Home of the Bluestocking Belles

A Wager and a Curse!

On March 16, 2016

In which Mr. Clemens welcomes Alanna Lucas, author of Waltzing with the Earl, who interviews her heroine.

AL: Welcome, Lady Trevena. Thank you for joining me today. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.

LT: The pleasure is all mine. This is a new experience for me. I must admit, I am quite nervous. I’ve never been interviewed before. I have not been this nervous since I pretended to be my dearest friend at a country house party last year and….

She takes in a deep breath and then exhales slowly.

I apologize. When I’m nervous I tend to ramble. It is one of my greatest flaws, but one my darling husband assures me is quite endearing.

AL: I hear that you didn’t want to have a season in London. What made you change your mind?

LT: I lost a wager to my brother. I was so desperate for things not to change, to Eugene_Onegin_(Samokish-Sudkovskaya)_05a maintain a quiet country life that I left my fate to a game of chess.

She lowers her voice.

You see, I had not lost to Weston before. I thought nothing could go wrong. That game was the first of many things that would go wrong.

AL: Miss Jerome has made it known throughout the ton that you were an utter disaster.

LT: Miss Jerome is a horrible gossipmonger, but for once, what she spews is true. Between spilled punch, torn dresses, and toppled footmen…shaking her head… Who knew a wallflower could cause such a ruckus!

Giggling.

At least I can laugh about it now.

AL: Not a very auspicious beginning. Please tell us how you met Lord Trevena.

LT: He is my brother’s oldest friend. But it wasn’t until I saw him at Lady Lamden’s ball that I thought of him as anything other than Weston’s friend.

She says with a sigh.

He was so handsome in his dark blue coat. From across the room, our eyes met. He strolled toward me, never shifting his gaze. He was the first gentleman to ever ask me to dance. The moment our hands met…I knew.

AL: How romantic! But it wasn’t all smooth sailing.

LT: No. Tristram believed that he was cursed; it had all but consumed his life. Rumors had circulated for years about the Longstone curse, which had taken all Tristram loved.

Shaking her head.

He was convinced that harm would come to me, so he fled London to protect me.

AL: You must have been heartbroken.

LT: I was devastated, but my dearest sister-in-law devised a plan and arranged for me to go after him. Such wanton behavior! Desperate times called for desperate measures.

AL: Everything seemed to have worked out in the end.

LT: It definitely did. She said with a smile that lit the room. Our love is stronger than the curse of Longstone.

AL: Thank you for visiting today. I wish you and Lord Trevena much happiness.

About the Book
Believing he is cursed, Tristram, Lord Trevena, the Earl of Longstone, agrees to do just one favor for a friend, to dance with the man’s sister, but the beautiful and headstrong Isabel Albryght will settle for no less than claiming his lonely heart.

A PROPHECY FORETOLD

Raised by her doting older brother, Isabel Albryght grew up cosseted and protected. She enjoyed her life in the country, her books, and her freedom. Then her brother married. Within months Isabel’s best friend married. It seemed it was time for Isabel to marry, too. Socially awkward and a bit too keen for most of the ton, Isabel proceeded to have the most horrible season on record…until she was approached by Tristram, the Earl of Longstone.

Two dances. That was all Tristram could offer anyone when considering his family curse, which had taken all he loved in the last ten years, so his promise to the beautiful Miss Albryght’s brother was simply that. The ton would soon see she was a desirable partner, her awkwardness would fade and other young swains would beat feet to her doorstep. But then he held her in his arms, and the delightful Isabel became his beating heart. Headstrong and full of passion, she believed she might waltz them away from Death. She alone could tempt him to try.

~Excerpt~

The temperature in the room rose by several degrees—it was positively sweltering. Isabel did not know how much longer she could tolerate standing in the midst of hell, surrounded by a mixture of unidentifiable odors and loud boisterous laughter. She thought her head would explode.

Closing her tired eyes, she brought her gloved hand to her temple. Isabel could feel her body sway, but was unable to stop the motion. She could not even gather her wits about her to stamp down, or even beg, the feelings to cooperate. Isabel could sense another mishap was forthcoming, which further added to her distress. And she had been doing so well.

A gentle hand came to her elbow. “Allow me to accompany you onto the balcony for some fresh air, Miss Albryght.” Lord Trevena’s voice broke through the haze. His tone was soft and full of concern.

