Romancing The Past

The Perfect Impostor

2012-03-01T02:44:00.002-05:00

The PerfectImpostor, my third Regency romance with Carina Press, will be released on April2^nd. I’m delighted with the cover. Carina artists do awesome work ontheir covers and I haven’t had one yet that doesn’t beautifully encapsulate themood of the entire book. If readers do actually judge a book by its cover thenI have high hopes for my impostor.

What do youthink?

KatrinaSinclair, recently widowed, is struggling to make a name for herself as amodiste. Her childhood friend, now a marchioness, could well make that happenwhen she asked Katrina to design her wardrobe for an upcoming society houseparty. One small snag, though, Julia wants Katrina to swap places with her forthe duration of that party. They did it often enough as children. No one couldtell them apart then and can’t now.

Against herbetter judgement, Katrina agrees. What harm can come of it? Only problem is,Julia’s husband, equerry to the prince regent, puts in a surprise appearance,expecting to spend the night with his wife. Katrina will do much to protectJulia, but sleeping with her husband is several steps above and beyond the callof friendship. How will she get out of that one?

Worse, LordLeo Kincade puts in an appearance too, supposedly on his way home from France.In actual fact, he’s been assigned to look into jewel thefts that are occurringat society gatherings such as the one Katrina’s attending. The proceeds fromthose thefts are making their way into Napoleon’s coffers. The lady behind thescheme is a traitor to her country and Julia is a prime suspect.

Leo wasonce engaged to Julia but knows almost at once that the woman he meets at LadyMarshall’s isn’t Julia Dupont. But who is she? Why is she pretending to beJulia? Why is he drawn to her in a way that he never was to Julia? And whatdoes she have to do with the thefts?

It doesn’tlook too good for Katrina!

The PerfectImpostor by Wendy Soliman available from Carina Press and all good ebook storesfrom April 2^nd 2012.

Wendy

Basic Regency Etiquette

2012-02-25T10:24:00.000-05:00

With every society, culture, era, there are certain rules of etiquette, and the Regency was no exception. Today I'd like to give you a few basic rulse of etiquette that I've recenlty been reading in, What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickes Knew by Daniel Pool--literally a must have for lovers of the Regency! I have of course added my own commentary.

A Gentleman's Rules of Etiquettte:

If passing a lady--whom you are only slightly acquaitned with--while out in about in town or at the park, do not tip your hat unless hse first acknowledges you. Do not speak to her unless spoken to. Boy, this certainly does give a woman a chance to issue the cut direct, does it not?
Going up the stairs--men first. Going down stairs--ladies first. Hmm... I would have thought the opposite, so said gentleman could catch her when her corset-wearing-short-breaths cause her to faint from the exertion.
When riding in a carriage with a lady who is not your wife, sister, mother or daughter--do not sit next to her! Also be sure that you are sitting in the seat facing backward. Also, take care not to step on her dress. I do like to break the rules and have my ladies sit directly next to her unmarried beaus--and have their limbs touch.
A gentleman never smokes in the presence of ladies. Wish this rule were true today!

And now, A Lady's Rules of Etiquette:

If a lady is under the age of thirty and/or unmarried, she should never be alone with a man she is not related to without a chaperone--unless of course he is escorting her to church or the park early in the morning. I can imagine many a lady confessing her sins once she arrives at church.
Never wear pearls or diamonds in the morning! How obscene to seen doing such! I wonder if emeralds, rubies and sapphires are acceptable?
Never dance more than three times with the same gentleman at a party. I love to break this rule too!
Do not give someone the cut direct unless absolutely necessary, and when you do, make sure it is with an icey stared, perhaps even a stiff bow. Ooh, I can see many a lady doing this to some handsome, yet thoroughly rakish men.

Do you have any Regency rules of etiquette you care to share?

Cheers,
Eliza

Eliza Knight is the multi-published, award-winning author of sizzling historical romance and erotic romance. While not reading, writing or researching for her latest book, she chases after her three children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…) she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars, watching movies, shopping and visiting with family and friends. She lives atop a small mountain, and enjoys cold winter nights when she can curl up in front of a roaring fire with her own knight in shining armor. She writes Regency erotic romance for Carina Press. Visit Eliza at www.elizaknight.com or her historical blog, History Undressed, which was recently mentioned in a feature article in The Wall Street Journal. www.historyundressed.com

The Devil of Jedburgh

2012-02-22T09:00:00.001-05:00

My latest Scottish romance released this month, so I thought I'd share a short excerpt... Arran doesn't know that Breghan is his intended bride, yet, and she's still in two minds as to whether she should keep on running...

   ’Twas said he’d not only buried six wives, but their blood was on his hands.
   “How many wives have you had?” she demanded outright.
   “None yet.”
   His eyes met hers once more and she caught herself searching for the truth in that direct gaze. Another rumour without substance? Or the devil giving her what she most wanted to hear?
   Most wanted? I must be losing my mind to think I care either way.   Disgusted with the both of them, Breghan spun away and ran to the spot where she’d discarded her shoes and hose. She quickly rolled the thin wool up her legs and donned her shoes. Hair prickled her neck and she knew his stare had followed her.
   She turned to face him with a firm smile in place. “What made you choose McAllen’s daughter?”
   “The lass has certain qualities I require in a wife.”
   “You—you’ve met her?” Breghan tensed inside and out. Had he seen her someplace before? Did he know exactly who she was? Had he being toying with her all this time?
   He shook his head. “Her reputation precedes her most favourably.”
   Where there should have been only relief that he didn’t know who she was after all, came a sudden thrill.
   Her virtues had been extolled?
   Leave be. What does it matter anyway? No answer will sway my mind.
   Her mouth defied her resolve. “What exactly did you hear of her?”
   “The lass has twelve brothers,” came the flat reply. “Each one over six foot tall and built like a boulder.”
   Confounded, she waited for more as she watched his face eagerly. “Go on,” she said to his silence. “What other qualities caught your interest?”
   “None that come to mind,” he said with a shrug.
   She was starting to hate that shrug.
   And she was thoroughly dismayed with herself. That thrill had come from more than a desire to be acknowledged as a worthy individual.
   What had she expected to hear? That he’d fallen in love with her from afar, from an imaginary picture painted by romantic fables of her beauty and gentle nature? An excuse to stop worrying, stop running, to believe that Arran Kerr could truly be a husband who’d cherish her?
   “You want McAllen might on your side,” she said dully.
   His eyes creased at the outer edges and his lips twitched suspiciously.
   When he erupted into a guffawing laugh that had him bent double, her brows crossed. This man seemed to swing between moods like a pendulum without any apparent cause. She folded her arms and glared at him. “Are you laughing at me?”
   “N—no, lass.” He started to come up, then fell into another bout of laughter. “’Tis just the idea of a Kerr wanting anything from a McAllen.”
   “You want McAllen’s daughter.”
   Her reminder sobered him at once and he unbent with a straight face. “I willna dispute that.”
   Breghan tapped her foot impatiently. “You’ve still not explained why you chose her above all others.”
   If she could uncover some foul motive, she could convince her father of his error in judgement and all would be forgiven.
   “You’re mighty curious for a castle lass.”
   “I’ve served the young mistress for many years,” Breghan said quickly. “Naturally her fate remains my concern.”
   “McAllen’s daughter is your mystery lady?” Serious now, he gave her a long, absorbing look. “Very well, lass, I suppose I do owe you a boon after…” He shrugged.
   “You stabbed me?” she offered.
   “I’ve ridden alongside McAllen many a time,” he told her. “Most often Tristan, Kyle and Callum were there, sometimes Thomas and James. I knew McAllen had twelve sons, of course, each as strong and towering as the next. It was only when I attended our Queen Mary’s wedding feast at Holyrood, however, that McAllen mentioned a daughter. I admire the man his prolificacy and even more I admire his lady wife. So when McAllen hinted at the merits of a union, I found no reason to stall negotiations.”
   Breghan raised a hand to interrupt. She knew very well that Arran hadn’t met her mother at Holyrood in July. “From where do you know McAllen’s wife?”
   “I don’t. I admire the lady for bearing a dozen strapping sons and living to see them grow.”
   Finally, he was beginning to make sense.
   Breghan’s mouth fell open in disgust. “You don’t know the Lady McAllen. You’ve never seen her, never met her. The only thing you admire is her ability to produce a pack of hearty sons and you hope the daughter is made from the same stock.”
   “Aye,” Arran stated without a blink.
   “You don’t seek a woman to tend your home? To see to your comfort?”
   “I have servants for that.”
   “Someone to keep you company by the fire at day’s end? Someone you can laugh and talk with?”
   “There’s more ’an fifty men at Ferniehirst at any one time, lass. I’ve all the company any man could need.”
   Breghan’s voice grew faint as her throat went dry. “Someone to share your worries with?”
   “A man takes care of his own troubles.”

By this time, understandably, she's decided it would be better for everyone concerned if she can just get Arran to change his mind...

The roasted hares were laid side by side on a blanket of fresh leaves. Breghan didn’t refuse when he sliced a generous portion for her. She’d eaten nothing since the previous night.
   In between bites, she chose to inform him, “In all your haste, didn’t you stop to consider why McAllen’s daughter reached the grand age of nineteen without any offers of marriage?”
   He gave her a blank look.
   “The daughter runs to fat,” she declared. “She is mean tempered and as ugly as a wart. ’Twould be an awful trial to beget your heirs on her.”
   “My wife should certainly be buxom to carry my offspring. Besides, I prefer my woman with a bit of flesh to hold on to.” He tore off a juicy leg and ripped into it with a hearty appetite.
   “She has a small forehead, a sharp nose and no chin at all,” Breghan went on. Once she was done, he’d consider it a blessing to find his brood mare had fled the pasture.
   “If her appearance isn’t to my taste, I’ll douse the candles before climbing into bed at night.” He shrugged those massive shoulders.
   It was confirmed.
   She hated that noncommittal shrug.
   “She has a vicious tongue that none can escape. Everyone from kitchen servant to castle lord falls foul to her scathing rants.”
   “If I canna keep her screams sweet in bed, I’ll keep her mouth busy elsewhere.”
   Breghan had no idea what he meant by that, but everything else was perfectly clear. Arran Kerr had no interest in his bride’s character or looks. Only one thing filled his mind and she refused to play third party to a union between this man and her womb.
   She was back to believing he’d buried six wives. He was clearly capable of using one up and then going on to the next. “Do you plan to spend any time out of bed at all?”
    “If McAllen’s daughter is half as bad as you say, then no, at least not with my wife.”

... you can read more about The Devil of Jedburgh here and thanks for stopping by

The Felling Mine Disaster

2012-02-19T00:02:00.003-05:00

As I write this, there's a bit of dust-up on the internet and on morning talk shows about a father who discovered his daughter had been disrespectful to him in a Facebook post and responded with his own special brand of retaliation. This may seem like a bit of a non sequitur, but it got me thinking about the Felling mine disaster.

Two hundred years ago this May, a mine explosion in a coal mine in what was then County Durham, England, killed 92 miners. Even today, coal mining is a hazardous profession; reportedly, there were over 6000 coal mining deaths in China in 2004 alone. Dangers to miners include the collapse of mine walls and ceilings, oxygen deprivation, and poisonous gas, not to mention the risk of developing “black lung,” a lung disease caused by chronic inhalation of carbon dust. But the most devastating danger to miners occurs when firedamp—flammable gas which can accumulate in pockets in a mine—ignites and triggers a coal dust explosion.

Miners have known about firedamp for centuries, and such explosions are still a serious risk, but at the beginning of the nineteenth century, coal mines were truly scary places. They were naturally dark, and lamps required an open flame. One safety strategy was to employ a brave miner to deliberately introduce a candle into gas pockets to ignite the gas before it could accumulate in heavy concentrations. He was called a “monk” because he performed this operation swathed in wet blankets in the (probably vain) hope the blankets would protect him from the resulting explosive flashes.

The Felling mine explosion, May 25, 1812

The Felling mine disaster occurred when firedamp ignited and the resulting coal dust explosion sent a devastating blast throughout the mine and up its two mine shafts, the John pit and the William pit, named after the Brandling brothers who owned the colliery. The disaster was such a shocking and violent occurrence that it prompted two young innovators, engineer George Stephenson and scientist Humphry Davy, to separately design safety lamps for use in mines. Stephenson went on to become the “Father of Railways,” building the first public railroad in the world, and Davy went on to a baronetcy and the presidency of the Royal Society, though their lamps ignited a conflagration of a different kind when Davy erroneously assumed that Stephenson had stolen his idea.

But the aspect of the Felling mine disaster that haunts me most is the list of victims, now inscribed on a memorial at St. Mary’s churchyard in Heworth. The blast was especially deadly because it occurred as one shift of workers was relieving the other. Of the 92 miners—three-quarters of the mine workforce—who perished in the blast, 36 were under the age of 18; 27 were under age 15. Victims Thomas Gordon and Michael Hunter were only 8, and two other boys, Thomas Craggs and George Reay, were just a year older.

Child labor in the mines.

It’s a chilling reminder of the kind of life children often led before the advent of child labor laws over the next hundred-plus years. In 1842, the Royal Commission report on Children in the Mines found that “while from eight to nine is the ordinary age at which employment in these mines commences,” in some cases “Children are taken into these mines to work as early as four years of age.” These children typically worked shifts of twelve hours—sometimes as many as eighteen hours—doing dirty, backbreaking, and in many cases life-threatening work. The report came out in May, and was so shocking that by August 10 Parliament had passed the Coal Mines Act, prohibiting female labor underground and requiring boys in the mines to be a full ten years old.

Ten years old, and that was the improvement.

You might mention that to your teenager the next time the topic of household chores comes up—or think about it yourself the next time you feel frustrated because your otherwise-responsible teen isn't behaving in the most grown-up manner. Nowadays, kids are kids, and sometimes that's a good thing.

Alyssa Everett is currently awaiting word as to the fate of her debut regency, A Tryst With Trouble, while Dorchester Publishing reorganizes and reassesses its product lines. Her second regency, Ruined by Rumor, will definitely be coming out from the lovely Carina Press on May 21. She hopes you'll visit her website and follow her on Twitter, where she promises not to spam you relentlessly.

Bohannon and Lilly: When You're Hot, You're Hot

2012-02-15T23:26:00.003-05:00

Two of my favorite characters, Bohannon and Lilly, are from the AMC series, Hell On Wheels. Actually, this post is supposed to be about word-of-mouth and how that is the singularly most important thing a product can have, whether it is a TV series or book. I don't watch TV much and how I got hooked on HOW was a friend of mine told me I had to watch it. Why? Because of the character, Cullen Bohannon. She was right! I watched and I was hooked. Of course, I told everyone I knew how terrific this series was. I even recorded the marathon and loaned it out. New fans were created and we are all awaiting the 2nd season now.

Word-of-mouth is an elusive thing. It is not anything tangible that a writer can acquire through ads or blogging or anything else. It happens or it doesn't. About 80 percent of the books I've read have been due to recommendations from my friends. The others I read because I liked the story line. But I discovered Jeffery Deaver, Greg Iles and Shanna Abe, all through word-of-mouth. And, word-of-mouth spreads easily. I have recommended these authors to several other readers. So, if you like a book, be sure to tell someone, not just write a review. They are not the same as a verbal recommendation to a friend. Maybe it has something to do with sharing and the excitement that comes with sharing something you enjoyed.

And speaking of sharing something I enjoy, I will share a clip of Bohannon and Lilly. First, a little background for those who don't know the story. Bohannon is an ex-Confederate soldier whose wife and son were murdered by Union soldiers. He is tracking down these men and killing them. He's very blunt and violent and he's not always heroic, which is what I love about this character. He's not John Wayne. He has a dark side and is generally feared by most men. Of course, I don't know of a woman watching the show that doesn't love him. The actor in the role is from Tennessee so his Southern accent doesn't sound fake.

Lilly is from London. She was out West with her husband when Indians attacked their camp. A warrior killed her husband. In return, Lilly broke off the arrow stuck in her shoulder and shoved it through the warrior's neck. Now, that is my kind of heroine! She continues to show spirit and courage as she decides to stay in the camp town of Hell on Wheels and rather than become the railroad baron's mistress, she sets up her own tent. Now, this is partly because she likes Bohannon, I think. There has only been a hint of romance with longing looks in the series so far but the tension between the characters is terrific. The big question is: Are they destined to be together? What do you think?

If you want to see some clips from the show, click to watch and there are other links to vids that follow.

Thanks for stopping by!

Patricia Preston

Anne of Cleves, you look nothing like your Facebook picture.

2012-02-12T00:18:00.001-05:00

I’ve heard it said by historians that some of the fascination with the Tudor period comes from the works of the artist Hans Holbein the Younger. Through his portraits, we see and relate to the key players in the drama of Henry VIII’s life as real people because they were portrayed realistically in their portraits. Or were they?

Let’s face it, the concept of Photoshopping isn’t new, it has a long history stretching all the way back to ancient Egypt, where very few realistic portraits of the Pharaohs exist. Instead, most art from that era portrayed the god king as young, strong, handsome and powerful. The Armana period excluded, there wasn’t a pot belly or receding hairline to be found. The Romans produced more realistic busts of individuals, which helped me when I was trying to describe Caligula in my latest release, Mask of the Gladiator, but there was still an element of perfection in the representations.

A few thousand years later, and Henry VIII was faced with choosing a bride based on what we might call a profile picture. Poor Anne of Cleves. Some historians say Holbein painted her dress with a lot of zing to take attention away from her plain features. Others say it is a true likeness and she isn’t the “Mare of Flanders” Henry made her out to be. Either way, one gets the sense from reading the historical accounts that the portrait was the modern day equivalent of the high angle, turned to the side snapshot we took five years ago and is now our profile picture. Do we look good in the picture? Sure. Is it an accurate and faithful representation of what we really look like? Um, well, maybe not, but then, the futures and fates of countries aren’t entangled in the way we look.

Bundle Me, Baby!

2012-02-09T05:00:00.013-05:00

When I write and read historical romance, I tend toward highly sensual, even erotic stories. That’s just personal taste, and yours may be quite different from mine. Given my preference, I naturally have an interest in sexual mores and practices from past eras. I often come upon surprises like bundling.

Bundling was a practice popular in the Puritan times and the 18^th century in the northeast and Amish areas of this country. It involved allowing couples to share a bed during courtship. The young man would spend the night at his intended’s family’s house. The two would remove their outer clothing, and the girl’s mother would wrap each of them in separate blankets on a bed that was divided down the middle by an obstacle like the bundling board or bundling sack. The young people would then spend the night together talking and getting to know if they were compatible.

There were several practical benefits of the practice. In Colonial America, houses were far apart. In order to visit the woman he was courting, a young man would often have to slog long distances through snow and other bad weather. It was only natural for him to spend the night. Not only were beds in short supply, but houses were cold and firewood and candles too dear to allow for long hours spent in leisure after supper. Bundling together for heat while passing a pleasant time with the person you intended to marry made sense.

There was even a biblical basis for bundling in the story of Ruth and Boaz, (Ruth 3:6 and 3:13) in which the couple laid together all night on the threshing floor and later became husband and wife.

An anonymous ballad of the 1780's explains the rationale for bundling.

Nature's request is, give me rest,
Our bodies seek repose;
Night is the time, and 'tis no crime
To bundle in our cloaths.
Since in a bed, a man and maid
May bundle and be chaste;
It doth no good to burn up wood
It is a needless waste.
Let coat and shift be turned adrift,
And breeches take their flight,
An honest man and virgin can
Lie quiet all the night.

(From the website of Colonial Williamsburg http://www.history.org/foundation/journal/holiday07/court.cfm)

I remember hearing about the practice of bundling when I was a teenager and thinking “They could get away with THAT?” I knew darned well that a board or sack wouldn’t prevent young people from getting to each other if they wanted. I ask you:

Sure enough, Washington Irving wrote in his History of New York "that wherever the practice of bundling prevailed, there was an amazing number of sturdy brats born . . . without the license of the law, or the benefit of clergy . . .” (Quoted in © 1975 - 1981 by David Wallechinsky & Irving Wallace "The People's Almanac" series of books.) Of course, only couples who were seriously courting, with their parents’ permission, were allowed to bundle. Marriage between the two was only a matter of time. A baby who made his/her appearance “early” wouldn’t cause a terrible scandal.

Maybe we ought to reinstate the practice…for consenting adults, of course.

Alice's website
authoralicegaines@yahoo.com

Where were you?

2012-02-06T02:40:00.003-05:00

There are a handful of events that for good or ill (more often for ill, unfortunately) are unforgettable. I’ll never forget where I was when I heard about the Challenger disaster--I was in 9th grade, and they announced it over the intercom during 4th period Alabama History.

I found out about the 9/11 attacks when I was awakened by a phone call from my parents, who were supposed to be flying into Seattle for a visit later that day. Mom said, “All flights have been canceled.” Assuming she meant all flights out of Birmingham, I asked if there’d been some kind of storm or problem at the airport. She told me there had been a terrorist attack and to turn on the TV.

And most recently, last spring I was waiting for dinner at Red Robin with my husband and daughter. Mr. Fraser and I were checking Twitter on our phones, as internet addicts are wont to do, when tweets started to buzz with the news that President Obama was about to “address the nation.”

