Romance Galore : Historical Romance Book Recommendations
As the title mentioned, it’s romance galore ladies and gents!
Disclaimer : If you are the type to roll your eyes at the mention of the word “love” or “romance”, I am sorry to say, but this post might not be for you because we’re going to be rolling in love today.
Do come back another day, I’ll probably be out of my romance high by then (I hope).
Now, for those of you who are here because you just love love, welcome. In this post, you and me are in the same boat, as for some reason today, I just can’t stop thinking about romance, and love, and kisses, and cuddles, and s––
Okay, let’s not get too carried away.
In this post, it will be all about romance. And more importantly –– historical romance. So if you are currently looking for some good read on alpha males and witty ladies, you have come to the right place.
1879. In Blue Belle, Montana, everyone knew better than to mess with the Claybornes. The brothers had once been a mismatched gang of street urchins—until they found an abandoned baby girl in a New York city alley, named her Mary Rose, and headed west to raise her to be a lady. They became a family—held together by loyalty and love if not by blood—when suddenly they faced a crisis that threatened to tear them apart….
Trouble came to town with one Lord Harrison Stanford MacDonald. Armed with a swagger and six-shooter, he cut a striking figure—but it soon became apparent to Mary Rose that he was too much of a gentleman to make it in her rough-and-tumble town. She asked her brothers to teach him the basics of frontier survival, which he acquired with ease. And soon he possessed a deep and desperate love for Mary Rose. She returned his affection wholeheartedly… until MacDonald revealed a secret that challenged everything she believed about herself, her life, and her newfound love. Now her search for identity and meaning would begin, raising questions that could only be answered if she listened to the truth within her heart….
”Excerpt”
They found her in the trash. Luck was on the boys’ side; the rats hadn’t gotten to her yet. Two of the vermin had already climbed onto the top of the covered picnic basket and were frantically clawing at the wicker, while three others were tearing at the sides with their razor-sharp teeth. The rats were in a frenzy, for they smelled milk and tender, sweet-scented flesh.
The alley was the gang’s home. Three of the four boys were sound asleep in their make-do beds of converted wooden crates lined with old straw. They’d put in a full night’s work of thieving and conning and fighting. They were simply too exhausted to hear the cries of the infant.
Douglas was to be her savior. The fourth member of the gang was taking his turn doing sentry duty at the narrow mouth of the alley. He’d been watching a dark-cloaked woman for quite some time now. When she came hurrying toward the opening with the basket in her arms, he warned the other gang members of possible trouble with a soft, lowpitched whistle, then retreated into his hiding place behind a stack of old warped whiskey barrels. The woman paused in the archway, gave a furtive glance back over her shoulder toward the street, then ran into the very center of the alley. She stopped so suddenly her skirts flew out around her ankles. Grabbing the basket by the handle, she swung her arm back as far as it would go to gain momentum and threw the basket into a pyramid of garbage piled high against the opposite wall. It landed on its side, near the top. The woman was muttering under her breath all the while. Douglas couldn’t make out any of the words because the sound she made was muffled by another noise coming from inside the basket. It sounded like the mewing of a cat to him. He spared the basket only a glance, his attention firmly on the intruder.
The woman was obviously afraid. He noticed her hands shook when she pulled the hood of her cloak further down on her forehead. He thought she might be feeling guilty because she was getting rid of a family pet. The animal was probably old and ailing, and no one wanted it around any longer. People were like that, Douglas figured. They never wanted to be bothered by the old or the young. Too much trouble, he guessed. He found himself shaking his head and almost scoffed out loud over the sorry state of affairs in general, and this woman’s cowardice in particular. If she didn’t want the pet, why didn’t she just give it away? He wasn’t given time to mull over a possible answer, for the woman suddenly turned around and went running back to the street. She never looked back. When she was almost to the corner, Douglas gave another whistle. This one was loud, shrill. The oldest of the gang members, a runaway slave named Adam, leapt to his feet with the agility and speed of a predator. Douglas pointed to the basket, then took off in pursuit of the woman. He’d noticed the thick envelope sticking out of her coat pocket and thought it was time he took care of a little business. He was, after all, the best eleven-year-old pickpocket on Market Street.
Adam watched Douglas leave, then turned to get the basket. It wasn’t an easy task.
The rats didn’t want to give up their bounty. Adam hit one squarely on the head with a jagged-edged stone. The vile creature let out a squeal before scurrying back to the street. Adam lit his torch next and waved it back and forth above the basket to frighten the other vermin away. When he was certain they were all gone, he lifted the basket out of the garbage and carried it back to the bed of crates where the other gang members still slept.
He almost dropped the thing when he heard the faint sounds coming from inside.
“Travis, Cole, wake up. Douglas found something.”
Adam continued on past the beds and went to the dead end of the alley. He sat down, folded his long, skinny legs in front of him, and put the basket on the ground. He leaned back against the brick wall and waited for the other two boys to join him.
Cole sat down on Adam’s right side, and Travis, yawning loudly, hunkered down on his other side.
“What’d you find, boss?” Travis asked, his voice thick with sleep.
He’d asked Adam the question. The other three gang members had elevated the runaway slave to the position of leader one month ago. They’d used both reason and emotion to come to their decision. Adam was the oldest of the boys, almost fourteen now, and logic suggested he, therefore, lead the others. Also, he was the most intelligent of the four. While those were two sound reasons, there was yet another more compelling one. Adam had risked his own life to save each one of them from certain death. In the back alleys of New York City, where survival of the fittest was the only commandment anyone ever paid any attention to, there simply wasn’t room for prejudice. Hunger and violence were masters of the night, and they were both color-blind.
“Boss?” Travis whispered, prodding him to answer.
“I don’t know what it is,” Adam answered.
He was about to add that he hadn’t looked inside yet, but Cole interrupted him. “It’s a basket, that’s what it is,” he muttered. “The latch holding the top closed looks like it could be real gold. Think it is?” Adam shrugged. Travis, the youngest of the boys, imitated the action. He accepted the torch Adam handed him and held it high enough for all of them to see.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Douglas before we open the thing?” Travis asked. He glanced over his shoulder toward the entrance of the alley. “Where’d he go?”
Adam reached for the latch. “He’ll be along.”
“Wait, boss,” Cole cautioned. “There’s a noise coming from inside.” He reached for his knife. “You hear it, Travis?”
“I hear it,” Travis answered. “Could be something inside’s gonna bite us. Think it could be a snake?”
“Of course it couldn’t be a snake,” Cole answered, his exasperation evident in his tone of voice. “You got piss for brains, boy. Snakes don’t whimper like . . . like maybe kittens.”
Stung by the retort, Travis lowered his gaze. “We ain’t never gonna find out lessun we open the thing,” he muttered.
Adam nodded agreement. He flipped the latch to the side and lifted the lid an inch. Nothing jumped out at them. He let out the breath he’d been holding, then pushed the lid all the way up. The hinge squeaked, and the lid swung down to rest against the back side of the basket.
All three boys had pressed their shoulders tight against the wall. They leaned forward now to look inside.
And then they let out a collective gasp. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing. A baby, as perfect and as beautiful as an angel from above, was sleeping soundly. Eyes closed, one tiny fist in mouth, the infant occasionally suckled and whimpered, and that was the noise the boys had heard.
2. Bath Tangle
Genre : Historical Fiction, Regency Romance
Type : Standalone
Status : Published
BLURB :
The Earl of Spenborough has always been noted for his eccentricity. Leaving Fanny, a widow younger than his own daughter Serena is one thing, but quite another is leaving his daugther’s fortune to the trusteeship of Ivo Barrasford, marquis of Rotherham — a man whom Serena once jilted and who now has the power to give or withhold his consent to any marriage she might contemplate. Lady Serena Carlow is an acknowledged beauty, many eager suitors have vied for her hand, but she’s got a temper as fiery as her head of red hair. When her father dies unexpectedly, Serena discovers to her horror that she has been left a ward of the odious Lord Rotherham. Serena raged as she heard her father’s last will and testament! How could he mortgage his only daughter to Lord Rotherham, making the very man she had recently jilted caretaker of her inheritance and her heart?
