Home of the Bluestocking Belles

A not so casual stroll in the park

On July 30, 2016

image for Cassandra

Mrs. Cassandra Vaughn adjusted her wrap about her shoulders and peered ahead on the path of the tree-lined park. Was it only just yesterday that her lover, Neville Quinn, Earl of Drayton, had ended their association? It seemed he had wasted no time and was in a hurry to find her replacement. She watched the couple ahead of her continue their casual stroll. If her eyes did not mistake her, Cassandra’s rival for Drayton’s attention was none other than Lady Gwendolyn Sandhurst, sister to the Duke of Ashbury and his younger brother Lord Brandon Worthington. Drayton would be treading dangerous waters if he were to trifle with a married woman. If the woman’s husband did not call him out, her brothers certainly would!

583px-Thomas_Gainsborough_-_The_Mall_in_St._James's_Park_-_Google_Art_Project

“Why are we walking when there is a perfectly fine carriage waiting for us to ride in?” Mrs. Patience Moore complained bitterly.

Cassandra strained her neck to peer at the bend in the trail up ahead, wishing the trees out of her line of sight so she could see what Drayton was up to. Another tug on her sleeve brought her attention back to her companion. Patience Moore had no patience whatsoever, but had been a dear friend when she had most needed one after she lost her husband. That they were both on the lookout for their next benefactor was reason enough for a walk in the park where they could check out any new prospects. A widow down on her luck sometimes resorted to unpleasant and difficult situations beyond those she had been raised to.

“I needed to stretch my legs. The walk will do us good,” Cassandra finally answered but sighed in frustration when Patience went to a nearby tree to remove a pebble from her shoe. Now she had lost sight of the man. She must be losing her mind. Why in the world was she following him in the first place?

“Honestly, Cassandra, I did not mean for my feet to suffer such abuse today. These shoes were not made for traipsing about in the woods, dear.” Patience adjusted her bonnet, linked her arm through Cassandra’s, and urged her onward. “If we must continue, let us be quick about it so we can get back to your driver and enjoy our outing from the comfort of a padded seat.”

The Thread of Love without watermark As they rounded the bend that had obstructed her view of Drayton’s whereabouts, Cassandra skidded to a very unladylike halt and pushed Patience behind a tree. Her eyes narrowed with jealousy, although why such an emotion seemed to be plaguing her she could not say. They had made no commitment to one another nor expressed words of love. Their relationship had been a convenience for them both. Why, then, did Cassandra’s heart feel as though it were being stabbed with a knife when she observed Drayton carrying Lady Sandhurst in his arms before depositing her on a park bench?

“Is that not─” Patience began.

“Yes.”

“Are you not still with him?”

“Not as of yesterday.” Cassandra’s reply was so quiet the sound was almost lost on the wind. “I have seen enough. Shall we return to the carriage?” She could not keep herself from one last glance at Neville. She should have refrained, since her heart lurched yet again when he once more picked up the lady.

Not caring whether or not Patience followed her, Cassandra hastily cut through the trees to reach the main walkway of the park. Looking for her driver, she saw none other than Lord Brandon Worthington driving his own rig, as if she conjured him up . He slowed the team of horses as he came nearer and gave her a brilliant smile. An encouraging sign if Cassandra ever saw one. Perhaps the day had not been such a waste after all. He had just pulled the carriage to a halt and tipped his hat when she heard Lord Brandon’s name being called. With a hasty apology, he flicked the reins and Cassandra watched as Drayton deposited the gentleman’s sister inside the rig. They were gone before she had even had a chance to catch her breath.

She was occupied with thoughts of Lord Brandon being the next handsome gentleman to warm her bed, when her driver came abreast of them. After accepting assistance from her footman, she rearranged her dress and she relaxed in her carriage. As the team began to move, she groaned aloud. There on the walk was none other than Samuel Clemmons, editor of that nasty Teatime Tattler gossip rag, scribbling away on a note pad. She wondered for the remainder of the night what page she would find her name upon come the following day.

_DSF0006 This is an original piece with characters from Sherry Ewing’s work in progress, Nothing But Time. Sherry picked up her first historical romance when she was a teenager and has been hooked ever since. A bestselling author, she writes historical & time travel romances to awaken the soul one heart at a time. Always wanting to write a novel but busy raising her children, she finally took the plunge in 2008 and wrote her first Regency. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Beau Monde & the Bluestocking Belles. Sherry is currently working on her next novel and when not writing, she can be found in the San Francisco area at her day job as an Information Technology Specialist. You can learn more about Sherry’s work here on her page with the Bluestocking Belles or on the following social media outlets:

Website & Books
Bookbub
Facebook
Goodreads
Pinterest
Twitter

Sign Me Up!
Newsletter
Street Team

Guilt and Pressure

By Aunt Augusta

On July 25, 2016

In Ask Aunt Augusta, Teatime Tattler

Dear Aunt Augusta,

I am starting to have feelings for a young woman. She is from the poorer end of the street, but that doesn’t matter to me. My family, however, don’t approve and they are trying to set me up with a daughter of a friend. How do I get out of this and hold onto my temper with all the guilt and pressure bearing down on me?