It sounded ominous, so we speculated about possible war with Iran or North Korea. I also worried that it might be something like a hideous cancer diagnosis for either the President or the First Lady, and that he might be stepping down and handing the reins to Vice-President Biden because of it--ever since I lost both my parents to lung cancer, my mind goes to the C-word in a hurry.

Instead, of course, the big news was the death of Osama bin Laden. We’d figured it out from Twitter before one of the TV feeds in the restaurant switched from sports to the news--which was neither captioned nor audible in the noisy restaurant, so Mr. Fraser and I leaned over the booths to tell our fellow diners what was happening as soon as we heard their baffled concern. Eventually, the headline at the bottom of the screen said something like, “Bin Laden death confirmed,” and the line cooks, most of whom would’ve been in junior high on 9/11, started cheering and stomping their feet.

We were home by the time the president actually spoke, so Mr. Fraser and I stood together our den--somehow it seemed too solemn a moment for lounging on the couch--and listened.

In the time period I write about, there was plenty of momentous news, though of course it rippled through the world much more slowly. I imagine if I’d been born in 1771 instead of 1971, I’d remember where I was when I heard about the French Revolution and Trafalgar and Waterloo, to name a few. So, when I recently read a collection of first-hand accounts of Waterloo in The Hundred Days (compiled and edited by Antony Brett-James), I was intrigued to find a chapter about how the news reached France and Britain. I was then flabbergasted by the following account by Mrs. Boehm, the woman hosting the ball the Prince Regent was at when Wellington’s messenger arrived:

That dreadful night! Mr. Boehm had spared no cost to render it the most brilliant party of the season; but all to no purpose. Never did a party, promising so much, terminate so disastrously! All our trouble, anxiety, and expense were utterly thrown away in consequence of--what shall I say? Well, I must say it--the unseasonable declaration of the Waterloo victory! Of course, one was very glad to think one had beaten those horrid French, and all that sort of thing; but still, I always shall think it would have been far better if Henry Percy had waited quietly till the morning, instead of bursting in upon us, as he did, in such indecent haste; and even if he had told the Prince alone, it would have been better; for I have no doubt his Royal Highness would have shown consideration enough for my feelings not to have published the news till the next morning.

...After dinner was over, and the ladies had gone upstairs, and the gentlemen had joined them, the ball guests began to arrive. They came with unusual punctuality, out of deference to the Regent’s presence. After a proper interval, I walked up to the Prince, and asked if it was his Royal Highness’s pleasure that the ball should open. The first quadrille was in the act of forming, and the Prince was walking up to the dais on which his seat was placed, when I saw everyone without the slightest sense of decorum rushing to the windows, which had been left wide open because of the excessive sultriness of the weather. The music ceased and the dance was stopped; for we heard nothing but the vociferous shouts of an enormous mob, who had just entered the square, and were running by the side of a post-chaise and four, out of whose windows were hanging three nasty French eagles. In a second the door of the carriage was flung open, and, without waiting for the steps to be let down, out sprang Henry Percy--such a dusty figure!--with a flag in each hand, pushing aside everyone who happened to be in his way, darting up stairs, into the ball-room, stepping hastily up to the Regent, dropping on one knee, laying the flags at his feet, and pronouncing the words “Victory, Sir! Victory!”

The Prince Regent, greatly overcome, went into an adjoining room to read the despatches; after a while he returned, said a few sad words to us, sent for his carriage, and left the house. The royal brothers soon followed suit; and in less than twenty minutes there was not a soul left in the ballroom but poor dear Mr. Boehm and myself.

Such a scene of excitement, anxiety, and confusion never was witnessed before or since, I do believe! Even the band had gone, not only without uttering a word of apology, but even without taking a mouthful to eat. The splendid supper which had been provided for our guests stood in the dining-room untouched. Ladies of the highest rank, who had not ordered their carriages till four o’clock a.m., rushed away, like maniacs, in their muslins and satin shoes, across the Square; some accompanied by gentlemen, others without escort of any kind; all impatient to learn the fate of those dear to them; many jumping into the first stray hackney-coaches they fell in with, and hurrying on to the Foreign Office or Horse Guards, eager to get a sight of the List of Killed and Wounded.

I first read that account nearly a month ago, and it still boggles my mind every time I re-read it. I can understand that it would suck to put down the kind of money it would take to throw a ball for the highest of London’s elite and have it all go to waste. But to still resent it, years later (her account is from 1831), when it was abundantly clear just how important Waterloo was? And the way she seems to focus on breaches of propriety above all else--Henry Percy was dusty, and he shoved people out of the way in his haste to reach the Prince Regent. One might almost think he was bearing critical news for his country’s acting head of state or something! Not to mention those ladies running out in their muslin gowns and slippers, with or without escort, all because they had brothers or sons or sweethearts with the army and wanted to know if they were still alive. How shocking! And lest you think her reaction is somehow typical of her time, the behavior of her guests belies it. Also, all the other accounts sound remarkably like what happens now in those moments we all remember--normal social barriers breaking down, everyone turning out into the streets to talk it over, etc.

(The painting illustrating this post is David Wilkie’s Chelsea Pensioners Reading the Waterloo Dispatch, which the Duke of Wellington commissioned at a cost of 1200 guineas. I think it’s a more typical reaction than Mrs. Boehm’s, don’t you?)
--------------
Susanna Fraser writes Regency romance with a focus on the Napoleonic Wars. The Sergeant's Lady and A Marriage of Inconvenience are available now from Carina Press.

Where are the REAL stories?

2012-02-03T09:56:00.000-05:00

As you probably know (or may not!) I run a review blog called "Speak Its Name" which aims to list (and one day--hollow laugh) have reviewed all the gay historical fiction that there is out there.

It's a growing and healthy genre, from the handful of authors who were writing it when the blog started in 2007, there are now going on 100 authors who have tried it or are regular authors. There are books from just about every era now (if not every country) from (believe it or not) cavemen to the cut-off period which I cheekily upped from the Historical Novel Society's cut-off of "50 years ago" to "pre-Stonewall/Wolfenden report" which takes it all the way up to 1971.

But the interesting thing is, is that though there is a positive deluge of the stuff and most of it is good, nearly all of it concerns original characters having adventures in a past time.

Now, there's nothing wrong with that of course, but it surprises me that--with the wealth of real-life gay men scattered throughout history, that there's not more stories regarding them. After all, much of the backbone of historical novels can set itself against the books of Jean Plaidy and the like when people wrote about the mildly fictionalised lives of kings and queens. I was raised on these books and I say: Where are gay equivalents? Why aren't people writing about all these fascinating people who managed to be gay--some notoriously so?

Of course, there are exceptions. If you persue "The Lists" (print/ebook, ebook only) you will find a smattering of "real life" characters. Some of course lean heavily on supposition. William Shakespeare is a popular subject. It seems that no original gay character can enter Tudor London without getting ambushed by either the Bard of Avon or the naughty Mr Kit Marlowe. Oscar Wilde is also a popular chappie, and there are quite a few books about him, although many (such as the series by Gyles Brandreth) are alternative history, where Wilde becomes a sleuth.

Philipa Gregory even dipped her toes in gay historical fiction. Her "Earthly Joys" is about the famous gardener John Tradescant the Elder who (in her book) ends up falling for the betwitching First Duke of Buckingham who was almost certainly bisexual and King James I's favourite. However attractive this book is--and I thoroughly enjoyed it, I had to stretch my imagination to breaking point to believe that the handsome Buckingham would have been even mildly attracted to Tradescant. But who knows? Perhaps he really was.

First Duke of Buckingham

George Villiers - First Duke of Buckingham

Tradescant

John Tradescant - not as handsome as Phillipa Gregory would have you think!

However - what I'd like to see is some damned good novels about real people going through times that we knew actually happened. The trouble is that there's so much been lost. Families who destroyed letters and diaries that would incriminate their sons as to their sexual preferences. People like Byron whose diaries were burned by order of his publisher. Oh! The loss of what they must have held! But there is a fair amount of information about gay characters--and more books are being written yearly (see the non-fiction section of The List) so if someone were to write something about Nijinsky and Diaghilev (why oh why hasn't someone done this already?) or Michelangelo - I'd certainly be standing in eager line waiting to snap them up. I do know an author who is working on a labour of love regarding Ivan the Terrible and his boy toy, but goodness knows when that will get done, (although it's going to be fabulous, I know!)

I mean, look at the Douglases. By that I mean Bosie and his brother. As far as I know (please please correct me if I'm wrong) but there's no book with an account of Bosie's experiences. And as for his brother? It's almost unknown that Francis Douglas who was older than Bosie, was somehow entangled with his boss, The Duke of Rosebery and a near-scandal ensued. Francis was granted a title by Rosebery and only 18 months afterwards (was it a pay off perhaps?) Francis was killed in a "hunting accident" although whether it was suicide, accident or something darker (seeing as how Rosebery was married into the Rothchild family...) Yes yes, supposition, but it's far less Wilde (excuse the pun) than Oscar as a detective!

Those devilishly handsome Douglas Boys (Bosie, left, Francis, Right.)

The Douglas Brothers, left-Bosie, Right, Francis

And when you think about it, one suddenly has a glimmer of sympathy (perhaps) for Lord Queensbury whose two sons were both involved with powerful older men. No wonder he went ballistic when Bosie went the same way.

Anyway - come on, authors! Where are the books about E M Forster? Wagner and Mad Ludwig? Siegfried Sasson? Clifton Webb? There are hundreds of subjects to choose from and only a handful of existing books. It's not right.

And if you don't, I may have to do it myself.

Further reading: Queers in History | Rictor Norton | Famous and Gay | List of Gay Men throughout History

Erastes is the penname of a female author living in Norfolk, England with 3 cats and a mad dog. She writes gay historical novels and short stories with gay themes from many genres. Her two books for Carina are: Muffled Drum (Austro-Prussian War) and A Brush with Darkness (coming out in March, which is set in 19th century Florence) Her website is www.erastes.com and she can be found easily on Twitter and just about everywhere else.

Special Valentine's Day Continuation of LADY SEDUCTRESS'S BALL

2012-01-25T09:34:00.003-05:00

Valentine’s Day is 20 days away… Ah!!! That leaves lessthan three weeks to prepare! Chocolates,flowers… a special date! But what if youlived in Regency times? What would you do then? Today I give you a specialtreat… A short continuation of LADYSEDUCTRESS’S BALL--Tristan and Olivia celebrate Valentine’s Daytogether for the first time since exchanging vows…

Oliva sat upon the satin embroidered chase, Tristanhad purchased for her bedroom, and stared out the window at another somberwinter day. Snow covered the grounds nearly a foot deep, and ice crystalsdripped in frozen lines along the branches of the trees at Knightley Manor. Theyhadn’t been able to go outside for nearly three days and she was beginning togrow antsy.

Tristan was in his office working on paperwork, andshe’d lazily slept in, with nothing better to do.

She leaned her head back on the chaise. What day wasit? How long until spring? She yearned to go out in the sun.

With the realization of what day it was came anotherrevelation—tomorrow was St. Valentine ’s Day.

She bit her lip and drew her brows together. Did Tristan celebrate St. Valentine ’s Day?

Oh, what did it matter? They could start a newtradition, and she certainly needed a distraction from the ensuing boredom ofremaining indoors while her husband worked. Not that their nights were boring—theywere anything but. Passion filled Knightley Manor when the sun went down.Tristan knew exactly how to make her scream with delight, writhe with pleasure.

But the days were reserved for his work, and anythingshe might care to do. Away from the city, left little on the list when a footof snow covered the grounds.

She alighted from the chaise and dug around in hertrunk of ribbons and bobbles. She would make him a card, and she’d plan alovely dinner. Could she entice him to come out of his study for the day? Shenibbled the tip of her finger. It was worth a try!

Taking the ribbons and beads with her, she left herchamber in search of their housekeeper. It was time to seduce her husband awayfrom his work!

*****

Thefollowing day, mid-morning…

Tristan leaned back in his leather arm-chair,seriously considering tossing every bit of correspondence into the fire. He didnot want to be working. He wanted to be in the arms of his Olivia—the woman hestill could not believe was his wife. He was a lucky man. Fate hadseen to that.

A whisper of paper caught his attention. What wasthat? He leaned forward, looking around his desk. Had something fallen? His gaze fixed on acolorful beribboned paper in front of his library door. Someone had slipped it underneath.

“What in Hades?” He stood from his desk and marched overto pick up the creation.

Olivia’s jasmine and vanilla scented perfume waftedfrom the paper. Ribbons tied in bows with little bobbles dangling from theirends edged the sides.

Written on the center was this…

The rose is red, the violet's blue
The honey's sweet, and so are you
Thou are my love and I am thine
I drew thee to my Valentine
The lot was cast and then I drew
And Fortune said it shou'd be you

~Gammer Gurton's Garland (1784):

A smile instantly etched hisface. He wrenched open the door expecting to see Olivia standing on the otherside, an impish smile on her face, but there was no one there. But there wasanother note…

Meet me in the drawing room…

He sucked in his breath. His wifehad planned a seduction! His blood raged through his veins, and elation filledhim. If anyone had ever told him he would be this in love, he would have laughedin their faces. With quick steps, he made his way to the drawing room.

But instead of Olivia, there wasanother note beside two glasses of champagne, almonds dusted with cocoa andsugar and his favorite honey cakes. He picked up the note.

My love,

Do you know what day it is? It is the dayof love—St. Valentine’s Day. Today we celebrate our love. Partake in the champangeand treats while you wait in our special spot.

Your ever-loving wife,

Olivia

Their special spot?

Tristan racked his brain… Then heknew exactly where she wanted him. He sat down on the chaise longue. Took along sip of bubbly champagne and waited. Within minutes, Olivia crept into theroom. She wore a silk wrap, and her hair was down around her shoulders just theway he liked.

“My seductress has arrived,”Tristan drawled. He leaned back, his gaze raking over her.

“Mais oui, and I plan to show you on this special day exactly howmuch I love you, in the very spot we made love for the first time as man andwife.”

Slowly she untied the length ofsilken cord and let the wrap drop in a pool around her feet. Tristan thoughthis heart might stop beating. She wore a knee-length nightrail made of lightpink lace and silk—more lace than anything. Her flesh peeked through the lace,teasing him, igniting his ardor.

He blinked. Swallowed. Thenbeckoned her to come to him. Olivia took dainty steps, her hips swaying enticingly.

“Happy Valentine’s Day…” Tristansaid slowly as he slid his hands up her bare thighs.

“Oh, my love… You have made mylife complete.” Olivia sank onto Tristan’s lap, her thighs straddling his hips.

Their gazes locked for severalmoments as emotions and desire heightened, thickening the air. But he couldwait no longer. He claimed her lips in a searing kiss, his tongue glidinginside to taste the sweetness of her mouth.

And I leave the rest to your naughty imaginations J

*****

Eliza Knight is themulti-published, award-winning author of sizzling historical romance and eroticromance. While not reading, writing or researching for her latest book, shechases after her three children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…)she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars,watching movies, shopping and visiting with family and friends. She lives atopa small mountain, and enjoys cold winter nights when she can curl up in frontof a roaring fire with her own knight in shining armor. Visit Eliza at www.elizaknight.com or her historical blog, History Undressed, which was recently mentioned in afeature article in The Wall Street Journal. www.historyundressed.blogspot.com

Invitation to Pleasure

As the wife of the elderly Earl of March, Olivia Covington has never knownthe intimacies of the bedroom. Though her curiosity is piqued by the shockingwhispers of society ladies, she is too wary of causing scandal to indulge in anaffair. But Tristan Knightley, Earl of Newcastle, tempts her to throw offpropriety.

Tristan wants Olivia for his own, and has sworn off all others until he canrid himself of the obsession. He is sure once he has a taste, he will tire ofher, and can return to his rakish existence. Unable to wait to have her in hisbed, he invites her for a tryst at Lady Seductress's Ball...

24,000 words

Available now at Amazon,Barnesand Noble, CarinaPress and other e-tailers.

Breaking the Rules

2012-01-22T09:00:00.001-05:00

Also known as editor pet peeves and reader déjà vu. You know the ones I'm talking about, usually to be found in the opening of the story. Like where the heroine's studying her appearance in the mirror, describing her golden tresses and baby blue eyes to herself, or opening with the weather ala 'It was a dark and stormy night' or that dreaded dream sequence... Uh, oh!! I didn't...did I?

Um, but in my defence, I never intended to keep it. This is how the story came to me, everything, from the characters to the plot to the ending, it all started with this dream. So, I told myself, I'll write it down for reference and delete it later. But the time was never right... I'll just keep it there a little longer, and then I shrugged and told myself my editor was sure to put a bold red line through, I'll leave the hard work up to her. To my surprise, and secret delight, my little dream stayed untouched and I became that author, the one who broke the rules and got away with it :)

So... what are your pet peeves and are there exceptions where you've seen (or made) it work? Or maybe never even realised it was a pet peeve, you were so caught up in the story, and only thought about it later?

Here's a peek at my little streak of rebellion...

There must have been a hundred of them. Black-hearted Kerrs with mud-streaked cheekbones, matted braids falling down naked chests dark from dirt and sun and hair. But the eyes. Black as night, black as their hearts, black as the devil’s soul.
Breghan ran faster, tearing through the summer-thick foliage. She could hear them rapidly closing in. The high-pitched grunt was neither human nor animal.
Branches rustled at her left, then at her right. Stubby fingers reached for her, scratching, clawing, poking, until all that remained of her gown was shredded ruins.
And then they went for her hair and face.
“No,” she screamed, swatting in every direction before she fell to her knees and covered her face with her arms. “Leave me be. Please, please… let me be.”
The cruel fingers fell away.
The grunts stilled.
Breghan swallowed her sobs, slowly lifting one arm, then the other, afraid to look and afraid not to.
The leader of the pack stood there.
A shudder trembled through her. The stories were all true. He stood at least seven feet tall, blocking out the sun with his width. What she could see of his face was horribly disfigured, the skin puckered and mottled red. This one’s eyes were not black. No, the Kerr’s eyes were blood-red and burning bright with the wild rage of a fire-spitting demon. Only one of his names was the Devil of Jedburgh.

Regency Prophecies

2012-01-19T00:02:00.015-05:00

Now that it’s 2012, a great deal of attention, much of it tongue in cheek, is being paid to the prophecies of Nostradamus and to their New World counterpart, the Mayan calendar. But did you know that during the late Georgian period and into the regency, headlines were gripped by similar prophesies of the imminent end of the world? One English prophetess even claimed at the interesting age of sixty-four that she was pregnant with the Messiah.

The end of the 1700s were a time of great change, with events like the French Revolution and the rise of radicalism leading many to think in apocalyptic terms. In 1791 a former naval lieutenant named Richard Brothers began preaching that an angel had warned him of the fall of Babylon, otherwise known as London. According to Brothers, God told him in July of 1791 that he had intended to "punish the world with desolation" but had "suspended his judgment for a time" as a personal favor to Brothers: "I pardon London and all the people in it, for your sake: there is no other man on earth that could stand before me to ask for so great a thing." But this was only a temporary reprieve. God still planned to destroy all the nations and make Brothers the Ruler of the World at sunrise on November 19, 1795.

Brothers believed that the descendants of the ten lost tribes of Israel were living in western Europe, and it was his personal mission to identify these "hidden Jews" among the British people so that they could return to Jerusalem to live in post-apocalyptic peace and righteousness. Brothers concluded that he himself was a descendant of King David through James the brother of Jesus, and thus was "nephew of the Almighty." Following the last judgment, he would rule over Israel and work miracles like Moses, using a rod he had fashioned from a rose bush.

Richard Brothers, self-proclaimed Moses and Ruler of the World.

Seized with millennial zeal, Brothers wrote the king, his ministers, and the speaker about his intention to share his dire predictions, which included the death of King George III and the overthrow of the British monarchy. He also asserted his own God-given right to the throne, and claimed in his 1794 pamphlet that God had so far spared the king and his family only due to his personal intercession. Given the revolution taking place in France, British officials had had enough. In 1795 Brothers was arrested for treason. One of his followers, a member of the House of Commons, brought the case before Parliament, and was able to have Brothers privately institutionalized in an insane asylum. Though some of Brothers’ prophesies came true—he warned, for example, of the violent death of Louis XVI of France—most of his followers deserted him when November 19, 1795, came and went, and God inexplicably failed to destroy the wicked and elevate Brothers to global supremacy.

Many of Brothers’ followers transferred their allegiances to a new voice crying in the wilderness, the prophetess Joanna Southcott. The daughter of a devoutly religious farmer, Southcott was born in Devon in 1750. She lived most of her life as a member of the Church of England and worked for years as a maid and as an upholsterer, but in 1792 she began hearing voices and jotting down verse prophecies in a form of automatic writing. She tried turning to the Methodists and then to other Dissenters, but they rejected her. She then approached a Church of England clergyman named Pomeroy, who received her kindly but remained unconvinced, despite the accuracy of several of her predictions. Pomeroy was particularly concerned by Southcott’s belief that she was the “Bride of the Lamb” mentioned in the biblical book of Revelation, "a woman clothed with the sun and the moon under feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars." When Southcott published her prophecies, Pomeroy was horrified to find himself cited as a sympathetic authority, and burned many of the writings she had given him.

Still, Southcott’s ministry prospered, especially when she began issuing (some said selling) “seals,” paper tokens given to her followers in recognition of their status as believers. In 1809 the possession of one such seal by a con-woman and convicted murderess, Mary Bateman, proved a brief black eye on Southcott’s ministry, but after she received a legacy from one of her followers in 1812, Southcott was able to devote herself with even greater energy to her divine calling.