”Excerpt”
TWO LADIES WERE seated in the library at Milverley Park, the younger, whose cap and superabundance of crape proclaimed the widow, beside a table upon which reposed a Prayer Book; the elder, a Titian-haired beauty of some twenty-five summers, in one of the deep window-embrasures that overlooked the park. The Funeral Service had been read aloud, in a pretty, reverent voice, by the widow; but the Prayer Book had been closed and laid aside for some time, the silence being broken only by desultory remarks, uttered by one or other of the ladies, and the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece.
The library, whose curiously carved bookshelves and gilded and painted ceiling had earned it honourable mention in every Guide Book to Gloucestershire, was a handsome apartment, situated upon the ground floor of the mansion, and furnished with sombre elegance. It had been used, until so short a time previously, almost exclusively by the late Earl of Spenborough: a faint aroma of cigars hung about it, and every now and then the widow’s blue eyes rested on the big mahogany desk, as though she expected to see the Earl seated behind it. An air of gentle sorrow clung about her, and there was a bewildered expression on her charming countenance, as though she could scarcely realize her loss.
It had indeed been as sudden as it was unexpected. No one, least of all himself, could have supposed that the Earl, a fine, robust man in his fiftieth year, would owe his death to so paltry a cause as a chill, contracted when salmon-fishing on the Wye. Not all the solicitations of his host and hostess had prevailed upon him to cosset this trifling ailment; he had enjoyed another day’s fishing; and had returned to Milverley, testily making light of his condition, but so very far from well that his daughter had had no hesitation in overriding his prohibition, and had sent immediately for a physician. A severe inflammation of both lungs was diagnosed, and within a week he was dead, leaving a wife and a daughter to mourn him, and a cousin, some fifteen years his junior, to succeed to his dignities. He had no other child, a circumstance generally held to account for his startling marriage, three years earlier, to the pretty girl who had not then attained the dignity of her twentieth year. Only the most forbearing of his friends could think the match allowable. Neither his splendid physique nor his handsome face could disguise the fact that he was older than his bride’s father, for his birth-date could be read in any Peerage, and his daughter had been the mistress of his establishment for four years. When no heir to the Earldom resulted from the unequal match, those who most deprecated the Earl’s many eccentricities pronounced it to be a judgement upon him, his sister. Lady Theresa Eaglesham, adding obscurely, but with conviction, that it would teach Serena a lesson. Any girl who dismissed her chaperon at the age of twenty-one, refused two flattering offers of marriage, and cried off from an engagement to the most brilliant prize in the Marriage Mart was well served when her father brought home a young bride to supplant her, said Lady Theresa. And all to no purpose, as she for one had foretold from the outset!
Some such reflection seemed to be in the widow’s mind. She said mournfully: ‘If I could have been more dutiful! I have been so very conscious of it, and now the thought quite oppresses me!’
Her stepdaughter, who had been leaning her chin on her hand, and gazing out at the trees in the park, just touched with autumn gold, turned her head at this, and said bracingly: “Nonsense!’
‘Your Aunt Theresa—’
‘Let us be thankful that my Aunt Theresa’s dislike of me has kept her away from us at this moment!’ interrupted Serena.
‘Oh, don’t say so! If she had not been indisposed—’
‘She was never so in her life. Wretched work my Uncle Eaglesham made of her excuses. He is a poor creature.’
‘Perhaps she has stayed away, then, because she does not like me,’ said the widow unhappily.
‘No such thing! Now, Fanny, don’t be absurd! As though anyone could help liking you! For my part, I am excessively obliged to her for remaining in Sussex. We can never meet without rubbing one another, and although I think her the most Gothic woman alive, I own she had something to bear when I spent my first Season under her roof. Poor woman! She brought two eligible suitors up to scratch, and I liked neither. My character was retrieved only when I was stupid enough to become engaged to Ivo Rotherham, and lost beyond recovery when I put an end to that most abominable episode of my life!’
‘How dreadful it must have been for you! Within a month of the wedding!’
‘Not in the least! We quarrelled more royally than ever before, and I positively enjoyed crying off. You will allow, too, that there is a distinction in having given the odious Marquis a set-down!’
‘I should never have dared to do so. His manners are so—so very unconciliating and he looks at one as though he held one in contempt, which throws me into confusion, try as I will to overcome such folly.’
‘Destestable man!’
‘Oh, Serena, hush! You cannot always have thought so!’
‘Her stepdaughter threw her a quizzing glance. ‘Are you in one of your romantical flights? Goose! I became engaged to Ivo because I thought it would suit me to be a marchioness, because Papa made the match, because I have known him for ever, because we have some tastes in common, because—oh, for a number of excellent reasons! Or so they seemed, until I discovered him to be unendurable.’
3. The Duke and I (Bridgertons #1)
Genre : Historical Fiction, Regency Romance
Type : Octalogy (8 books)
Status : Completed Series
BLURB :
Can there be any greater challenge to London’s Ambitious Mamas than an unmarried duke?
—Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, April 1813
By all accounts, Simon Basset is on the verge of proposing to his best friend’s sister, the lovely—and almost-on-the-shelf—Daphne Bridgerton. But the two of them know the truth—it’s all an elaborate plan to keep Simon free from marriage-minded society mothers. And as for Daphne, surely she will attract some worthy suitors now that it seems a duke has declared her desirable.
But as Daphne waltzes across ballroom after ballroom with Simon, it’s hard to remember that their courtship is a complete sham. Maybe it’s his devilish smile, certainly it’s the way his eyes seem to burn every time he looks at her… but somehow Daphne is falling for the dashing duke… for real! And now she must do the impossible and convince the handsome rogue that their clever little scheme deserves a slight alteration, and that nothing makes quite as much sense as falling in love…
”Excerpt”
The birth of Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset, Earl Clyvedon, was met with great celebration. Church bells rang for hours, champagne flowed freely through the gargantuan castle that the newborn would call home, and the entire village of Clyvedon quit work to partake of the feast and holiday ordered by the young earl’s father.
This, the baker said to the blacksmith, was no ordinary baby.
For Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset would not spend his life as Earl Clyvedon. That was a mere courtesy title. Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset — the baby who possessed more names than any baby could possibly need — was the heir to one of England’s oldest and richest dukedoms. And his father, the ninth Duke of Hastings, had waited years for this moment.
As he stood in the hall outside his wife’s confinement room, cradling the squalling infant, the duke’s heart burst with pride. Already several years past forty, he had watched his cronies — dukes and earls, all — beget heir after heir. Some had had to suffer through a few daughters before siring a precious son, but in the end, they’d all been assured that their lines would continue, that their blood would pass forward into the next generation of England’s elite.
But not the Duke of Hastings. Though his wife had managed to conceive five times in the fifteen years of their marriage, only twice had she carried to full term, and both of those infants had been stillborn. After the fifth pregnancy, which had ended with a bloody miscarriage in the fifth month, surgeons and physicians alike had warned their graces that they absolutely must not make another attempt to have a child. The duchess’s very life was in danger. She was too frail, too weak, and perhaps, they said gently, too old. The duke was simply going to have to reconcile himself to the fact that the dukedom would pass out of the Basset family.
But the duchess, God bless her, knew her role in life, and after a six-month recuperative period, she opened the connecting door between their bedrooms, and the duke once again commenced his quest for a son.
Five months later, the duchess informed the duke that she had conceived. The duke’s immediate elation was tempered by his grim determination that nothing —absolutely nothing— would cause this pregnancy to go awry. The duchess was confined to her bed the minute it was realized that she’d missed her monthly courses. A physician was brought in to visit her every day, and halfway through the pregnancy, the duke located the most respected doctor in London and paid him a king’s ransom to temporarily abandon his practice and take up residence at Clyvedon Castle.
The duke was taking no chances this time. He would have a son, and the dukedom would remain in Basset hands.
