England, 1453
If Only He Would Choose Me! Oh, the pain of love unrequited! I hope you have never known the like.
A few years back, I thought I could beguile the man I love, Sir Christian Gray, into marrying me. Surely he’d admire my many charms. Yes, I confess that I’ve already had not one, not two, but three husbands (and no, the marriages’ demises weren’t my fault. Despite rumors to the contrary, my third husband did NOT set me aside. Though that tale is what I agreed to put forth. A story for another day.). Unfortunately, I’ve not been blessed with children. Some men might look askance at such a past, but for all that I’m still young.
I’d set my cap for Sir Christian at first sight. Such a fetching, honorable, manly man. Oh, to see him astride a horse! I hoped he’d see what a handsome and excellent couple we could be, but he was quite clear about his intentions. Or lack thereof. For he eschewed marriage altogether!
He did agree to a dalliance, which, being lonely and in love, I allowed. Just having him on my arm brightened my day! He was so chivalrous and kind, a gallant knight as espoused in romances such as the one written by our Queen Margaret’s father. And, as to the unmentionables, well, let’s just say those were divine.
Then Lady Amice Winfield entered the picture. The king ordered Christian to protect her from unwanted suitors until he could find her an appropriate groom. Meaning one who would contribute to his coffers and/or yield a political alliance.
I pined when Christian left court, and was crushed when he returned with her in tow! Worse, it was instantly clear who he preferred. The gazes he gave her could melt butter. What he desired from a short, curly-haired brunette who chose to run her own castle and wanted to be a writer when he could have had my tall, lithe and ladylike blondness, I couldn’t understand. At first.
Yet I found myself in her orbit, for I worked for the king’s rival to the throne, Richard, Duke of York. And, while trying to prove my worth to one of the most powerful and wealthy men in all of England, I rashly promised him recruits. For when the duke succeeded to the throne, I wanted a higher place at his court.
Keep your enemies close, Ladies? I enlisted Amice, who crafted some of the truly scandalous poems so popular in our times. She insisted upon remaining anonymous. So I took the credit. Which proved not to be the wisest choice…and, in the end, cost any trust Christian had in me. I had to accept I’d lost him forever.
Now I am more alone than ever. And, a bit, shall we say, disgraced. With each passing day, I pray the pain caused by my own actions will fade. I shall not rest until I redeem myself. I hope the journey that lies ahead isn’t too long or arduous…. Will I ever find true love?
Thank you for listening,
Lady Belinda Carlisle
Lady Belinda Carlisle is a secondary character in Ruth Kaufman’s award-winning medieval At His Command.
Buy link:
https://www.amazon.com/Command-Historical-Romance-Version-Roses-Brides-ebook/dp/B00QPG52A6
Excerpt:
Seated with the king and a small group of advisors, Nicholas frowned as he watched Belinda and Amice talking on the other side of the Painted Chamber, a hall replete with biblical paintings covering the walls and ceiling. A group of men blocked his view, making him shift in his chair.
Being alone with Amice last night still haunted him. He’d remained in the hall, eyes closed, breathing slowly to still the pounding of his heart. To calm surging desire. If she hadn’t had the strength to leave, what would they have done? There, in the hall, where anyone could enter? Again having her in his arms made him forget his duties, his honor. He remained weak where she was concerned, despite many prayers for strength and more on her behalf every morning and every evening.
The king had pledged her to another. Thank goodness temptation would soon be removed.
He tried to convince himself he meant it.
She and Belinda slowly walked out of the room, heads bent close. He barely resisted the urge to jump to his feet.
What was Belinda up to? What if Amice confided in her? He signaled for Robert, seated on a fat velvet pillow, plucking ineffectively at a lute. Nicholas thought of sending for vellum to write a note, then thought better of it.
“Never mind, Robert, I’ll go. Come for me if the king needs me.”
He knew Robert returned to what he called his instrument of torture with great reluctance. Nicholas had assured him a true knight was well-versed in many areas, including music. So play he would.
Nicholas found the two women—one who wanted him, one he wanted—seated on a stone bench beneath a vine-encrusted trellis. Belinda wore blue brocade, while Amice wore a deep green gown that accentuated her eyes. He vowed to commit each moment with her to memory, in case it would be his last. The row of pearls trimming her neckline reflected late afternoon sun. A cream undergown peeked above the neckline. A mesh headdress with a short transparent veil that floated in the gentle breeze hid her hair.
He shook his head to make himself ignore the effect her beauty had on him, to clear fond memories of their days at Castle Rising and concentrate on what they were saying. And gleaned that he’d arrived in time.
“Lady Winfield, if I may interrupt, I’ve just come from the king and must speak with you.”
About the Author
Ruth Kaufman is the Amazon bestselling author of the Wars of the Roses Brides trilogy (At His Command, Follow Your Heart, and The Bride Tournament) and My Once and Future Love. Accolades include 2016 Booksellers Best Award Best Historical and Best First Book winner and Romance Writers of America® Golden Heart® award winner.
An actor, speaker and storyteller with an M.S. and J.D, Ruth has had roles in independent feature films, web series, pilots, national TV commercials and hundreds of voiceover projects. She enjoys living in Chicago and singing in a symphony chorus. Learn more at www.ruthkaufman.com and www.ruthtalks.com.
“Honesty only goes so far, when I want to do so much more. I know you have a fondness for that…bastard.” He hesitated.
I then saw her walk by him with a grin. “Thank you.” The sound of her voice echoed a small triumph. “You can thank Thorn Wick, the duke’s son, for teaching me fisticuffs. Come near me again, and I’ll plaster your face against a wall.”
About the Author
I’m willing to gamble two outdoor chaises and my infamous pink crocheted wrap that it will take:
Harriett Ross is a delightful secondary character who appears in every book of Amy Quinton’s Agents of Change series. She is the Marquess of Dansbury’s beloved aunt and is looking to create her own spin-off series of match-making tales. For now, you can find her in any one of the Agents of Change books, including the wildly popular: What the Marquess Sees.
From what I have learned from our brief correspondence, the ghost is none other than the recently deceased Lord Bolingbrook of Mansfield Park, where my sister is currently residing. Truly, I am concerned for her welfare, both mental and physical. I know not the cause of the unfortunate viscount’s demise, but I hope it was nothing violent that would cause him, in his present form, to lash out against my sister. I am aware of the rumors of his recent journey to America and it is said that he never returned, except in this sorry state. I can only pray that my sister’s strength of will and good sense will keep her safe.
About the Book: My Lord Ghost
Dear Editor
I speak, Sir, about the recent Whitsunweek Assembly at Chipping Niddwick. The committee who organised the event did us proud. Imagine the delight of our young ladies when not one by two earls attended the affair, both single gentlemen. A baron and viscount were also in attendance, with their respective wives. Such illustrious company for a small country town.
The other earl. Lord Chby. returned from Canada claiming to be a widower, though rumour has it that his first wife, if the union was in fact blessed by the church, was a native woman. Fortunately for his esteemed name and title, the woman died several years agoand her brats with her.
Finally, a cousin of Lord Chby. caused a stir in an invalid’s chair, and inadvertently uncovered the clay feet of the last of our cast of peers. Major A. R., injured in the line of duty, was not content to merely watch the dancing from the sidelines, but insisted on joining in. When his chair collapsed under the unaccustomed exertion of the dance, its maker proclaimed herself. Imagine our shock when we discovered she was none other that Lady A., viscountess of Lord A.