Isabel opened her eyes; they felt thick and heavy, and still out of focus. Tristram somehow managed to maneuver her through the crush without bumping into anyone. The moment they reached the unoccupied balcony, the cool evening breeze cleared the haziness Isabel had been fighting in her head.

They strolled to the edge of the balcony, partly hidden within the shadows, and clear of any curious gossipmongers. The garden beyond was concealed in darkness, but the lingering scent of blooming roses wafted through the air. Tristram released his gentle hold on her arm. The absence of his hand made her heart lurch, wanting more.

Isabel turned to face him. Even in the dim light, his clear blue eyes sparkled like stars in the night. She struggled to find the words, but when they finally came, they would not stop.

“Thank you for coming to my aid. I am quite recovered now. The room was quite warm and the noise…”

“Isabel,” Tristram said in a deep husky tone. Her name on his lips sent a jolt of excitement through her body.

Taking a step closer, he brought his hand to her face, his gloved thumb dancing intimately across her cheek. Her heart pounded against her ribs, practically stealing her breath.

“Lord Trevena.” His name exited her lips in a breathy gasp.

He bent his head and whispered his name across her cheek. “Tristram.”

Isabel could not imagine anything more sensual than this moment. She lifted her chin, and their cheeks brushed. His lips were so close, but still too far away. His warm breath teased her senses. Closing her eyes, she waited for his kiss.

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About the Author

Alanna Lucas grew up in Southern California, but always dreamed of distant lands and bygone eras. From an early age she took interest in art, history, and travel, and enjoys incorporating those diversions into her writing. However, she believes that true love is the greatest source of inspiration and is always an adventure.

Alanna makes her home in California where she spends her time writing historical romances, dreaming of her next travel destination, spending time with family, and staying up too late indulging in her favorite past time, reading.

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Marnie Gets Her Revenge

By Susana Ellis

On March 12, 2016

In Regency (19th century Britain), Susana Ellis, Teatime Tattler

11 June 1790, Gracechurch Street, London

It was late when I reached London and the temporary haven of my foster mum’s home. I hadn’t slept in days, partly out of fear of discovery by his lordship’s men and partly because the babe fussed so much. The brat was always hungry and I had no idea how to feed her. I was tempted to leave her with the family who took us in the first night—the farmer’s wife who found a way to feed her cow’s milk seemed that taken with her—but then his lordship would get her back and how would that serve my purpose? But oh, if I had known how much trouble it would be to sneak off with a puling infant while trying to keep out of the way of a powerful earl, I might have considered some other form of revenge.

Gypsy girl “Open up, mum, it’s me, Marnie!”

Finally, the door opened enough for Mum Herne to peer at me in the darkness.

“Marnie? It is you! For goodness sake, I thought you were in Derbyshire… Come in, I’m so glad to see you… it’s been ages since you took that position with the Cranbournes. Oh!”

She had just shut the door behind us when she saw the babe in my arms. “You have… a child?”

I held the babe out to her, pleased for the respite. I never realized how much it could hurt to hold a babe—even a tiny one—for hours at a time. “A girl child.”

Mum Herne cuddled her in her arms. “Such pretty blue eyes. A blonde,” she commented as she looked over my dark gypsy coloring with questioning eyes. “Must look like her father?”

“The spittin’ image,” I assured her. “The earl was a towhead when he was a babe, although his hair has darkened a bit since then.”

Mum’s head jerked back. “The earl is her father? The Earl of Cranbourne?”

I nodded as I looked hopefully in the direction of the kitchen. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a bite of bread and cheese? I haven’t had anything to eat since this morning.” When I’d managed to lift a meat pie off a pie maker’s cart without him noticing. But she didn’t need to know that. The mention of food had the intended effect of distracting her—at least temporarily—from the lecture about my morals I knew would be coming.

“Yes, of course. In the larder.” She looked down at the babe in her arms. “And the child? When did you feed her last? Looks downright poorly, she does.”

I shook my head and collapsed into the nearest chair. “So sorry, mum. It’s just that—I’m famished. We’ve been one step ahead of his lordship all the way, and the worry of it all just took my milk away. I was hoping you might have some cow’s milk for the poor mite… it’s only by the grace of God that I’ve found a few kindly folk along the way to keep her from starving.”