The duchess experienced pains a month early, and pillows were tucked under her hips. Gravity might keep the babe inside, Dr. Stubbs explained. The duke thought that a sound argument, and, when the doctor had retired for the evening, placed yet another pillow under his wife, raising her to a twenty degree angle. She remained that way for a month.
And then finally, the moment of truth arrived. The household prayed for the duke, who so wanted an heir, and a few remembered to pray for the duchess, who had grown thin and frail even as her belly had grown round and wide. They tried not to be too hopeful — after all, the duchess had already delivered and buried two babes. And even if she did manage to safely deliver a child, it could be, well, a girl.
As the duchess’s screams grew louder and more frequent, the duke shoved his way into her chamber, ignoring the protests of the doctor, the midwife, and her grace’s maid. It was a bloody mess, but the duke was determined to be present when the babe’s sex was revealed. The head appeared, then the shoulders.
All leaned forward to watch as the duchess strained and pushed, and then…
And then the duke knew that there was a God, and He smiled on the Bassets. He allowed the midwife one minute to clean the babe, then took the little boy into his arms and marched into the great hall to show him off.
“I have a son!” he boomed. “A perfect little son!”
And while the servants cheered and wept with relief, the duke looked down upon the tiny little earl and said, “You are perfect. You are a Basset. You are mine.”
The duke wanted to take the boy outside to prove to everyone that he had finally sired a healthy male child, but there was a slight chill in the early April air, so he allowed the midwife to take the babe back to his mother. The duke mounted one of his prized geldings and rode off to celebrate, shouting his good fortune to all who would listen.
Meanwhile, the duchess, who had been bleeding steadily since the birth, slipped into unconsciousness, and then finally just slipped away.
4. The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)
Genre : Historical Fiction, Romance
Type : Tetralogy
Status : Completed Series
BLURB :
Sometimes love is an accident.
This time, it’s a strategy.
Miss Minerva Lane is a quiet, bespectacled wallflower, and she wants to keep it that way. After all, the last time she was the center of attention, it ended badly—so badly that she changed her name to escape her scandalous past. Wallflowers may not be the prettiest of blooms, but at least they don’t get trampled. So when a handsome duke comes to town, the last thing she wants is his attention.
But that is precisely what she gets.
Because Robert Blaisdell, the Duke of Clermont, is not fooled. When Minnie figures out what he’s up to, he realizes there is more to her than her spectacles and her quiet ways. And he’s determined to lay her every secret bare before she can discover his. But this time, one shy miss may prove to be more than his match…
”Excerpt”
Leicester, November, 1863
ROBERT BLAISDELL, THE NINTH DUKE OF CLERMONT, was not hiding.
True, he’d retreated to the upstairs library of the old Guildhall, far enough from the crowd below that the noise of the ensemble had faded to a distant rumble. True, nobody else was about. Also true: He stood behind thick curtains of blue-gray velvet, which shielded him from view. And he’d had to move the heavy davenport of brown-buttoned leather to get there.
But he’d done all that not to hide himself, but because—and this was a key point in his rather specious train of logic—in this centuries-old structure of plaster and timberwork, only one of the panes in the windows opened, and that happened to be the one secreted behind the sofa.
So here he stood, cigarillo in hand, the smoke trailing out into the chilly autumn air. He wasn’t hiding; it was simply a matter of preserving the aging books from fumes.
He might even have believed himself, if only he smoked.
Still, through the wavy panes of aging glass, he could make out the darkened stone of the church directly across the way. Lamplight cast unmoving shadows on the pavement below. A pile of handbills had once been stacked against the doors, but an autumn breeze had picked them up and scattered them down the street, driving them into puddles.
He was making a mess. A goddamned glorious mess. He smiled and tapped the end of his untouched cigarillo against the window opening, sending ashes twirling to the paving stones below.
The quiet creak of a door opening startled him. He turned from the window at the corresponding scritch of floorboards. Someone had come up the stairs and entered the adjoining room. The footsteps were light—a woman’s, perhaps, or a child’s. They were also curiously hesitant. Most people who made their way to the library in the midst of a musicale had a reason to do so. A clandestine meeting, perhaps, or a search for a missing family member.
From his vantage point behind the curtains, Robert could only see a small slice of the library. Whoever it was drew closer, walking hesitantly. She was out of sight—somehow he was sure that she was a woman—but he could hear the soft, prowling fall of her feet, pausing every so often as if to examine the surroundings.
She didn’t call out a name or make a determined search. It didn’t sound as if she were looking for a hidden lover. Instead, her footsteps circled the perimeter of the room.
It took Robert half a minute to realize that he’d waited too long to announce himself. “Aha!” he could imagine himself proclaiming, springing out from behind the curtains. “I was admiring the plaster. Very evenly laid back there, did you know?”
She would think he was mad. And so far, nobody yet had come to that conclusion. So instead of speaking, he dropped his cigarillo out the window. It tumbled end over end, orange tip glowing, until it landed in a puddle and extinguished itself.
All he could see of the room was a half-shelf of books, the back of the sofa, and a table next to it on which a chess set had been laid out. The game was in progress; from what little he remembered of the rules, black was winning. Whoever it was drew nearer, and Robert shrank back against the window.
She crossed into his field of vision.
She wasn’t one of the young ladies he’d met in the crowded hall earlier. Those had all been beauties, hoping to catch his eye. And she—whoever she was—was not a beauty. Her dark hair was swept into a no-nonsense knot at the back of her neck. Her lips were thin and her nose was sharp and a bit on the long side. She was dressed in a dark blue gown trimmed in ivory—no lace, no ribbons, just simple fabric. Even the cut of her gown bordered on the severe side: waist pulled in so tightly he wondered how she could breathe, sleeves marching from her shoulders to her wrists without an inch of excess fabric to soften the picture.
She didn’t see Robert standing behind the curtain. She had set her head to one side and was eyeing the chess set the way a member of the Temperance League might look at a cask of brandy: as if it were an evil to be stamped out with prayer and song—and failing that, with martial law.
She took one halting step forward, then another. Then, she reached into the silk bag that hung around her wrist and retrieved a pair of spectacles.
Glasses should have made her look more severe. But as soon as she put them on, her gaze softened.
He’d read her wrongly. Her eyes hadn’t been narrowed in scorn; she’d been squinting. It hadn’t been severity he saw in her gaze but something else entirely—something he couldn’t quite make out. She reached out and picked up a black knight, turning it around, over and over. He could see nothing about the pieces that would merit such careful attention. They were solid wood, carved with indifferent skill. Still, she studied it, her eyes wide and luminous.
Then, inexplicably, she raised it to her lips and kissed it.
Robert watched in frozen silence. It almost felt as if he were interrupting a tryst between a woman and her lover. This was a lady who had secrets, and she didn’t want to share them.
The door in the far room creaked as it opened once more.
The woman’s eyes grew wide and wild. She looked about frantically and dove over the davenport in her haste to hide, landing in an ignominious heap two feet away from him. She didn’t see Robert even then; she curled into a ball, yanking her skirts behind the leather barrier of the sofa, breathing in shallow little gulps.
Good thing he’d moved the davenport back half a foot earlier. She never would have fit the great mass of her skirts behind it otherwise.
Her fist was still clenched around the chess piece; she shoved the knight violently under the sofa.
This time, a heavier pair of footfalls entered the room.
“Minnie?” said a man’s voice. “Miss Pursling? Are you here?”
Her nose scrunched and she pushed back against the wall. She made no answer.
“Gad, man.” Another voice that Robert didn’t recognize—young and slightly slurred with drink. “I don’t envy you that one.”
“Don’t speak ill of my almost-betrothed,” the first voice said. “You know she’s perfect for me.”
“That timid little rodent?”
“She’ll keep a good home. She’ll see to my comfort. She’ll manage the children, and she won’t complain about my mistresses.” There was a creak of hinges—the unmistakable sound of someone opening one of the glass doors that protected the bookshelves.
“What are you doing, Gardley?” the drunk man asked. “Looking for her among the German volumes? I don’t think she’d fit.” That came with an ugly laugh.
