/the-christmas-lights-detail

About the Author

When she was little, Rachael Kosinski wanted to be a paleontologist, an astronaut, a nature photographer, a writer for National Geographic, an Egyptologist, and the next Jane Goodall. Instead of being a new link between man and chimp, or discovering a planet suitable for sustained human life, or maybe even winning renowned fame by stumbling across an undiscovered dinosaur, Rachael finally decided that, if she never became a writer, she would simply die. Nine years later, she now possesses a quirky knowledge of world mythology, an addiction to coffee, and a penchant for making over-expressive faces at her laptop.

Hoodwinked! Blackmail!

By Guest author

On November 23, 2016

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

Dear Mr. Clemens,

I am no one important, truly, but I do have a place in Society as the companion of the Marchioness of H—. Her sight is not up to snuff, as most know, and so I act as her eyes and report on the wardrobes, manners and activities of the guests at the events we attend.

henriettebrowne It is in this capacity that I have noticed something odd, sir, and I think that you and the readers of the Teatime Tattler deserve to know—that I believe the members of the ton are being hoodwinked!

I say this because I witnessed a strange occurrence at the theatre some weeks ago. The well-known debutante Miss P— was in attendance and arrived in the carriage just before ours. I saw a street urchin approach the young lady. An unusually long exchange occurred, one that did not sound at all convivial—and at the end Miss P— gave the audacious waif one of her earrings. Since Miss P—a is not known to be of a charitable bent, my employer and I speculate that the young lady had been blackmailed!

All well enough, although the young miss’s mother later denied it. But then I happened to catch a glimpse of . . . let me just say, someone who looks very like that street urchin—at Lady Dayle’s soiree! Well! And the plot thickened further when the urchin was introduced as a certain infamous earl’s betrothed—and it began to be noticed that Miss P— has been spending an inordinate amount of time around said earl—at a time when her own betrothed has been called to the country.

Such goings on! All very suspicious to both myself and my employer. You may rest assured that I will watch very closely this evening at Lady Feltham’s ball—and will report again if I notice anything untoward.

Ever Watchful

A concerned wallflower

Readers can sample that blackmail scene at my website: http://www.debmarlowe.com/the-earls-hired-bride.html

About The Earl’s Hired Bride

Because an unmarried Earl must be in want of a bride . . .

Every debutante in the ton wants to be the Countess of Hartford—and mistress of Hartsworth Castle. Never mind that Hart has no interest in marrying just yet, the young ladies hunt him as ruthlessly as a pack of hounds after the elusive fox. What he needs is a hired bride—one who is guaranteed to call it off at the end of the Season.

Because a girl with no prospects will do what she must to help her family . . .

Miss Emily Spencer must do something. Her mother’s health is failing and the notorious Duke of Danby is growing dangerously close. Why not hide in plain sight and pretend to be the Earl of Hartford’s betrothed? And getting paid for her troubles? It’s just what she needs to make her family comfortable again.

Because love comes when you least expect it . . .

Sparks fly when the two put their plan in motion—and deeper emotions grow. But how can they be together when the path they’ve forged only leads to their inevitable separation?

iBooks – http://apple.co/2dfSzDc
Amazon – http://amzn.to/2dqDDCQ
Nook – http://bit.ly/2dkeRmr
Kobo – http://bit.ly/2dKTQDn
Google Play – http://bit.ly/2dIBmnP

About the Author

USA Today Bestselling Author Deb Marlowe loves History, England and Men in Boots. Clearly she was meant to write Regency Historical Romance!

Deb grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’d read enough romances to recognize the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo t-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys. Though she spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it. Deb loves to hear from readers! You can contact her:

on FB at https://www.facebook.com/pages/DebMarlowe/70397149702
and
https://www.facebook.com/d.m.marlowe
on Twitter at https://twitter.com/DMMarlowewrites
and as @DebMarlowe
on her website at www.DebMarlowe.com
and
http://www.dmmarlowe.com
on Pinterest at https://www.pinterest.com/DebMarloweWrite/

Amy Rose Bennett Interviews Miss Kate Woodville, Heroine of ‘Dashing Through the Snow’

By Guest author

On November 12, 2016

In Teatime Tattler

Today I have the pleasure of chatting with Miss Kate Woodville, the bluestocking heroine of my latest novella Dashing Through the Snow as we take tea at Miss Clemens’s Oxford Street Book Palace and Tearooms. Her story appears within the Bluestocking Belles’ recently released holiday anthology Holly and Hopeful Hearts.