Signed,

Tom the hero of Sun on Sundays by Wendy Lou Jones

My dear Tom,

Matters of the heart can never be simple, can they? Why, just look at yourself! You are starting to fall for a young woman that your family does not approve of. Now, I will say that family is very important, almost as important as love itself. After all, families are born of both blood and love.

Your family, to be sure, is merely looking out for you and what they perceive to be your best interests. What of your heart, you say? Let that be your guide. Choose well. Sleep upon the matter. And if the young lady who has stolen your heart is also in love with you, then maybe you had better to hold your temper by letting go of guilt and pressure and by going to do whatever it takes to be with her.

I wish you the very best,

Aunt Augusta

Sun on Sundays by Wendy Lou Jones

In her heart hid an ember that would never burn out.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sun-Sundays-Wendy-Lou-Jones-eboo k/dp/B01ERWIQOI

http://wendyloujones.weebly.com

@WendyLouWriter

~~~

Dear authors, if ever you should find that one of your characters has found him or herself in a rather trying position, whether in matters of the heart or matters of fashion or any matter at all, do be a kind soul and write to me. I will endeavor to answer your questions, if you but pen them for me.

A shocking experience at St George’s

By Bluestocking Belles

On July 23, 2016

In Jude Knight, Teatime Tattler

1e783f2b96b2e344ec2dbe8b51346b36 Honoured Sir

The wedding between Miss Caroline Thrushnet and Mr Lewis Colbrooke, which you sent this correspondent to report on for The Teatime Tattler proved to be rather more exciting than expected.

When your humble servant arrived, the groom waited in St George’s. Fashionably dressed and spectacularly handsome, he looked every inch the picture of maiden’s dream.

Many would say Miss Thrushnet was to be envied. She was to marry wealth, good looks, and even a title, after the wheels of the law completed their grinding and declared his missing cousin dead and Mr Colbrooke the Earl of Fenchurch.

Appearances can be deceptive, however. Mr Colbrooke has a dark reputation, and this correspondent has heard a number of stories that no wise paper would print while the gentleman is alive to exact retribution.

Suffice it to say that his predilections and vices make him no match for an innocent lady. And it appeared to all in the church that Miss Thrushnet agreed, for when she arrived, not a minute past the appointed hour, she was as white as the lilies she carried, and as grave as if she attended her own funeral rather than what some have called the happiest day of a woman’s life.

She took her place beside the groom, who took her hand, and not gently. He spoke out boldly, loudly enough that those in the front of the small crowd of attendees could hear him, urging the Reverend Chilhurst not to waste time, but to splice him to the damned chit, as he had other business to transact that afternoon and a wife’s maidenhead to breach before he could attend to it.

Miss Thrushnet could get no paler, but she grayed at those words, Sir. She grayed. But when the Reverend gentleman expressed horror at Mr Colbrooke’s coarseness and counselled Miss Thrushnet not to proceed, she said, so quietly that her voice could barely be heard, “I have no choice. Do it quickly, please.”

Whether that plea was to the Reverend or to Mr Colbrooke, who can tell?

And so the wedding began, and proceeded without a hitch until the Reverend spoke to the congregation, almost, it seemed, begged the congregation. “If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it.”

He fell silent and waited. Mr Colbrooke cursed him with foul words, calling on him to proceed, but Miss Thrushnet turned to the crowd, and if ever eyes pleaded, hers did.

Honoured Sir, her pleas were answered.

The door to the church crashed back, and a large angry man shouldered his way past the ushers, shouting, “Stop the wedding!”

He wore the clothing of a gentleman, but beat those who would have prevented his progress with a walking stick carved in barbaric flourishes. One side of his face was almost a twin to that of the groom, but hard where Mr Colbrooke’s had softened with riotous living. The other was carved as ornately as his stick, in whorls and dots of black ink etched into his skin. He was half English, half savage, and wholly furious. Nothing and no one stood between him and the wedding party; or at least not for long.

A soft sigh turned our attention back to the unhappy couple. The bride had fainted, and who can wonder.

Lest you and your readers be bored with the long and loud discussion that ensued, suffice it to say that Magnus Colbrooke, the lost Earl of Fenchurch, had returned to claim Miss Thrushnet to whom, he said, he had been betrothed before he left for the other ends of the earth.

You will not be surprised that Mr Colbrooke refused to recognise him. But Miss Thrushnet, when she recovered consciousness, said that she had known him immediately, and as witness to that fact would marry him this very day, if the Reverend would conduct the ceremony.