Gardley. That couldn’t be the elder Mr. Gardley, owner of a distillery—not by the youth in that voice. This must be Mr. Gardley the younger. Robert had seen him from afar—an unremarkable fellow of medium height, medium-brown hair, and features that reminded him faintly of five other people.
“On the contrary,” young Gardley said. “I think she’ll fit quite well. As wives go, Miss Pursling will be just like these books. When I wish to take her down and read her, she’ll be there. When I don’t, she’ll wait patiently, precisely where she was left. She’ll make me a comfortable wife, Ames. Besides, my mother likes her.”
Robert didn’t believe he’d met an Ames. He shrugged and glanced down at—he was guessing—Miss Pursling to see how she took this revelation.
She didn’t look surprised or shocked at her almost-fiancé’s unromantic utterance. Instead, she looked resigned.
“You’ll have to take her to bed, you know,” Ames said.
“True. But not, thank God, very often.”
“She’s a rodent. Like all rodents, I imagine she’ll squeal when she’s poked.”
There was a mild thump.
“What?” yelped Ames.
“That,” said Gardley, “is my future wife you are talking about.”
Maybe the fellow wasn’t so bad after all.
Then Gardley continued. “I’m the only one who gets to think about poking that rodent.”
Miss Pursling pressed her lips together and looked up, as if imploring the heavens. But inside the library, there were no heavens to implore. And when she looked up, through the gap in the curtains…
Her gaze met Robert’s. Her eyes grew big and round. She didn’t scream; she didn’t gasp. She didn’t twitch so much as an inch. She simply fixed him with a look that bristled with silent, venomous accusation. Her nostrils flared.
There was nothing Robert could do but lift his hand and give her a little wave.
She took off her spectacles and turned away in a gesture so regally dismissive that he had to look twice to remind himself that she was, in fact, sitting in a heap of skirts at his feet. That from this awkward angle above her, he could see straight down the neckline of her gown—right at the one part of her figure that didn’t strike him as severe, but soft—
Save that for later, he admonished himself, and adjusted his gaze up a few inches. Because she’d turned away, he saw for the first time a faint scar on her left cheek, a tangled white spider web of crisscrossed lines.
“Wherever your mouse has wandered off to, it’s not here,” Ames was saying. “Likely she’s in the lady’s retiring room. I say we go back to the fun. You can always tell your mother you had words with her in the library.”
“True enough,” Gardley said. “And I don’t need to mention that she wasn’t present for them—it’s not as if she would have said anything in response, even if she had been here.”
Footsteps receded; the door creaked once more, and the men walked out.
Miss Pursling didn’t look at Robert once they’d left, not even to acknowledge his existence with a glare. Instead, she pushed herself to her knees, made a fist, and slammed it into the hard back of the sofa—once, then twice, hitting it so hard that it moved forward with the force of her blow—all one hundred pounds of it.
He caught her wrist before she landed a third strike. “There now,” he said. “You don’t want to hurt yourself over him. He doesn’t deserve it.”
She stared up at him, her eyes wide.
He didn’t see how any man could call this woman timid. She positively crackled with defiance. He let go of her arm before the fury in her could travel up his hand and consume him. He had enough anger of his own.
“Never mind me,” she said. “Apparently I’m not capable of helping myself.”
He almost jumped. He wasn’t sure how he’d expected her voice to sound—sharp and severe, like her appearance suggested? Perhaps he’d imagined her talking in a high squeak, as if she were the rodent she’d been labeled. But her voice was low, warm, and deeply sensual. It was the kind of voice that made him suddenly aware that she was on her knees before him, her head almost level with his crotch.
Save that for later, too.
5. The Bronze Horseman (The Bronze Horseman #1)
Genre : Historical Romance, War , Adult Fiction
Type : Trilogy
Status : Completed Series
BLURB :
The golden skies, the translucent twilight, the white nights, all hold the promise of youth, of love, of eternal renewal. The war has not yet touched this city of fallen grandeur, or the lives of two sisters, Tatiana and Dasha Metanova, who share a single room in a cramped apartment with their brother and parents. Their world is turned upside down when Hitler’s armies attack Russia and begin their unstoppable blitz to Leningrad.
Yet there is light in the darkness. Tatiana meets Alexander, a brave young officer in the Red Army. Strong and self-confident, yet guarding a mysterious and troubled past, he is drawn to Tatiana—and she to him. Starvation, desperation, and fear soon grip their city during the terrible winter of the merciless German siege. Tatiana and Alexander’s impossible love threatens to tear the Metanova family apart and expose the dangerous secret Alexander so carefully protects—a secret as devastating as the war itself—as the lovers are swept up in the brutal tides that will change the world and their lives forever.
”Excerpt”
ENINGRAD
Part One
THE LUCENT DUSK
The Field of Mars
1
Light came through the window, trickling morning all over the room. Tatiana Metanova slept the sleep of the innocent, the sleep of restless joy, of warm, white Leningrad nights, of jasmine June. But most of all, intoxicated with life, she slept the exuberant sleep of undaunted youth.
She did not sleep for much longer.
When the sun’s rays moved across the room to rest at the foot of Tatiana’s bed, she pulled the sheet over her head, trying to keep the daylight out. The bedroom door opened, and she heard the floor creak once. It was her sister, Dasha.
Daria, Dasha, Dashenka, Dashka.
She represented everything that was dear to Tatiana.
Right now, however, Tatiana wanted to smother her. Dasha was trying to wake her up and, unfortunately, succeeding. Dasha’s strong hands were vigorously shaking Tatiana, while her usually harmonious voice was dissonantly hissing, “Psst! Tania! Wake up. Wake up!”
Tatiana groaned. Dasha pulled back the sheet.
Never was their seven-year age difference more apparent than now, when Tatiana wanted to sleep and Dasha was…
“Stop it,” Tatiana muttered, fishing helplessly behind her for the sheet and pulling it back over her. “Can’t you see I’m sleeping? What are you? My mother?”
The door to the room opened. Two creaks on the floor. It was her mother. “Tania? You awake? Get up right now.”
Tatiana could never say that her mother’s voice was harmonious. There was nothing soft about Irina Metanova. She was small, boisterous, and full of indignant, overflowing energy. She wore a kerchief to keep her hair back from her face, for she had probably already been down on her knees washing the communal bathroom in her blue summer frock. She looked bedraggled and done with her Sunday.
“What, Mama?” Tatiana said, not lifting her head from the pillow. Dasha’s hair touched Tatiana’s back. Her hand was on Tatiana’s leg, and Dasha bent over as if to kiss her. Tatiana felt a momentary tenderness, but before Dasha could say anything, Mama’s grating voice intruded. “Get up quick. There’s going to be an important announcement on the radio in a few minutes.”
Tatiana whispered to Dasha, “Where were you last night? You didn’t come in till well past dawn.”
“Can I help it,” Dasha whispered with pleasure, “that last night dawn was at midnight? I came in at the perfectly respectable hour of midnight.” She was grinning. “You were all asleep.”
“Dawn was at three, and you weren’t home.”
Dasha paused. “I’ll tell Papa I got caught on the other side of the river when the bridges went up at three.”
“Yes, you do that. Explain to him what you were doing on the other side of the river at three in the morning.” Tatiana turned over. Dasha looked particularly striking this morning. She had unruly dark brown hair and an animated, round, dark-eyed face that had a reaction for everything. Right now that reaction was cheerful exasperation. Tatiana was exasperated herself— less cheerfully. She wanted to continue sleeping.
She caught a glimpse of her mother’s tense expression. “What announcement?”
Her mother was taking the bedclothes off the sofa.
“Mama! What announcement?” Tatiana repeated.
“There is going to be a government announcement in a few minutes. That’s all I know,” Mama said doggedly, shaking her head, as if to say, what’s not to understand?
Tatiana was reluctantly awake. Announcement. It was a rare event when music would be interrupted for a word from the government. “Maybe we invaded Finland again.” She rubbed her eyes.
“Quiet,” Mama said.
“Or maybe they invaded us. They’ve been wanting their borders back ever since losing them last year.”