Joanna Southcott, who believed the birth of her child would herald the End of Days.

In October, 1813, sixty-four year old Southcott was told by her prophetic “voice” to prepare for her wedding. The voice added in 1814, “This year in the sixty-fifth year of thy age thou shalt bear a son by the power of the Most High.” The news fit Southcott's vision of herself as the Bride of the Lamb, since the book of Revelation promised, "And she brought forth a man child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron: and her child was caught up unto God, and to his throne. And the woman fled into the wilderness, where she hath a place prepared of God, that they should feed her there a thousand two hundred and threescore days."

Southcott announced her impending blessed event to her followers, saying her baby would be the “Shiloh” mentioned in the biblical book of Genesis and his birth would usher in the End of Days. A number of medical men even confirmed the pregnancy. Though Southcott’s disciples greeted the news with great joy and showered the supposed mother-to-be with gifts, the general public remained skeptical. In a letter to his friend and publisher John Murray, the ever-snarky Lord Byron called Southcott “this new (old) virgin of spiritual impregnation,” adding, “I long to know what she will produce; her being with child at 65 is indeed a miracle, but her getting anyone to beget it, a greater.”

Though Southcott originally expected the birth in July of 1814, no baby appeared. Eventually she and her followers settled on October 19, 1814, as the joyous date. October came and went, and still no baby. By November, poor Southcott was coming to the awful realization she had been mistaken, telling her friends, “Now it all appears delusion.” After making a will declaring that she had been deceived by the Devil, she returned all the baby gifts and went into a rapid decline, dying on December 27. Though Southcott had requested her body be kept warm for four days after her death in case she should be resurrected, at the end of that period she was autopsied and buried.

With no Shiloh, the thousand two hundred and three-score day countdown to the end of the world was put on hold. Though Southcott left behind a sealed walnut box of prophecies with instructions that it be opened at a time of national crisis, and then only in the presence of all the bishops of the Church of England, it was eventually opened in 1927, and with only a single bishop present, the suffragan Bishop of Grantham. It proved to contain little more than books and souvenirs, the 56 objects including an ivory dice cup, a broken horse pistol, a 1796 lottery ticket, and an embroidered nightcap.

Yet a stubborn group of Southcottians, the Panacea Society, refused to give up hope. They claimed to have the real Southcott box, and promised that Shiloh would be born and the Day of Judgment would arrive in the twenty-first century. They even predicted the year.

2004.

Alyssa Everett's debut regency, A Tryst With Trouble, is available now for pre-order from Amazon. Her second, Ruined by Rumor, is due out in May. She hopes you'll visit her website and follow her on Twitter, where she promises not to spam you relentlessly.

Once Upon A Time: Where Villains Rule

2012-01-15T23:10:00.001-05:00

Once Upon A Time is a terrific series is about cursed fairy tale characters who are living in modern times without any memory of who they really are. The show goes back and forth between past and present to give you a view of who the characters are and what has happened to them. And, the fairy tales all have their twists. There's no HEA.

The Evil Queen is a great villain. The kind you love to hate. The actress does a great job at portraying the queen as quite a bitch. Yet, in regard to the character, there appears to be a reason for her hatred and desire for revenge that has not been revealed yet.

A big plus to writing a villain is not to make them totally evil or heartless. She does seem to want to love her adopted son, even though she's not capable of overcoming her selfishness. As a writer, I think, she does need to suffer a defeat soon. A villain shouldn't win all the time. Just as you want to see the hero win, you want to see the villain fail. To me, the best stories have the heroes and the villains suffer defeat and recoup before the end. We all know a story almost always ends with a villain's destruction. In this series, Emma, the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, who is the heroine, will win. So far, she holds her own with the Evil Queen but the more episodes I watch, I realize that isn't enough. Your hero should claim a bit of victory, so the reader and in this case the viewer cheer his success and anticipate the villain's retaliation. You don't want your reader to become frustrated because the villain never loses until the very end of the book. For one thing, they may skip to the end.

So far, the Evil Queen/Mayor of Storybrooke remains undefeated. I think viewers are hanging on, waiting for her fall. She needs to stumble soon.

If you are watching this series, what would you like to see happen to the Evil Queen? And is Mr. Gold going to turn out to be a good guy or the villain? I'm not sure.

Patricia Preston

Food in Fiction

2012-01-14T08:13:00.000-05:00

Today we're privileged to have talent Carina Press Author Julia Knight visiting the blog and talking about her latest release, The Viking's Sacrifice.

Over to you, Julia.

I hit a bit of a quandary in my latestbook. It’s a story about Saxons and Vikings in the 9^th century, andobviously in a historical, you need to really be grounded in the ‘when’ of thestory. How to do that? I found two ways, but the one I’m talking about today isfood. Because, let’s face it, Vikings didn’t eat ready meals or Big Macs, butsubtly showing what they did eat, how and why, working it into the story (inmoderation—I don’t list recipes, honest!) really helps to show what isdifferent, that we aren’t in modern times any more, and also, food is somethingthat is a reflection of the society it’s in, in many respects—the rituals offood, such as Christmas dinner, and all its worldwide variations.

For instance, did you know that Vikingsoften measured wealth in cows? Their word for money actually derives from theirword for cattle. Not because of the meat. Despite my mental image of Vikingswolfing down large slabs of meat and quaffing ale all year round, beef, muttonetc. were seasonal. Your Viking would calculate how many animals he could feedfor the winter, and during Bloodmonth would slaughter the rest. As dairyproducts were more prized than meat, each cow slaughtered was an economic loss,almost an admission of failure if you will.

So if they weren’t eating roast beef everynight, what were they eating? Dairy produce, mainly. Not milk as such, butthings they made out of milk. Cheese—they used the whey to pickle meat—butter,buttermilk and something I’m meaning to actually make for myself. Skyr—anot-quite-yoghurt, not-quite-soft-cheese often sweetened with honey.

All of which comes as a bit of surprise tomy Saxon heroine, but it did help ground us in the ‘where’ of the story. Italso made me very hungry when I was researching!

Anyway, as recipes seem to be popular inromance blog land, here we have a recipe for skyr, which is still popular in Iceland. Itprobably won’t turn out exactly the same—to make skyr, you need, er, skyr—butI’m told it’s a reasonable likeness. As it uses skimmed milk, it’s low in fat(useful in the post Christmas ‘OMG where did my waist go?’ fug). The slightlyless healthy, but tastier method of eating it includes topping with honey, oryou can mix with fruit. And it sounds easy enough even I wouldn’t get it wrong!

10 l skimmed milk, preferably notpasteurised
8-9 drops OR 1 1/2 tablet rennet
10 g skyr, for the bacteria starter. If not available, use 1 tbs liveculture sour cream or buttermilk.

1. Heat the skimmed milk up to 86-90°C, and cool slowly for about 2 hours, downto 39°C. Stir a little scalded milk into the starter to make a thin paste andmix into the milk with the rennet (if you are using dry rennet, dissolve in alittle water before adding).

2. Close the cooking pot and wrap in towels or a thick blanket. The milk shouldcurdle over a period of about 5 hours. If it curdles in less than 4 1/2 hours,the curds will be coarse, but if it curdles in more than 5 hours, the skyr willbe so thick it will be difficult to strain. When the milk is curdled, cut intothe curds with a knife. When you can make a cut which will not closeimmediately, then you can go on to the next stage.

3. Line a sieve or colander with cheesecloth or a fine linen cloth and pour inthe skyr. Tie the ends of the cloth together over the top and hang overa bucket or other container so the whey can drip off. If the skyr-makinghas been successful, there will be little whey, and it will not float over thecurds, but will be visible along the edges of the sieve and in the cuts youmade into the surface. You can judge the quality of the skyr from theappearance of the curds when you pour them into the sieve. If the skyris good, it will crack and fall apart in pieces, but should neither be thin norlumpy. Do not put a layer thicker than 7-9 cm into the sieve. Keep the sieve ina well ventilated room, with a temperature no higher than 12° and no lower than0° Celsius. The skyr should be ready to eat in 12-24 hours.

4. The skyr should be firm and look dry when ready. The whey can be usedas a drink, to pickle food, or as a replacement for white wine in cooking.

The Vikings’ Sacrifice is available nowfrom Carina Press, Amazon and all good e-book retailers.You can find out more about Julia’s books at http://juliaknight.co.uk

A New Year and a New Release!

2012-01-12T00:21:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year everyone! 2012 is starting out with a bang for me. On January 30^th, Mask of the Gladiator, my novella set in ancient Rome will be released. In honor of this momentous occasion, I’ve pulled together a few fun historical New Years facts for your reading pleasure. So grab a noisemaker and raise a glass of champagne to New Years and new books!

Are you still lamenting that at the stroke of midnight you did nothing more than watch the ball drop on TV? Well, if you were living in early ancient Rome, you’d still have time to plan a big bash since New Year fell on March 1^st. The move to January 1^st didn’t take place until 46B.C. when Julius Caesar introduced a new solar-based calendar. While his calendar solved a number of time-based math problems which led to date drift, it didn’t solve them all. One day, this would lead to Britain being out of whack with the rest of Europe but more about that later.

Speaking of moveable celebrations, Wep-renpet was Ancient Egypt's New Year. The feast date was calculated based on the rising of the star Sirius and the annual flooding of the Nile and could vary from year to year. Judging from tomb paintings and a few choice papyri passages, it seems the Egyptians rang in the New Year by partying like it was 1999 B.C.

While on the subject of parties, people in the Middle Ages partied like it was 999. January 1^st marked the Feast of the Circumcision which the common people celebrated as the Feast of Fools. During this celebration, which had its roots in the old Roman Saturnalia, people mocked the church by appointing a Lord of Misrule and behaving very badly. The Parisians were the worst behaved of all, and because of them, the annual celebration was banned in 1451. Is it any wonder New Years is so closely linked with champagne?

And, like the year, we come full circle back to the Julian calendar. At one time, Britain marked the New Year in March while the rest of Europe pulled out the party hats on January 1^st. The disparity began in 1582 when the protestant Henry VIII refused to switch to the newly updated, fresh off the Guttenberg printing presses Gregorian calendar. This decision, coupled with date drift, resulted in the New Year falling in March. Realizing it was no fun partying alone, Britain finally relented and adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1751.

I hope you enjoyed this brief trip through historic New Year celebrations. While you’re opening and hanging up your new calendars, don’t forget to mark the January 30^th release of Mask of the Gladiator. Until then, have a great January everyone!

Please, don't tell me what your character is thinking

2012-01-09T05:00:00.006-05:00

I judge a lot of contests for aspiring romance writers. In fact, it’s a rare time of year that I don’t have a computer folder full of entries to read, some for a second time. Over and over, I find the same weakness, and it’s something that I don’t hear addressed often in craft lessons. Luckily, it’s one that often can be easily avoided.

Before I launch into the words of wisdom that will make your scenes compelling and your characters memorable, let me remind you of the One True Rule of writing fiction -- there are no rules. The only absolute in writing is that there are no absolutes. If what I say below doesn’t make any sense to you, feel free to ignore it with my blessing.

Here goes: Please don’t tell me, your reader, what your characters are thinking and feeling. I’d rather you show me. Aha, “Show, don’t tell.” We’ve all heard this advice, and it applies here.

Whenever you write something like, “she thought, wondered, mused, pondered,” or other verbs that describe how a character thinks, you may be telling what’s going on in her head, rather than showing it. For example, I often see passages like, “She hoped her make-up had survived the long flight so that she’d look her best when she met her new boss.” Here, the author is telling me what’s going on in her heroine’s head rather than show it. How about the following, instead?

“She glanced in the small mirror, but it didn’t do much to reveal how her make-up had survived the long flight. And with no opportunity for major work on her face, she’d have to do the best with what she had. Darn. Her stomach was already in knots. She’d just have to lift her chin and give her new boss the most confident smile she could muster, under the circumstances.”

I submit that that shows someone hoping her make-up is up-to-snuff for the meeting with her new boss. You’re showing what’s going on in her head rather than telling it.

Similarly, “What, she wondered, was he thinking?” If we’re in the character’s head we’d better know who’s doing the wondering. In fact, we’d better be wondering right along with her. “What was he thinking?” gets the same point across and with more immediacy. “She wondered what was in the treasure chest” is better as “What could be in the treasure chest?” The first reports to us about her wonder. The second allows us to wonder along with her.

The same general principle applies to showing versus telling emotions. When you tell us the character is angry, hates someone, loves someone, is grieving, you take us out of their feelings and prevent us from experiencing them directly. For example, “She hated the hurt look in his eyes,” might be better as “Hurt filled his eyes. Pain so deep, it cut into her. Still, she couldn’t look away. She’d caused him that pain, and she’d have to take that knowledge with her.” Note that at no time have I mentioned her emotions. The emotions are there, but if I’ve done my job, the reader experiences them directly instead of having them pointed out.

Similarly, “The loss hurt so much. She’d miss her beloved grandfather for the rest of her life,” isn’t as convincing to me as “She stood near the hearth, staring at the chair her grandfather had always occupied as he’d read stories to her. First, sitting in his lap, then at his feet, and finally as an adult in her own chair next to his. This room would always resonate with the sound of his voice. In fact, if she stood very still, she might hear it even now.”

I’ll share a little secret from my psychology training that I find immensely helpful in my writing. In general (but not by any means always), when you ask someone to explain their behavior, they point to the environment around them. For example, if you ask a spendthrift friend why she just spent thousands of dollars on a purse, she’ll likely say something like, “It’s perfect. Just like the one my favorite movie star carries. I had to have it.” If you ask a careless driver why she just went through a red light, she may very well say something like, “It was really yellow. Honest.” If you ask someone why she cheated on her taxes, she’ll probably tell you something like “Everyone does it,” or “What are the chances I’ll get audited?”

Here’s an example from my book Always a Princess that, I hope, will illuminate what I’m talking about.

“But that doesn’t make any sense.’ He barely kept himself from shouting, took a few breaths, and tried to calm himself. Although any reasonable person could hardly remain calm in these circumstances. As heir to the earldom of Farnham, he was the bloody catch of the whole bloody season, but for some bloody reason he wasn’t good enough for a guttersnipe like Eve Stanhope. If she was a guttersnipe. He still had no bloody idea who she was.”

You’ll notice that my hero realizes that he’s shouting and that he’s not calm, but then, he attributes his anger to the situation he finds himself in and to the heroine‘s behavior.

You can’t always use these techniques, and sometimes, there’s no other way to convey what’s happening in your story than to simply say, “He was furious” or “She couldn’t make heads nor tails of what he was saying.” I do think, however, that we can all make our writing stronger by trying to get as deeply into our characters’ heads as we can.

http://www.alicegaines.blogspot.com

authoralicegaines@yahoo.com

Epiphanies

2012-01-06T10:14:00.004-05:00

Today is Epiphany, the 12th day of Christmas, aka the day I start feeling guilty about the fact we haven’t yet taken our Christmas tree down! (Don’t worry, it’s an artificial tree, so not a fire hazard, and we have an excuse--Mr. Fraser and I have both been unsuccessfully fighting off a cold since we got home from our holiday travels.)

Epiphany isn’t well-known in present-day America outside of liturgical churches such as the Roman Catholic Church, the churches of the Eastern Orthodox tradition, and the Episcopalian Church. In the Western churches, it celebrates the visit of the Three Kings to the infant Jesus, while the Eastern churches observe it as a remembrance of Christ’s baptism.

The regional and national customs associated with Epiphany are far too long to list here. (If you don’t believe me, check Wikipedia!) The writer in me would love to do something with the Bulgarian custom of an all-male dance in icy waters. I also think they have the right idea in New Orleans, where Epiphany is the first day of Carnival season, which runs through Mardi Gras. As someone with a mild tendency to seasonal affective disorder, I find the unremitting dreariness of January something of a slog without the festivities of November and December to distract me, so I’m all for more holidays to drive off the darkness!

As a Regency writer, I might write characters who observe Epiphany by drinking wassail or eating Twelfth Cake. (Though I’d probably do a little more research first to find out how often such traditions were still observed then, since I know Christmastide in general was less of a big deal in the Regency than it was hundreds of years before in the medieval era or a few decades later when Christmas started taking on its modern pattern under the Victorians.) But if one of my characters had a sudden realization of a critical truth, he or she would not describe that moment as “having an epiphany.” Per the Oxford English Dictionary, that usage dates to the latter half of the 19th century, and it didn’t become commonplace until the 20th.

How did “epiphany” come to mean both a Christian holiday and an “aha!” moment? The word comes from the Greek “epiphaneia,” which means “manifestation” or “striking appearance.” Originally, it referred to divine visitations of various kinds--e.g. in the OED listing I saw one example where I think a modern writer would use “avatar.” Over time, the definition grew to also include internal visions, the striking appearance of an idea that might change your life.

What about you? Do you observe Epiphany? Have you had any recent epiphanies? And have you taken your Christmas decorations down yet? If not, take heart--according to the all-knowing Wikipedia, some traditions give you until Candlemas on Feb. 2!

Oh How I Hate Those Eggs and Ham

2012-01-05T12:04:00.000-05:00

NOT a Regency Breakfast

I read a lot--and I read primarily gay historical romance for review for my review blog "Speak Its Name" and I admit I do like a good Regency. Gay romance goes well with Regency. The clothes and the manners and the insta-conflict for "you could be hanged for this" work well when it's done well, and mostly there are more good Regencies in the genre than otherwise.

But what annoys me hugely is that authors do their research for the Napoleonic War, the clothes, the manners, the slang, the carriages blah-de-blah-de-blah and then....

Their characters sit down and have a meal. And 9 times out of 10 I'm gnashing my teeth because it's just all wrong.

Authors seem forget that like clothes and music and fashion and the docking of horses' tails--food changes with the ages. What people ate in medieval times (mostly meat) wasn't what they were eating in Victorian times and not what we were eating today.

I've read several Regencies recently where the protagonists sit down for breakfast and they have "ham and eggs." This is so wrong for so many reasons. I wonder if it is because that's what Americans used to eat for breakfast, or they think it's an ancestor of "eggs and bacon" which is what us English would like to eat every day but reach for the bowel-scraping muesli instead, or what--I don't know.

They tended to have a lot on offer--at least in the richer households. Jane Austen's mother noted the quantity of food on offer : "Chocolate, Coffee and Tea, Plumb Cake, Pound Cake, Hot Rolls, Cold Rolls, Bread and Butter and dry toast for me." Clearly they had no problems with carbohydrates! There would also be--perhaps a more masculine foodstuff--MEAT in abundance: eggs, cold fowl and partridge, ham, tongue and anchovy.

The Supersizers (an excellent series of food related historical programmes) list breakfast as follows in their "Go Regency" segment: Toasted bread (done over the fire,) seed cake, turtulong, marmalade jame, hot chocolate, tea.

It also irritates me hugely when tea is guzzled down by the bucketload and there's no mention of the little locked box (the tea caddy) to keep the thieving servants away from the precious commodity!

So come on, historical authors. If you can research the nitty gritty of a military campaign, if you know exactly how many buttons a lieutenant had on his jacket, if you know what a reticule is for, then for goodness sake - get the food right!**

**none of the Carina authors are guilty of course! :D

Counting the cost of Christmas

2012-01-01T10:03:00.000-05:00

Well, the festivities are all over for another year. Now all we have to worry about is those pesky credit card bills. In case you're feeling guilty about overspending, it might make you feel better, (or worse!), to know that you could well have shelled out more than it would have taken to keep a modest home in London running two hundred years ago.

According to Venetia Murray's book, High Society, when Mary Berry became engaged to General O'Hare she prepared the following estimate of their future expenses for her fiance.

£123 for one pair of horses inclusive of coachman's wages for 8 months of the year
£25 Annual repairs to carriage
£40 Two men servants
£55 An upper man servant
£58 4 women servants, a housekeeper, a cook, housemaid and lady's maid
£80 Liveries for men servants and coachman
£200 House rent and taxes
£50 Coals
£25 Candles
£25 Beer
£100 Wine
£480 Housekeeping
____
£1263
£800 To you
£200 To me
______
£2263

That equates to roughtly $4,000, so if you spent that much this year, just think, in Regency days that would have kept you in style for up to a year! A sobering thought.

Happy new year everyone.

Wendy

And the winner is ...

2011-12-27T09:30:00.000-05:00

Once again, many thanks to all of you who read our Christmas rolling story. Six of you identified the names of the carols hidden in each post. I drew the names from a hat and the winner is: Courtney!

Congratulations, Courtney. Please email me at - wendysoliman@rocketmail.com and we will arrange for the bundle of books to be sent to you.

A very Happy and Prosperous New Year to all our readers.

Romancing a Christmas Past

2011-12-21T12:16:00.000-05:00

Many thanks to all of you who followed our Christmas story. I think I speak for us all when I say that it was great fun to do and we really appreciate your support.

The name of the winner of the bundle of books will be posted here sometime between Christmas and the New Year. In the meantime, on behalf of all the authors involved with this blog, I'd like to wish you all a very merry Christmas and a healthy, happy and peaceful new year.

Best wishes, Wendy

Romancing A Christmas Past--Part 9

2011-12-20T06:12:00.002-05:00

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight
Heat, desire, lust and something more, much more tamed Amelia’s struggles. Her limbs turned to jelly when Lord Ambry pulled her so close she could feel the hard, warm beat of his heart. Her own heart pounded against her ribs as though seeking a way to join with his.

