Dear Reader,
I offer you today a most interesting report from the ever-reliable Lady P:
Lady P, with more than the latest on dits—I have a confession to make! There have been a number of strapping young footmen over the years who had my heart fluttering, imagining stolen embraces in the linen closet, the tack room in the stables, the alcove… do forgive me for rambling. But, I simply must call your attention to the sixteen handsome-as-sin Irishmen who have been an even greater source of distraction as of late. Fueling more than one day dream because I do so hate to use the word fantasy.
Of whom am I speaking? You must have been banished to the Highlands if you have not espied at least one of the tall, broad shouldered, broad chested men in the Duke of Wyndmere’s private guard. Dearest they have been seen in London, Sussex, the Lake District, Cornwall, and even the Borderlands!
As with any supremely handsome man, there are bound to be salacious, notorious, and dare I say it, delicious, rumors regarding these men. Brothers and cousins and every one more handsome than the last.
Heavens, a glance at the head of the Duke’s Guard had me reaching for my hartshorn! Having seen the broad shouldered, deep chested, green-eyed blond giant, standing beside his equally tall and broad, dark-haired, dark-eyed cousin on one side, and his auburn-haired, blue-eyed giant of a cousin on the other, had my head spinning and my heart pounding. Botheration! Where was I? Those terribly handsome men in the Duke’s Guard have gotten me off track when what I wanted to share was the latest tidbit that I overheard.
Viscount C. all but told S.F. that his injured wife’s condition was less important than reporting in after his patrol. Now I am all for the separation of classes and knowing one’s place in Society, but even I would have to wonder what difference a scant quarter of an hour to see for himself that his wife was indeed on the mend was not too much to ask for.
There are times it pains me to repeat such, but it is for the greater good. For where would the duke and his extended family be without those sixteen men who, it is rumored, have been battered and have bled for those they protect?
Did I fail to mention that the duke’s London man-of-affairs and a certain inspector from Bow Street had to step in and mediate between the viscount and S.F.? How Their Graces will be able to move past this serious threat to the very foundation of His Grace’s private guard is beyond me.
My equilibrium has been knocked out of balance just passing on what I have heard. But fear not, dear reader, for I shall sally forth and uncover the resolution—for certainly there had to have been one—or my name isn’t Lady P! Rest assured, I shall share further news on this subject with the editor of this unimpeachable daily source of information.
The Duke’s Champion (The Duke’s Guard, Book 13)
©C.H. Admirand Feb. 2025
Excerpt:
If he hadn’t lost so much time recovering from wound fever, he might have confessed his small mindedness sooner. His thoughts drifted to a fiery-haired lass and wondered why Mary Kate had not come to see him after he’d been shot. He’d been courting the woman, and by all counts she was besotted with him.
Flaherty closed his eyes and swore, the lass had a perverse way of showing it. “I need to get back to work.” He needed to forget the faithless lass with the bewitching eyes. Concentrate on his duties. “’Tis what I signed on for.” He thought of his cousins’ wives and marveled that every one of them had been unafraid to go toe-to-toe with the men they married whenever they thought they were right. What a sight that had been!
“The lot of them are beautiful and stubborn to the bone.” His thoughts immediately went to the woman he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of while recovering. The fever held him in its grip longer than he anticipated. Bloody hell! He’d even dreamed Mary Kate had been beside him, but it must have been the fever overheating his brainbox. Flaherty had been weak as a babe those first few days after his fever broke. Well he was hale and hearty now, and had made up his mind to confront her. He decided it was past time to ask Sean for the time away from his duties to pay her a visit. She’d taunted him in his delirium—and in his sleep. It gutted him that his woman always claimed James Garahan was the man who’d saved her life. When would Mary Kate remember the far more dramatic rescue the day Flaherty had pulled Mary Kate and Lady Calliope, Viscountess Chattsworth, from the duke’s carriage? It had slid on ice, and tipped over onto its side, just a half a mile from Chattsworth Manor.
Mary Kate was a winsome lass, with blue-violet eyes, a sunshine smile, and lips as red as a rose. Soft and supple, just ripe for kissing. But women were fickle creatures at best. “Bloody hell.” Why had she deserted him in his time of need if she loved him? A devastating thought occurred… The lass was still in love with Garahan! Had she ever loved me?
Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F9QY519S
Author Bio:
If we have not met yet, I’m delighted to meet you. Here’s a little bit about me…
I have been writing romance novels for almost half my life—well, at least for the last thirty years. I’m a die-hard romantic and have to confess the broad shoulders and wicked glint in the brilliant green eyes of a stranger had my breath snagging in my breast, my heart beating madly, and my future flashing before my eyes. At the age of seventeen, I’d met the man I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life with.
I write Historical & Contemporary Romance featuring characters that I know so well: hardheaded heroes and feisty heroines! They rarely listen to me and in fact, I think they enjoy messing with my plans for them. Over the years I have learned to listen to them. I have always used family names in my books and love adding bits and pieces of my ancestors and ancestry in them, too! Visit my website to learn more about my books.
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Have you heard? There’s a woman—a girl really, no more than nineteen and born in the backwoods of Wisconsin, haunting the halls of Congress. She carries flowers from her garden and boxes of sweets and wears a winsome smile, but we all know what she’s really doing, twisting those congressmen around her little finger. That prairie upstart dares think that those august men will give a little nobody like her a fortune to make a sculpture of our dear assassinated president Abraham Lincoln.
Sharpen your fan edges and pour the tea strong, for last evening’s events at Lady A’s illustrious Mayfair residence have left tongues wagging and reputations teetering!
Dare To Tempt An Earl This Spring
Writing for the Teatime Tattler is my bread and butter, which means I must report on the latest gossip.
The Wallflower Ruse