“We didn’t invade them,” said Dasha. “Last year we went to get our borders back. The ones we lost in the Great War. And you should stop listening to adult conversations.”
“We didn’t lose our borders,” Tatiana said. “Comrade Lenin gave them away freely and willingly. That doesn’t count.”
“Tania, we are not at war with Finland. Get out of bed.”
Tatiana did not get out of bed. “Latvia, then? Lithuania? Byelorussia? Didn’t we just help ourselves to them, too, after the Hitler-Stalin pact?”
“Tatiana Georgievna! Stop it!” Her mother always called her by her first and patronymic names whenever she wanted to show Tatiana she was not in the mood to be fooled with.
Tatiana pretended to be serious. “What else is left? We already have half of Poland.”
“I said stop!” Mama exclaimed. “Enough of your games. Get out of bed. Daria Georgievna, get that sister of yours out of bed.”
Dasha did not move.
Growling, Mama left the room.
Turning quickly to Tatiana, Dasha whispered conspiratorially, “I’ve got something to tell you!”
“Something good?” Tatiana was instantly curious. Dasha usually revealed little about her grown-up life. Tatiana sat up.
“Something great!” said Dasha. “I’m in love!”
Tatiana rolled her eyes and fell back on the bed.
“Stop it!” Dasha said, jumping on top of her. “This is serious, Tania.”
“Yes, all right. Did you just meet him yesterday when the bridges were up?” She smiled.
“Yesterday was the third time.”
Tatiana shook her head, gazing at Dasha, whose joy was infectious. “Can you get off me?”
“No, I can’t get off you,” Dasha said, tickling her. “Not until you say, ‘I’m happy, Dasha.’ ”
“Why would I say that?” exclaimed Tatiana, laughing. “I’m not happy. Stop it! Why should I be happy? I’m not in love. Cut it out!”
Mama came back into the room, carrying six cups on a round tray and a silver samovar—an urn with a spigot used for boiling water for tea. “You two will stop at once! Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Mama,” said Dasha, giving Tatiana one last hard tickle.
“Ouch!” said Tatiana as loudly as possible. “Mama, I think she cracked my ribs.”
“I’m going to crack something else in a minute. You’re both too old for these games.”
Dasha stuck out her tongue at Tatiana. “Very grown-up,” Tatiana said. “Our Mamochka doesn’t know you’re only two.”
Dasha’s tongue remained out. Tatiana reached up and grabbed the slippery thing between her fingers. Dasha squealed. Tatiana let go.
“What did I say!” Mama bellowed.
Dasha leaned over and whispered to Tatiana, “Wait until you meet him. You’ve never met anybody so handsome.”
“You mean better-looking than that Sergei you tortured me with? Didn’t you tell me he was so handsome?”
“Stop it,” hissed Dasha, smacking Tatiana’s leg.
“Of course.” Tatiana grinned. “And wasn’t that just last week?”
“You’ll never understand because you are still an incorrigible child.” There was another smack. Mama yelled. The girls stopped.
Tatiana’s father, Georgi Vasilievich Metanov, came in. A short man in his forties, he sported a full head of untidy black hair that was just beginning to turn to salt and pepper. Dasha got her curly hair from Papa. He walked past the bed, glanced vacantly at Tatiana, her legs still under the sheets, and said, “Tania, it’s noon. Get up. Or there’s going to be trouble. I need you dressed in two minutes.”
“That’s easy,” Tatiana replied, jumping up on the bed and showing her family that she was still wearing her shirt and skirt from yesterday. Dasha and Mama shook their heads; Mama nearly smiled.
Papa looked away toward the window. “What are we going to do with her, Irina?”
Nothing, Tatiana thought, nothing as long as Papa looks the other way.
“I need to get married,” Dasha said, still sitting on the bed. “So I can finally have a room of my own to get dressed in.”
“You’re joking,” said Tatiana, jumping up and down on the bed. “You’ll just be in here with your husband. Me, you, him, all sleeping in one bed, with Pasha at our feet. Romantic, isn’t it?”
“Don’t get married, Dashenka,” her mother said absentmindedly. “Tania is right for once. We have no room for him.”
Her father said nothing, turning on the radio.
6. Somewhere in France ( The Great War #1)
Genre : Historical Fiction, War, Romance
Type : Trilogy
Status : Completed Series
BLURB :
Lady Elizabeth Neville-Ashford wants to travel the world, pursue a career, and marry for love. But in 1914, the stifling restrictions of aristocratic British society and her mother’s rigid expectations forbid Lily from following her heart. When war breaks out, the spirited young woman seizes her chance for independence. Defying her parents, she moves to London and eventually becomes an ambulance driver in the newly formed Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps—an exciting and treacherous job that takes her close to the Western Front.
Assigned to a field hospital in France, Lily is reunited with Robert Fraser, her dear brother Edward’s best friend. The handsome Scottish surgeon has always encouraged Lily’s dreams. She doesn’t care that Robbie grew up in poverty—she yearns for their friendly affection to become something more. Lily is the most beautiful—and forbidden—woman Robbie has ever known. Fearful for her life, he’s determined to keep her safe, even if it means breaking her heart.
In a world divided by class, filled with uncertainty and death, can their hope for love survive. . . or will it become another casualty of this tragic war?
It was past nine, past time, for the sun had set, the orchestra had begun to play, and hundreds of guests were streaming up the grand central staircase, their voices rising in an ebullient, ever-swelling chorus to the floors above. Past time to call for Flossie, and array herself in the gown her mother had chosen. If only there were armor for occasions like this.
A scratch at the door; then: “Lady Elizabeth?”
“Flossie. I was just about to ring for you. I’ve left things rather late.”
“Your hair’s done already, so we’ve only to worry about your gown. We’ll have you ready in no time at all.”
After shedding her dressing gown, Lilly stood in her chemise and stockings, still as a mannequin, as Flossie tightened and tied her corset. Then the maid fastened several petticoats around her waist, just enough to support the modest fullness of her skirts.
The gown itself had been set out on the floor, on top of a clean sheet, its bodice drawn wide so Lilly might step into it with Flossie’s help. Made of palest pink satin, it was overlaid by cream-colored net lace embroidered with lilies of the valley. Although it had not been her first choice, it was a pretty gown, and she loved the way the light caught and reflected the seed pearls and crystals of its embroidery.
She drew on her gloves, their kid leather so paper-thin it took forever to smooth them up her arms, and bent her head while Flossie fastened a pink sapphire and pearl choker at her throat; it was followed by a tiara, bracelet, and earrings from the same parure.
She’d never be the belle of the ball, for that role fell to mahogany-haired beauties like her sisters. But she could admit, assessing her appearance with a critical eye, that she looked passable tonight. Pretty, even. In her favor was her complexion, glowing and clear, without even a hint of freckle, an acceptably rounded bosom, and an abundance of shiny brown hair.
It had been an age since she’d attended a ball. After her debut, two Seasons ago, she’d avoided such grand occasions whenever possible. Fortunately, this was the last event in honor of her brother Edward and his fiancée that she was expected to attend, at least until their wedding drew near. After tonight she could retreat to the quiet of Cumbria and enjoy what remained of the summer in peace.
The carriage clock on her mantel chimed the half hour. She had wasted enough time already.
“Thank you very much, Flossie. I’ll ring for you when I come back upstairs.”
“Yes, miss. You do look lovely.”
“You’re very kind. I’ll see you soon.”
Lilly took a steadying breath, as deep as her corset allowed, and hurried downstairs to the library via one of the back staircases.
At her arrival, Edward rose with alacrity from one of the wing chairs that flanked the fireplace. His fiancée’s father, Lord Halifax, was clearly suffering from gout and took longer to extricate himself from his seat.
Dropping a kiss on Lilly’s cheek, Edward moved past her and surveyed the empty hallway. “Where on earth are they? Shouldn’t they be here by now?”
“I spoke to Helena and Lady Halifax not long ago,” Lilly reassured him. “I’m certain they’ll be here presently.” Seeking to divert his attention, she caught sight of the evening paper on a side table. “Has there been any news?”
