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Category: Teatime Tattler Page 114 of 152

Scandal in Portugal

You will be shocked to hear, dear Readers, that the family of wealthy shipping magnate Mr Franz van Daan has been rocked by the news of his younger son’s scandalous second marriage.  The Tattler has been fortunate to obtain copies of the following correspondence from a source close to the family.

London, September 1810

My Dear Paul

I received your letter yesterday and I admit to being shocked and saddened to hear that you have married again so soon after Rowena’s death.  While I know you were not faithful to her and that you married because she was with child, I believed that you had grown genuinely attached to her and I cannot believe you would dishonour her memory by marrying this widow so quickly.

I am further shocked given the rumours I am hearing about Mrs Carlyon from sources who met her in Portugal during her first marriage.  It is very clear to me that your affair has been going on for some time and has been much talked of, and there are rumours that you were not her first lover.  In fact, I should tell you that her name has been linked with Lord Wellington himself.  I hope you have not allied yourself to a fortune hunter.

There is no point in saying more, since it is done. I would not wish to be estranged so I will receive her, but I hope you will not regret such a hasty decision.  I have informed the children.  Both Grace and Francis are very upset.

Yours, in sorrow,

Franz van Daan

Pere Negro, Portugal, October 1810

Dear Father

I have little time as I have been ordered to Lisbon during winter quarters on a commission for Lord Wellington and I need to set off early tomorrow.

What the devil you think it has to do with you whom I marry and when is a mystery to me.  It is clear you have been listening to gossip from Horse Guards and I thought you knew better.  Since I don’t have time for the full story and it’s none of your damned business anyway, I won’t bother to defend my wife’s reputation although if I hear you’ve been sharing your opinions about her publicly I will forget our relationship and your numerous grey hairs and punch you the next time I see you.  It is true that I’ve known Nan for several years but there was no affair.  She was Rowena’s best friend and is the love of my life.  Receive her or don’t, I couldn’t give a damn but if you can’t be civil it’s the last you’ll see of me.

Eventually you will meet her and I suspect you will revise your opinion very quickly; she is extraordinary and you should be thanking her for taking me on, God knows I’m not that much of a catch.

I need to go.  Give my love to the children and tell them I miss them and that their new stepmother is longing to meet them.  I’ll write properly when I get time.

My love to Josh and Patience, and to you too. I’ve no wish to be at odds with you over this, but you need to remember that I’m past the age of needing your approval.

Yours, in a hurry,

Paul

P.S.  I forgot to tell you I’ve been made a colonel and I now command the 110th.  My lass will make a very beautiful colonel’s wife.  I hope you’re proud.

An Unconventional Officer (Book 1 of the Peninsular War Saga)

It is 1802, and two new officers arrive at the Leicestershire barracks of the 110th infantry just in time to go to India.  Sergeant Michael O’Reilly and Lieutenant Johnny Wheeler have seen officers come and go and are ready to be unimpressed but they have never come across an officer like Lieutenant Paul van Daan.

Arrogant, ambitious and talented, Paul van Daan is a man who inspires loyalty, admiration and hatred in equal measure.  His unconventional approach to army life is about to change the 110th into a regiment like no other.

The novel follows Paul’s progress through the ranks of the 110th from the bloody field of Assaye into Portugal and Spain as Sir Arthur Wellesley takes command of the Anglo-Portuguese forces against Napoleon.  There are many women in Paul’s life but only two who touch his heart.

Rowena Summers, a shy young governess who brings him peace, stability and lasting affection.

Anne Carlyon, the wife of a fellow officer who changes everything Paul has ever believed about women.

As Europe explodes into war, an unforgettable love story unfolds which changes the lives of everyone it touches.

Lynn Bryant was born and raised in London’s East End. She studied History at University and had dreams of being a writer from a young age. Since this was clearly not something a working class girl made good could aspire to, she had a variety of careers including a librarian, NHS administrator, relationship counsellor and manager of an art gallery before realising that most of these were just as unlikely as being a writer and took the step of publishing her first book.

She now lives in the Isle of Man and is married to a man who understands technology, which saves her a job, and has two teenage children and two Labradors. History is still a passion, with a particular enthusiasm for the Napoleonic era and the sixteenth century. When not writing she reads anything that’s put in front of her and makes periodic and unsuccessful attempts to keep a tidy house.