Mum’s eyes widened. “You’re running away from… the earl? Why on earth…? Never mind, you can tell me the whole later. Right now this child needs tending.”

An hour later, the babe asleep in a makeshift bed in mum’s bedchamber, she and I sat at the kitchen table and I told her my story. She already knew I’d been a maid in the household of the Cranbournes and that I’d agreed to travel all the way to Derbyshire because I’d hoped to catch the eye of the comely earl. She’d warned me against it, telling me it was foolish to set my cap at such a high falultin’ gent and that it would all come to no good—and while I hated having to admit she was right—she seemed to accept my story at face value. Some of it was even true. Maybe.

The story I told her was that the earl seduced me without any intention of marriage, all the while he was courting another woman. The affair continued after his marriage, and when I found myself with child, I was turned out without a character by her ladyship. I had no place else to go but the workhouse, but when the babe was born so pretty and so much like her father, I thought he might be willing to part with a few quid a month for food and lodgings. Little did I know that he would be so desperate to keep the babe’s existence from his wife that he would threaten to take her away from me and kill her! Which is what sent me flying from Derbyshire.

I’ve always been good at acting—my birth mother always said I should tread the boards at Covent Garden—and Mum Herne knew this, but I think the presence of the poor babe set off her maternal instincts and all she could think of was how to protect poor little Annie from the evil earl who threatened her life.

That was when we heard the sound of horses charging down the street.

“It’s his lordship!” I cried. “He’s found us! Quick, find us a place to hide!”

I ran to the bedchamber to pick up Annie.

“The earl?” But how…?”

I reminded her of the reference she had sent with me when I applied for the position. No doubt they would have gone back to ascertain the direction. She bit her lip and then shook her head.

“There’s no place here he won’t find you. A rich and powerful earl? I can’t imagine how you managed to get so far!”

Then a strange look came over face. “Although perhaps there is a way. We’ll have to bind the babe securely, though…”

By the time the loud banging at the door began, she had already bound the babe tightly around me with a red wool scarf and pressed a small black stone into my hand.

“I’m sending you into the future,” she whispered, urging me toward the back of the house. “Only for a short time. I’ll send you a signal when the coast is clear. But you mustn’t lose this stone.”

“The future?” I knew mum had a gift—’the sight’—which quite a few of our clan claimed to have—but traveling through time? I’d never heard of anyone who could do this, and I wasn’t sure I believed she could either.

That was when we heard the door give way and the sound of loud voices and footsteps.

Mum gave me a push and I felt myself floating through darkness before I felt myself collide with something big and heavy. My last thought before my soul abandoned my body was that at least I had my revenge. The Cranbournes would never find their baby now.

About A Home for Helena

A HOME FOR HELENA 150x220 Believing that she has been misplaced in time, Helena Lloyd travels back two hundred years in an attempt to find out where she belongs.

Widowed father James Walker has no intention of remarrying until he makes the acquaintance of his daughter’s lovely new governess.

Lady Pendleton, a time-traveling Regency lady herself, suspects that these two belong together. First, however, she must help Helena discover her true origins—and hopefully, a home where she belongs.

A Home for Helena is Book 2 of The Lady P Chronicles.

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About the Author

Susana Ellis has always had stories in her head waiting to come out, especially when she learned to read and her imagination began to soar. A former teacher, Susana lives in Toledo, Ohio in the summer and Florida in the winter. She is a member of the Central Florida Romance Writers and the Beau Monde chapters of RWA and Maumee Valley Romance Inc.

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A Reluctant Bride

By Sherry Ewing

On March 9, 2016

In Sherry Ewing, Teatime Tattler

John Constable_Salisbury_meadows Church Painting

Gwendolyn flinched at the priest’s words.

“You may kiss the bride, Lord Sandhurst,” he repeated since she had not paid the least bit of attention whilst he sealed her fate to her groom. As if she needed a reminder that she was now wed to a gentleman not of her choosing.

Mrs Russel by John Smart 1741-1811 She raised her red puffy eyes and stared at the man who was so old that he surely had one foot perched on the edge of his grave. How her father could promise her to a man of his ilk was beyond her imagination. That her own brother would honor the contract after their sire’s passing and condemn her to a loveless marriage tore at her heart. And the pressure he had put on her to give her consent! She would never forgive Hartford for as long as she drew breath in her body.