Amy: Thank you so much for your time, Miss Woodville. I know how busy you are.

Kate: No, thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Bennett. I am very happy to share my story with readers.

Amy: Please, call me Amy.

Kate: And I would be delighted if you called me Kate.

Miss Kate Woodville

Amy: Now then, perhaps you could tell readers a little bit more about yourself, Kate. They may have already heard that you are a bluestocking and a teacher at Mrs. Brookes’ Academy for Young Ladies in Kensington, but is there anything else in particular you would like them to know…

Kate: Why yes, there is, Amy. Readers may not know that I am a keen supporter of the London-based charity, The Benevolent Society for the Women of Whitechapel. My dear friend and fellow bluestocking, Miss Tessa Penrose (whom I know you are well acquainted with too, Amy) introduced me to the charity about a year ago.

Amy: A most worthy cause. And I believe you have been invited to a certain Yuletide house party hosted by the most gracious Duchess of Haverford. At Hollystone Hall in Buckinghamshire. It’s sure to be a wonderful occasion, especially considering the event will culminate in a New Year’s Eve charity ball!

St Mary Matfelon Church, Whitechapel

Kate: Yes… I have been invited… [Kate pauses to sip her tea] Of course, it would be a marvellous opportunity to promote White Church House, the charity lodging house provided by The Benevolent Society and St Mary Matfelon Church. So many destitute women and their children rely on their support. Tessa and I were hoping we could secure funds for repairs to the house and employ a teacher for the children on a permanent basis; at the moment, Tessa and I, and a few other ladies provide lessons when we can…

Amy: If you don’t mind me remarking, you seem a little hesitant about attending the house party.

Kate: Yes. I am concerned that a certain dowager viscountess, her daughter (who is quite delightful, a former student of mine in fact) and her stepson will also be guests. I’m afraid the viscountess and her stepson do not think much of me.

Anthony Lockhart, Lord Stanton

Amy: And this stepson would be Lord Stanton (I think readers might be aware of his name so I hope you don’t mind me sharing it)?

Kate: [Blushes] Yes. Our interactions to date have not been all that amicable. You see, my brother, Freddie Woodville, has developed a rather strong tendre for Lord Stanton’s younger sister, Violet Lockhart. And unfortunately, both Lord Stanton and his step-mother believe a match between them would be most unsuitable. They believe Freddie to be a scoundrel and a fortune hunter. Of course, he is neither of those things.

Amy: For the enlightenment of our readers, I will add that Freddie is a war hero and the heir to a barony in Cumberland.

Kate: He is indeed. But it seems Lord and Lady Stanton have taken it upon themselves to delve into my family’s background. I am worried they will both go to great lengths to stop Freddie’s pursuit of Violet… even if that means ruining my reputation as well.

Amy: I understand your upbringing and family history is a delicate subject so perhaps I should steer the conversation to safer waters for now…. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind me asking, what are you most proud of about your life?

Kate: [Smiles brightly] My charity work of course. And—I hope this doesn’t sound too boastful—my skill as a pianist. My dearly departed mother, even though we could ill-afford it at the time, purchased a pianoforte when I was twelve and I fell in love with playing it. Now that I work at Mrs. Brookes’ exclusive ladies’ academy, I have no need for it so I have donated it to White Church House. There’s nothing more enjoyable than seeing the children’s faces light up when I play songs for them at the end of their music lessons. Music brings such joy into people’s lives, don’t you think?

Amy: I agree wholeheartedly. And I’m sure your mother would be very proud of you, Kate.

Kate: I like to think so too.

Amy: Changing tack again, is there anything about yourself that you would like to change?

Kate: [Laughs] Apart from my unruly red hair and the freckles on my nose? I think my temper can be a little too quick. I sometimes speak my mind when perhaps I shouldn’t and that gets me into trouble.