Lynn has eight books published on Amazon kindle, five of which are also available in paperback.  They include the first four books of the Peninsular War Saga; two books in the Light Division Romances, a series of Regency romances following some of the officers of the Light Division into peacetime; a Victorian romance set in London’s East End and a Marcher Lord which is set on the turbulent Anglo-Scottish border during the sixteenth century.

Lynn’s website and blog are at www.lynnbryant.co.uk and she is also on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/historyfiction1803/ and on Twitter at https://twitter.com/LynnBry29527024

 

A Famous Artist Asks For Help

Dear Mr. Clemens,

Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun. A self-portrait. The late 18th-early 19th century French portrait painter was one of Marie-Antoinette’s favourite court painters

I am writing to ask if you will lend your considerable influence as one of society’s leading doyen in sponsoring a talented young artist I have taken a liking to.

Miss Laura Cappleman, you may have heard, made a successful debut in the Season of 1814, but the events after that time have been largely tragic.

You might think it quite selfish of me to make light of the poor girl’s misfortune, but it seems to have quite the unexpected outcome.

You see, her experience has made her art one of a kind. When she paints scenes of the Oriental marketplaces of Africa or of life inside the Ottoman harem, one is utterly transported.

One can feel the beating heat of the sun, smell the pungent aroma of the spices, shudder the menace of the large eunuchs and their scimitars, be awe-struck by the opulence inside these pleasure palaces.

Miss Cappleman knows these places first hand. If her name didn’t ring a bell when I first mentioned it, I’m sure you remember hearing about her abduction in August of 1814 at the hands of white slavers. It was covered in The Times.

The story of her rescue two years later is one of the most remarkable tales I’ve heard. I’m trying to persuade her to draw on her experience more to create great art for the world to see.

The Royal Academy summer exhibition is the perfect opportunity for this young lady to make a debut of another sort – a launch into the artworld which is her due.

A word in the ear of the Royal Academy directors and sponsors to consider this impressive young artist would be considered a personal favour.

Yours,
Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun

Revenge of the Corsairs

Madame Vigée-Le Brun stood in front of the still life. She pulled a small pince-nez from her reticule to take a close look. After a minute or two, the great French artist left that painting without comment and examined the portrait of Victoria.

Pull yourself together, Laura! If she were to enter the Royal Academy’s exhibition, her works would be judged worthy or wanting in a heartbeat. If she were to exhibit at all, many people would be staring at her work. Yet this somehow, seemed different.

After a length of time, the French woman looked up from the portrait and spoke. “I understand from your sister-in-law that you have returned to England only recently.”

“Yes. I spent time abroad.”

“Did you do anything? Did you see anything?”

Laura’s mouth dried. “I, ah, I mean, I spent time in Sicily and…”

The artist removed the glasses. “And you experienced nothing?”

“I beg your pardon?”

The older woman let out a long, put-upon sigh. “All I see is practiced technique, adequate color choice, and a schoolgirl’s sensibilities.”

Laura couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her mouth.

“I’m sure you are a delight to your friends and family, who no doubt praise you endlessly, but I am not here to coddle or to give you false flattery. I do not see the soul of an artist in these paintings.”

Laura fought a trembling of shame, and fear, and disappointment. It was a small miracle she was able to reply, “Then I am sorry to have wasted your time, Madame.”

The woman shrugged. “I said I would look at your works and I will.”

The third painting, she studied for a few seconds; the fourth, the landscape, received nothing more than a cursory glance. “I spent three years in Rome, I was inducted into the Accademia di San Luca,” she continued conversationally, either unaware or unconcerned Laura’s hope had turned to dust.

“How very nice for you,” replied Laura, bitterness dripping from each word.

“What I am trying to say to you, ma fille, is your work seems utterly unmarked by your time abroad. That, I fear, makes you a dabbler, someone who pretends to be an artist. If you can live on La Méditerranée and not be influenced by such histoire, people, and surroundings, then I’m afraid you will be nothing more than a very little talent.”

Laura looked down. Her knuckles were white, but her face, she was sure, was puce. Her disappointment of a few moments ago was now a rage. How dare that woman say she was unmarked!

“How dare you?” she repeated out loud, unaware Madame Vigée-Le Brun had approached her final painting.