“Nothing from the Austrians, though it’s only a matter of time.” Edward picked up his glass of port, drained what was left of it, and grimaced. “We’ll all be at war before the summer is out.”
“Is there truly no hope that an agreement can be reached?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Best to get it over with,” Edward said. “Like—how did you put it, Lord Halifax?”
“Lancing a boil.”
“Yes, that was it. Quick and sharp; that’s how we’ll do it. We’re sure to prevail, and once we do we’ll finally be certain of peace.”
A dismissive harrumph from the library door told Lilly that Lady Halifax had arrived. “None of your war talk this evening, gentlemen,” the countess commanded. “You’ll alarm the young ladies.”
Edward smiled apologetically. “You’re quite right, of course.” Stepping forward, he kissed Lady Halifax’s hand with a flourish. He then turned to his fiancée, who had been hovering behind her mother, and bestowed upon her the full, dazzling effect of his smile and regard.
“Helena, my darling, you look utterly beautiful tonight. I’m so very proud.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a slim leather box from the inside breast pocket. “A small token of my esteem. I do hope you like it.”
Helena opened the box, her gloved fingers fumbling with the catch, and gasped as she saw the diamond bracelet inside. She looked up at Edward, her heart in her eyes, and Lilly felt a brief, and disquieting, spark of envy. Was that what it felt like to love, and to be loved in return?
A discreet tap at the door announced the butler’s arrival. Resplendent in his silk tailcoat, Mr. Maxwell led them up the grand staircase to the ballroom. As they approached the ornate double doors to the room, the orchestra inside fell silent and the accompanying din of voices grew hushed.
Mr. Maxwell’s sonorous baritone was perfect for such occasions. “The Earl of Halifax and the Countess of Halifax,” he proclaimed. “The Viscount Ashford and the Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr.”
Lilly stood well back, waiting until the watching eyes of the crowd were elsewhere, then slipped into the ballroom all but unnoticed. She made her way around its perimeter, greeting those guests to whom she’d already been introduced, repeating the same inanities of weather and health each time. And each time, as she met their eyes and shook their hands, she was beset by the conviction that the interior life of the person to whom she spoke was utterly unknown to her. They might as well have been animated silhouettes, so profound was the effect they had on her. Not that she was likely to have made any more lasting an impression on any of them.
She made her way to the blue drawing room, intent on finding a quiet corner where she might sit and sip at a glass of lemonade. Then she saw him.
Robert Fraser. Robbie.
She had only met him once before, when her brother had invited his best friend from Oxford to stay for the long Easter weekend. Her parents had disapproved, of course, appalled that Edward would choose to associate with the son of a Glaswegian dustman. But Edward had insisted on bringing his friend to Cumbermere Hall for the holiday, and what her brother wanted he very nearly always got.
Though seven years had passed since that weekend, she recognized Robbie straightaway, though she could discern little of the boy he’d once been. He was as fair as ever, his hair the color of honey, and his eyes were the same bright blue of her memories. But he carried himself like a man, with none of the gracelessness and bluster of youth, and held himself so confidently that he overshadowed every other person in the room.
He looked wonderful in formal dress. Worn by a lesser man, the conventional ensemble of black silk tailcoat and trousers, stiffly starched white shirt, waistcoat, and bow tie was frequently unflattering. Lilly had seen more than a few oversize penguins tonight. But not Robert Fraser.
7. The Masqueraders
Genre : Historical Fiction, Regency Romance
Type : Standalone
Status : Published
BLURB :
Prudence and Robin Tremaine, are children of the notorious and brilliant Viscount of Barham, find themselves on the wrong side of the Jacobite rebellion. The brothers have been dissemblers since they were children. And in this age of slippery politics, they need to be. Their infamous adventurer father has taught Prudence and her brother Robin to be masters of disguise. To escape detection, the Viscount sends his offspring on the road to London, each masquerading as the opposite sex. Prudence pretending to be a dashing young buck, and Robin as a lovely young lady.
During the travelling to London to meet their eccentric and rather wayward father, they take a break for a meal, and overhear what is clearly a reluctant elopement… and decide to get involved. It quickly becomes clear that the brother and sister are not exactly what they seem to be… For they it is nothing to rescue the charming Letitia Grayson, a rich heiress from her abductor. But once committed to their masquerade, they must see it through. And now, with their own Iives at stake, they hid in the very limelight of London society.
”Excerpt”
It had begun to rain an hour ago, a fine driving mist with the sky grey above. The gentleman riding beside the chaise surveyed the clouds placidly. ‘Faith, it’s a wonderful climate,’ he remarked of no one in particular.
The grizzled serving man who rode some paces to the rear spurred up to him. ‘Best put up for the night, sir,’ he grunted. ‘There’s an inn a mile or two on.’
The window of the chaise was let down with a clatter, and a lady looked out. ‘Child, you’ll be wet,’ she said to her cavalier. ‘How far to Norman Cross?’
The serving man rode up close to the chaise. ‘Another hour, ma’am. I’m saying we’d best put up for the night.”
“I’d as soon make Norman Cross,’ said the gentleman, ‘for all it’s plaguily damp.’
‘There’s an inn close by, as I remember,’ the servant repeated, addressing himself to the lady.
‘ En avant , then. Produce me the inn,’ the lady said. ‘Give you joy of your England, Peter my little man.’
The gentleman laughed. ‘Oh, it’s a comforting spot, Kate.’
The inn came soon into sight, a square white house glimmering through the dusk. There were lights in the windows, and a post-chaise drawn up in the court before it.
The gentleman came lightly down from the saddle. He was of medium height, and carried himself well. He had a neat leg encased in a fine riding boot, and a slender hand in an embroidered gauntlet. There was straight-way a bustle at the inn. An ostler came running; mine host appeared in the porch with a bow and a scrape and a waiting man sped forth to assist in letting down the steps of the chaise.
‘Two bedchambers, for myself and my sister,’ said the gentleman. ‘Dinner, and a private room.’
Consternation was in the landlord’s face. ‘Bedchambers, sir. Yes—on the instant! Polly, the two best bedchambers, and fires to be lit in them!’ A serving maid went scuttling off. ‘Sir, the private room!’ Mine host bowed, and spread a pair of deprecating hands. ‘But this moment, sir, it was bespoken by a lady and a gentleman traveling north.’ He looked slyly, and cast down his eyes. ‘But they stay only for dinner, sir, and if your honour and the lady would condescend to the coffee room——? There’s never a soul likely to come to-night, and ’twill be private enough.’
There was a rustle of skirts. My lady came down from the chaise with a hand on her servant’s shoulder.
‘The coffee room or any other so I get out of this wet!’ she cried, and swept into the inn with her cavalier behind her.
They found themselves straight in a comfortable large room. There was a table set, and a wood fire burning in the hearth. A door led out into a passage at the back, where the stairs rose steeply, and another to one side, giving on to the taproom.
A trim girl in a mob cap brought more candles, and dropped a shy curtsey to the lady. ‘If you please, my lady, should I take your ladyship’s cloak? Your ladyship’s abigail . . . ?’
‘Alack, the creature’s not with me!’ mourned Madam Kate. ‘Take the cloak up to my chamber, child. So!’ She put back the hood from her head, and untied the strings round her throat. The cloak was given to the maid; Madam stood up in a taffeta gown of blue spread over a wide hoop. She wore her fair ringlets en demie toilette , free from powder, with a blue ribbon threaded through, and a couple of curls allowed to fall over her shoulder. The maid thought her a prodigiously lovely lady and bobbed another curtsey before she went away with the cloak.
My lady’s brother gave his three-cornered hat into his servant’s keeping, and struggled out of his greatcoat. He was much of his sister’s height, a little taller perhaps, and like enough to her in appearance. His hair was of a darker brown, confined demurely at the neck by a black riband; and his eyes showed more grey than blue in the candlelight. Young he seemed, for his cheek was innocent of all but the faintest down; but he had a square shoulder, and a good chin, rounded, but purposeful enough. The landlord, following him into the coffee-room, was profuse in apologies and obeisances, for he recognized a member of the Quality. The lady wore a fine silk gown, and Mr Merriot a modish coat of brown velvet, with gold lacing, and a quantity of Mechlin lace at his throat and wrists. A pretty pair, in all, with the easy ways of the Quality, and a humorous look about the eyes that made them much alike. The landlord began to talk of capons and his best burgundy, and was sent off to produce them.
