Dearest Reader, I recently received this most interesting report. Read on:
Dear Mr. Clemens,
This author would not normally admit to wandering alone in the woods let alone spying on a shirtless gamekeeper preparing logs at Pheasant Lodge. But is he a gamekeeper? That is my question to you? For he looks like one, acts like one, it would certainly be easy to mistake him as one.
However it is said amongst the Littlemead villagers that the ever-eligible bachelor Baron Millbank is hosting none other than the handsome Duke of Farrington in his lodge. He is travelled all the way from his Scottish castle to reside near us. This is why I simply have to report to you, the Duke, the esteemed post, is here, in England, I know it in my heart and you must believe me.
Hardly scandalous you might say, not exactly gossip of the highest order. Hosting a friend in the summer months. Ah, but you are wrong, because this author moves like a whisper in the night, which has the advantage of being all seeing on this occasion and you will be the benefactor of my stealth.
And what did I see? Well, since you beg, I will tell you. None other than Lady Elizabeth Burghley walking down the wooded path (lavishly dressed for a stroll in my humble opinion) and marching straight up to him. It was clear they are not strangers, it is evident there is crackling tension between them. His eyes darkened on her approach, and her gaze lingered on his torso in ways that I would be so bold as to suggest was scandalously improper.
Improper? Scandalous? Lady Elizabeth? She is of fine moral standing and currently awaiting a perfect match. It is said her mother is throwing a ball to end her wait for a husband. But I fear her husband to be (if what I saw in the woods is anything to go by) will find himself with a bride who has been kissed, seduced, possibly ravaged inside that dimly lit, isolated lodge that now holds secrets only mice were witness to and we can only guess at.
I wonder if my guess is as good as yours?
I wonder if Lady Elizabeth even knows it is a duke that thrills her so?
A Scandalous Seduction
By Lily Harlem
For Lady Elizabeth Burghley, the pressure to marry is mounting. It’s irritating and tiresome. Her passion is to succeed as an artist, and if she does have to marry, she wants her husband to be someone she likes.
So when she comes across a shirtless, handsome, sometimes surly, Scottish gamekeeper who has a creative side himself, she can’t help but wish fate had given him a title.
Because, oh, they are so well matched, their attraction sizzles, lust rules, he understands her and she him. His eyes sparkle with desire, and when he reaches for her, deep in the forest when they are all alone, resistance is futile, and she succumbs to his seductive ways.
But resist Lady Elizabeth should have. Because all is not as it seems, and when the truth comes out, she finds herself in new lands, with a new future to decide upon, and potentially a new husband—but does she still like him?
Excerpt from A SCANDALOUS SEDUCTION
Just before noon the next day, Elizabeth slipped out of the side entrance with her paper, paints, and brushes stowed in a leather bag. It was once again a warm day, and she’d opted for a pale-pink gown that brushed the tops of her ankles. But the forest was cool, so she’d thrown a white shawl around her shoulders that matched her bonnet.
Passing the old elm tree she’d climbed as a child with her cousins, she had a distinct sense of anticipation. It coiled in her stomach, fizzed a little, too. Was it the thought of finding the glove, deadly nightshade, or was it seeing the surly gamekeeper again?
There was no denying she’d thought about him since their brief meeting. It was almost as if he were from another world. Hunched at his rough-edged table, scribbling. Dead animals hanging by their feet and necks. A small lodge with only one door and one chimney. It was so far from what she was used to. All her life she’d lived with grandeur, priceless antiques, never a concern as to money or food or rent. What must it be like to have to hunt for your dinner? To have to chop wood to keep warm in the winter? Live alone, no maids, servants, cooks?
Was it all of those things that made him gruff? Because yes, he had been ill-tempered.
But even so, he’d intrigued her.
She kept her eyes on the ground, searching for her lost white glove, and when she reached the woodland, flowers, too.
After an hour of walking and still nothing, she stopped and took her bonnet off, caught the stray hairs, and smoothed them to her head. She was glad of the rest; once more it was a warm summer’s day. But she didn’t linger for long, because it felt like she had purpose, she wasn’t simply wandering.
After passing the lake, and the spot she’d seen the deer the day before, she arrived at the lodge.
Today a dribble of smoke trickled from the chimney, and the windows were closed. Two more rabbits had been added to the wire, and a brown jug sat on the table.
She glanced around, wondering where the gamekeeper was. A jacket was roughly laid on a wooden stool and an axe speared into a splitting log.