As his lips warmed, softened, and claimed her so completely, she moaned. Or was it him? Amelia didn’t know. Didn’t care. Lifting her hands to the back of his neck, to the soft silken strands, she tangled her fingers in his hair and held on as the kiss deepened between them, bursting into full bloom like a wall of jasmine, sending its heady scent and taste outward to lure and trap. Common sense along with reason fled. When his hands stroked upward, his palms flat and heated against her back, Amelia tipped her own head back, inviting him to sample the taste of her skin.

Lord Ambry couldn’t get enough. He trailed kisses along her jaw and down the smooth column of her throat. His hunger so great, he feared he would never get enough of the deceiving wench. Her taste, her scent and the feel of her against him felt –right. As though she was meant for him, and him only.

The thought that there could be more between them than lies and deceit was enough to make him pull away from the woman with her soft breathy cries of desire. She’d tricked him. Humiliated him in front of his peers. He’d only been trying to protect her and look where that had gotten him!

Holding Amelia out from him, feeling her tremors, recognising her desire for him, Lord Ambry hardened his heart against her. "Wed you I must. But you will never mean anything to me." He spun on his heel and left Amelia leaning weakly against a wall. As he strode down the passage and out into the snow-covered gardens, he felt bereft, as though he’d left something of himself behind.

Amelia ran after Lord Ambry. She couldn’t go through with the plan to ruin him. It mattered not that he’d seduced Lady Smallwood and left her with child or that Thomas would stop loving her for she’d only just realised that she’d fallen and fallen hard for Lord Ambry.

What she felt for Thomas paled in comparison to the desire and the need to be held by Lord Ambry. Guilt gave her the flutters. She stopped at the closed door leading out into the night and pressed her clenched hands into her stomach. Amelia was very much afraid that Lord Ambry had stormed off with her heart. She reached out and opened the door.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her from going outside. Behind her, Thomas spoke.

"Nice show. Luring him in just as planned. Just don’t get too caught up in our little game." He reached out and grabbed her arm and held tight.

Amelia felt torn. She yearned to go after Lord Ambry and explain. She tugged her arm free and grimaced with her back toward Thomas. "Watch yourself, Thomas." She stared out into the frozen night, wondering where Lord Ambry had gone and wishing she could go after him.

She hugged herself. The chill she felt came not just from the air seeping into the passage. It came from knowing that there was no way for her to explain how he’d fallen into her trap in a far better way than the one she and Thomas had devised. The man had simply, and most graciously ensnared himself into their plan of revenge by a simple kind act and an innocent slip on the ice.

"You did it, Amelia," Thomas whispered from behind, his voice a low rasp in the quiet darkness. "Mother will be pleased."

Amelia turned toward Thomas. "Oh Thomas. This isn’t right. I cannot marry him. Amelia once again felt the warmth of Lord Ambry's embrace, the hard feel of his body against hers and the strong beat of his heart that had somehow bound itself to her own heart.

Thomas grabbed her by both arms. His touch felt cold. Icy. And his features were twisted with anger. "It is too late, Amelia. We finish what we started. You will insist that the wedding take place at my mother’s village. "You finish this. He must pay for what he did to my mother."

Amelia stared out into the cold, frozen night. "How does tricking him into marriage make what he did to your mother right? What’s in it for her? It was so long ago. They were both young. And as Lady Smallwood, she is respectable. Everyone believes her husband died at war, leaving her a widow expecting their first child. There is no point to this." Amelia knew she couldn’t go through with their plan to force the Lord to marry her. Somehow, she had to convince everyone that what they’d witnessed had been an accident.

Thomas paced, his hands behind his military-straight back. When he turned, his features were twisted into hate. "You will marry him as planned. My mother was left with nothing but shame. Her own family turned against her. Besides, Lord Ambry is not an Honourable man. He must pay."

In his wild youth the young rake had taken advantage of Lady Smallworld, known back then as Lady Olivia Havenscourt when she’d fallen and injured her ankle. When she’d learnt that she was with child, she’d written to Ambry, begged him to return and do right by her. But Lord Ambry had refused. Instead, he’d set her up in a small estate with enough money to keep them from becoming impoverished but he’d refused to give her the one thing in the world that mattered: legitimacy.

Amelia felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the night air as the full extent of this plot unfolded. "Oh Thomas. You can’t. She can’t." She lifted her hands to her face in horror.

Thomas took one step closer to Amelia and grabbed her by the wrists and yanked her close. "The man stole my mother’s rightful life. And mine. It is the way it must be. A life for a life."

"No. I won’t. I won’t." Frightened, unaware of the true nature of the deception she’d agreed to, Amelia twisted free and ran out into the night and back into the arms of Lord Ambry.

Ambry was furious. He’d decided to make it clear to Amelia that they would leave in the morning and had been standing in the shadows beside the cracked door and had heard the devious plot. He patted the pocket inside his coat, felt the crumple of paper. The very man he'd spent nearly a year searching for stood before him. He shifted his gaze from one to the other.

"So, this is what you planned." He glared down at the woman. Tears ran unchecked down her pale cheeks.

"I didn’t know," she said, trying to pull away.

He held tight, his gaze shifting to the man she called Thomas. In the faint pool of candlelight, he saw for the first time the unmistakable family resemblance. "So, you’re the bastard son of my brother." He spoke softly, his voice dangerously low.

Thomas recoiled as though struck then jutted out his chin. "Spare the lies, Lord Richard Ambry. You cannot deny the truth any longer. You will die by the hand of your bastard son." Thomas pulled a blade from his boot. "I’ll tell everyone I caught you forcing yourself on Amelia."

"My dear nephew. I have never had to force myself on any woman. Put that knife away before you get hurt." When Thomas lunged, Lord Ambry stepped neatly aside, reached out and twisted Thomas’s wrist until the blade fell to the floor. He stepped on it to keep it from posing any further threat.

"What is going on here?" Lord Dernflook asked as he joined them with Lady Louisa at his side. He lifted a brow and stared pointedly at the knife.

Ambry motioned to the room at the end of the hall. "I suggest we all take a seat and I will explain."

Thomas spun around. "I refuse to listen to your lies."

Lord Dernflook blocked his path. "You will listen." He led the way into a small, dark study. There has been quite enough drama and excitement tonight.

Amelia sat beside Louisa, ashamed of her own role in the events that would have led to murder. She watched as Dernflook shoved Thomas into a chair then moved to stand behind him as though to be sure Thomas didn’t try to leave. She turned her attention to Lord Ambry who had taken a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket.

"I received this missive a year ago from my brother before he died," he began.

"That’s convenient," Thomas sneered.

Dernflook rapped Thomas smartly on the shoulder with his fancy walking stick.

Ambry ignored the comment. "In it, he details the birth of a son. One our family knew nothing about." He stared hard at Thomas. "I knew your mother only by her maiden name and no one could tell me where to find her. I had heard of a woman, Lady Smallwood who might know where to find her. I came here to learn her whereabouts so that I could locate you and your mother.

Amelia leaned forward. "But sir, you are Lord Richard Ambry, are you not?"

Ambry paced to the fireplace and leaned his elbow on the mantle. "I, Miss Slockholme, am Lord Richard Harry Ambry. My brother, named after our father, is Lord Richard William Ambry."

"Why are you searching for us?" Thomas asked, his voice tight with suspicion and doubt.

Ambry strode over and towered over Thomas. "To inform you of your inheritance. As my brother’s son, you inherit what was his. Including his name if you so desire."

The room fell silent. Amelia could not believe her own ears. To think Thomas had planned to kill the man he’d believed to be his father but was not. And to learn that his father, the father who’d refused to acknowledge him had finally, in death given Thomas and his mother what they’d bitterly yearned for all these years. Why, it was—astonishing!

"Why now? Why didn’t you–he return and marry my mother when she begged him to come."

Ambry pinched his nose and sighed. "Forgive me, ladies, for being blunt, but by then, my brother had decided he preferred men for his sleeping partners. He did not want to expose you or your mother to his–ways"

Thomas sank back in the chair. "You’re serious. You are my uncle. Not my father."

Ambry sighed, then smiled. "William was barely 18 when he came upon your mother. I believe I was a bit young to have fathered a child at thirteen." He stepped back. "We will discuss the details come morning." He handed Thomas a card. "This is our solicitor in London. We leave come morning."

Ambry then walked over to Amelia. "I believe we still have a wedding to plan."

"Oh but–"

"No buts. Unlike my brother I will not be accused of ruining a young lady’s reputation." He pulled her up. "Besides, if you think I could not have kept my feet when you pretended to slip, then you are truly innocent, Lady Slockholme."

"Amelia gasped. "You do not mind?"

Richard Ambry let out a bark of laughter. "No, my dear. I do not mind."

Three Months Later

"Are you happy, my Lady?"

Amelia sighed and leaned into her husband . "Absolutely, my Lord. Very happy." She smiled up at Richard. "I cannot believe how happy I am." She cocked her head when she heard the sound of a carriage making its way to the stable. "Do you hear what I hear?"

"Ah, our guests have arrived." Richard put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. "Lord Dernflook tells me you received a letter from Thomas. How is my nephew adjusting?

Amelia grinned. "Well, he’s not plotting your demise any longer. Managing your brother’s estate is keeping him busy."

Arm in arm, the couple entered their home and made their way to the parlour where Lord Dernflook and his wife, Louisa waited. The house was as grand as any Amelia had ever seen or stepped foot inside. And it was hers. "I can’t believe you told me you’d lost your fortune!"

"And here I thought you were a rich heiress."

They laughed. Fate, on a cold winter night, had brought them together in the most devious way possible.

Romancing a Christmas Past - Part 8

2011-12-18T03:00:00.002-05:00

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six

Part Seven

Louisa dashed down the corridor, the merry music from the ballroom hurting her head. Confusion swamped her, as well as a healthy dose of irritation. She didn’t know who to trust, who to believe.

Could it be true? Could Ambry really enjoy dallying with—

“Oh!” A hard, warm body collided with hers and she would’ve fallen to the ground if not for the strong, firm hands that gripped her about her upper arms. She lifted her gaze, her lips parting to offer her gratitude when she froze.

Lord Dernflook studied her, his warm brown gaze full of concern and something else. Something she’d never seen before. Warmth suffused her and she parted her lips but no sound came out.

“Why in such a hurry, my lady?”

“I—I’ve just received the most distressing news,” she blurted, then clamped her hand over her mouth. Oh, dear. Not that she could ever confess what that dreadful Comte told her.

Would Dernflook even believe her? He was good friends with Ambry. They’d been close for years, since they were children. If anyone knew what sort of man Ambry was about, it would be Dernflook.

“There, there.” He released his hold on her and turned so that he stood by her side, offering his arm. “Perhaps you’d like to inform me of this most distressing news while we find some refreshment?”

She contemplated him. He was a determined man, she knew this. With a calculating, intelligent mind and a sharp eye, he was admired by his peers and even the occasional lady though he rarely showed interest in any of them. Considering he was a bachelor of prime age with decent wealth and a title, she found that odd.

A new thought formed. He couldn’t…no, really. Could he? Was he the sort to dally with other men? Did he have some sort of relationship with Ambry?

No. It couldn’t be true.

“It’s silly,” she finally said with a beguiling smile, hoping she could steer him in another direction. If she were to mention any sort of ill rumor about Ambry, he would run and tell his friend in an instant. “Gossip and speculation, nothing more.”

“I adore gossip and speculation.” His velvety deep voice was sincere, as was the glint in his eyes and she stared at him a bit too long.

Hmm. She recognized that look in his gaze now. Was that—desire? And when did Dernflook become so dashed handsome?

Shaking herself from her thoughts, she smiled and waved a hand toward the open double doors that led to the ballroom. A lively waltz played and she could see the many happy dancers, the ladies’ colorful gowns twirling as their gentlemen partners led them around the floor.

She suddenly wanted to be one of those ladies out on the dance floor, in the arms of a man who looked at her as if he might find her attractive. “Dance with me, Dernflook,” she suddenly demanded.

His brows rose. “Really, my lady? You want to dance with me?”

She met his gaze, saw the mixture of shock and pleasure swirling there. Smiling, she nodded and gave his arm a squeeze. He was rather muscular, no padding at all beneath the fine cut of his jacket and she wondered why she never noticed before.

Noticed just how handsome Lord Dernflook was. God rest ye merry gentlemen, indeed…

“Yes, really, my lord.” She paused and smiled in invitation. “Well, Are you going to leave me standing here? Or shall we dance?”

He smiled, bright enough to light the entire ballroom. “I would be delighted to dance with you. Louisa.”

A tremor moved through her at the delicious way he said her name, at the rather commanding way he led her onto the dance floor.

And when he took her into his arms and held her scandalously close, all thoughts of Ambry and his dastardly betrayal earlier this evening left her completely.

Amelia wanted to stomp her foot in frustration. Where was that rat Thomas? She had the distinct feeling she was playing a part in too many plots—and she was the one in the role of the fool. Thomas, the poor Lady Smallwood, all of their intricate plans were muddling her brain and leaving her in a heaping mass of confusion.

And after sampling Lord Ambry’s kiss, well. She couldn’t stop thinking of it—of him. His soft lips, how he held her. The look of shock on his face when he realized he’d been well and truly caught.

Despite his recent distressing news of being a pauper, she found that she might not care about wealth any longer, or trying to destroy him completely to please the poor vengeful Lady Smallwood.

Not when she could have a man—a husband who looks at her with such desire in his gaze night after night.

“Would you care for some plum pudding?”

She turned on a gasp and found the very man haunting her thoughts standing in the shadows. He emerged from the darkness much like the devil himself, a smile curling his lips, a plate of—yes indeed, plum pudding gripped in his hands.

“No, thank you.” She tipped her chin up, nose in the air, desperate for a dignified air. She couldn’t be tempted by a sweet treat. She wasn’t that weak.

“Oh, come now, Amelia. There’s no need for the façade any longer.” His voice was pitched low, dark and foreboding and a shiver stole over her. Was he finally on to her ruse?

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you speak of.” She turned her back on him, heard him settle the china plate on a nearby table with a soft clank. His heavy footsteps as he drew closer before he settled warm, firm hands upon her shoulders.

“You know exactly what I speak of, Amelia,” he murmured close to her ear, his warm breath tickling her skin. “Your trickery is most distressing.”

She held her breath, waiting for him to say something else but he remained silent. “I didn’t mean to trick you,” she finally whispered. “I had no choice.”

He squeezed her shoulders and she felt his touch to the very depth of her soul. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie to you now, my lord? I have nothing to gain by it. Not any longer.”

“Of course, you don’t. I’m good and well trapped, aren’t I? He whirled her around so that she faced him. Saw all the dark rage reflected in his gaze, on his face. Fear filled her and she struggled within his grip but he wouldn’t be deterred.

“Let me go,” she demanded but he laughed, the insufferable rogue.

“Not a chance, my lovely Amelia. I believe I’m going to take advantage of my husbandly rights.”

“Wha—” she started to shriek but he cut her off.

With a firm press of his sensuous mouth.

The lovely Susan Edwards will wrap up the story on December 20th so be sure to return to find out what happens!

And don't forget: Each post will contain the name of a Christmas carol. As readers, you're asked to follow the blog and then post a comment on each entry naming that carol. The person with the most correct answers will win a bundle of SEVEN fabulous Carina historical novels to keep them entertained over the festive period, and beyond.

Romancing a Christmas Past -- Part Seven

2011-12-16T05:00:00.036-05:00

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six

(Many thanks to the talented Eliza Knight for the introduction to this passage.)

“What were you thinking, Ambry?”

Richard shook from his thoughts to see that his good friend Lord Dernflook stood beside him refilling his glass of brandy.

Richard shook his head and took a sip. “She lied.”

Dernflook raised his brows. “About what part?”

“All of it!” Richard scoffed. “Come now, Dernflook, you’ve known me since I was in leading strings, when have I ever taken a woman who wasn’t going to make my earth quake? And really, on the ice? I was freezing my ballocks off out there!”

Dernflook chuckled and took a swig of his own glass. “I did wonder about that. Thought maybe you were just overcome with lust.”

Richard frowned. “She’s pretty. She’s got a lovely, curvy—" He cut himself short, what the hell was he thinking? “She’s a conniving little witch is what she is, and I’m going to find out what she’s up to.”

“I imagine she’s after you for marriage.”

“Yes, but why me?”

“Come, come, dear chap, think,” Dernflook said. “I’ve never thought you unable to look past the end of your aristocratic nose.”

Well Dernflook could speak of noble noses. Over generations of systematic breeding, some involving marriages between cousins, the man’s family had perfected that part of the anatomy to the point that the current Earl of Dernflook, the very fellow who stood beside Ambry at the moment, had exactly the right length of nose to sniff insufferably in a manner than no one standing near him could miss. He did it now. Irritating fellow, truly.

“Out with it, man,” Ambry snapped. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t it seem strange to you that none of your former lovers took up your cause when the Slockholme chit made her accusations against you?”

“How can I know why women do what they do? The lot of them might have been enjoying my downfall, for all I know.”

Dernflook arched a brow. “Or planning it, rather.”

“The devil, you say.” The fellow could be a thorn in Ambry’s side on occasion, but he had a sharp mind and even sharper eyes. Friends disregarded Dernflook’s advice at their peril. “They’ve formed some kind of conspiracy to get me wed to Miss Slockholme?”

“They acted eager to help her to trap you, and consider this.” Dernflook laid a hand on Ambry’s arm. “None of them seemed the least surprised to find the two of you rolling in that ice.”

“You’re right.” Devious females. “They’ve planned the entire thing somehow.”

“And that’s only half of the story, old fellow,” Dernflook said. “Someone else must be directing their efforts. Have you even known a man’s multiple mistresses to cooperate with each other?”

“Hair-pulling and eye-gouging is the more usual course,” Ambry said.

As the ball continued around them, gowns of all colors swirling in the newest dance, a waltz, Ambry let the consequences of what Dernflook had implied roll through his mind. Though most ladies disguised any flaw of character with their beauty, the female was truly the more dangerous sex. If some woman was plotting against him and had enlisted all of his previous liaisons in the conspiracy, he could find himself in a great deal of trouble, indeed. Perhaps far worse than a marriage he hadn’t asked for nor wanted.

“I believe Miss Slockholme has only recently entered polite society, has she not?” Dernflook asked.

“No one had heard of her until a few months ago.” Of course, he hadn’t considered that while staring at her mouth and wondering about the taste of her lips. When he’d sampled them and found them warm and pliant beneath his and when he’d enjoyed the press of her bosom against his chest, any thoughts of who she might actually be or where she might have come from had flown right from his mind. Or rather, what was left of his mind after she’d filled his senses with her scent and the sound of her rapid breathing. Typical male reaction and dashed inconvenient.

“She had a letter of recommendation from a Lady Smallwood in Kent,” he continued. “Or was it Hertfordshire? Shropshire?”

“And no one checked her reference?” Dernflook asked.

“Of course. All the ladies claimed acquaintance with Lady Smallwood and vouched for her judgment.”

“The same ladies who abandoned you just now in your hour of need?”

Ambry could only stare at the man in amazement. “By God, you’re onto something there, Dernflook.”

Dernflook raised a finger into the air. “Find Lady Smallwood and you’ll find the source of your current discomfort.”

More easily said than done. He didn’t know where the woman lived, and none of his former lovers would provide any help. How was he to find a Lady Smallwood in all of England, if that even was her real title?

“If I were you, I’d keep close watch on the orchestra,” Dernflook said with another sniff.

“Do you think the lady in question is lurking among the musicians?”

“Not she in person, but if you look closely, you’ll notice one performer who doesn’t belong in a salon ensemble,” Dernflook said.

Ambry scanned them, pausing on each individual. All seemed as it should be until he came to a small figure on one end. “The little drummer boy.”

“Exactly,” Dernflook said. “A spy if ever I’ve seen one. Here to watch you, but I’ll wager that if you follow him, he’ll take you right to Lady Smallwood.”

Meanwhile, in a country house in another part of England that might be Kent or Hertfordshire or Shropshire or somewhere else entirely, Olivia Dorney, the Dowager Countess of Smallwood, paced before the hearth in her drawing room. A certain letter folded and stuffed into the bodice of her newest gown crinkled softly as she moved. It was addressed to Miss Olivia Havenscourt, her maiden name. The last she’d had from Ambry. If her plan worked, he’d eat every word he‘d written--very literally--without even sherry to wash it down.

Her mind wandered back to that day so long ago. How she’d sat in that warm field, full of flowers, rubbing her rapidly swelling ankle as he’d ridden up on his chestnut gelding. He’d blotted out the sun with his size, and the rays had seemed to cast a halo around him. He was truly the most magnificent human being she’d ever set eyes on, and when he’d dismounted and helped her to lie back in the fragrant grass so that he could examine her injury, she’d surrendered to the tenderness of his touch. She’d made things so easy for him. She’d never make that mistake again.

“I’m ready for my revenge, Ambry,” she said softly to herself. “I only need for you to come to me.”
Alice Gaines is the author of Miss Foster's Folly and Always a Princess, both of them Victorian. She apologizes in advance for any errors she may have made in the Regency details of this piece. She also wishes you a happy holiday season and a great 2012.

http://www.alicegaines.blogspot.com/

authoralicegaines@yahoo.com

Romancing a Christmas Past - Part 6

2011-12-14T03:00:00.000-05:00

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five

As soon as the crowd had dispersed, Amelia rushed into thegrand manse under pretense of needing a moment of privacy to compose herself.