“My dear wife,” Sandhurst murmured with an appreciative glare. His eyes traveled the length of her body. He did not even give her the courtesy of abstaining from such a leer whilst still in a church and not behind closed doors.

The priest cleared his throat and gave Gwendolyn his own condemning look that she should be responding to her husband.

She said nothing; she simply looked at the floor showing her disdain at the union. She trembled when she glanced up and saw him lick his lips as though he were about to devour a tasty treat. He leaned forward. She choked back her anger.

It took every inch of strength not to allow her husband to see how much he repulsed her. His mouth hovered over her own before his head plunged ever downward to capture her lips. Inwardly, she groaned. His kiss was so much worse than she could have ever imagined, and when his hand clamped around her waist bringer her closer, she swore she was going to retch. Right here. In a holy chapel. God help her.

She pulled away so abruptly she lost her balance and would have spilled backwards if it were not for his firm hold continuing to keep her close…as close as could be expected, that is, given his girth. She shuddered. Lord Bernard Sandhurst chuckled in amusement. Gwendolyn could not find anything in this situation that would be cause for his merriment, but he was certainly pleased considering the gleam she saw in his pale cold eyes.

François-Joseph_Navez (1787-1869) Portrait_of_Jacques-Louis_David 199x240 Sandhurst took her elbow and began escorting her down the aisle of the church that was relatively empty. As empty as her heart. Her husband nodded to several acquaintances. Gwendolyn passed her mother who hid a handkerchief that she surely had used to dry her eyes. Her brother, Brandon, looked as grim as she herself felt. She would not acknowledge Hartford’s presence. He may hold their father’s title of duke but as far as she was concerned, he was dead to her. As dead as her emotions would become if she was going to survive this marriage.

As they reached the rear of the church, she stumbled once more. There, barely hidden in the last pew, was a man scribbling away with his quill. Oh no, she thought. Please do not let him be from the Teatime Tattler. But luck was not on her side this day. God surely must have forsaken her for the marriage had gone through and the reporter could not have been more pleased with the day’s outcome. Mr. Clemens raised his eyes when she drew near and had the unmitigated nerve to salute her with his ever-efficient quill.

As Gwendolyn was helped into the carriage, she knew it would not be long before all of London read about her recent marriage. She could already hear the sniggering of the gossipmongers as they laughed about the duke’s daughter who could not find a man to marry who was near her own age. She would be the laughing stock of society by the Tattler’s morning edition.

The carriage door slammed shut as Gwendolyn took her seat, much like the reality that her former life was now over. She could already feel the ice quickly surrounding her heart knowing she would never find love as Lord Bernard Sandhurst’s wife. Only a miracle could save her from her fate and believing in miracles was for fools…

_DSF0006 This is an original piece and prequel to 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 and her published work here on her page with the Belles or on these social medial outlets:

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Dreams of a Most Mysterious Lady

By Aunt Augusta

On February 20, 2016

In Bluestocking Belles, Nicole Zoltack, Teatime Tattler

I dreamt of her again, the mysterious lady with her dark hair with blue at the ends. She is a mystery to me, a lady I have never met, and yet, I feel as if I know her better than myself.

We talk and laugh and dance and talk some more. And at the end of every dream, we kiss.

It is enough to drive a man mad. I have sought out this lady everywhere to the point that my friends think me mad, but I must discover who she is. She is not a figment of my imagination. No, no she cannot be. She is too real. My dreams of her… they do not feel like dreams. Not memories, but not a dream. A vision, perhaps? A glimpse of the future?

I can only hope.

In last night’s dream, Katia—is that not a lovely name?—asked me to go for a walk with her, and a walk we went on. We climbed over a hill without words, her hand warm and soft in mine. She stumbled at one point, and I caught her. I wanted to kiss her in that moment, but the fear that the kiss would wake me proved strong enough to resist.

The hill changed into a mountain, and we climbed it until we found a small cave.

“Would you like to explore?” I had asked her.

“Yes,” she had said, and she raced ahead.

I followed her. In the back of the cave, a small fire was already lit. The fire reflected in her beautiful eyes, making her seem wild and reckless and untamable.

She held her hands near the blaze. “So hot,” she murmured, her voice gentle.

“Does it frighten you?” I asked as I stepped to stand beside her.

“No. Nothing frightens me.” She brushed her hair back and smiled up at me.