“You have no idea what happened to me there. No idea! I have been scarred to the depths of my soul. I was seized and imprisoned for nearly two years in an Ottoman harem. I was violated repeatedly by a man who had the power of life and death over me. The only good thing I have left is painting. Can you blame me for not wanting it tainted?”

When she looked up, Madame Vigée-Le Brun was not looking at her; she peered instead at the last painting, the Tunisian market scene. “La! That is it – c’est de cela que je parlais!”

Her face animated, the woman turned the easel around so the canvas faced them both. Laura could feel the desert heat of its colors from where she stood.

“You are afraid of this beast that is locked in your breast? Let it out, my dear! You cannot hide from it! I see hints of it in this painting here. In this work, I begin to see the world as you see it.”

Revenge of the Corsairs out now exclusive to Amazon

Dispatch From the Gold Fields

Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory

Dear Mr. Clemens,

Wyoming Gold Fields Western RomanceHere is the report you requested. Of late, I’ve been exploring the rumors of gold to be found in the Wyoming territory of the former colonies. While the rumors are true, the location of the gold fields is on lands belonging to the Sioux nation. Relations are hostile between these aborigines and the somewhat more civilized government of the United States of America. In addition, the area of the gold fields, known as the Black Hills, is exceedingly difficult to access. Thus, few white men and fewer white women have traveled through the place. I have determined to do so, myself. Not for greed of gold, but for greed of experience. I have never denied my eagerness to see what is around the next corner, tree, rock, or river bend. Be that as it may, I am currently in the boomtown of Cheyenne seeking a guide of good reputation to shepherd my little party [Yes, despite her megrims, my maid Analisa is still with me, but more of her peccadillos at another time.]

To continue, I have interviewed a number of guides only one of whom has proven suitable. The first was a shifty-eyed drunk whom I would not allow within my chambers. The second, a Mr. J. Bridger, is a quite famous mountain man. He was sober and very entertaining, but his English is so poor I could scarcely understand him. Heavens, the man could not even read. Nor was his hygiene acceptable.

The third man, Mr. W. Hickock is also quite famous. He is very colorful wearing pistols holstered on each hip and having long, locks of hair, which were kept scrupulously clean, unlike Mr. Bridger. I had almost agreed to accept Mr. Hickock’s services despite his exorbitant fees when the most unruly and oddly dressed female I had ever seen burst into the room and drew her pistol, holding me and Mr. Hickock at gunpoint.

“Y’ ain’t a goin’nowheres without me Bill,” the woman stated. “And I ain’t a lettin’ y’ dilly dally with some hoity toity female foreigner. ‘Til I sez otherwise, I’m the onliest woman whose skirts y’ kin lift.

Did I mention that this creature wore men’s pants and a fur covering that looked as if it had once been part of a bear? I bristled at being called hoity toity by anyone of such obviously low stamp, to say nothing of the idea that I might ‘lift my skirts’ for any strange man. Before I could issue the set down this woman deserved. Mr. Hickock was on his feet, nobly placing his body between me and the pistol’s line of fire.

“Now Jane,” he said in a tone used to sooth wild animals. “You know I wouldn’t try to two-time you or any woman to whom I commit myself.”

“I know nothin’ of the sort, and won’t ‘til y’ agree t’ marry me.”

“I’m already married, Jane, as you are well aware.”

“Don’t keep you from cattin’ around with saloon dancers and squaws.”

Mr. Hickock cast a glance at me and could see I was less that pleased over what I’d heard and seen. I shook my head at him. He sighed and picked up his hat, then took Jane by the arm and escorted her from the room.

I have discovered that very few words are needed in this part of the world to convey significant information. Mr. Hickock perceived correctly that I would not be needing his services in any capacity. Yet he was kind enough to send another guide for me to interview.

This character, one Skinner Jones, I might have rejected instantly. Jones personal hygiene looked and smelled no better than Mr. Bridger’s. However, the educated speech that came from Jones’s mouth roused my interest, so I invited my guest to share tea with me as we discussed the possibility of escort from Cheyenne to the Black Hills.

Jones, despite all appearances and scents, was surprisingly erudite. Our conversation ranged from the Souix and their situation, to life on the Wyoming trails, and from there to the exigencies of my own travels. We discussed Dickens, Milton, and Shakespeare. I was introduced to new authors such as Poe, Melville, and Clemens. (Hence my communication started with that last author as a result of reading some very entertaining tales written under the pen name of Mark Twain.)