As soon as she closed the door in the lady’s retiring room—thankfullyalone--burst into a fit of giggles. Oh, her performance had been one of akind! She should have taken up stage acting at some point.

From behind her a slow clapping sounded, surprising her.

“A right good performance you gave there, Miss Slockholme. Imust admit I did not see that coming at all.”

Amelia turned slowly at the sound of Lord Ambry’s voice.

She pursed her lips and lifted her chin. “It was noperformance. Your hands were all over me! And you were dragging me about theice like a caveman would a woman he’s about to ravish.”

Lord Ambry’s head fell back and he laughed so loud it echoedfrom the pretty papered walls. “Oh, Miss Slockholme, you may have trapped me, butI win in the end.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her brows. The man was positively mad. “How do you figure, my lord?”

A lazy smile curled his lips, shocking Amelia’s unshockablesenses. The man was toying with her. And she liked it. She sucked in a breath,trying to hide her reaction at having met a man who she would enjoy sparringwith.

Ninny! Do not let yourself become attracted to this man!Despite her inner berating, her heartbeat sped up, and her skin tingled as sheawaited his answer.

“I suppose, I ought to thank you.” He stepped closer,reached out and brushed a finger over her cheek.

Instinctively she leaned into his touch, only to becompletely disgusted with herself. She tried to jerk away but he stepped evencloser, snaked an arm around her waist and hauled her against his lean, muscled form. The sent of his shaving soap wafted over her, making her want to close her eyes and just breathe it in.

“The Duchess and nearly every other person in attendance isdemanding we wed.”

Triumph! She had him! Her plan was going to work. Soon she’d beliving the life of a true aristocrat. Money at her disposal, a title. Thomaswould be so proud of her. And it didn’t hurt that she was actually lookingforward to the bedding of her soon-to-be new husband.

She leaned into him, pressing her breasts against the hardexpanse of his chest. She tilted her chin up, licked her lips. “And why shouldI thank you?” she murmured.

Lord Ambry leaned down and brushed his lips against hers,sending a shockwave through her limbs. Her breath caught, and she sighedagainst his lips as he kissed her. His lips roved over hers, his tongue teasing the corners of her mouth. She tilted her head to the side, deepening the kiss and cirlced her arms around his neck.

Lord Ambry shifted his lips from hers just enough to say, “Oh, my dear. You see, I am flat broke, and now you havegiven me an out for my debts. I will get the special license first thing in themorning.”

His words startled her from the maddening desire that had taken hold of her. She shoved against him, anger spiraling through her. “What?”

He held his grip on her elbows, keeping her pressed close. His nose touched hers, and he bent to kiss her again, catching her lipbetween his teeth before pulling away. “Thought you’d land yourself a title andwealthy husband? You shall be punished for sullying my reputation.”

This time when she tugged away, he let her go. His dark eyessmoldered sending opposing hot chills up her spine. How could she have let thishappen? Lord Ambrey wore the best of fabrics, had the most stately carriage.How was it possible he was up to his eyeballs in debt?

Bloody jackanapes! He’d beat her at her own game. Shegritted her teeth and clenched her fists. Of all the beef-witted, beetle-headedluck! She was not going to let him get the best of her.

She charged toward him and poked her finger into his chest. “Youtricked me! How dare you! I will deck the halls with you,” she said menacingly.

Lord Ambrey only laughed more. “I tricked you? I dobelieve you have partaken of a bit too much of Duchess Claverham’s punch. Iwill see you in the morning. Wear your best gown.”

Amelia could do nothing but seethe as he walked out of theretiring room. She wanted to stomp her feet, rip the paintings from the walls,and shred the upholstery. But she couldn’t do that. She had to find Thomas. Shehad to tell him they’d picked the wrong mark.

Richard sauntered from the retiring room and brushed off hisshoulders, feeling very proud of himself. Lying to the little minx had not beenhard at all. What had disturbed him however was how much he’d enjoyed kissingher—and how good at kissing she was. No virgin kissed like that. And her scent…orange flowers and vanilla. It intoxicated him.

But he couldn’t be thinking like that. Now, he just had towait. She was obviously angry that he didn’t have any money. Not that sheneeded his money, but she probably didn’t want to part with her own. Rumor wasMiss Slockholme was filthy rich. He pursed his lip as he entered the gentleman’scard room. Why did she need to trick him into marrying?

He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a healthyglass of brandy, pretending to watch some of the gentleman at cards—and ignoringthe disapproving looks they were flinging at him. He drained the glass, andsucked air in through his teeth. Something wasn’t quite right. Miss Slockholmewas obviously not the woman she portrayed herself to be. And who the hell was the Comte de Villiers?The man hadn’t been around earlier in the day. He seemed to arrive just whenneeded to accuse him of abusing the little minx.

He narrowed his eyes at the wood paneled walls. Why had she locked that door?

“What were you thinking, Ambry?”

Richard shook from his thoughts to see that his good friendLord Dernflook stood beside him refilling his glass of brandy.

Richard shook his head and took a sip. “She lied.”

Dernflook raised his brows. “About what part?”

“All of it!” Richard scoffed. “Come now, Dernflook, you’veknown me since I was in leading strings, when have I ever taken a woman who wasn’t going to make my earth quake? And really,on the ice? I was freezing my ballocks off out there!”

Dernflook chuckled and took a swig of his own glass. “I didwonder about that. Thought maybe you were just overcome with lust.”

Richard frowned. “She’s pretty. She’s got a lovely, curvy—“He cut himself short, what the hell was he thinking? “She’s a conniving littlewitch is what she is, and I’m going to find out what she’s up to.”

“I imagine she’s after you for marriage.”

“Yes, but why me?”

Eliza

The talented Alice will be picking up the story on the 16th, so be sure to stop by to see where our story goes from here!

And don't forget: Each post will contain the name of a Christmas carol. As readers, you're asked to follow the blog and then post a comment on each entry naming that carol. The person with the most correct answers will win a bundle of SEVEN fabulous Carina historical novels to keep them entertained over the festive period, and beyond.

Romancing a Christmas Past - Part 5

2011-12-12T11:00:00.000-05:00

Louisa spun around to meet the wickedest green eyes she had ever seen in her life. Angled like a cat's, they glittered madly in the candlelight, and suddenly Louisa, despite the solidity of the wall at her back, plus the fact that the ball continued in full swing and that they were in view of everyone-- felt decidedly unsafe.

She attempted to move past the man, but he sidestepped, so she was unable to avoid him. She felt herself blushing--stupid, how old was she?--so she lifted her chin and glared, cutting him with contempt, before attempting to pass again. With a smile he simply sidestepped and was in front of her again. Really, it was altogether too galling.

She cast her eye across to the nearest group, who were too busy watching the dancing to notice her discomfort. Why hadn't anyone seen she was trapped like this? If she had been Amelia, she thought with chagrin, a handful of men no doubt would step to her rescue, but then Amelia was a wealthy pretty--minx--not a widow. Widows were considered able to look after themselves, and certainly a match for an unwanted advance.

"Sir," she said, filling her voice with venom. "Let me pass."

"Mais, mademoiselle..."

She'd heard voices like his before. Émigrés with one thought on their mind, to marry wealthily to make up for all they had lost in France. Lazy foreigners, all of them, every man jack of them.

"Madame," she snapped. "We have not been introduced, sir. Such proprieties are no doubt unimportant in Paris these days, but here in England we are made of better things."

The infuriating man had the gall to smile again. "You mistake me...madame" he said with an over-exaggerated bow. "Your virtue is safe with me, which is rather the point of my private discourse."

"Hardly private!" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

"I can assure you, ma chére, we have more privacy--and are regarded with far less suspicion-- here than we would be if we attempted to find a more secluded place to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you. Let me pass."

"But I have something to say to you. I am sure a lady of your discernment, your experience saw through the little Slockholme's trap. I know that you and the distingue milor' Ambry are good friends, but I'm afraid that is all you two will ever be."

"He's already made that clear," she said, turning away and looking blindly out at the dancers. Mutton. It stung her more than she had thought it ever could.

"Oh, don't envy Miss Slockholme; all Ambry wants is a wife to cover his real attachment..."Louisa found herself listening despite herself. She refused to give the man the benefit of a response and kept quiet.

"Surely," he said, "you've noticed his partiality? Non? You surprise me. He isn't only susceptible to the fair sex, my dear. He dotes on the quite unfair sex aussi." Louisa frowned, baffled, and he gave a small laugh as if amused by her naïveté. "Ah, oui. How can I put it more delicately? Cherchez le homme."

"No," Louisa breathed. "No. It's not true. Richard...Richard and I..."

"Oh, he's very clever--and didn't you know, ma chére, that some men like both the grape and the grain? He will play the Hervey - surely you remember the stories of him? A leg in each camp, as they say. Smile, you've gone quite pale, you don't want people asking questions. Not now, do you?"

"I don't believe you," she said.

"Oh, it's quite true. Why do you think Richard was in the garden?" He produced the note that Amelia had dropped in the snow. "I saw him cast this aside when he was confronted. As you can see, it's most definitely addressed to him. And who is this Thomas? A pretty mystery, is it not?

Her hand shook as she read the note. It was a masculine hand. "What if I were to bring this to Ambry's notice? Ask him of this? I could denounce you..."

"I don't think you'd do that, Lady Carmichael. And believe me, if you were to do so, it would bring you no joy. To the world, you would be enmeshed in a most sordid complication… even if it were not true. Forget about him, Lady Louisa. Find yourself a man who can give you what you want." He touched her face gently, then swaggered off towards the conservatory.

After the man had gone, leaving her more breathless than she liked, she leaned against the moulded wall for a moment or two, thinking about what the man had said. Richard? No. It couldn't be. It was not to be countenanced, surely! They'd been lovers...surely to goodness it would be obvious? I am no ingenue, she thought, blood rushing to her head, making her cheeks glow with warmth. I know a man's touch, a man who wants me. I would...

But then she remembered the scandals around the ton over the past decade. Some she had been too young to understand until recently. Men who went abroad, leaving their wives behind, taking their devoted male friends or their secretaries. Conversations in drawing rooms with groups of dowagers which stilled the moment a certain fop or dandy entered the room, arm in arm with a close friend. Lord Hervey--a good many years before, but still the scandal lingered. He had been married, he had had children--and had kept a...friend (Louisa's mind shunned any word more coarse) for years.

His poor wife. That was what everyone said.

Well, I will not be an object of pity, she thought with savage decision. But I must know who...who was the man? She hurried towards the conservatory herself to catch up with the count and question him. Stepping into the huge glass space, she could hear voices. There were no lights here, only the light of the moon pouring in the windows, giving the huge tropical plants a monstrous appearance.

A male voice sounded loud in the echoing space. She couldn't quite make out the words, so she crept nearer. It wasn't a French voice, she could tell that much. "Yes. Kiss me again. Quickly. I can't be away long. You are sure it will work?"

What woman would be risking her reputation like this? Other than me, she added to herself. The question was answered for her as the very recognisable tones of the Comte followed.

"I guarantee it," the Comte's voice sounded muffled, as if pressed against...Louisa felt faint. There was a compunction to step forward. To see. But she resisted it with all her will and continued to listen. The men were quiet for half a minute and then the Comte continued.

"The note dropped made it even easier. It was the work of a minute to append Ambry's name to it. Now the path is free for the fair Amelia. Lord Ambry might have tried to protect himself against Amelia's accusations by using Lady Louisa Carmichael as a shield, but that door will now be firmly closed to him. Lady Carmichael will not sully her name further than she has to take a risk on a suspected sodomite, and she will, I'm sure, discreetly pass the information to any other eligible ladies. And once our dear little Amelia is ensconced as Lady Ambry--and realises just how she got there, and how easily we could tear her down again--we can begin to reap the benefits, both financial and otherwise. Amelia's pillow talk is famous--we'll have secrets pouring into our laps."

"You've done well," the other man said. Louisa didn't recognise the voice. "You'll find that the French government will not be ungenerous."

"As long as I get my pardon," the comte said, "and a ... small consideration."

"My dear Thomas, won't this do on account?" There was a rustle of clothing and Louisa took the opportunity to back away before she fainted dead away on the floor.

Richard. Oh, no. What on earth was she to do?

Erastes

The talented Eliza Knight will be picking up the story on the 14th, so be sure to stop by to see where our story goes from here.

And don't forget: Each post will contain the name of a Christmas carol. As readers, you're asked to follow the blog and then post a comment on each entry naming that carol. The person with the most correct answers will win a bundle of SEVEN fabulous Carina historical novels to keep them entertained over the festive period, and beyond.

Romancing a Christmas Past - Part 4

2011-12-10T00:02:00.010-05:00

Richard took in the sea of faces around them—shocked, disapproving. He’d seen such looks before, but usually only on one face at a time, when he and a female companion had been surprised in a secluded spot at Vauxhall or caught kissing on a moonlit terrace. Seeing it on twenty faces at once was unsettling. “Miss Slockholme slipped on the ice.”

“Mon dieu! Slipped, do you say?” A strapping young man stepped forward, an elegant study in gray and white. “That is not what I saw.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?”

“I am the Comte de Villiers.” The man turned to address the crowd around them in his heavily accented English. “Someone must speak for this poor girl. This fiend, against her will he drags her out here, then he makes the attempt on her virtue!”

In a flash, Richard veered between two competing reactions. First outrage, that this jumped-up Frog should dare accuse him of forcing himself on an innocent girl. Then disbelief—of all the wrongs with which to charge him, how could anyone imagine he’d be so uncivilized as to pleasure a woman on the ice? Then outrage again, that Miss Slockholme's reputation was in jeopardy. “You’ll take back those words, sir, or you’ll answer for them.”

“Why should I take back the truth?” Spreading his hands, the Frenchman looked to their hostess. "I entreat you, Madame la Duchesse, ask the poor girl yourself.”

“Which is it, Miss Slockholme?” the Duchess said. “Is the Comte mistaken, or was Lord Ambry forcing his attentions on you?”

Richard glanced down at the girl, expecting a swift defense of his conduct or at the very least a mortified shake of the head. Even if she was too green to understand the full import of the Comte’s accusation, she had to be dismayed by the attention they’d drawn.

But to his surprise, she burst into a flood of tears. “Oh, it was awful! I told him I would never betray my dear friend Lady Louisa with him, but he only laughed and said, ‘Why should I want mutton when I could have lamb?’ Then he pulled me out here, dragging me through the holly and the ivy even though I told him over and over he was making a mistake. And then he—he—oh, it’s too dreadful to describe!”

Richard’s jaw dropped. What?

“There, you see,” the Comte said. “Did I not say it was so?”

Richard couldn’t believe how completely he’d been duped. The scheming minx! He’d never imagined he was dealing with a mastermind, yet Miss Slockholme had obviously planned this whole scene, and he’d fallen for it like a Johnny Raw.

He turned from the sobbing girl to smile blandly at the audience around them. “As diverting as this farce has been, I ask you all, does that even sound like me? I mean, really—forcing an ignorant girl? When have I ever had to force a woman?” When no one answered, he looked from one face in the crowd to another, his eyes coming to rest on Louisa. She was always quick to laugh at the ridiculous. “Well?”

Though a flush stained Lady Louisa’s cheeks, her face was as cold as an Inverness winter. She turned away with a jerk.

Damn. Richard looked quickly to Harriet Fordyce. They’d been occasional lovers since her husband’s death nearly five years ago. Surely she would come to his defense. “Honestly, does that sound like something I would do?”

She darted a glance at Miss Slockholme’s youthful face and looked pointedly away.

What was happening? Richard was beginning to think he was the only one who found the very idea ludicrous. With growing desperation, he picked out Celia Rosedale in the crowd. She’d been one of his earliest conquests. “Well, does it?”

Celia, too, looked away with a sniff.

Richard’s mouth went dry as the awful import of their silence sank in.

Good Lord. He’d been snared at last, and by the likes of Amelia Slockholme.

Louisa fled back into the ballroom, angry with herself at her own foolish sentiment. She’d all but thrown herself at Richard, and he’d not only failed to appreciate the offer, he’d been openly contemptuous of her charms. Though she knew he would never actually harm a woman, he'd obviously tried something improper enough to shock poor innocent Amelia. Why should he have mutton when he could have lamb, indeed.

She fought back a strong wave of self-pity. She’d known he wasn’t in love with her, just as she wasn’t in love with him. Well, not really in love. She’d had a hopeless schoolgirl crush on him for as long as she could remember, and he was the best lover any woman could hope for—but, unfortunately, he knew it. There was only one person who admired Richard more than she did, and that was Richard himself.

She’d long since realized the futility of waiting for a proposal from such a man. She’d dutifully married a much older suitor, and she and Gilbert had enjoyed three good years together. So why did that decision still feel like a mistake, even though she could see Richard didn’t want her?

It wouldn’t be nearly as humiliating if only he’d chosen someone else. Lady Rosedale was still striking and everyone knew she’d invited him into her bed when he was little more than a youth, so Louisa might have understood if he’d chosen her instead. Mrs. Fordyce was rumored to know more bedroom tricks than a seasoned courtesan, so she would've been a less galling choice too. But Amelia? Not only was she a friend, but Amelia didn’t have the first bit of experience with men.

No, all she had was money and beauty and youth.

Louisa was so lost in her own misery, a low, heavily accented voice just inches from her ear made her jump.

“Your pardon, ma jolie, but you look so very sad. Please, tell me there is something I can do to make you smile.”

Alyssa

Don't miss the next installment, when the talented Erastes picks up the story on the 12th.

Romancing a Christmas Past - Part 3

2011-12-08T00:08:00.001-05:00

Read Part 1 and Part 2

“Hello gorgeous,” a gravelly voice breathed in her ear and Amelia shivered with excitement as the man’s hand slid away from her mouth.

“Thomas." She turned in the circle of his arms, hugging him close, his thin frame fuller than the last time she’d seen him. "What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t miss the opportunity to see you at work,” he smirked and Amelia pushed him back, reaching up to make sure both hired earbobs still dangled from her earlobes and hadn’t been tucked into his pocket.

“What if someone saw you?”

“Who in this part of England knows me? Besides, I’m no longer Thomas but the Comte De Villiers, newly arrived from France and looking for a bourgeois heiress in search of a title.” He stepped back into a pool of moonlight falling through a high window and Amelia gasped at his clothes. A dark greatcoat tailored well across his wide chest flared out over a gray jacket and matching breeches tucked into high polished boots. A white vest and impeccably tied cravat to make Beau Brummell jealous emphasized his fine neck and sharp jaw. It was a far cry from the course coat and stained tan breeches she’d last seen him wearing in Paris. “Je suis beau, no?”

“Oui,” she breathed, reaching out and rubbing the soft wool between her fingers. “Where did you find the money for these?”

“Had a bit o’ luck in Dover,” he smiled, his light eyes sparkling, a swath of dark hair falling slightly over his forehead. “Obviously, you’ve had some luck too.”

“My luck came in Paris. I won enough to pay my passage and my way into society.” Amelia pulled out the sides of her velvet coat and dipped into an exaggerated curtsy. “You are in the presence of Miss Amelia Slockholme, the orphaned heiress of a sugar plantation whose guardian has sent her from Barbados to London to make a suitable match.”

“You clever girl.” His lips twisted into a wicked smile as she straightened.

“It was easier than you can imagine to fool these country nobs. One forged letter of introduction to a poor old widow in need of blunt and as I was in.”

“And when you spring the parson’s mousetrap and your groom discovers there’s no money?”

“Another letter will arrive from my guardian explaining how a hurricane wiped out the plantation and left me penniless.”

Thomas threw back his head and laughed and Amelia rushed to him, grabbing his fine cravat and covering his mouth with her hand. “Be quite or they’ll hear you.”

His fingers slid up her exposed wrist, covering her hand as his lips dropped a feathery kiss on her palm. Amelia sighed, a familiar heat licking through her as he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “Who knew you’d learn so fast?”

"I had an excellent teacher,” she breathed as his lips met hers.

“Amelia?” Lord Ambry’s voice carried from outside and they froze, looking toward the door.

“Hark, the Herald Angel Sings,” Thomas snickered in her ear, his low, rumbling voice turning Amelia’s insides into molten lead. “Is that your intended?”

“If all goes well tonight.”

The shadow of a man appeared at the glass door and the doorknob rattle furiously. “Amelia,” Lord Ambry called through the wood. “Unlock the door. Everyone has gone to the stables. It’s safe to return to the house.”

“Time to continue the performance,” Thomas whispered.

“Come soon. I’ve found a lovely young widow who might just suit you.”

He dropped a quick kiss on her lips before pulling open the door and pushing Amelia out into the frost and practically into Lord Ambry’s arms.

“Why did you lock the door?” Lord Ambry demanded, stepping back and tugging at the edge of his glove in irritation.

“I didn’t want anyone to find me before you did.”

“Enough of this foolishness. Let’s get you back to the house.” He took her by the arm, looking cautiously around before pulling her down the summer lodge steps and into the clearing. The deepening cold had thickened the ice and Amelia stumbled slightly, Lord Ambry’s firm grasp saving her from falling once again.

They were half-way across the clearing when Thomas’s voice split the still. “I found her. She’s near the lodge with Lord Ambry.”