“I am deathly afraid,” I whispered.

“You are too brave to know fear.” Katia laughed, the joyous sound echoing in the cave.

“I’m afraid I’ll never find you, that you aren’t real.”

Oddly serious, she placed both hands on either side of my face. “You will find me, or I will find you. Always. You’re real.” One of her hands lowered to rest against my frantically beating heart. “And I’m real.” With her other hand, she placed mine on her chest. Her heart beat as swiftly as my own.

The moment was too perfect. I kissed her. And I woke.

I believe her. One day, she would find me or I her, and we would be together.

It was only a matter of time.

As ever,

I am Lord Landon Philamore

Of sound mind and body

Lord Landon and Katia are the main characters in The Test of Time.

The Test of Time

While vacationing in England, Katia spies a large mansion and somehow passes through time, landing in the arms of the otherworldly and enchanting Lord Landon. Trapped in a parallel Regency-era, Katia struggles to not fall for Landon but his charm proves too much for her. Just when she is about to confess her love for him, Katia travels through time yet again.

If Katia can’t master the test of time, she’ll never be reunited with Landon.

Heat: PG

Regency Time Travel

Price: 3.99

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Nicole is one of the Belles. You can learn more about her here.

Lady Whingingley Tells All

By Guest author

On February 17, 2016

In Guest author, Regency (19th century Britain), Teatime Tattler

Félix_Emile-Jean_Vallotton_-_Woman_Writing_in_an_Interior_-_Google_Art_Project Dear Mr. Clemens,

I wish to make your readers aware of the unsavory details surrounding the recently formed engagement between Miss Helena K and the Earl of W. It is incumbent upon the ladies of the ton to maintain the standards of behavior and propriety, which are so critical to the functioning of Polite Society. I shudder to contemplate the many ways that these individuals, in spite of their birth and breeding, have flouted of the standards governing polite behavior.

I am sure that no one who reads this excellent journal is unaware of the fact that Miss K was found kissing Lord Denby in a secluded anteroom at Montagu House during her Season four years since. Not only was she engaged in this abandoned behavior, but when the gentleman quite properly offered her his hand and the protection of his name, this hurly burly hoyden refused him! Naturally, this brassy minx was no longer welcomed at the best houses, and I know that at least one Patroness of Almack’s gave her the cut direct when they encountered each other in the Park during the hour of the promenade. Mercifully to all, she returned to the countryside of Kent before the end of the Season, her reputation in tatters!

And, if Miss K’s history does not bear close examination, why that of the Earl of W is even less savory! This rascal fled England for the Continent some 15 years ago, under suspicion of murdering another gentleman over the Pearl of Sirsi. While it is true that he was not guilty of the murder, no real gentleman exposes himself to even the possibility of being accused of such a thing! As a young man he was ever to be found at mills and in gaming hells, and would wager on anything. All that however, is nothing compared to what one hears about his time on the Continent, and how he operated a fencing school, a gaming hell, and even taught at the Riding School in Vienna! Who knows, he may have been a caper merchant to boot. Furthermore, he is said to have had any number of mistresses during his absence. Is this the kind of low adventurer we countenance in today’s Society?

Admittedly, his sister and brother-in law, the Earl and Countess of Brayleigh are arbiters of taste. However, even Brayleigh’s dealings with the fair sex do not bear close examination to be sure, as any number of barques of frailty enjoyed a connection with him prior to his marriage to Lady Rowena Arlingby, the sister of the disgraced Earl!

So, even though some may call me high in the instep dear readers, I urge the discerning among you to think carefully before lending countenance to either the Earl of W or his affianced bride lest responsibility for the creeping lowering of standards be placed at your doorstep!

Lady Whingingley

About the Book

Malcolm Arlingby, Rowena’s headstrong brother from Alicia Quigley’s A Collector’s Item, settles into his new life as the Earl of Wroxton. Content to while away his time in the decadence he missed during his exile from England, Malcolm hasn’t been paying attention to the duties that come with the title. A letter from the mistress of a neighboring estate warns of smugglers using Malcolm’s lands for their dastardly deeds and he must finally put aside his entertainments to handle the business of being an Earl.

Helena, the one who sent the letter, is not the sour spinster Malcolm was expecting, however. She is a beautiful, vibrant and equally headstrong woman who is more than ready to take Malcolm to task for ignoring his duties. As the pair becomes embroiled in solving the problem of the smugglers, a strong attraction develops. The smugglers aren’t going without a fight, though.