Miss Merriot sat down by the fire, and stretched one foot in its buckled shoe to the blaze. There was a red heel to her shoe, and marvellous embroidered clocks to her silken stockings. ‘So!’ said Miss Merriot.
‘How do you, my Peter?’
‘I don’t melt in a shower of rain, I believe,’ Peter said, and sat down on the edge of the table, swinging one booted leg.
‘No, faith, child, there’s too much of you for that.’
The gentleman’s rich chuckle sounded. ‘I’m sufficiently substantial, in truth,’ he remarked. He drew out his gold and enamelled snuff-box from one of his huge coat pockets, and took a pinch with an air, delicately shaking the ruffles of lace back from his wrists. A ruby ring glowed on one of his long fingers, while on the other hand he wore a big gold seal ring. A smile crept up into his eyes, and lurked at the corners of his mouth. ‘I’d give something to know where the old gentleman is,’ he said.
“Safe enough, I’ll be bound,’ Madam answered, and laughed. ‘It’s the devil himself, I believe, and will appear in London to snap his fingers under the noses of all King George’s men.’
‘Fie, Kate: my poor, respected papa!’ Mr Merriot was not shocked. He fobbed his snuff-box and put it away. A faint crease showed between his brows. ‘For all he named London—egad, ’tis like his impudence!—it’s odds he’s gone to France.’
‘I don’t permit myself to hope too much,’ said Miss Merriot, with a smile at once dreamy and a little impish. ‘He’ll be there to lead us another of his mad dances. If not . . . I’ve a mind to try our own fortunes.’
‘In truth, I’ve a kindness for the old gentleman,’ said Mr Merriot pensively. ‘His dances lead somewhere.’
When the redoubtable Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy is ordered to South America on business, he leaves his only daughter Sophia with his sister, Elizabeth Rivenhall, in Berkeley Square. Newly arrived from her tour of the Continent, Sophy invites herself into the circle of her relatives. When Lady Ombersley agrees to take in her young niece, no one expects Sophy, who sweeps in and immediately takes the ton by storm. Beautiful, gay, impulsive, shockingly direct, Sophy swept into elegant London society and scattered conventions and traditions before her like wisps in a windstorm. Resourceful, adventurous and utterly indefatigable, Sophy is hardly the mild-mannered girl that the Rivenhalls expect when they agree to take her in. Kind-hearted Aunt Lizzy is shocked, and her arrogant stern cousin Charles Rivenhall, the Ombersley heir, vows to rid his family of her meddlesome ways by marrying her off.
But vibrant and irrepressible Sophy was no stranger to managing delicate situations. After all, she’d been keeping opportunistic females away from her widowed father for years. But staying with her relatives could be her biggest challenge yet. But Sophy discovers that her aunt’s family is in desperate need of her talent for setting everything right: her aunt’s husband is of no use at all, her ruthlessly handsome cousin Charles has tyrannical tendencies that are being aggravated by his pedantic bluestocking fiancee Eugenia Wraxton; her lovely cousin Cecelia was smitten with an utterly unsuitable suitor, a beautiful but feather-brained poet; her cousin Herbert was in dire financial straits and has fallen foul of a money-lender; and the younger children are in desperate need of some fun and freedom, and Sophy’s arrived just in time to save them all.
”Excerpt”
THE BUTLER, recognizing her ladyship’s only surviving brother at a glance, as he afterward informed his less percipient subordinates, favored Sir Horace with a low bow, and took it upon himself to say that my lady, although not at home to less nearly connected persons, would be happy to see him. Sir Horace, unimpressed by this condescension, handed his caped greatcoat to one footman, his hat and cane to the other, tossed his gloves onto the marble- topped table, and said that he had no doubt of that, and how was Dassett keeping these days? The butler, torn between gratification at having his name remembered and disapproval of Sir Horace’s free and easy ways, said that he was as well as could be expected, and happy (if he might venture to say so) to see Sir Horace looking not a day older than when he had last had the pleasure of announcing him to her ladyship. He then led the way, in a very stately manner, up the imposing stairway to the Blue Saloon, where Lady Ombersley was dozing gently on a sofa by the fire, a Paisley shawl spread over her feet, and her cap decidedly askew. Mr. Dassett, observing these details, coughed, and made his announcement in commanding accents: “Sir Horace Stanton- Lacy, my lady!”
Lady Ombersley awoke with a start, stared for an uncomprehending moment, made an ineffective clutch at her cap, and uttered a faint shriek. “Horace!” “Hallo, Lizzie, how are you?” said Sir Horace, walking across the room, and bestowing an invigorating buffet upon her shoulder.
“Good heavens, what a fright you gave me!” exclaimed her ladyship, uncorking the vinaigrette which was never out of her reach. The butler, having tolerantly observed these transports, closed the door upon the reunited brother and sister, and went away to disclose to his underlings that Sir Horace was a gentleman as lived much abroad, being, as he was informed, employed by the government on diplomatic business too delicate for their understanding.
The diplomatist, meanwhile, warming his coattails by the fire, refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff and told his sister that she was putting on weight. “Not growing any younger, either of us,” he added handsomely. “Not but what I can give you five years, Lizzie, unless my memory’s at fault, which I don’t think it is.”
There was a large gilded mirror on the wall opposite the fireplace, and as he spoke Sir Horace allowed his gaze to rest upon his own image, not in a conceited spirit, but with critical approval. His forty-five years had treated him kindly. If his outline had thickened a little his height, which was well above six feet, made a slight portliness negligible. He was a very fine figure of a man, and had, besides a large and well-proportioned frame, a handsome countenance, topped by luxuriant brown locks as yet unmarred by silver streaks. He was always dressed with elegance, but was far too wise a man to adopt such extravagances of fashion, as could only show up the imperfections of a middle-aged figure. “Take a look at poor Prinny!” said Sir Horace to less discriminating cronies. “He’s a lesson to us all!”
His sister accepted the implied criticism unresentfully. Twenty-seven years of wedlock had left their mark upon her; and the dutiful presentation to her erratic and far from grateful spouse of eight pledges of her affection had long since destroyed any pretensions to beauty in her. Her health was indifferent, her disposition compliant, and she was fond of saying that when one was a grandmother it was time to be done with thinking of one’s appearance.
“How’s Ombersley?” asked Sir Horace, with more civility than interest.
“He feels his gout a little, but considering everything he is remarkably well,” she responded. Sir Horace took a mere figure of speech in an undesirably literal spirit, saying, with a nod, “Always did drink too much. Still, he must be going on for sixty now, and I don’t suppose you have so much of the other trouble, do you?” “No, no!” said his sister hastily. Lord Ombersley’s infidelities, though mortifying when conducted, as they too often were, in the full glare of publicity, had never greatly troubled her, but she had no desire to discuss them with her outspoken relative, and gave the conversation an abrupt turn by asking where he had come from.
“Lisbon,” he replied, taking another pinch of snuff.
Lady Ombersley was vaguely surprised. It was now two years since the close of the long Peninsular War, and she rather thought that when last heard of Sir Horace had been in Vienna, no doubt taking mysterious part in the Congress, which had been so rudely interrupted by the escape of that dreadful Monster from Elba. “Oh!” she said, a little blankly. “Of course, you have a house there! I was forgetting! And how is dear Sophia?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Sir Horace, shutting his snuffbox, and restoring it to his pocket, “it’s about Sophy that I’ve come to see you.”
Sir Horace had been a widower for fifteen years, during which period he had neither requested his sister’s help in rearing his daughter nor paid the least heed to her unsolicited advice, but at these words an uneasy feeling stole over her. She said, “Yes, Horace? Dear little Sophia! It must be four years or more since I saw her. How old is she now? I suppose she must be almost out?”