“Blast,” Lord Ambry muttered. “Come, we must hurry.”

He tried to pull her faster toward the cover of the trees but she held back, pretending to slip on the ice and pulling him down on top of her.

A second later, the clearing filled with people carrying torches, the orange lights flickering over the astonished faces of men and the disapproving scowls of matrons.

“And just what is the meaning of this?” the Duchess of Claverham demanded.

Lord Ambry jumped to his feet, pulling Amelia up to stand beside him. She kept her head down, studying the mud on her boots, doing her best to appear stunned and shamed instead of triumphant.

Georgie Lee

The talented Alyssa Fernandez will be picking up the story on the 10th, so be sure to stop by to see where our story goes from here.
And don't forget: Each post will contain the name of a Christmas carol. As readers, you're asked to follow the blog and then post a comment on each entry naming that carol. The person with the most correct answers will win a bundle of SEVEN fabulous Carina historical novels to keep them entertained over the festive period, and beyond.

Romancing a Christmas Past - Part 2

2011-12-06T08:24:00.004-05:00

Read Part 1

"I believe we are both accommodated at the Roasted Pheasant this evening, Richard.”

Lord Ambry glanced down at his partner. “You’re remarkably well informed, Louisa.”

"Certainly I am. That way one avoids being stuck with people one does not wish to acknowledge.”

"Or to renew old intimacies with?” Richard arched a brow, amused.

"It is most ungallant of you to suggest such a thing.” She fluttered her lashes at him. “Rest assured, you don’t fall into that category.”

"How gratifying.”

Less than one tenth of Richard’s attention was taken up with Lady Carmichael. He was restless and even the prospect of a night spent in Louisa’s irreverent company failed to inspire. He glanced into the dining buffet as they whirled through a turn in the dance. Miss Slockholme, Louisa’s little friend, was behaving in a most singular manner. Almost on her knees, she appeared to be searching for something beneath the buffet table. Now she’d withdrawn to an alcove where she obviously believed herself to be unobserved and was reading a note. Why that should concern him, Richard was at a loss to know. The machinations of young ladies fresh to the marriage mart, even heiresses of Miss Slockholme’s ilk, were of no interest to him.

In spite of that, his interest was piqued.

When the dance concluded, Richard escaped the ballroom before a determined matron, dragging an insipid chit in her wake, could detain him. He headed for the library in the west wing and poured himself a substantial measure of the duke’s excellent brandy. He’d not been there above five minutes before the sound of footsteps reached his ears. He withdrew into the shadows, astonished to see Amelia Slockholme, dressed for the outdoors, heading for the French doors that would take her to the garden.

"What the deuce—”

Without hesitation, he followed her into the cold night air.

Shivering, Amelia drew her coat more tightly about her. She had been to this estate often and knew the grounds well. The sky was clear and a full moon lit her path. Moving slowly, her feet crunching across the frozen ground, she made slow progress towards the summer lodge, still wondering why Thomas found it necessary to act with such caution. Perhaps he had only just arrived back in England and hadn’t received an invitation to the ball. Even so, he could have called upon her tomorrow. Why the urgency? Something wasn’t right about all this, but unless she went to the summer lodge she would never find out what troubled her old friend.

Deep in thought, Amelia forgot to look where she put her feet, slipped on a patch of ice and, with a startled oath, fell headfirst into the thick snow, her hat flying from her head. Or she would have fallen, had not a strong arm snagged her waist and saved her at the last second. Disorientated, she turned and found herself looking up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen in a gentleman’s face. Trapped in the circle of Lord Ambry's arms, a gambit of strange sensations invading her body and she suddenly felt over-warm. She must be sickening for something.

"Oh, it’s you,” she said, somewhat ungraciously.

Lord Ambry released her immediately, his expression as frosty as the conditions. “At your service,” he said, inclining his head.

"Might I enquire what you’re doing out here, alone, on such a cold night?”

"You might, but I fail to see why I should answer you.”

Lord Ambry appeared taken aback by her pert response. He was reputedly the most eligible bachelor at this gathering. Presumably, not many ladies had the temerity to speak back to him.

"Foolish child. Do you not realize the dangers of wandering abroad alone?”

Amelia pulled herself up to her full height. “Firstly, Lord Ambry, I am not a child. I’ll have you know that this is my second season.”

His lips quirked. “My apologies.”

"And secondly, what harm could possibly befall me in the duchess’s garden?” Apart from you.

"I assume you’ve forgotten that, had it not been for me, you would even now be prostrate in the snow, with a broken ankle, or worse.”

"You exaggerate.”

"Do I?”

He continued to block her path, looming large and dangerous in the periphery of her vision, the most unlikely of protectors. Damn the man, he clearly wouldn’t leave her alone until she offered him some sort of explanation.

"Since you seem intent upon learning my business, I lost an earring earlier and came to look for it.”

"Alone? In the dark?”

"It isn’t dark. The moon is sufficient illumination. I can see quite clearly.” I can certainly see you. Your eyes are no longer blue but almost black, presumably because I’ve displeased you.

His penetrating gaze rested upon first one of her ears, and then the other. Both had earbobs securely attached. God’s beard, why couldn’t the moon go behind a cloud and obscure his vision?

"I found it and was about to return to the house,” she said, tossing her head, daring him to defy her.

"Then I shall escort you.”

"No thank you. I’m perfectly familiar with the route. Besides,” she added, smiling sweetly,” I have been told that you’re one of the dangers I would do well to avoid. How would it look it we were observed returning from the garden together?”

"I shall escort you only as far as the terrace.”

"Your concern for my reputation is touching, but I don’t need your help.”

He surprised her by reaching out and grabbing her arm. “Who are you meeting in there?” he asked savagely, nodding towards the summer lodge. “What did the note say?”

"What note…how did you—“

"You are both an innocent and an heiress, which makes you a prime target for fortune hunters. If you were to be discovered alone in a compromising position with a man you would be ruined.”

"I shall not be discovered. They are all too intent upon celebrating the season and making free with the duke’s wine.”

"Joyous Noel,” Lord Ambry said, rolling his eyes.

The sound of approaching voices took them both by surprise.

"She must be out here somewhere.”

"It’s all right,” Amelia said, relief sweeping through her. “It’s only Louisa.”

"I can see fresh footprints here in the snow,” another voice said.

Lord Ambry canted his head, listening. “She isn’t alone. She must have assembled a party to search for you. We can’t be found here together.”

"Don’t worry, Lord Ambry, I won’t make any demands upon you if we are.”

"It’s your reputation that’s in danger, not mine.”

"Because yours is already beyond recall, perhaps?”

"There’s no time for this. They’re getting closer.”

"It’s of no consequence. As you rightly pointed out, I am an heiress. Suitors tend to overlook the occasional lapse in protocol under such circumstances.”

"So cynical,” he said softly.

Still holding her arm, he led her up the steps to the summer lodge, opened the door and pushed her inside. “Stay in there. I’ll call when the coast is clear.”

"But, I—“

He closed the door on her objections.

"Well!”

Amelia had barely drawn an indignant breath before someone grabbed her from behind and covered her mouth with his hand to prevent her from screaming…

Wendy

The talented Georgie Lee will be picking up the story on the 8th, so be sure to stop by to see where our story goes from here. Over to you, Georgie.

Click here to read Part 3

And don't forget: Each post will contain the name of a Christmas carol. As readers, you're asked to follow the blog and then post a comment on each entry naming that carol. The person with the most correct answers will win a bundle of SEVEN fabulous Carina historical novels to keep them entertained over the festive period, and beyond.

Romancing a Christmas Past - Part 1

2011-12-04T08:00:00.000-05:00

The Duchess of Claverham’s annual Winter Ball was the most anticipated event of the Christmas Season. Half of Surrey had descended on the Claverham’s country estate and Amelia Slockholme was one of the fortunate few to have been provided with a guest suite for the weekend. The rest were being accommodated at neighbouring estates as far as ten miles away and worse.

Amelia lifted her champagne glass high to avoid an elbow and made a slow path through the festive crush. An arm suddenly linked into hers, and when she saw it belonged to her dearest friend, Lady Louisa Carmichael, she smiled and leaned in closer. “I heard you’ve had to secure a room at the Roasted Pheasant for the night.”

“Where on earth do you dig up your information?”

“So, it’s not true.”

The young widow threw her head back on a laugh. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then you’re sharing my room tonight,” Amelia decided.

“Thank you for the offer, darling, but that’s bound to ruin all my fun. Speaking of which…” She slanted her gaze in the direction of the dance floor as the music trailed off. “I’ve promised the next dance to Lord Ambry.” She slid her arm free and spun about, directly into an approaching footman. A silver tray went flying one way and a folded note went the other. “Oh, dear!”

“We’re terribly sorry,” said Amelia, watching a stout grey-haired man walk over the note. It stuck to the sole of his shoe and went with him.

“Forgive me, m’lady,” muttered the footman, his head bent as he stooped to retrieve the tray. “I have a message for you.” He came back up, his gaze still on the ground. “Where did it go?”

“I believe it went to the dining buffet,” Amelia told him. A puzzled look crossed his face and she quickly added, “Not to worry, I’ll go after it.”

At that moment, Lord Ambry intercepted them with a shallow bow. Dark hair curled untamed around his cravat and eyes, a deep, deep blue, skipped right over Amelia to linger on Louisa. “Shall we?”

Amidst the flurry of Louisa sauntering off with the dashing Lord Ambry and Amelia striding toward the buffet table that had been set up along the ballroom wall, the footman was left to stand, staring after her.

Luck was on her side and Amelia found the note partly showing from beneath the creamy linen cloth that draped over the buffet table to the floor. The paper was thoroughly scuffed, but only a little sticky. She’d withdrawn to a shadowed area by the curved staircase before she thought to question whether the footman had been delivering the message to her or Louisa.

All doubt disappeared as she started reading and immediately recognised Thomas’s handwriting. As far as she was aware, Louisa had never even met him. No, this letter was clearly meant for her. She and Thomas had practically grown up together, but she hadn’t seen him since he’d left on his Grand Tour almost three years ago. Every three or four months, he'd sent her a letter detailing his travels and she'd cherished every single one of them.

We need to talk.

I’m at the Summer Lodge by the lake. Please hurry, it’s urgent. I’ll wait here until you come.

Thomas Brunes.

Amelia rushed up the staircase and down the passage to her room. She kicked her slippers off and rummaged through the wardrobe for a pair of sturdy walking boots and her thick, velvet coat. She grabbed the matching velvet hat, plumped it directly on her curls and tugged it down low enough to cover her ears.

Oh, how she’d missed Thomas. She hadn’t appreciated him nearly enough until he was no longer there to make her laugh, to tempt her into his outrageous schemes—to tease her! She hadn’t forgotten about that. But I still missed you like the devil would miss his fire if ever it were taken from him.

The second her boots were on, she hurried out, pulling her coat on as she went. To avoid the ballroom, she used a secondary staircase leading directly to the west wing. This part of the house was quiet and she saw no one as she passed through the library to the French doors that led outside. A thick blanket of snow covered the landscaped gardens and beyond as far as she could see. Moonlight glittered off the frozen lake and the row of tall elms beyond looked like giant white skeletons.

Amelia was halfway to the lake before she slowed her step, sucked in a frosty breath and gave proper thought to Thomas’s note. Why hadn’t he attended the ball if he was home? Why couldn’t he have come to see her up at the house? What could possibly be so urgent as to send her outside, alone, in the middle of this deathly cold, darkly silent night?

The lovely Wendy Soliman will be picking up the story on the 6th, so be sure to stop by to see where our story goes from here.

And don't forget: Each post will contain the name of a Christmas carol. As readers, you're asked to follow the blog and then post a comment on each entry naming that carol. The person with the most correct answers will win a bundle of SEVEN fabulous Carina historical novels to keep them entertained over the festive period, and beyond.

Click HERE to read Part 2...

Romancing a Christmas Past

2011-12-01T10:07:00.000-05:00

This December the sober, seriously minded authors who contribute to this blog have had a collective rush of blood to their heads. Instead of keeping you enthralled with details of our latest Carina titles, we've decided to get into the spirit of things.

Starting 4th December, we'll be writing a rolling story about a Christmas past. I'd give you a clue about its content but I'm as much in the dark as you are. Claire will start the ball rolling on the 4th, leaving me with two days to post the next installment. Thanks, Claire! Two days laters, Georgie picks up where I left off, and so on. Brave Susan Edwards has 'volunteered', (you did volunteer, didn't you, Susan?), to tidy up the mess we leave her with on the 20th.

In the true spirit of the Lord of Misrule, it's difficult to see how this story will make much sense since we write across different time periods. Be prepared to find a Celtic warriors taking tea with Regency lords and ladies. Oh my!

Each post will contain the name of a Christmas carol. As readers, you're asked to follow the blog and then post a comment on each entry naming that carol. The person with the most correct answers will win a bundle of SEVEN fabulous Carina historical novels to keep them entertained over the festive period, and beyond.

Please support our silliness and let's have some fun.

Wishing you all a joyful and peaceful holiday.

Wendy

Her Christmas Pleasure

2011-11-29T10:11:00.003-05:00

Her Christmas Pleasure, the second novella in the Merry Widows series, is now available!

Damien Morton is madly in love. Unfortunately, it's with his best friend's widow, Lady Danver. Damien is not worthy of Celia. Or so he thinks. Desperate to escape his feelings for her, he plans to leave the country at the first of the year. Celia treats him as a family friend and nothing more—until they share a heated kiss beneath the mistletoe...

Celia is shocked by the passions that surge within her at her dear friend's kiss. One touch and one taste aren't enough to satisfy her cravings, and she is startled into action. Damien has stirred something inside her that she never expected to experience again, and she must have more. Full of shameless desire and emotions newly discovered, she decides to pursue Damien and won't be deterred. Will she be able to convince him to stay—both in her heart and life—forever?

Find it here: Carina Press | Amazon | Barnes & Noble

I feel like I've waited for this moment all year! Oh, wait...I have. You see, I wrote the novella back in early January so it has been nearly a year since I first created Celia and Damien.

In celebration of Her Christmas Pleasure releasing, I'm all over the blogosphere these next few weeks. As a matter of fact, I'm over at the Manic Readers blog today, giving away an Amazon copy of Her Christmas Pleasure to one commenter. So please, come visit me.

Also, click here for the list of various blog stops I'm making. There will be many chances at winning prizes so I hope you'll stop by!

Regency Weddings

2011-11-25T06:00:00.000-05:00

I hope all of the US readers of Romancing the Past had a lovely Thanksgiving yesterday! Hopefully, you aren't too full and still lying on the couch...

What are you thankful for? I'm thankful for my family, friends, my health, my career, and of course that my Regency romance, LADY SEDUCTRESS'S BALL releases next month with Carina Press--right in time for the holidays! December 19th is the day!

In LADY SEDUCTRESS'S BALL, my heroine, Olivia is married... but *gasp* not to the hero! Unfortunately, for the lovely Olivia, her parents forced her into marriage to a MUCH MUCH MUCH older man, and she has fallen for the dashing, rogue, Tristan Knightley... but as in all romance, there must be a happy ending right? A wedding perhaps? Well, I can't tell you that! You'll have to read it to find out how Olivia gets her happy ending (double entendre intended *winks*)

Regency Weddings
During the Regency, weddings became mostly private affairs, and if held at church (and not in the family drawin room) was not attended by that many. The lovely bride would be attended by her younger unmarried sisters or cousins, perhaps a dear family friend. The groom would also have a best man--brother, dear friend, cousin. There was also the required witnesses, who on occaision were those very same attendents.

A very popular place to have a wedding in London was at St. George’s Church in Hanover Square. In fact, in 1816 there were 1063 weddings held that year in the church. According to the Hibiscus Sinesis website, with that many weddings in the year, it was a rival with a Las Vegas wedding chapel.

It was during the Regency-era that white wedding gowns began to stick. Wearing white was popular during that time anyway, as it showcased innocence and virtue, and most women were expected to exude these qualities.

Reading of the banns (the announcement of the wedding read in the couple's local church for three weeks in a row, and objections could be made, if none made, the wedding was a go) was still done in the Regency-era but there were also a couple of other ways you could go about it. There was the common license, which was obtained by a bishop or archbishop. The couple had to be married in a church or chapel where either the bride or groom had lived for four weeks. The third way was a special license, which was issued by the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Doctors Commons in London. The special license allowed the couple to marry anytime, anyplace.

Weddings were still done in the mornings, (majority from the Church of England Book of Common Prayer) and could be followed by a breakfast feast. The wedding itself would be announced in the papers (something many still do today).

After the breakfast, the couple would either go about their business as usual or leave for a honeymoon period abroad, perhaps to Bath in England or the countryside. To be considered legit, the marriage must still be consummated.

Poor Olivia's first marriage was consummated, however ill-suited and dour her husband was for her, so annullment wasn't an option.

24 days until the release of LADY SEDUCTRESS'S BALL!!!

Don't forget to visit Romancing the Past starting in December for our special round-robin Christmas tale and prizes!

*~*~*~*

Invitation to Pleasure

As the wife of the elderly Earl of March, Olivia Covington has never known the intimacies of the bedroom. Though her curiosity is piqued by the shocking whispers of society ladies, she is too wary of causing scandal to indulge in an affair. But Tristan Knightley, Earl of Newcastle, tempts her to throw off propriety.

Tristan wants Olivia for his own, and has sworn off all others until he can rid himself of the obsession. He is sure once he has a taste, he will tire of her, and can return to his rakish existence. Unable to wait to have her in his bed, he invites her for a tryst at Lady Seductress's Ball...

Releasing December 19th!!!

24,000 words

One thing leads to another

2011-11-22T10:00:00.005-05:00

... who would have thought a bicycle would lead you anywhere except to where you're peddling to?

Now, the bicycle started off as a funny little thing, invented in Germany and known as a "running machine". You didn't actually peddle anywhere, but you ran along with this thing between your legs.

Now, my first thought was, well, at least they scored on the downhills. But then I went back to look for the brakes and, um, I can't see any? Can you?

Moving rapidly on to 1860, we get the bone-shaker, 3 guesses where it got its name from? But, hey, at least this one had pedals.

And here's where I start getting impressed: I never really thought about a bicycle as anything more than a bicycle... in the 1880's, the 'safety bicycle' came along, or really just the bicycle as we know it today.

Which led to...
Susan B. Anthony said, "Let me tell you what I think of bicycling. I think it has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world. It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance. I stand and rejoice every time I see a woman ride by on a wheel...the picture of free, untrammeled womanhood."

I had to smile at that.

But that's not all, all these bicycles and freedom led to the "Dress Reform" from middle to late Victorian era because all those petticoats and corsets were probably not ideal for peddling about the countryside. Ladies wanted something more practical for their athletic activities...

Say "Hello" to the Bloomer Suit

Not quite your spandex cycling shorts, but I love it, love it, love it. This is one of the reasons I love researching for my historical writing. I love reading and watching how women came into their own, how each small step brought them to where we are today.

Unfortunately, the fashion didn't last long before most women were forced back to more traditional wear due to public ridicule, but it was a start and from then on, the focus turned more on making undergarments more comfortable and rational (where they could not be ridiculed in public!!) ... and this finally led to the demise of the restrictive corset of those times.

You know what? I'm going to use this bloomer suit in the book I'm currently writing. It stands for everything women have had to fight for, the setbacks, the subtle path forward, and never giving up.

References pulled from [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/]
[reference from wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_bicycle]

Star-Crossed Love in the Regency

2011-11-19T00:02:00.022-05:00

My first two posts here at Romancing the Past focused mostly on the Past aspects of the regency period, so this time I thought I'd look at a little more closely at the Romancing side of things. Most regency fans are familiar with William Makepeace Thackeray, whose most famous work, Vanity Fair, has a regency setting and even hinges on the Battle of Waterloo. But did you know his mother's real life love story was worthy of any regency romance?

Anne with her son, William.

Anne Becher was born in 1792 in India and, like many children of East India Company families, was sent to live with relatives in England—specifically her paternal grandmother, also named Anne Becher. The younger Anne grew into a beauty, with dark curly hair, soulful eyes, and a tender, dignified manner. In 1808, when she was 15, she met a handsome 28-year-old lieutenant of the Bengal Engineers, Henry Carmichael-Smyth, at the Assembly Ball in Bath. Henry hailed from a respectable Scottish family; his father, James Carmichael-Smyth, was a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians and "physician extraordinary" to mad King George III. In a courtship right out of Othello, Henry won Anne's heart with stirring tales of his military service in India.

But Henry was only a younger son, and Anne's grandmother had hopes of a better match for her. Moving quickly to quash the romance, she forbade Anne to see any more of the dashing officer. Since her grandmother's property sat beside a river, a rebellious Anne slipped out of the house and met Henry on the riverbank, where he came by boat to see her. Unfortunately the two were caught together, and Anne's grandmother locked her in her room.

Anne wrote to Henry with the help of a servant, but Mrs. Becher discovered the clandestine correspondence. Taking matters into her own hands, she informed Anne that Henry had died of a sudden fever. Storytelling seems to have run in Thackeray's genes, for Mrs. Becher told Anne the poor dying officer had remembered her with his last breath. Meanwhile, she separately informed Henry that Anne had lost interest in him.