Will a chance encounter with his new neighbor bring Malcolm all the things he never knew he wanted? Or, will the smugglers destroy it all? Find out in The Contraband Courtship.

~excerpt~
“Well, it is not only about Ms. Lacey,” said Rowena, looking a bit embarrassed. “But, certainly, I have my concerns about her. She is married, Malcolm, and unlikely to be free to wed you any time soon.”

“Wed me?” Malcolm gave a hoot of laughter. “I should say not!”

“You see?” said Rowena. “I know that you wish to enjoy yourself, and I would never say you did not deserve to, but surely you are aware of the duty you owe your family.”

“Rowena, I have years ahead of me to sire a pack of children, if that’s what I decide needs to be done,” said Malcolm. “But for now, I have no interest in leg shackling myself to one woman. I’ve spent twelve years on the Continent living by my wits, and damn, I want to enjoy myself now. One of Estella’s principal charms—outside of the most obvious ones—is that she cannot importune me to marry her!”

“You are being very vexing,” said Rowena. “It is not that I wish to deny you your pleasures, Malcolm—”

“I should say not! And, sister dear, should you even know about Estella?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Rowena crossly. “All the world knows about the two of you. I’m hardly an innocent. The gossips are only too happy to inform me that half the ladies in London have either succumbed to you since your return or to Alaric prior to our marriage.”

“Only half? Well, you might have taken Brayleigh out of circulation, Rowena, but you can’t force me into such a staid existence.” Malcolm gave his sister a shrewd glance. “There’s more here than you’re telling me. You might as well come out with it.”

Rowena exchanged a glance with Alaric. “Well, if you must know, I have received a letter from Helena Keighley.”

“Who?” asked Malcolm.

“Helena Keighley. The daughter of Sir Douglas.” At Malcolm’s blank look, Rowena sighed. “Really, Malcolm, this is why you must go to Wroxton. Sir Douglas Keighley’s estate marches with Wroxton to the west. You must have met him, and Helena, dozens of times when you were a child.”

“Oh yes, Keighley, I remember the name,” said Malcolm. “Sir Douglas, you say? As I recall, Father said he was a bruising rider to hounds.”

“Yes, Malcolm, I’m sure he was,” said Rowena impatiently. “But this has nothing to do with fox hunting. “

“A pity, I might almost be tempted to leave London for that,” said Malcolm. “What does this Miss Keighley want?”

“I received a letter from Helena a few days ago,” she said, producing a folded piece of paper and waving it at Malcolm. “She would have written to you, but had no idea where to find you, and we are acquainted. She is a year or two older than I am, but we did spend some time together as children, and of course I have met her at assemblies and house parties. Surely you remember her.”

“I can’t be bothered to remember your childhood friends, Rowena,” said Malcolm. “I had other things to attend to. What does this mysterious letter say?” asked Malcolm.

Rowena unfolded the letter and perused it quickly. “Here it is,” she said. “It seems that French brandy is being smuggled in through Kent, and the lack of interest of the Earl of Wroxton in his estate has been taken as a sign that his lands are free to be used for this purpose. While Felix Arlingby was not a strong-minded gentleman, he cared enough to prevent such nonsense, but now landings occur almost nightly. I have no doubt that some of the servants have been bribed to allow this. The whole affair is unsettling; I have no desire to see Keighley lands overrun by ruffians because Wroxton is poorly managed. It is imperative that your brother cease his wastrel ways and take up the responsibilities that come with his birthright. He was ever an irresponsible young man, but surely the circumstances of the past years must have brought him some wisdom, no matter how slight. Please inform him that he is needed immediately at Wroxton.”

“What a termagant!” said Malcolm. “She doesn’t even know me, and she’s calling me a wastrel!”

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About the Author

Alicia Quigley is a lifelong lover of romance novels, who fell in love with Jane Austen in grade school, and Georgette Heyer in junior high. She made up games with playing cards using the face cards for Heyer characters, and sewed regency gowns (walking dresses, riding habits and bonnets that even Lydia Bennett wouldn’t have touched) for her Barbie. In spite of her terrible science and engineering addiction, she remains a devotee of the romance, and enjoys turning her hand to their production as well as their consumption.

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