He would not. The name on the license must be changed. But if Miss Thrushnet and Fenchurch are not husband and wife before the week is out, it will not be for want of action on the part of the earl.

Meanwhile, Mr Colbrooke left in a rage. This correspondent ventures to suggest that his cousin refrains from going out on a dark night unaccompanied, although if ever a gentleman looks as if he can take care of himself against criminals and bully boys, the returned Earl of Fenchurch is that man.

Where will it end, Honoured Sir? This correspondent will watch with great interest, of that you can be sure.

This vignette precedes the events in Magnus and the Christmas Angel by six months. Magnus and the Christmas Angel is a short story that tells about the final reconciliation of Magnus and his wife, after months of misunderstanding.

Jude Knight is giving away Magnus and other stories to new subscribers to her newsletter (four of which are only available by gift from Jude). Jude’s newsletter goes out several times a year, and with news about new releases and other writing related events and activities. And Jude always includes a link to short stories, collections of character interviews, or other ebooks that are not available to the general public.

To subscribe, go to http://judeknightauthor.com and fill out the subscriber box in the right margin.

You can read more about Jude Knight and her books on her website, or on her author page here on the Belles site.

Tale of a Tattling Clergyman

By Guest author

On July 20, 2016

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

Bluestocking belles 483px-'Reverend_Joseph_Stevens_Buckminster,_D.D.'_by_Gilbert_Stuart,_Cincinnati Mr. Clements,

After much soul-searching, and with great reluctance of spirit, I find I must give in to your entreaties and share the details of that most shocking event which you probed me about after services Sunday last. The sad details I have confirmed, and though I have no wish to hasten a lady’s descent into perfidy by exposing her true identity to the world, relating these events in your publication will, I trust, provide a cautionary tale for young women readers everywhere.

As I described to you, a young lady under my pastoral care (I shall call her “Miss M”) has involved herself in a sordid situation. Having known Miss M for over a twelvemonth, and her elderly relative for more, it was my most considered duty to shepherd the young woman. Nay, upon the demise of her relative, I even offered that most honorable of states, matrimony, for though the lady’s means are limited, she is a most comely and, I believed, well-bred creature.

Alas, I fear that an excess of sentiment clouded Miss M’s judgment. She embroiled herself in the activities of a female who runs, in her very home, a kind of shelter for the offspring of women who have fallen. With no shame, I count it as a blessing from the Almighty that Miss M declined my suit, and you shall hear why.

At Christmastide Miss M traveled to an outlying inn and involved herself in a most heathen undertaking, a Wife Sale! I know not how or why she came to know of this auction, but it is perfectly reflective of the state of her mind. Had I known of her intent, I would, as her spiritual adviser, have stepped in and stopped this most dangerous scheme.

For you see, the worst has happened. Not only was the object of this mercantile image for Bluestocking Belles post Sampson_Vryling_Stoddard_Wilder event delivered into an adulterous union, Miss M, I fear, is Lost, having fallen like the mothers of the children she ministered to into the hands of an upstart, Lord C, reputed to be a man of great wealth and poor moral repute. It is said, she has even been residing with him these many days without benefit of wedlock!

I fear that Miss M has descended to the fate of so many young women unsupervised by father or brother, given to vanity and excessive sensibility, and unwilling to accept the guidance of those more prudent. Whether matrimony shall ensue…well, that is anyone’s guess, but even if it does, I fear she is lost to all respectable society.

Let this be a lesson to any young reader who comes across this story.

With regards,

I shall only sign myself “A Clergyman”

About Rosalyn’s Ring By Alina K. Field

When a young woman is put up for auction in a wife sale, Rosalyn Montagu seizes the chance to rescue her—and to recover a treasured family heirloom, her father’s signet ring. Her plans are thwarted by the newly anointed Viscount Cathmore who finds her provoking beauty, upper crust manner, and larcenous streak intriguing. Her secrets rouse his jaded heart, including the truth of her identity—she is the woman whose home he has usurped. But more mysteries swirl around Rosalyn’s past, and Cathmore is just the man to help her uncover the truth.

~excerpt~

She looked at him earnestly. “Will Mr. Logan raise this little one as his own?” she asked in a worried whisper. “Properly?”

He nodded. “He will.”

She blinked back tears and studied young William. “A boy needs a father. A girl, too. Even the ones born on the wrong side of the sheets.”

His breath left him a moment. She was not, like so many of the philanthropist matrons, a condescending patron of the poor.