Not only was Jones an educated, well-spoken, and entertaining conversationalist, the guide exhibited a startling degree of comfort with proper conduct during a tea service. When I probed for more of Jones’s background, the guide became evasive and skillfully re-directed my questions. In another person, say of Mr. Bridger’s ilk, I might have become wary enough to decline that person’s escort. However, the combination of Jones’s manners, obvious erudition, and skillful handling of the most probing questions sparked my curiosity.

By the time we had finished our tea and conversation began to lag, I had made up my mind. I offered Jones the job. The guide would accept only if I chose to avoid the Black Hills and would be willing to travel to other safer locations in the territory. Jones guaranteed me I would not be disappointed. A description of Lake Yellowstone, the Wind River, and an area called Smoke Valley intrigued me so much that I was eager to dispense with any plans to visit the black Hills. There was one other item which decided my cooperation with Jones’s plans. Throughout our conversation, I observed that Jones behaved more like a female—the handling of cups and saucers, a certain delicacy of conduct when eating the cakes and drinking the tea, and a number of very subtle mannerisms that, in this wild western environment, perhaps only another delicately raised woman might recognize. What in the world was such a woman doing masquerading as a teamster? How had she come by the skills to, as is said in the west, ‘skin mules’ and earn the regard of men such as Mr. Hickock?

I had to know the answers to these questions and more. When I do, I shall write them down and if I obtain Jones’s permission will seek to publish the Legend of Skinner Jones. In the interim, I will be able to continue sending to the Tattler small tidbits detailing my adventures in Wyoming in the company of Skinner Jones.

Western Romance WyomingAbout the Book

One Night’s Desire, Historical Western Romance (1870 Wyoming)

A WOMAN ON THE RUN ~ Rustlers, claim jumpers and fire, nothing will stop Kiera Alden from reuniting her family. But an accusation of murder threatens her dreams and sets Marshall Evrett Quinn on her trail. She may be able to escape prison bars and eventually prove her innocence, but she can’t escape Quinn’s love.

A LAWMAN IN HOT PURSUIT ~ Marshall Evrett Quinn is relentless in pursuit of law-breakers, and pretty Kiera Alden is no exception. Clever and courageous, she evades him until chance encounter turns the tables. Finally, he has this elusive desperado under arrest, but success is bittersweet when she captures his heart.

Buy Links for One Night’s Desire:

Amazon–http://www.amazon.com/Nights-Desire-Crimson-Romance-ebook/dp/B00DL3ALFC/
B & N–http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-night-s-desire-rue-allyn/1115916242?ean=9781440567186
Crimson Romance–http://www.crimsonromance.com/historical-romance-novels/one-nights-desire/
Kobo–http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/one-night-s-desire

Excerpt

You can read an excerpt of One Night’s Desire here http://rueallyn.com/2c2ONDexcerpt.html.

Rue Allyn About the Author

Rue Allyn is the award-winning author of Historical, Contemporary and erotic Romance. When not writing, Rue travels the world and surfs the internet in search of background material and inspiration for her next heart melting romance. She loves to hear from readers, and you may contact her at  contact@RueAllyn.com. She can’t wait to hear from you.

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I had a terrific time today providing some of my research on my current work in progress, tentatively titled The Legend of Skinner Jones. This book tells the story of Boyd Alavarez and Elise Van Demer, two secondary characters from One Night’s Desire ~ Wildfire Love Book 2. The action of the Skinner Jones story takes place a few years after that of One Night’s Desire. Here’s a little more information about that book.

Visions of what could be…

Kenna, the healer for Clan MacLaren, pushed her cart of herbs towards the lists where the Knights of Berwyck were training. They had not yet called for her aid but she knew from the vision she had this morn they would have need of her skills. The men would be training far into the night if their master was not pleased with their performance this day. ’Twould not be the first time such a happening occurred, nor would it be the last.

Once reaching the outer baily, she continued onward through the postern gate and gazed out to the wide field where the lists could be found. She saw her liege lord sitting upon his black steed inspecting his men. He was a formidable foe and known as the Devil’s Dragon of Berwyck. Not many could best this man on a field of honor nor upon the battlefield, or so the stories went.