Amy: Now, I hope you don’t mind if I venture another personal question or two. You are five-and-twenty and many young women about your age, or indeed younger, aspire to marry. Is that one of your aspirations? And if so, what is your idea of a good marriage? Do you think that will happen in your life?

Kate: Oh no. Marriage is not for me. Although I am reluctant to share details, I will say my parents’ union was not a happy one. And, I like my independence. I have a teaching career, and my charity work is most fulfilling. I do not feel that anything is missing from my life. Freddie may believe he has found a love-match with Violet Lockhart, but I do not put much store in such things.

Amy: Yet you blushed when I mentioned Lord Stanton earlier…

Kate: [Blushes again and frowns at the same time] I’m sure it was a flush of anger. pink-macarons That man can be most… vexing. Perhaps you would like more tea, Ms. Bennett. Shall I order a fresh pot? And some of those little ginger cakes and macaroons that were on display?

Amy: That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Kate for taking the time to talk with me. I’m sure the readers of the Teatime Tattler will appreciate how candid you’ve been. And like me, they will wish you all the best with promoting your charity at the Duchess of Haverford’s house party.

Kate: [Nods and smiles] No, thank you, Amy. And all the best with Holly and Hopeful Hearts. The Bluestocking Belles have created a delightful collection of stories.

_____________________________

Continue on to read an exclusive excerpt from Dashing Through the Snow. In this scene, Anthony Lockhart, Lord Stanton, and his step-mother have paid an unexpected visit to Mrs. Brookes’ Academy for Young Ladies to see Kate…

He was examining the street through the casement window when she entered but when the door clicked shut he turned and his unnerving gray gaze settled unerringly on her.

At that moment, it felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room as the overwhelming presence of the man struck her to dumbness. She’d forgotten how tall and physically imposing Lord Stanton was. And how distracting his handsome countenance. Even more handsome now that he was sans mask. Indeed, his harshly chiseled features made her think of a Greek or Roman warrior… Or god…

Good heavens, where had that errant thought come from?

Kate blushed and curtsied low to try and hide her discomfiture. This interview wouldn’t go well at all if she was addled from the very start. “Good day, Lord Stanton. Lady Stanton,” she said in a voice that was thankfully steady when she found it. She didn’t add anything else. If they wanted to broach a difficult subject, let them begin.

The viscountess, who was seated upon a shepherdess chair upholstered in pale caramel velvet, sniffed as she looked her up and down. Attired in a superbly cut walking gown and matching spencer in cobalt blue it was clear she thought little of Kate’s plain gray dress.

“You must know why we are here,” the viscountess said at length after she’d completed her perusal. Even though Lady Stanton was as fair-haired as her daughter, her eyes were a cold, pale blue rather than gray. Indeed the shade rather reminded Kate of Arctic ice and it was all she could do not to shiver as the viscountess continued to stare at her.

Kate folded her hands in front of her to stop them from shaking before she responded. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

Lady Stanton arched a flaxen brow. “For a teacher, I must say, you do not seem overly bright.”

“For a viscountess, I must say, you do not seem overly gracious.” Kate bit her lip. Oh dear. Now she’d done it.

“Well I never!” Lady Stanton’s eyes darted blue fire.

“Ladies. Might I intervene?” Lord Stanton stepped forward to take up a position behind the dowager viscountess’s chair. “Miss Woodville, we know your brother has been pursuing Violet against our wishes. And that you have been a party to the subterfuge going on.”

Kate raised her chin. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Do you deny that Violet and your brother met, in secret, at White Church House two days ago and at Miss Clemens’s Book Palace just yesterday?”

“I hardly think a public book shop and a charity lodging house are places one would choose to arrange secret assignations,” Kate retorted. “Besides, I am not my brother’s keeper. Nor am I responsible for your sister’s comings and goings. Your concern is duly noted but I really don’t know why you would bother coming to me about this.”

Lord Stanton drummed his fingers along the back of the shepherdess chair. “Tell your brother he must stop chasing after my sister.”

“Oh, it all becomes clear now. I’m sure he’ll listen.”

Lord Stanton’s wide mouth twitched but whether it was with grudging amusement or anger she really couldn’t tell.