A flash of white caught her attention. Her glove. It was stuck atop a long stick as if it were waving at her.
So this was where she’d dropped it. Typical.
She walked over to it. She didn’t have many things that were sentimental, but her grandmother’s gloves were exactly that.
While plucking it from the stick, there was movement at the lodge door.
A figure appeared.
A man.
He was naked from the waist up, and his buckskin breeches hung low on his lean hips—a trail of light-brown hair led from his navel to the waistband.
Oh dear Lord.
Quickly, she averted her eyes and clasped the glove.
“You found it then,” he said.
“I…yes, thank you.” She dared a glance at him.
“Good.” He strolled over to the axe and drew it from the stump it was speared into. “You know your way back to the village now, am I right?”
“I do. But I had to retrace my steps today for I really didn’t want to lose a glove. This glove in particular.”
He kind of huffed and reached for a log to split. The muscles in his back and shoulders rippled, and his biceps bulged as he set it on its end.
Unable to tear her eyes away, Elizabeth watched him raise the axe, his torso stretching, then bring it down with a loud crack. The log split.
He set his attention on her. “Are you waiting for tea and cake? Because if that is the case, I don’t have any.”
“I…no, of course not.” She paused. “You don’t have any tea or you don’t have any cake?”
“Do I look like a cook? A pastry chef?”
“No, not really.”
He reached for another log.
“But I wish to thank you, you could have thrown the glove away but you did not. What is your name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“It is polite when giving thanks to use a person’s name.”
He stared at her for a moment, then, “Tom.”
“Thank you, Tom. I appreciate your guardianship of my late grandmother’s glove.”
Once again his brow creased. “What’s your name?”
“Elizabeth.”
“You’re welcome, Beth.” He turned, signifying an end to their conversation, so she didn’t bother to correct him. He’d obviously misheard her name. All that splitting logs had likely made him hard of hearing.
The axe was raised, his body tense, then he brought it down with a thunderous crack. The log fell in two pieces to the ground.
He repeated the action, the sheen of sweat between his shoulder blades catching the sunlight.
Elizabeth swallowed, knowing she was staring but unable to help herself. He was beautiful in a masculine, powerful, earthy way. Raw muscle, at one with the land, almost feral.
A strange sensation gripped her belly. Admiration, longing, fascination.
“There’ll be rain soon,” he said gruffly. “Best run along.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” He’d made her feel like a silly young girl which irked her. “Good day to you, Tom.” She turned and hurried towards the copse of pine trees.
Her cheeks flushed, and her heart rate picked up. He must have known she’d been watching him. But it was hardly her fault. She’d never seen a man like him, and not just that, a man like him wearing so little. Who could blame her for being affected by the sight of him?
Who could blame her for not wanting to leave.
BUY LINK (Read on Kindle Unlimited, also available as an audiobook)
It has come to my attention (through a very dear friend residing in Ermenborough) that Mr. Lewis Bradford, son of Baron Bradford of our great city of Munro, has called the marriage banns in that same little country town of Ermenborough. And who is the bride? Miss Jillian Kinsey, daughter of the groundskeeper at Trenton Grange!
Jillian’s Wild Heart
Our intrepid reporter has uncovered yet another scandalous exclusive for our valued readers. It would seem that a certain American dollar princess and do-gooder has found herself in a most unexpected (and shocking!) circumstance. In recent weeks, Miss Arabelle Frost had been mingling with London’s lords and ladies at a variety of high-society events while a guest of her esteemed aunt. Since her arrival in the city, Miss Frost has become known as much for her beauty and penchant for the finest gowns from Paris as for her good deeds. This fact alone makes the recent chatter regarding Miss Frost all the more startling.
THE ROGUE’S RUNAWAY BRIDE by Tara Kingston
This author has it on the highest authority the Duke of Mortimer has been spotted in Brighton. Why is that gossip worthy, you may wonder? Well, he was spotted with none other than Lady Louisa Talbot.
Misty Urban is a medieval scholar, freelance editor, and college professor who writes stories about misbehaving women who find adventure and romance. Her Ladies Least Likely series of historical romances, set in Georgian Britain and beyond, feature headstrong heroines who set out to carve themselves a place in the world and find soul-searing love along the way. Misty lived for several years inside assorted books and academic institutions, and now lives in the Midwest in a little town on a big river. She loves to hear from readers and give away free stories through her newsletter and on her website,