Her own eyes scanned the men ’til she found the one her heart continuously sought. Geoffrey… even thinking his name brought a smile to her lips and when he saw that she neared, he gave her that lopsided grin she had come to cherish. He was a cocky one and knew what he did to her with just one look in her direction, the rogue!

Geoffrey continued to occupy her thoughts as she pushed her cart up near the wall of the castle. She had barely gotten the wagon in place when she felt herself slipping into another vision. A mist rolled over the mountains whilst she watched the images swiftly pass afore her eyes. Berwyck Castle and war, a red haired woman who played with fire, women who were not of this world coming to the castle gates, along with seeing far into the future of what the world would someday become. 

“Kenna…”

Her name being called brought her out of trance-like state. She rubbed at her eyes ’til she was at last able to see Geoffrey leaning over her.

“What happened?” she asked, although she already knew her answer especially since she was propped up against the wall.

“Kenna, you gave me such a fright,” Geoffrey murmured with green eyes filled with concern. “Can you stand?’

Kenna clutched at his sleeve. “You must needs prepare yourself for war, Geoffrey,” she warned.

His chuckle rumbled inside his chest. “War? We have secured Berwyck in the name of our king. There will be no war.”

“Said every man too sure of themselves and their ability,” she returned with crossed brows.

He laughed again causing her frown to deepen. “We are the Devil’s Dragon’s men and remain victorious. Have you not heard that no man or beast can defeat us?”

“You make light of a situation when you should be heeding my words instead,” she replied but could not hide the smile that turned up the corners of her lips. He was just too handsome for her to resist his charms.

He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “You care for me, admit it,” he crooned softly.

Laughter bubbled forth from Kenna’s lips. “Never!” she cried out playfully. “You are already too sure of yourself. I shall not be the cause of your ego growing any larger, good sir. However would I deal with you then?”

“I am certain we could think of something, my lady,” he said afore placing a quick kiss to her cheek. He held out his hand for her to take but she hesitated knowing what could possibly happen if they were to touch.

Too late, he reached out to grasp her hand and vision’s once more swam afore her eyes with images of her and Geoffrey naked and kissing by a pond in a secluded cove. Just as quickly, she returned to the present. Her face flamed scarlet wondering if what she had just witnessed would come to pass. Afore she could make any attempt at speech, Geoffrey helped her gain her feet and placed a kiss above her knuckles.

“I must needs return to my training. You will sup with me this eve,” he stated, apparently sure of himself that he already knew her answer.

Kenna nodded and watched Geoffrey leave her side to return to the field. She was glad she had not mentioned the women from the future who would one day come to Berwyck to claim the hearts of the very knights who trained afore her. Geoffrey would surely think she was daft and, considering what she had just seen, she would not want him to think ill of her. Change was in the air and Kenna would look forward to what the future had in store for her and, of course, Geoffrey.

This is an original piece with Kenna and Geoffrey who are secondary characters in Sherry Ewing’s debut medieval romance, If My Heart Could See You available in audio book, eBook, and paperback.

When you’re enemies, does love have a fighting chance?

For Amiria of Berwyck, defeat does not come easily as she watches her home and clan being ripped asunder. When the very enemy who has laid siege to her home demands her fealty, she will do whatever it takes to protect her people including a hastily concocted ruse that quickly begins to unravel. All too soon, she starts to question whether she can forgive herself for betraying those she has sworn to protect.

Dristan of Blackmore, champion knight of King Henry II, has a reputation to uphold as the Devil’s Dragon. After his invading army conquers Berwyck castle, he sets out to manage the newly claimed estate by training its knights in the art of proper defense. At first, everything appears as it should be, or is it? Betrayed by those he believed he could trust, he must first set aside his anger before he can make room in his heart for love.

Together they are tied by an unspoken bond. As they begin to rebuild the land and unite their people, forces beyond their control attempt to tear apart their fragile truce and only time will tell if love will forever bring them together.

Buy Links ~ Read for #FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

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Also available in audio book:

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Sherry Ewing is one of the Bluestocking Belles. You can learn more about her on the tab above or on the following social media outlets:

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A peer’s ceremonial robes

Peers wearing their robes and waving their coronets celebrate the coronation of the king

Good day, everyone.  Lady Eleanor Pringle from the London Penny Post coming to you today with a very interesting and captivating interview.  I had been in town recently gathering information for an upcoming article regarding the pomp and ceremony of parliament when I ran into a special someone at Ede and Ravenscroft.  It was none other than Dane Redford Lambourne,  Earl of Huntsbridge.  He had been visiting the shop to have his family’s ceremonial robes cleaned, having been just recently given the title of Earl due to the untimely passing of his brother, when we got to chatting about everything noble and peer-like.