Determined to keep her granddaughter from learning the truth, Mrs. Becher packed Anne off to India. Anne no sooner arrived in Calcutta than the British community there hailed her as a great beauty. A prosperous young East India Company man, Richmond Thackeray, began to court her. The son of a legendary elephant hunter, Thackeray held a prestigious post as Secretary of the Board of Revenue. On October 13, 1810—her eighteenth birthday—Anne became his wife.

The Thackeray family—Richmond, Anne, and their son William.

Just nine months after the wedding, Anne went into labor with the couple's son, the future author of Vanity Fair. William Makepeace Thackeray was born with such a large head his mother never entirely recovered, and he was to remain her one and only offspring, though William did have an older half sister from his father's pre-marital dalliance with a mistress.

Five months after William's birth, Richmond Thackeray was promoted to Collector of the 24 Parganas, the district around Calcutta, a position roughly equivalent in Bengal to that of Home Secretary in England. The Thackerays' future looked bright. Then, in 1812, Richmond met "a most delightful officer" and invited him back to his official residence for dinner. Imagine Anne's surprise when the man walked in—and was none other than her first love, the supposedly dead and buried Henry Carmichael-Smyth.

Whatever looks passed between Anne and Henry and whatever their feelings for each other may have been—and subsequent events make it clear the two still loved each other—Anne seems to have been a model wife and mother. No rumors or scandal attached to Anne and Henry while Richmond Thackeray remained alive.

Then, in 1815, at the young age of thirty-two, Richmond suffered the very fate Anne's grandmother had invented for Henry Carmichael-Smyth, dying of a fever. A year later Anne sent her young son to England to live with his great-grandmother, the same disapproving matriarch who had told her Henry was dead; apparently, Anne possessed a most forgiving nature.

William Makepeace Thackeray
Yes, his head was huge.

Three months later, on March 13, 1817—a decorous interval of 18 months after Richmond Thackeray's death—Anne wed Henry Carmichael-Smyth at last.

United despite all obstacles, the couple remained happily married until Henry's death in 1861, forty-four years later. Anne even outlived her famous son, dying in 1864 on the first anniversary of his death.

The only shadow on Anne's happy ending was that she and Henry were unable to have children together, owing to William Makepeace Thackeray's enormous head.

All Roads Lead to Rome

2011-11-14T10:38:00.000-05:00

Here it is, the cover for Mask of the Gladiator, my ancient Rome novella coming from Carina Press in January 2012! I hope you love it. I do.

What is it about ancient Rome that captures our attention so many centuries after its collapse? Is it buff gladiators fighting for life and death? Depraved emperors and the conniving senators plotting against them? The brilliant minds who engineered an empire before it all collapsed into the Dark Ages? I think it is a little something of each of these, combined with the rich archaeological and intellectual remnants that have survived the centuries. There is something amazing about walking down roads built over a thousand years ago, or knowing that underneath modern cities like London are the graves and houses of people who set out to create one of the largest empires in history. There are many great ancient civilizations, but ancient Rome left its mark in so many places that it is hard to escape and easily accessible. You can touch an ancient Roman wall in Scotland, unearth ruins of a gladiator school in Austria or visit an amphitheatre in Paris. The Roman Empire, for good or for bad, left its mark on history and the landscape of Europe. It’s hard not to be captivated.

Romancing the --- Past

2011-11-09T04:22:00.000-05:00

The name Romancing the Past (title of this webpage) really fits with my post this month. All historical writers in someway, and in various degrees do exactly that: we Romance the Past. You know what I’m talking about here. Take myself for example.

I write Native American Historical Romances. I have young, virile, handsome warriors who carry off (sometimes) helpless (well, how about victims of circumstance) women not of their culture and take them back to their tribes where the man and woman from two complete different worlds fall in love and overcome any and all barriers–including language!

Realistically, life for those women did not have a happily-ever-after. Sure, there were some who found happiness–maybe. I am hearing my husband snort of disbelief in my head as I write for he is a realistic person down to his engineering bones. I like to believe that not all were treated cruelly.

Okay, so why do we authors do this? Why take an era in time like the old frontier, the Civil War, any war, pirates, etc. and turn the ugly truth of what life was really like into stories of true love overcoming the impossible?

I can think of one reason: it is the era of that time period, the world long gone from us, that is somehow appealing. I’ll use my own expertise here. When readers of Native American stories, in the era where the white man and Native were dealing with territory issues, we aren’t seeing the spread of disease the white man brought to the Natives or the starvation during harsh winters or the savageness and slaughter that certainly was a big part of that time period. No, we see a freedom of living that we will never know in our lifetime no matter how many times we go camping or hiking.

The appeal is in living off the land, having no cumbersome possessions, no work demands, no bills in the mail box, no mortgage, no threat of foreclosure, no job layoffs, no mean, insensitive or jerk of a boss and–well you get the idea. When we look back, we don’t see people how they were. We see what we long for–if even for a few short hours. Sometimes, less is more?

Sure, there was work, hard work way back then. From sunrise to sunset and often long into the night but there was also plenty of time for celebration, for visiting the other women while working, the chatting and laughter, the bonding of males going off on hunts or a raiding party.

Then there is the appeal of never being alone, never wanting. Never having your children go hungry unless the entire tribe was hungry. For in those days, people shared. To own and collect and keep for the sake of owning was not a good thing. People shared what they had with those in need.

And the children! They were valued. Treasured. You’ve all heard the saying: it takes a village to raise a child? It’s true. Parents did not have to pay outrageous daycare fees so that they could attend to their duties for the children were looked after by everyone. Children were never tossed away like garbage. And a child grew up knowing he was loved. He was treated with respect, and taught to respect. After all, if a child is never given respect (or love etc) how can he give it later. Okay, there was probably mistreated children back in the era I write about but from what I know, in the pre-white man days, with most tribes, children were treasures. Unlike today where many are forgotten and swept away.

Hmm, I seem to have stepped a bit onto my soapbox. But I think you can take all my points using the Native American culture and apply it to any popular historical time period that we romance authors romanticize.

Does that mean its harmful to do what we do? I don’t believe so. There were storytellers in every culture, and not so surprisingly, stories of the same type (creation myths, moral stories, advice stories, and I’m sure some just for fun). But no matter the story, there were lessons buried beneath the words.

Today, we don’t have a tribal storyteller to pass down all that was learned from one generation to another. Instead, we have books and those books have themes that touch on all walks of life.

We today have so many things vying for our attention. I’m not even going to try to list those activities and chores, etc. I joke to my husband that if I were to write down everything I NEED to do, WANT to do, SHOULD do, FORGOT to do, I’d have a list a mile long and no hope in this lifetime of completing it.

So to keep from going slightly mad, many of us look to a time we believe or at least pretend to believe was much simpler and maybe a bit more rewarding. Sure, those stories are fiction but the world is at least in some part real but best of all, those wonderful characters in those fictionalized places become real. For at least the time we spend with them. If I as an author can take a reader out of the stress of daily living and bring them back feeling good about themselves and their world, then I'm happy.

And maybe, there will be something to be learned that can apply to our lives today. Some moral lesson, a bit of advice, that can ease the passage of our own day-to-day experiences. Most of all, when we read true-to-life stories about people facing tough times just as we are facing tough times, we know we are not alone.

Share your comments and be entered into a drawing for a free copy of White Dawn. Winner drawn on Friday.

Check back at my website for excerpts, reviews, and contest information (pages being updated over the next week)
http://susanedwards.com

Preorder Susan's White Series starting with the first four books. Available November 21st.

White Dawn http://tinyurl.com/7js4u44

White Dusk http://tinyurl.com/7js4u44
White Shadows http://tinyurl.com/7vdpxwk

White Wind http://tinyurl.com/7ov7ghq

Never dull

2011-11-05T23:07:00.006-04:00

I do a lot of research before starting my manuscripts, but that doesn't stop me from stumbling over gaps in my knowledge while I'm in rough draft stage. Rather than letting them slow me down, I write bolded, all-caps notes to myself and keep going. My current work-in-progress's notes include:

LOOK UP APPROPRIATE DISHES FOR WINTER DINNER.

CONFIRM DETAILS OF BATTLE OF QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.

PRETEND YOU'RE INTERESTED IN SHEEP AND ADD SOME DESCRIPTIVE DETAIL HERE.

The funny thing is, by the time I've learned enough about sheep to flesh out that paragraph, I bet I'll think sheep are fascinating. Maybe even almost as interesting as horses.

That's how it usually works for me. Before I started researching the War of 1812 as part of my current hero's backstory, I would've said it was nowhere near as interesting as the Napoleonic Wars. Now that I know more about it, well, it's messy and gripping and horrible, and it's just criminal how boring my high school history class made it sound.

Since I started writing historical romance, I've developed surprising interests in the flora and fauna of islands of the Indian Ocean (one of these days I'll finish that shipwreck story), the duties of footmen (I once had a hero go undercover as a servant, then decided it didn't work and rewrote those chapters), and the workings of the East India Company fleet. To name only a few. And my conclusion is that almost nothing is boring once you start to learn about it. Really, I think this Discovery Channel ad from a few years back sums up my attitude toward just about anything I've ever needed to research:

What about you? What topics that you thought were boring turned fascinating as soon as you knew anything about them?

A Bluffer's Guide to Gay Historicals

2011-11-02T14:21:00.003-04:00

Top facts:

* Once non-existent, the genre stands proudly, and there are hundreds and hundreds of titles to choose from in every possible era from cavemen to WW2
* Covers. Getting better and better every year, we've gone from naked men in a frozen pond to covers with ships and everything!
* Writers of the genre here at Carina: Erastes, Josh Lanyon, Aleksandr Voinov, Fae Sutherland, Bonnie Dee, Alex Beecroft, Charlie Cochrane (the latter two have books coming out in 2012)

In a nutshell

* There's still not enough of it, for a start. Yes, I'm never satisfied...
* Some Gay Historicals address the very real problems of being gay in a time when it wasn't just unacceptable, it was reviled and illegal. (Basically after Christianity kicked in) However, there were times when man on man love wasn't just acceptable, it was a normal part of everyday life. (The Greeks had a word for it.)
* Thankfully, due to pronouns there are few books with those classic romance titles such as "The Belgian Captain's Depraved Toyboy." (With thanks to the Random Romance Title Generator)

The Heroes

Not too different from the heroes in other historical romances. They are generally aristocratic (tall and handsome goes without saying - plus they are ALWAYS - always hung like horses, this is the law.)

So, create your character: Rich, check. Commanding, check. Handsome, check. Package of unusual size. Check and double check. OK, you can stop checking now.

The, er, OTHER Heroes

Now here you can play around a little. You can either make your other hero a match for your arrogant alpha in every sense of the word (and sit back and watch those sparks fly and those buttons go flying (gotta have flying buttons, more later) OR you can create a sensitive little soul. A downtrodden artist, perhaps, or an impoverished tutor. A kidnapped slave or an abused and rescued young man. As long as you get a vast gulf between your alpha and your omega, it doesn't really matter. Any excuse to make that boy cry his little heart out because the rough tough alpha doesn't know how to handle him. Or rather - he doesn't know how to handle his feelings - he knows how to handle him all right. (hur hur) The important thing is the desecration of innocence - but don't worry. No matter how nasty the alpha is, your sensitive soul will fall in love with him as he tops from the bottom.

The best bit about writing gay historicals
* Buttons. Oh GOD the buttons. I've coined the term breeches ripper before, but for me waistcoat ripping is far more exciting. Also cravats. You can have a LOT of fun with cravats.
* UST. (No, no, not there, Unresolved SexualTension. Buckets and buckets of it. "I'm homosexual!++ Argh! God he's pretty. I wonder if he's homosexual too? How can I let him know? What if he's not? All right... so he is - he's sleeping with Lord [Whossit] - how can I get him?"A writer of gay historicals have immense fun torturing her characters - making every glance count, and when one's passing the port (to the left, of course) at dinner, fingertips are just bound to brush against each other.
* It's much easier to get men together on a day-to-day basis. Whereas a hetero historical writer will have to write about dances, and chaperones and perhaps elopements men can simply hang out with each other, ride in each other's carriages (and no, that's not a euphemism!) without anyone fainting or ruining anyone's reputation. Of course it's pretty difficult to get them into sexual situation, but that's another post...

The best bit about reading gay historicals* Buttons! Ok, Is it just me and the buttons?
* Appreciating that the author knows exactly what the difference is between a sailor's whipping and a double fisherman but that you don't need to know anything as silly as long as the hero gets tied up.
* Sponge baths.
* The membrum virilus! Members, yards, rods, poles, perches, arbor vitae, gaying instrument. (yes, really.)

Top tip: beige...biscuit...blasé bleeding anachronisms

Check check check. You may think that it's all right to say your hero's breeches are beige but it wasn't so and any eagle eyed reader will Mock You. They will, however realise if you are trying and make a small slip-up, but they won't appreciate sloppy (or no) research, modern day speech patterns and contemporary men in fancy dress.

What not to say

* “Gad, that's an attractive ass!”

Over to you...

* What gay historicals would you like to see?
* What cliches are you sick of?
* What do you think of the covers these days?
* Anything else?

And if you are interested in finding out more: (and in a more sensible fashion)

Speak Its Name has The Definitive List of Gay Historical fiction.
The Macaronis: Fiction out of the Closet

Erastes is the penname of a female author who lives in Norfolk, UK with 3 demanding cats and a mad dog. Her new novella, "A Brush With darkness" a gay romance set in 19th century Florence is coming to Carina in March 2012. Check her website for her non-Carina titles www.erastes.com

Paparazzi - Regency Style

2011-11-01T08:58:00.000-04:00

There’s nothing in this world that hasn’t been done before, especially when it comes to writing Regency romance. Well, that’s how it seems when I’m trying to dream up a plot for a new book. Constructing an original storyline takes time and patience. I have plenty of the former – litter of the latter. (I blame my parents, but don’t let my mum know I said so!).

Still, I think I might be on to something. How did inquisitive souls receive their news during the Regency era? Newspapers, obviously, but I knew little about their origins and had scant knowledge of the titles that were popular at the time. A little research was called for.

I discovered that the London Times, still going strong today, started life in 1785 as the Daily Universal Register. John Waters, its founder, had been a Lloyd’s underwriter who suffered severe losses due to a hurricane in Jamaica. With what money he had left, he bought the rights to a typesetting process and started an advertising sheet that included small items of news to promote it, little knowing what he’d set in motion! After several years he was unable to sell his typesetting process but was making money on the paper.

Anyway, my point is that the Universal Register became The Times in 1788 and Waters included items of gossip in an effort to make the paper more popular. My ears pricked up when I read that snippet. Who supplied the gossip and what lengths were they prepared to go to in order to procure it? What if—a question that novelists ask themselves all the time—a young lady in straightened circumstances and with responsibility for the welfare of the rest of her family, had a talent for sniffing out scandal? The dangerous type than wasn’t to be found in fashionable ballrooms? Presumably women weren’t encouraged to undertake such work, so she’d have to disguise herself as a lad. I can already imagine her getting into all sorts of inappropriate situations, from which a hunky hero will have to rescue her. Needless to say, she won’t welcome his intervention.

Hmm, I can see I’ve got a bit more work to do on this plot. Still, some of my books have blossomed from less auspicious starts so I’m not feeling too downhearted. The one thing I can’t do is start until I’ve thought of an appropriate title.

The Pen is mightier than the Petticoat? Maybe not.

How about, The Renegade Reporter? No, that doesn’t quite work either.

Any suggestions?

Wendy

Magical Writing -- Magical Living

2011-10-27T14:36:00.000-04:00

Susan Edwards ~ Myth, Magic & Wonder

When I first started writing historical romances, there wasn’t any magic or paranormal in my stories. After all, I wrote straight historicals. Right? Wrong! In keeping with Native American elements and beliefs, my hero’s mother had the gift of sight (White Wind Nov 2011). Okay, that was part of their world, this connection to the land, animals and spirits. In looking back, my second book also had this aspect and my third.... See a theme growing here?
In each book, I was pulling in more of the Native American spiritual/mythology into a non-paranormal world. Up to this point, I still hadn’t really considered those type of traits or gifts as magical or paranormal.

But a funny thing started to happen by the time I was writing my tenth and eleventh book. I was now ACTIVELY seeking more of the mystical elements to include in my world yet what I used still fit into the historical/Native American world. I was just using more of it, going deeper with it and expanding it. My books were immersed in paranormal and yep, might as well say it, magic! I was towing a fine line between Native American and Paranormal--and loving every minute of it for it was truly a creative process.

By the time I finished book eleven, I was hooked. I loved what I was doing within my boundaries and now I wanted to really write using paranormal and magic freely. I did so with book twelve, Summer of the Eagle (April 2012) which features a race of people who could DO cool things.

What changed from my early books? Well, the internet certainly opened more doors and with it, more possibilities! Then came the world of internet and the wealth of information at my fingertips! Suddenly I wasn’t just writing about characters in a historical setting but about the magic of living with an open mind to possibilities.

And possibilities is where I believe magic truly lies. The magic in my writing spilled over into my life as I discovered the magic that surrounds each of us, each day if we only open our eyes and mind.
Don’t believe me? Go for a walk and don’t just look at your neighbor’s houses or cars. Focus in on the beauty of the neighborhood trees, the flowers, the tiny blooms we seldom pay attention too. Lift your eyes as you walk to your car from the asphalt to the sky. Maybe you’ll see the faint shape of the moon looking down at you.
Spend a few moments gazing out your kitchen window. Can you see the birds perched on a tree or bush? How about that tiny hummingbird sitting on that very thin branch? What about the fact that we wake up to a new, bright day. Everyday. And that new day is filled with possibilities: a caring word, a child’s hug and kiss, a long awaited phone call (The Call)? So much is possible yet we seldom give it thought. The freedom to just be.

And if you are a writer, how about the magic of sitting down at your computer to write, doing something that we love (even if it is work at times). We create worlds that whether or not there is magic or paranormal elements, there certainly is magic. Connecting with even one reader in a meaningful way (even to just give that reader time away from the mundane world) is magic. And in the true style of connecting back to the Native American world that I love, I bring you back full circle: to your books and mine and the magic they contain.

So even if you do not write in the paranormal or magical genre, you have the chance to write magically. And if you are not a writer, you can live magically. Smile at a stranger, offer a few kind words. Who knows, you might bring magic into the lives of others. And you know what? It just keeps going. The magic we call life.

And for me, there is another bit of "magic" in seeing my books return to life (and to readers who have been asking for them) in the form of E-Books. I've lived through the magical process of seeing my books republished including new covers! Talk about magical feelings! I love the new covers, and the new look, the new life that has been breathed into this series.

What’s magical about your life? Your writing? If you could do anything, be anything, write anything, what would it be, and why? What is magical about it to you? Inquiring minds want to know <g>.

PRE-ORDER NOW White Dawn, White Dusk, White Shadows and White Wind. Available November 21 2011 Carina Press

Check out my website at http://susanedwards.com for updated news and excerpts along with a member only area for my readers. You can also sign up for my newsletter.

Ten Reasons I Love the Regency Era

2011-10-25T14:51:00.000-04:00

Hello folks!

The countdown is on! Unless my math is off, Lady Seductress's Ball, releases with Carina Press in 55 days!!!! (Release date = December 19, 2011)

I am totally psyched about it. Lady Seductress's Ball is a Regency-era erotic romance novella, which is why I've chosen to write the ten reasons I love the Regency era, and in no particular order!

Men in tight breeches
Mr. Darcy--need I say more?
Proper ladies behaving badly
Riding horses in the park
Giving mothers a fit of the vapors
Sex in carriages
Broad shoulders and well muscled chests filling out the velvet fabric of an evening jacket
Parties nearly nightly
Gorgeous homes
Undies not required...

Tell me, why do you love the Regency era?

Cheers,
Eliza

*~*~*~*~*

Lady Seductress's Ball -- Releasing December 19, 2011

As the wife of the elderly Earl of March, Olivia Covington has never known the intimacies of the bedroom. Though her curiosity is piqued by the shocking whispers of society ladies, she is too wary of causing scandal to indulge in an affair. But Tristan Knightley, Earl of Newcastle, tempts her to throw off propriety.Tristan wants Olivia for his own, and has sworn off all others until he can rid himself of the obsession. He is sure once he has a taste, he will tire of her, and can return to his rakish existence. Unable to wait to have her in his bed, he invites her for a tryst at Lady Seductress’s Ball...

Eliza Knight is the multi-published author of historical and erotic romance. Visit her at www.elizaknight.com. Friend her on FB, and Follow her on Twitter.

Gothic Horrors

2011-10-19T14:55:00.002-04:00

Ah, October! My favorite month of the year. Not just because I love the crisp air and the brilliant leaves, but because I’ve been crazy about Halloween for as long as I can remember. To me, it’s the ultimate imaginative holiday, from the vintage whimsy of the jointed cardboard skeletons my teachers used to pin up on bulletin boards to the eerie sophistication of candlelit Gothic mansions.

Perhaps it’s no coincidence my romances are set during the regency, a time when horror was wildly popular. Gothic novels were the bestsellers of the era, so fashionable Jane Austen

Illustration from the 1830 edition of The Mysteries of Udolpho.

satirized them in Northanger Abbey, giving its heroine, Catherine Morland, such an enthusiasm for the genre that she confuses fact with fantasy. The Gothic novel craze began in 1764 with Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto, a work that introduced the brooding setting and supernatural elements that became staples of the genre. Ensuing page-turners like Eliza Parsons’ 1793 The Castle of Wolfenbach and Anne Radcliffe’s 1794 The Mysteries of Udolpho further established the Gothic archetypes: the swooning virgin in peril, the tyrannical and lust-crazed villain, and the gloomy foreign locale—often an isolated abbey or monastery, the better to highlight the villain’s lechery and exploit the anti-Catholic prejudices of the time. Matthew Gregory Lewis’s 1796 The Monk was so popular and so lurid (its main character, a monk seduced by a cross-dressing instrument of Satan, rapes and kills an innocent girl who turns out to be his sister) its fans included such legendary transgressors as Lord Byron and the Marquis de Sade.