Lady Stanton rose and wandered over to the fireplace. “Tell me about White Church House. You say it is some sort of lodging house. For the poor?”

Kate frowned, confused at the woman’s sudden change of tack. “Yes. It is run by The Benevolent Society for the Women of Whitechapel and St Mary’s Church. It’s a charity that supports destitute women and their children. But surely you are aware of all this considering you knew that Violet arranged a visit.”

“Hmph.” The viscountess ran a gloved fingertip along the marble mantel and then examined her black kid glove for dust. “It all sounds very commendable.” Her gaze flicked back to Kate’s face. “I can see why it would appeal to someone like you, given your background.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Kate’s eyes met Lord Stanton’s and color stained his cheeks. He’s ashamed.

However it was Lady Stanton who spoke. “My stepson has discovered the most interesting things about you and your brother,” she said in a deceptively mild tone. “Your family’s history…”

_____________________________

ABOUT HOLLY AND HOPEFUL HEARTS

When the Duchess of Haverford sends out invitations to a Yuletide house party and a New Year’s Eve ball at her country estate, Hollystone Hall, those who respond know that Her Grace intends to raise money for her favorite cause and promote whatever marriages she can. Eight assorted heroes and heroines set out with their pocketbooks firmly clutched and hearts in protective custody. Or are they?

****25% of the proceeds from the sale of Holly and Hopeful Hearts will be donated to the Malala Fund****

Buy Links:

_____________________________

ABOUT AMY ROSE BENNETT

AmyRose Bennett

You can find out more about Amy Rose Bennett and her books right here, on the Bluestocking Belles’ website.

Overheard at the Arguello-Lekarski Wedding, Rancho de las Pulgas

By Guest author

On November 2, 2016

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

San Francisco Bay Area

April 1863

Señora Díaz looked down her nose at Aleksandra Arguello, nee Lekarski, holding hands with her new husband, Xavier beneath the lofty trees of the hacienda. She watched as the bridegroom picked a choice morsel of the carne asada from the long planks covered with the succulent roast meat and served it to her with glowing eyes. “Have you heard,” she said, “that these two have travelled all the way from Utah to here, without a duenna?” She wrinkled her nose.

“I heard they were married,” Señora Martínez said, reaching out for another hot, fresh tortilla, and ladling the spicy mole sauce over it, “or thought they were.”

“How could they possibly have thought they were?” She nearly dropped her plate in her excitement, then set it down on the table beside her. “Either one is or one is not!”

lizzie-dos-senoras “A Methodist pastor performed the ceremony in Virginia City, in the absence of a Catholic priest. It is acceptable to our church, but it turns out that is only the case when the bishop has given his approval.”

“And he hadn’t?” Señora Díaz’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and she turned to glare at the newlyweds.

Her friend’s pursed lips provided the answer.

“Well. Well…” Señora Díaz couldn’t seem to come up with a suitable reply.

“Weren’t you planning on Xavier for your daughter?” Señora Martínez looked at her sideways, her voice hushed behind her fluttering fan.

She glanced at her overblown daughter and pursed her lips. “My husband and Xavier’s deceased stepfather had an agreement.”

“And?”

“Well, it seems the lad ran away from home at fourteen, only to be seen again this year, with this…blonde…” She glanced at the bride, slim and glowing in her exquisite gown of bronze-gold silk taffeta and burgundy brocade, her mantilla floating down her back. She turned her gaze again to her properly dark-haired, Californio daughter, stuffing her face with another palillis, and liberally dusting her wine-colored gown with the fried pastry’s generous sprinkling of powdered sugar. She winced. “Nothing wrong with my daughter,” she whispered, if a bit sharply.

Señora Martínez blinked and imperceptibly shook her head. “They came here from Sacramento during the flood last winter, and they saw the inauguration of Leland Stanford, our Governor. Did you know, he had to go to the Capitol building in a rowboat?”

“How do you know all this?”

“I met them at this rancho earlier in the year, and they told me the story.”

“Ah, so you’ve met them already.” Señora Díaz gulped, her eyes narrowed at her companion. “I had no idea.” She had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Yes, Xavier told me Aleksandra suggested to Mr. Stanford that they jack up the buildings of downtown Sacramento, like they did recently in Chicago.”