E: What a pleasure it is to run into you, Lord Huntsbridge,  I thank you for allowing me to speak to you so candidly about all of this.

H: The pleasure is mine, Lady Eleanor.  It is lovely to meet you.

E:  First, I wish to offer my sincerest condolences on the loss of your brother, the third Earl of Hunstbridge.  I’m sure his passing was quite a shock.

H:  It was.  My family and I had just discussed the fact that he was always the one who was healthy while the rest of us battled colds and fevers throughout childhood.  That a fever should bring him low, well, yes… quite the shock.

E: And your having to carry the new title was probably a shock as well.

H:  Yes, and equally daunting,  It was never a task I’d aspired to, and never thought on much, being the second son.  I had thought Thomas would have carried the title until my father passed and then his titles would go to his son.  It was unfortunate that he never had that chance to see either come to fruition.

E: It is quite the pity.  But now that the title falls to you, how are you getting on?

H:  It has its advantages and disadvantages.  Aside from the change in status, I have my brother’s tasks to take over, mainly handling my family’s many estates.    I am lucky in that I have a dedicated staff, and my younger brothers are also helping with some of the work until I get the routine down, but it is a lot of responsibility.  And of course, I am not used to the new moniker and the gesturing that comes with it, so it has been awkward to say the very least.

E:  Oh, I don’t know, I would think having people show respect in bows and nods would be rather flattering.

H:  I am so used to gesturing to others that I never once thought about people doing it to me.  It was very bizarre initially.

E:  And I see you are visiting Ede and Ravenscroft.  What is the occasion?

H:  Once I moved into Lambourne House, I had the staff clean some things out and I came across the family robes and coronets.  Several of each, as it were.  Many of them are my fathers and grandfathers before him, so they had seen better days.  Eventually they will be mine as my father, Lord Coventry, has taken a step back from his duties in Lords due to his health and I felt I should have them cleaned and repaired where needed as they had been stuffed in storage for so many years.

E: The robe, though strongly scented of mothballs, is rather lovely.  Can you tell me about it?

H: Indeed.  It is a parliamentary robe that was made for my grandfather, who was the first Marquess Coventry.  I am told Master Arlo put it together for him in the late 1700s.  The body is made of scarlet wool and it’s trimmed in the white ermine fur with the requisite three and a half bars of gold brocade suited to his title.  On the ceremonial robe, which is rarely worn, it has three and a half rows of the ermine tail, you can see the black bits here,  and there are also gold clasps, inlaid with mother of pearl, that were a gift from a French diplomat.

E: I believe your family has origins in France, am I correct?

H: Oh yes, though it was years back before my grandfather.  Our family name is French.

E: And the coronet you have with you?

H:  It is so heavy.  I cannot imagine how men wear these awful contraptions.

*Lord Huntsbridge handed it to me and it was, indeed, very heavy.  Perhaps a half stone or more.

E: Oh my!  Ones neck much pain them for days after having to don it.  As someone who does not own and will never have occasion to wear a coronet, when do you wear such a thing?  And the robes?

H: It is another thing I shall never understand. Look at the fine detail of the coronet.  The artistry of the design.  All the small details.  And it must have cost a small fortune to produce.  These are real pearls.  All this cost and work put into something worn maybe once in one’s lifetime, and then its stuffed in a box and forgotten.

E: That’s tragic.  You would think something so lovely would be displayed.

H:  You know, you are right. I should devise a way to display these items.  Perhaps set up a small type of cabinet in the foyer at Lambourne House.  Otherwise, it is quite the shame, and a huge waste of money to let them mold in a box somewhere.

E;  That’s a wonderful idea,Lord Huntsbridge.  And perhaps like the country homes, you could open your foyer to visitors to view them.

H:  Another fabulous idea.  Though I am sure my family would disparage having strangers wandering in and out of the house in town while they are trying to get on with their day.  I could do with having them set up at Leighsham Park though.   That is my mother’s estate in Grantham.  There’s a lovely corner to the entrance that would lend itself to being a sort of display area.