“Rosalyn. Why are you not married?”

Her eyes glinted. “Why are you not?”

He smiled, and her face fell. “Or are you, sir?”

“I am not. And you are not. We are both unmarried. I asked you first and you must answer first. That is the rule.”

She turned that over in her head, but answered anyway. “I had offers.” Her nose wrinkled with distaste. “All from clergymen associated with the orphanage. I did not marry them because we did not suit.”

He felt a sense of relief. “Why ever not? I should think a good-hearted maiden like yourself and a clergyman would suit quite well.”

“I did not love any of them, which, I know, practical people say is not important. But besides that, they did not love the children. No, no, they did not like the children. I’ll grant you, some of the children are so hardened they are difficult to like, but they did not like a one of them, not even the babies. They looked at them as, as, offal, trash. I could not abide a man who would claim to serve a child born in a stable and then throw away another child because he or she was base-born.”

“So why were they there?” He lifted a tendril of her hair. “For this, I suppose?”

She blushed hot red, and the air crackled between them.

“It is your turn to tell,” she said. “Why are you not married? You are rich, titled, and handsome.”

“Do you think I am handsome, Rosalyn?” He twirled the tendril of hair in his fingers.

Her brow creased. “Do not be coy, Cathmore. You know you are a handsome devil, even though, or perhaps especially because, you look like a bloody pirate.”

Hamish laughed, startled that such profanity had come from such a pretty mouth. “My lady,” he said in feigned shock. “Your language!”

You can find it on Amazon

About the Author

Award winning author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature, but she found her true passion in reading and writing romance. Though her roots are in the Midwest, 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 and a 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 in the novella category, Rosalyn’s Ring, a Regency novella, the novel-length sequel, a 2015 RONE Award finalist, Bella’s Band, both Soul Mate Publishing releases, and a prequel novella, Liliana’s Letter, a 2016 National Reader’s Choice Award finalist.

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
https://www.pinterest.com/alinakf/
https://www.instagram.com/alinak.field/

The Diary of An Improper Governess

By Guest author

On July 16, 2016

In Teatime Tattler

July 15, 1819, Hartfield Hall, Sussex

Dearest Diary, Stone_Marcus_Two_Lovers

It has been some weeks since I last made an entry, for as you know, my life as a governess at Hartfield Hall these last six months has been hitherto relatively uneventful. My young charges, Miss Lavinia and Miss Kitty continue to be a delight to teach and their mother, the dowager Lady Barsby, is a fair enough mistress—as long as I do not cross her in particular matters related to her daughters’ behavior and appearance (rather than anything to do with their lessons). But heavens, how everything has changed within the space of a day…

And all because the master of Hartfield, Sir Nicholas Barsby has returned from his year long sojourn on the Continent.

I blush every time I recall our first meeting yesterday—the way he came upon me at the stile with my skirts all caught about my waist. I’d been returning from a visit to Hedgecombe (as well as escaping a most unwanted encounter with the vicar, Mr. Wentworth, but I shall relate the details of that particular incident another time, Dear Diary) when our paths crossed, or should I say, collided. Every time I recall the moment his wicked rake’s gaze wandered over my naked lower half, I feel like I could die of mortification. And then he insisted I share his mount back to the Hall. I would never have done so but for the fact a terrible storm had descended upon us and I feared for my safety.

Indeed, I feel as if the storm has not yet dissipated as I am still at sixes and sevens whenever I think of Sir Nicholas. Or see him. He is the most handsome, charismatic man I have ever encountered. As you know, Dearest Diary, Harry Blake, the footman at my last place of employment was also very attractive, and his mischievous smile certainly turned my head two years ago. But even though I swore to myself that I would never, ever again have intimate relations with a man who wasn’t my husband, I fear that I may break my vow when it comes to Sir Nicholas.

Oh, my goodness. When he looks at me with those dark blue eyes of his and smiles, or cocks a dark eyebrow, my knees turn to water and my heart flips over. I cannot, for the life of me, stop thinking about him and all the wicked things we could do together. It hasn’t helped matters at all that he has already bestowed unexpected and indeed, undeserved privileges upon me; after our ride through the storm, he insisted a bath be prepared for me and I was allocated another bedchamber (closer to his but I really shouldn’t think about that). And then he insisted on replacing all of the items I lost during our hair-raising ride on his horse—all of my purchases from Hedgecombe village, and all of my clothing which was ruined. I strongly suspect he desires me and that his apparent noblesse oblige is nothing more than a ploy to seduce me.