Señora Díaz’s brows shot up.

“He also told me,” Señora Martínez positively smirked, “that Aleksandra rode the Pony Express, as a boy!”

This was too much for Señora Díaz.

I’m afraid to report, she fainted dead away at the thought.

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lizzi-a-long-trail This is an original piece and is incidental to A Sea of Green Unfolding.

The Long Trails Quadrilogy of Historical Romantic Suspense novels:

Book One: A Long Trail Rolling

Book Two: The Hills of Gold Unchanging, to be released 15 December, in time for Christmas! It will soon be available for pre-order for $2.99 at online retailers.

Book Three: A Sea of Green Unfolding, to be released soon thereafter

Book Four: A Bold Country Evolving, in research

A Long Trail Rolling

In 1860’s Old West, Aleksandra gets herself into a bit of strife…and the only way she can see out of it is to ride the famed Pony Express…as a boy. Not the best façade, when your boss is as gorgeous and appealing a man as Xavier…and together they somehow must evade the man who has already killed Aleksandra’s father…and has set his sights on her.

**Buy Links for A Long Trail Rolling:**

Amazon US

Other Buying Options

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Meet Lizzi Tremayne

lizzi-tremayne Lizzi grew up riding wild in the Santa Cruz Mountain redwoods, became an equine veterinarian at UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, practiced in the California Pony Express and Gold Country before emigrating to New Zealand. When not writing, she’s swinging a rapier or shooting a bow in medieval garb, riding, driving a carriage or playing on her farm, singing, or working as an equine veterinarian or science teacher. She is multiply published and awarded in special interest magazines and veterinary periodicals.

You can learn more about Lizzi’s work on the following social media outlets:

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~ ~ Awards for A Long Trail Rolling ~ ~

RWNZ Pacific Hearts for Best Unpublished Manuscript 2014: 1^st Place

RWNZ Koru Awards for Excellence 2015: Best First Book: 1^st Place & Best Long Novel: 3^rd Place

RWNZ Great Beginnings Contest 2013: Finalist

The Best Indie Book Awards 2015: Finalist

New Zealand Book Awards as a YA 15+: Longlisted

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Excerpt

‘Sguir! Aleksandra, stop!’ Aleksandra heard Scotty bark, and then continue in a low, steady voice. ‘Wouldn’t move, ‘f I was you, Xavier. Her da’s Cossack-trained and it ‘pears she is too.’ Scotty chuckled.

She felt Xavier ease his hold on her, but he didn’t let go, despite the blade at his neck.

‘Now a nighean,’ Scotty admonished her, ‘Xavier’s a charaid, a friend. He’s been watchin’ over ye for the best part of the afternoon.’

She relaxed the death-grip on her shashka, removing its tip from Xavier’s throat. Her gaze met his smooth cocoa eyes fringed by long, black lashes, crinkles of laughter showing at their corners. Aleksandra’s bronze-skinned benefactor had the look of a dark Spanish lord.

‘The vixen has teeth,’ Xavier said with a grin. Aleksandra gave him the ghost of a smile, then frowned at his hands still upon her. White scars crisscrossed his right one, especially his knuckles. He let go of her and stepped back from her side.

‘Well Aleks, feelin’ better after yer little rest?’ Scotty approached cautiously, removing the sword from her shaky grip. ‘How ’bout a drink of water?’ He reached for the filled mug. ‘Ye ready to talk yet?’

She nodded slowly, eyes on Xavier.

‘Where’s yer da, Aleks?’ Scotty’s brow wrinkled, his voice tender

Aleksandra’s heart sank as she struggled to sit up. Reaching for the proffered cup, she drank slowly. The liquid’s coolness soothed her cracked lips and parched throat. Handing the vessel back, she wrapped her arms about herself tightly, chin to chest. When she swayed again, she dimly noticed Xavier moving closer, and was surprised to recognize that she didn’t mind his all-too-familiar closeness.

‘Papa is at rest,’ she said haltingly, so softly they had to move in close, ‘with Mama and my brothers.’