E:  I am glad to have given you ideas to work with.  They are truly too lovely to hide away.  But getting back to my question, when do you wear such things?

H: I do beg pardon, I did not mean to let my thoughts wander.  The robes are worn more often than the coronets, to be sure.  The robe here is for Parliament.  They are worn during the opening ceremonies each term.  I also have this ceremonial robe, which is more richly crafted with the velvet and ermine trimmings.  The coronets are only worn at royal coronations, when a sovereign is crowned.  It’s all very lovely but personally, I think it’s a waste of money.  I mean, it’s a beautiful piece to have on hand, and the closest I shall ever come to feeling like I have a crown on my head, but to wear it?  I don’t see the point.  It’s heavy and uncomfortable, and when we do put it on, it’s rather pompous, don’t you think?

E:  I think it’s all rather regal actually.  So very noble.

H:  I suppose if you do not have one or have no chance to get one, it’s a different story.  Very much the grass being greener, as it were.

E: I would say so, yes.  So you say this was all in storage.  Do they have special boxes?

H: The robes, yes.  They are boxed in tissue and kept on a shelf in our safe out of the damp to avoid mildew.  The coronets, well…  this one, the oldest article in our family, once came in a box, but that box is now long gone.  I am sure it dissolved over time.  The rest were all just shelved in the safe with the robes.  No special boxes.  Someone had stuffed them each with tissue to keep their shape, but they are all so old.  That is why I’ve brought them in, to be cleaned.

E: And perhaps you shall be wearing them yourself soon enough.

H:  As I mentioned, my father has not been in the public eye of late because of his health, so I suppose it’s fair to say I am just preparing for the inevitable.

E:  I know you say they are only worn for coronation ceremonies, but have you ever tried them on in private?

H:  A gentleman never tells…

And with a wink, Lord Hunstbridge excused himself to deal with the clerk who was taking in his items to be cleaned and refurbished. 

What a charming young man, and so handsome!  I could easily see him wearing those robes.  And a coronet on that brow of his would only make him seem more noble than he already is.  He was very kind in speaking to me and offered that I stop by for tea so that I may meet the rest of the household.  Such a generous offer from the new Earl.  Hold onto your bonnets, ladies.  This one is a real charmer.

Earl of my Heart

Dane Redford Lambourne, now Earl of Huntsbridge, never thought to live a responsible, noble existence. Spending his nights as a privileged gentleman, carousing and enjoying the company of friends was the only life he ever aspired to until the sudden death of his brother thrust him into a world he never wanted and was not prepared to face.

Lady Nichola Crawford could care less if the fabric of her new evening dress matched her shoes or if any of the men at the upcoming ball even looked in her direction. She would sooner stay in the country and scour her father’s library than place herself on the marriage block to be picked at and prodded by the scant handful of ill-deserving men in London.

But a chance meeting at a local confectioner shop is all it takes to set off sparks between the man who vowed no woman would ever get under his skin and the woman who would do anything to deny the love she felt for the Earl of her heart.

Buy Link: http://smarturl.it/EOMH

Meet Victoria Oliveri

History has always fascinated me.  From an early age, I recall asking my grandparents and great-grandparents about their pasts, what it was like in other countries, and found myself enthralled with the old customs they adhered to.

As I grew older, I became a genealogist for my family and traveled abroad to see where my roots started.  Pouring over old pictures and documents was like a treasure hunt, keeping my attention down to the finest detail.  How events came to pass based on the actions of a few excited me to uncover, and what I found always opened paths to new information.

I also became involved in reenactment groups and found that immersing myself in living history was both intriguing and intrinsic to my love of telling stories of the past.  Details are fleshed out for my readers because I know how things feel, how they smell, and how they taste.  As if I had been there, through some amazing portal, and have come back to share what I have learned.

My love of world travel also helps round out my stories in ways I cannot imagine.  I have had in-depth conversations with conservators about ramparts at an abandoned Irish castle I found, and have felt the stone beneath my fingertips.  I have walked down the streets of Mayfair, imagining my characters strolling there beside me, and I have sat in King Henry’s kitchen at Hampton Court joyfully smelling the meat cooking on the hearth.  With each separate occasion, I learn more about history.  Being hands-on has made me see beyond what any book could tell me, and all of those moments to come will only help me to write stories that will intrigue and entice you.

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