“Been out for years,” responded Sir Horace. “Never anything else, really. She’s twenty.”
9. Outlander (Outlander #1)
Genre : Historical Romance, Science Fiction, Fantasy
Type : Standalone
Status : Published
BLURB :
The year is 1945. Claire Randall, a former combat nurse, is just back from the war and reunited with her husband on a second honeymoon when she walks through a standing stone in one of the ancient circles that dot the British Isles. Suddenly she is a Sassenach—an “outlander”—in a Scotland torn by war and raiding border clans in the year of Our Lord…1743.
Hurled back in time by forces she cannot understand, Claire is catapulted into the intrigues of lairds and spies that may threaten her life, and shatter her heart. For here James Fraser, a gallant young Scots warrior, shows her a love so absolute that Claire becomes a woman torn between fidelity and desire—and between two vastly different men in two irreconcilable lives.
”Excerpt”
Jamie made a fire in a sheltered spot, and sat down next to it. The rain had eased to a faint drizzle that misted the air and spangled my eyelashes with rainbows when I looked at the flames.
He sat staring into the fire for a long time. Finally he looked up at me, hands clasped around his knees.
“I said before that I’d not ask ye things ye had no wish to tell me. And I’d not ask ye now; but I must know, for your safety as well as mine.” He paused, hesitating.
“Claire, if you’ve never been honest wi’ me, be so now, for I must know the truth. Claire, are ye a witch?”
I gaped at him. “A witch? You—you can really ask that?” I thought he must be joking. He wasn’t.
He took me by the shoulders and gripped me hard, staring into my eyes as though willing me to answer him.
“I must ask it, Claire! And you must tell me!”
“And if I were?” I asked through dry lips. “If you had thought I were a witch? Would you still have fought for me?”
“I would have gone to the stake with you!” he said violently. “And to hell beyond, if I must. But may the Lord Jesus have mercy on my soul and on yours, tell me the truth!”
The strain of it all caught up with me. I tore myself out of his grasp and ran across the clearing. Not far, only to the edge of the trees; I could not bear the exposure of the open space. I clutched a tree; put my arms around it and dug my fingers hard into the bark, pressed my face to it and shrieked with hysterical laughter.
Jamie’s face, white and shocked, loomed up on the other side of the tree. With the dim realization that what I was doing must sound unnervingly like cackling, I made a terrific effort and stopped. Panting, I stared at him for a moment.
“Yes,” I said, backing away, still heaving with gasps of unhinged laughter. “Yes, I am a witch! To you, I must be. I’ve never had smallpox, but I can walk through a room full of dying men and never catch it. I can nurse the sick and breathe their air and touch their bodies, and the sickness can’t touch me. I can’t catch cholera, either, or lockjaw, or the morbid sore throat. And you must think it’s an enchantment, because you’ve never heard of vaccine, and there’s no other way you can explain it.”
“The things I know—” I stopped backing away and stood still, breathing heavily, trying to control myself. “I know about Jonathan Randall because I was told about him. I know when he was born and when he’ll die, I know about what he’s done and what he’ll do, I know about Sandringham because … because Frank told me. He knew about Randall because he … he … oh, God!” I felt as though I might be sick, and closed my eyes to shut out the spinning stars overhead.
“And Colum … he thinks I’m a witch, because I know Hamish isn’t his own son. I know … he can’t sire children. But he thought I knew who Hamish’s father is … I thought maybe it was you, but then I knew it couldn’t be, and…” I was talking faster and faster, trying to keep the vertigo at bay with the sound of my own voice.
“Everything I’ve ever told you about myself was true,” I said, nodding madly as though to reassure myself. “Everything. I haven’t any people, I haven’t any history, because I haven’t happened yet.
“Do you know when I was born?” I asked, looking up. I knew my hair was wild and my eyes staring, and I didn’t care. “On the twentieth of October, in the Year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and eighteen. Do you hear me?” I demanded, for he was blinking at me unmoving, as though paying no attention to a word I said. “I said nineteen eighteen! Nearly two hundred years from now! Do you hear?”
I was shouting now, and he nodded slowly.
“I hear,” he said softly.
“Yes, you hear!” I blazed. “And you think I’m raving mad. Don’t you? Admit it! That’s what you think. You have to think so, there isn’t any other way you can explain me to yourself. You can’t believe me, you can’t dare to. Oh, Jamie…” I felt my face start to crumple. All this time spent hiding the truth, realizing that I could never tell anyone, and now I realized that I could tell Jamie, my beloved husband, the man I trusted beyond all others, and he wouldn’t—he couldn’t believe me either.
“It was the rocks—the fairy hill. The standing stones. Merlin’s stones. That’s where I came through.” I was gasping, half-sobbing, becoming less coherent by the second. “Once upon a time, but it’s really two hundred years. It’s always two hundred years, in the stories. … But in the stories, the people always get back. I couldn’t get back.” I turned away, staggering, grasping for support. I sank down on a rock, shoulders slumped, and put my head in my hands. There was a long silence in the wood. It went on long enough for the small night birds to recover their courage and start their noises once again, calling to each other with a thin, high zeek! as they hawked for the last insects of the summer.
I looked up at last, thinking that perhaps he had simply risen and left me, overcome by my revelations. He was still there, though, still sitting, hands braced on his knees, head bowed as though in thought.
The hairs on his arms shone stiff as copper wires in the firelight, though, and I realized that they stood erect, like the bristles on a dog. He was afraid of me.
“Jamie,” I said, feeling my heart break with absolute loneliness. “Oh, Jamie.”
I sat down and curled myself into a ball, trying to roll myself around the core of my pain. Nothing mattered any longer, and I sobbed my heart out.
His hands on my shoulders raised me, enough to see his face. Through the haze of tears, I saw the look he wore in battle, of struggle that had passed the point of strain and become calm certainty.
“I believe you,” he said firmly. “I dinna understand it a bit—not yet—but I believe you. Claire, I believe you! Listen to me! There’s the truth between us, you and I, and whatever ye tell me, I shall believe it.” He gave me a gentle shake.
“It doesna matter what it is. You’ve told me. That’s enough for now. Be still, mo duinne. Lay your head and rest. You’ll tell me the rest of it later. And I’ll believe you.”
I was still sobbing, unable to grasp what he was telling me. I struggled, trying to pull away, but he gathered me up and held me tightly against himself, pushing my head into the folds of his plaid, and repeating over and over again, “I believe you.”
At last, from sheer exhaustion, I grew calm enough to look up and say, “But you can’tbelieve me.”
He smiled down at me. His mouth trembled slightly, but he smiled.
“Ye’ll no tell me what I canna do, Sassenach.” He paused a moment. … A long time later, he spoke.
“All right. Tell me now.”
I told him. Told him everything, haltingly but coherently. I felt numb from exhaustion, but content, like a rabbit that has outrun a fox, and found temporary shelter under a log. It isn’t sanctuary, but at least it is respite. And I told him about Frank.
“Frank,” he said softly. “Then he isna dead, after all.”
“He isn’t born.” I felt another small wave of hysteria break against my ribs, but managed to keep myself under control. “Neither am I.”
He stroked and patted me back into silence, making his small murmuring Gaelic sounds.
“When I took ye from Randall at Fort William,” he said suddenly, “you were trying to get back. Back to the stones. And … Frank. That’s why ye left the grove.”
“Yes.”
“And I beat you for it.” His voice was soft with regret.
“You couldn’t know. I couldn’t tell you.” I was beginning to feel very drowsy indeed.
“No, I dinna suppose ye could.” He pulled the plaid closer around me, tucking it gently around my shoulders. “Do ye sleep now, mo duinne. No one shall harm ye; I’m here.”
I burrowed into the warm curve of his shoulder, letting my tired mind fall through the layers of oblivion. I forced myself to the surface long enough to ask, “Do you really believe me, Jamie?”
He sighed, and smiled ruefully down at me.
“Aye, I believe ye, Sassenach. But it would ha’ been a good deal easier if you’d only been a witch.”