The worst part is, the wicked, wanton part of me that I cannot seem to contain, wants Sir Nicholas too. And if he continues to wield his arsenal of rakish charms, I fear that I will not have the strength to resist him…

Would that I were a passionless, docile creature, content to tread along the sensible path that all women of my station should follow! My life would be much easier. And safer.

Until next time, my only trustworthy Confidante,

Abigail Adams

____________________________

An Improper Governess is the second instalment in Amy Rose Bennett’s Improper Liaisons Novella series. It is an erotic Regency romance that can easily be read as a standalone title.

Lusting after one’s employer is certainly not the done thing when you are a governess. But Miss Abigail Adams cannot seem to help herself…

Abigail Adams, the resident governess of Hartfield Hall, might appear to be a very proper young woman, yet she secretly yearns for excitement to brighten her mundane life. And what she does want, she really shouldn’t long for—Sir Nicholas Barsby, the indecently handsome, charismatic master of Hartfield.

Sir Nicholas Barsby returns home from a tour of the Continent to discover his widowed sister-in-law has employed a decidedly delectable governess for his nieces. When it becomes blatantly apparent that the attraction is mutual, Nicholas ruthlessly decides to present Miss Adams with a thoroughly wicked proposal.

Abigail is initially shocked by Sir Nicholas’s outrageous and highly improper offer to become his mistress. Having wanton thoughts about a man is undoubtedly sinful but leading the life of a fallen woman is something else entirely. Nevertheless, falling into Sir Nicholas’s arms might just prove to be an invitation too tempting for Abigail to ignore. One thing is clear, whether she’s a governess or mistress, she must not lose her heart…

Amazon Buy Link

______________________________

An excerpt from An Improper Governess featuring the unconventional first-meet of Miss Abigail Adams and Sir Nicholas Barsby…

By the time she reached the stile, Abigail was gasping like a landed carp. As she gathered her skirts preparing to climb over, thunder clapped so close, she shrieked. A bright bolt of lightning lit the air around her and she swore she could feel her hair stand on end. Ignoring all dictates of decorum, she hoisted her skirts even higher and clambered up and over the rough wooden steps. However, as she jumped down, the muslin snagged on something and she found she was tethered like a nanny goat, her skirts caught up about her waist.

“Damn!” Without thought, the coarse expletive escaped her. Not only was she about to get caught in a storm she’d probably ruined her best day gown. Could this day get any worse?

“Damn indeed.”

It seemed it could.

Abigail whipped her head around and found herself staring up into the face of the most handsome man she had ever seen. Raven-haired with slashing brows and chiseled features, he sat astride a glossy black gelding with the confidence of a knight-errant, but alas, not the gallantry. As his deep blue eyes raked over her naked thighs and lower to her stockings, his expression was a mixture of sardonic amusement and a darker, heavier emotion she had no trouble recognizing at all—male lust.

“May I be of assistance, dear lady?” he asked, his voice a rich rumbling purr.

Abigail’s face burned as she attempted to wrench her dress and fine cambric petticoats down all by herself. The distinct rip of fabric tearing made her wince. “You might avert your gaze, sir,” she snapped as hot outrage and mortification made her sound more like a harpy than a damsel in distress.

“Yes, I might. But then, that would not be of much help to you now, would it?” Before Abigail could even think to protest further, the ill-mannered stranger slid from his mount and within moments, had released the stubborn snag.

“There,” he said with a wide smile that was probably supposed to be rakishly appealing. “The fair maiden is free.”

“I could have managed on my own,” she retorted. She wasn’t going to thank the man, not when he’d been eyeing her lower body like a hungry beast of prey sizing up its next meal. Dear God, I hope he did not see my bottom, or worse, my—

Another crack of thunder made her start and the man glanced at the menacing sky. Lightning streaked above the dense copse of trees hiding Hartfield Hall from view. As he mounted his restive horse, a sharp gust caught his black traveling cloak and it flapped about him like the dark wings of a fallen angel. Perhaps even Lucifer himself. “Where are you going, Miss…?” he asked, his compelling blue gaze locking with hers again. “I really don’t think you should be wandering about the countryside in this tempest. In fact, it would be quite foolish if not altogether mad. I must insist you come with me.” He held out his gloved hand.

_____________________________

Amy Rose Bennett is one of the Bluestocking Belles. You can find out more about Amy, her books, and where you can find her on social media by clicking on the links right here!