The dishy and inventive Dr. John Polidori, author of The Vampyre.

The Gothic movement culminated in a classic that remains popular today, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus. The story was penned in 1816 at a rained-out Geneva house party, after the far-off eruption of Mt. Tambora threw so much volcanic ash into the atmosphere that all of Europe suffered a cold and gloomy “Year Without a Summer.” Confined by the weather to his rented villa, Lord Byron suggested a ghost-story contest that was supposed to showcase his talents and those of his most prominent guest, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. Instead, not only did eighteen-year-old Mary shine, but so did John Polidori, Byron’s young personal physician. Polidori's contribution to the contest was “The Vampyre,” the forerunner of the romantic vampire genre. (Sadly, Byron's guests were a tragedy-plagued group, and poor Polidori was not immune; he died five years later, age 26, having apparently committed suicide by drinking prussic acid.)

And no discussion

The Nightmare, Henry Fuseli, 1781.

of the era’s horrors would be complete without mention of the Anglo-Swiss painter Henry Fuseli. Raised for a career in the clergy, Fuseli hid his drawing from his father by using his left hand, a subterfuge that left him ambidextrous. In an interesting twist of gothic interconnection, he might have been the father of Mary Shelley—if he had not already had a wife. Mary’s mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, was so smitten with the married Fuseli that she practically stalked him, eventually going to his wife and proposing that the three of them live together; Fuseli’s wife, understandably, was not interested, and barred Miss Wollstonecraft from the house.

Blind Milton Dictating to His Daughters, 1793. What could be more horrific than having Milton as a father?

Fuseli is probably best known for his 1781 oil painting The Nightmare, which depicts a sleeping woman with an incubus perched on her abdomen and the object of her dream, a grotesque horse with staring eyes, peering in from behind a curtain. My favorite in the creepiness department, however, is Fuseli's Blind Milton Dictating to his Daughters. Not only are Milton’s pale eyes disturbing (Fuseli seems to have been the master of the horrifying stare), but Milton’s daughter anachronistically wears a red ribbon tied around her neck—a gruesome fashion of the times that was meant to call to mind the victims of the French guillotine.

How do you feel about all the gothic horrors abounding at this time of year? Do you have a favorite creepy book or movie? I’d love to hear about it!

Alyssa Everett's debut regency, A Tryst With Trouble, is available now for pre-order from Amazon. Her second, Ruined by Rumor, will be out in May. She hopes you'll visit her website and follow her on Twitter, where she promises not to spam you relentlessly.

Which time era do you avoid?

2011-10-19T13:53:00.000-04:00

You know when you have one of those massive barrels of sweets – usually at Christmas over here in the UK. Quality Street’s the nation’s favourite and they have a great selection of sweets in them. Nut clusters, caramel cups, toffees, fudge etc etc.

And then Christmas is over, and you are left with a handful of sweets that no-one wants. Orange, Strawberry and COFFEE creams. BLEURGHK.

Now this is obviously only indicative of what my family like – I’m sure there are lots of people who love these flavours, but it does seem to be coffee that is the least favourite, if the brilliant Revels Roulette adverts are anything to go on.

And where am I going with this??? Well, as you probably know, or don't - I run a Gay Historical Review blog called "Speak Its Name and I have to review the books that I'm given, or are available. I don't have the luxury of saying "I don't like...." and pushing them back into the sweetie barrel, because that wouldn't be fair.

But I have found that I AM being unfair - and that about half the books I have to be reviewd are Westerns, and that's probably because I've been skipping the westerns in favour of other time eras. I hate to say it, but I’ve found that westerns are my coffee creams.

And I’m sorry about this. I don’t think there are more westerns written than any other gay historical — although, this might be the case, I’ve not done a fact-finding mission to find out — it’s just that, because I’m not mad on the genre, I tend to put them to one side and then I end up with a ton of them to do at once–which doesn’t do anything for my temper or the balance of the site.

I don’t know when I stopped being a fan of the western, either. I used to love them as a child and even went to the cinema to catch classics such as True Grit, and I was such a huge fan of Rawhide (Gil Favour for the win) but now I tend to avoid most of them, except for homoerotic goodness such as The Searchers. (Yes, really. If you don’t believe me, go and watch it again, John Wayne’s character is most certainly bisexual at the very least.)

The very worst western (for me) and one that will make me run screaming from the sofa is anything Mexican. Don’t ask me why. I like Mexico. I like Mexican food. I'm really fond of Speedy Gonzales. But give me a western set in Mexico and I bite the coffee cream in half and spit it out.

I like coffee to drink, and I LOVE strawberries and oranges so nothing really makes sense.

And my aversion to western gay fiction makes no sense either because there’s been a good few that I’ve really enjoyed. Mark Probst’s “The Filly” is a beautifully written restrained piece of fiction, Jamie Craig’s “Those Who Cherish” was highly enjoyable, and Kiernan Kelly’s “In Bear Country” duet of books have everything necessary for a reader, adventure, romance and a good historical feel.

So I don’t know why I’ve got this westernphobia. Perhaps it’s because for every good book, there’s three not so stellar with more cliches than tumbleweeds, but then that’s true of every kind of fiction really isn’t it?

Perhaps in future for reviews I’ll take a tip from the Russian Roulette advert and just pick a book blindfold and not allow myself to push the least favourites to the back of the drawer.

Is there any genre you find yourself avoiding? Is there any logical reason for it (unlike me!)

Erastes

Erastes writes gay historicals, and her first book for Carina is "Muffled Drum" (set during the Austro Prussian War) out now. Her second will be "A Brush with Darkness"

Neither of them are westerns.

www.erastes.com

For Better or For Worse.

2011-10-14T00:53:00.000-04:00

My family is celebrating a wedding this weekend. No, it isn’t mine. I’ve been happily married for some time. However, I must admit that when I accompanied the bride-to-be to David’s Bridal, I almost tried on the Kate Middleton wedding gown replica. Despite my enthusiasm for royalty, Reader, I resisted.

In honor of this momentous family occasion, I present you with some fun historic wedding trivia.

Let’s begin at the beginning.

The word wedding, according to Women in the Middle Ages by Frances and Joseph Gies, originated from the Old English word wed, which meant pledge and referred to the ring and money a groom gave to his bride at the church door.

How do I love thee? Let me beat it into you.

One notable historic proposal is William the Conqueror’s proposal to Matilda of Flanders. He approached her father, Baldwin V about the marriage and Baldwin readily agreed. When someone finally told Matilda about it, she said “No.” Not a man to let little things like being a bastard or “no” stop him, William rode to Flanders. He intercepted Matilda on the way to church, pulled her from her horse and, according to some sources, beat her. Amazingly, after this oh so romantic proposal, she agreed to marry him. Bruises heal, but a diamond is forever.

Speaking of diamonds.

The Krupp Diamond, weighing in at a whopping 33.19 carats, was purchased by Richard Burton for Elizabeth Taylor in 1968. It was her favorite ring and the most valuable one in her collection. For a mere $2 – 3 million you can own it too when Christie’s auctions it off in December.

If anyone has just cause why these two people should not be married…

After the invention of the telegraph, distance became no barrier to marriage and the first “on-line” weddings were performed. In 1876, William Storey was a telegraph operator stationed at the remote Camp Grant in Arizona where there were no ministers. His bride, Clara Choate lived in San Diego where there were plenty of ministers to perform the wedding service. Unfortunately, William could not get a leave of absence to travel to America’s Finest City. His solution? Bring the bride to Camp Grant and have a minister in San Diego marry them over the telegraph. The plan worked, with the minister reading the vows which were transmitted by telegraph to the bride and groom who wired back their responses. The wedding was legal and the technologically advanced couple lived happily ever after.

Remembering the big day or Photoshop the Bonaparte way.

Napoleon’s mother, Maria Letizia refused to attend the coronation of Napoleon and Josephine due to her dislike of the future empress. As a result, when Jacques-Louis David created his massive painting to commemorate the day, he simply added the old gal in. Although not strictly a wedding, a marriage did take place in the early hours of the coronation day. Napoleon and Josephine had originally been married in a civil ceremony that was not recognized by the Catholic Church, thus preventing her from being crowned alongside Napoleon. To sidestep this problem, a second religious ceremony was performed in the wee hours of the coronation day. My guess is, Napoleon’s mother didn’t attend that ceremony either.

And don’t forget, if at first you don’t succeed…

One can’t discuss historic weddings without mentioning Henry VIII. The eternal optimist, he married six times but only two of his wives were lucky enough to outlive him. His last wife, Catherine Parr mourned her chubby hubby for only a few months before marrying Thomas Seymour, the man she’d been forced to give up for the King. Thomas was her fourth husband. Here’s to never giving up on love!

So, who have our heroes slept with?

2011-10-09T05:00:00.002-04:00

We’re all aware of the sexual double standard. It was still in effect when I was young, although we did escape it for a few years during “the sexual revolution” of the 1960s and 1970s. The double standard was even more rigid in previous centuries in Europe and North America. It held that boys will be boys, even if we don’t want to know all the details of their sexual explorations, but girls had better be virgins. Period. In theory, males were supposed to engage in sex only within the context of marriage, but in practice, they had a great deal of freedom to act as they wished. In contrast, girls were chaperoned until they were married, at which time, their husbands took over managing their behavior.

Punishments for sexual activity were harsh for young women and almost non-existent for young men. Aside from the obvious fact that a young woman might end up unmarried and pregnant, even if she didn’t conceive a child, she’d be scorned as a fallen woman. Her chances of marriage would disappear, robbing her of most opportunities for a decent life.

This historical imbalance between the sexes has to have an impact on our books if we write in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Our unmarried heroines will either be virgins or have had very little sexual experience. However, our heroes are expected to be talented at giving a woman sexual pleasure. Where did he get his knowledge of the female body and sexual response?

In reality, a man could have had experience with young women, but that would likely mean that he’d have taken their virginity without marrying them. Not very heroic. In fact, that would be a really nasty thing for him to do.

He could have enjoyed the services of prostitutes. If he treated them better than their other clients did, that would certainly speak well of him. However, he could easily have contracted a sexually transmitted disease from a prostitute. He might not realize he had until later, after he’d infected his new love, our heroine. In earlier centuries, there would have been fewer medical treatments for those diseases.

The hero and heroine could come to each other with no experience. This would make for a charming book, as the story would unfold with the two of them discovering the joys of giving each other pleasure. Such a plot would require a great many pages to pull off, though. It simply wouldn’t be realistic for the two of them to share a few kisses and then fall into bed. It might work for the man, but a woman experiences a certain amount of pain the first time she makes love. A man with little experience in giving pleasure to a woman would be unlikely to make it good for her. Back to square one.

So, how do we get around this problem?

We could make the woman experienced: for example, she could be a widow. That’s not the standard story line in romance, but it would make for some fun. You could even pair her with an inexperienced man. I did that for my first Spice Brief, the Well-Tutored Lover. It was a fun story.

The other solution I use quite a bit is to give the man experience with widows and adventurous wives. He could get them pregnant, of course, and he could catch a disease from one, but at some point we have to liberate ourselves from reality in order to write fiction. With this scenario, the reader can imagine him how he was as an innocent, young man, eager to please his older and more experienced lover. It gives him another dimension and makes him more lovable.

We can also have fun by inserting the hero’s previous lovers into the current story. What if the hero’s former lover shows up with her daughter at the ball where he’s put himself on the marriage market? She might suggest he marry her daughter and move in with her and her husband. I just did that in a book. Without missing a beat, my hero replied…

“Think of the economy. I could deflower your daughter and cuckold your husband without leaving the house.”

I think it worked.

My go-to research sources

2011-10-05T21:37:00.006-04:00

My personal research collection is huge and ever-growing. I buy new sources for every new manuscript I start. I can't walk by a used bookstore without casually strolling in and checking out their history section. And I never go to Portland without blocking out several hours for a trip to Powell's. I've even taken day trips there, at least a three-hour drive each way, for the sole purpose of a pilgrimage to the City of Books.

Yet there are a few sources I keep going back to, manuscript after manuscript:

Life in Wellington's Army, by Antony Brett-James. An indispensable book for anyone using the Peninsular War as a setting or as part of a character's backstory, packed with details of everyday life.

Redcoat: the British Soldier in the Age of Horse and Musket, by Richard Holmes. Covers a much wider time range, but also good for everyday life and the logistic and bureaucratic constraints soldiers lived under.

Swords Around a Throne: Napoleon's Grande Armee, by John Elting. Everything the first two books give you for Wellington's army, this one covers for Napoleon's.

Life in the English Country House, by Mark Girouard. I always go back to this book to figure out how to house characters from the gentry and aristocracy. Full of information on everything from medieval castles to Victorian country houses.

Jane Austen: the World of Her Novels, by Deirdre Le Faye. Illuminates all sorts of details of genteel Regency life by explaining what Jane Austen and her characters ate, how they traveled from place to place, what they wore, how they amused themselves, etc.

In the Family Way: Childbearing in the British Aristocracy 1760-1860, by Judith Schneid Lewis. Got a pregnant character in your Georgian, Regency, or Victorian novel? This book will tell you what she expected, and what was expected of her, when she was expecting.

English Women's Clothing of the Nineteenth Century: A Comprehensive Guide with 1,117 Illustrations, by C Willett Cunnington. What the fashionable heroine wears, and how she wears her hair, from 1800-1899.

English Society in the 18th Century, by Roy Porter. (As is often the case, Porter's 18th century includes the early years of the 19th because of political and cultural continuity. It's often referred to as the Long 18th Century.) Lots of detail about everyday life at all levels of society.

Lobscouse and Spotted Dog: Which It's a Gastronomic Companion to the Aubrey/Maturin Novels, by Anne Chotzinoff Grossman and Lisa Grossman Thomas. A mother-daughter team cook their way through the Aubrey-Maturin series, as authentically as possible. Great fun to read, and a good source for the kind of food your Regency characters would eat, especially the "Jack Ashore" chapter.

That's my list. What are your favorites?

The Wit and Wisdom of Jane Austen

2011-10-01T09:07:00.000-04:00

Unpacking my much loved books to store them on my shelves here in Florida, the task took longer than anticipated because I got distracted each time I rediscovered an old favourite. One such was a small tome entitled “The Wit and Wisdom of Jane Austen”. Flicking through it, I came across extracts from her letters to her niece Anna Austen, written in 1814, offering tips in the novelist’s art.

Listen to this advice about writing what you know:

We think you had better not leave England. Let the Portmans go to Ireland, but as you know nothing of the manners there, you had better not go with them. You will be in danger of giving false representations. Stick to Bath and the Foresters.

On practical plotting:

Your aunt C. does not like desultory novels, and is rather fearful yours will be too much so, that there will be too frequent a change from one set of people to another, and that circumstances will be sometimes introduced of apparent consequence, which will lead to nothing. It will not be so great an objection to me, if it does. I allow much more latitude than she does – and think nature and spirit cover many sins of a wandering story…

And on the need for consistency in characterisation:

I like your Susan very much indeed, she is a sweet creature, her playfulness of fancy is very delightful. I like her as she is now exceedingly, but I am not so well satisfied with her behaviour to George R. At first she seemed all over attachment and feeling, and afterwards to have none at all; she is so extremely composed at the Ball, and so well-satisfied apparently with Mr Morgan. She seems to have changed her character.

On finding a situation that works, and the right sort of character-chemistry:

You are now collecting your people delightfully, getting them exactly into such a sport as is the delight of my life; - 3 0r 4 families in a Country Village is the very thing to work on – and I hope you will write a great deal more, and make full use of them whilst they are so very favourably arranged. You are now coming to the heart and beauty of your book…

Not much different to the advice writers get two hundred years on. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Wendy

CHARACTERS ARE SUCH--CHARACTERS!

2011-09-27T14:03:00.000-04:00

Recently, I’ve been going through all my notes and files on my White Series Books with the intent of gathering information in order to write a reunion book and perhaps spin off some more White Series stories. As I am doing this, I find myself amazed over all the wonderful characters in these books, including all the secondary characters!

I’ve forgotten about so many of these great characters who complimented my hero and heroine’s! Readingabout them after so many years is like meeting up with old friends! A few might even be ready to volunteer for their own book.

Then there are all the children. Anyone who knows me also knows (with much eye rolling) that I LOVE babies. So it’s not surprising that my characters have children. Lots of children. I am a grandmother-in-waiting. I think that says it all. I want grandchildren. Alas, I may have to settle for giving my characters lots of children for the time being. But back to my topic here. When I left off with the different books in the series, many of my hero/heroines had at least one child. Most were babies in epilogues and now as I plan out the timelines, I get to magically watch them grow up and even give them siblings (sorry children) and also, see who has the potential for the next generation of books.

It’s the creation process all over again. Adding 10-15 or more years to this series, not just adds to the series total, but it changes everything and makes it all new again as I map out character charts and contemplate new plots and stories.

For instances, there are two girls who were adopted into the tribe in White Dove, by the hero and heroine (Jeremy and White Dove). One embraces the new life. The other is torn. What can I plot for these two girls? Then there is the believed nasty grandfather who wants them found and returned. Is he a man who loves his granddaughters or is a future villain. I could wink and say wait and find out but as of yet, I am not totally sure myself! So you see, there are many hidden stories in this series just waiting to be dug out and brought to light or to paper!

In my own books, one favorite couple were an old man and woman, both feisty. Rook was a grumpy old man who found love in White Wolf with an equally strong-willed and no-nonsense woman. In books written by other authors, I love Lulu, Ranger and Morelli in Janet Evonovitch’s Stephanie plum books. Then there is Hermione and Ron in the Harry Potter books, and among my favorites, Peabody, Feeney and McNab in J.D. Robb’s In Death series.

So, for readers who’ve read my series, who would you like to see more of? Who were your favorite secondary characters and who should I write about next? What family of children intrigue you?

If you are a writer, what are your thoughts on secondary characters and their role in your books or other books. Who are some of your favorite secondary characters.

I love secondary characters and the depth they bring to stories. How about you?

(http://susanedwards.com White Dawn, White Dusk, White Shadows, White Wind due to be re-released November 21st in digital format by http://carinapress)

Sexual Desire was Taboo

2011-09-25T06:00:00.000-04:00

First of all, I got my cover for my upcoming Carina Press novella release, Lady Seductress's Ball! (Coming 12/19/11) Isn't it fabulous?

In Lady \Seductress's Ball, the heroine, Olivia finds herself in a loveless, pleasureless marriage to a man three times her age. Her situation was not abnormal during a time when marriages were made for convenience, money, power, prestige, property. Because marriages were made based on contracts and not attraction and desire for your spouse, the bedroom could often be a cold and lonely place.

On top of that, women were taught that desire, pleasure were taboo. To want your partner was a sin, and only women with loose morals, and harlots had sex for pleasure. If men wanted to enjoy sex and have their partner return their sentiments, they sought out a courtesan or mistress. Wives were only available for breeding heirs. An awkward, coupling in the dark that was most often painful to a woman who was not properly prepared for the joining, and embarrassing in its quick, sudden and messiness. This would also be why often after a woman had an heir and the requisite spare, she would banish her husband from the bedroom.

Despite all this, Olivia does catch snippets here and there of women enjoying their lovers. She also feels and intense yearning for a man that is not her husband. He promises her pleasure... Pleasure she should not want, as it makes her wicked, wanton. What will she do? Will she succumb to her own desires and the scintillating whispers of an earl--Tristan, the man she dreams of making love to?

If she were to do so, it could dash her entire reputation into the fire--and a lady's reputation meant everything to her.

Guess we'll find out in December...

Cheers,
Eliza

Crossing Genres

2011-09-22T10:00:00.002-04:00

Do you take kindly to your favourite authors switching genres? Do you begrudge them the days they spend writing thrillers instead of working on their next historical? Or when it's a favourite author of yours, will you read anything they write in any genre?

This topic is top on my mind right now because I have a romantic comedy releasing from Carina Press next week. Bang in the middle of my two medieval scottish romances - Betrayed released last year and The Devil of Jedburgh releases next February.

May I interrupt with this announcement...
I'm throwing a pre-launch party on my blog this week, giving away party bags of the book and Amazon gift vouchers, so please stop by to join in the fun :):)

Right, back on topic... While I was scrutenizing my reading experiences, I realised that many of the historical authors I read tend to genre-hop to suspense/thriller rather than straight contemporary. Maybe that's just me and I need broaden my reading circle, lol. Maybe it's a natural co-habiting genre because many historical romances do contain suspense elements - there's nearly always a dastardly villian ready to kidnap or torment the heroine.

So, my random thoughts on this...

One of my all time favourite historical romance authors is Judith McNaught, but until a year ago I'd never read any of her contemporaries. Then my mother sent an old contemporary of hers my way, Remember When, and, oh gosh, I really couldn't get into it. I do want to try her widely acclaimed novel, Paradise, and hope for better luck.

I can read Julie Garwood across the board, no matter the genre, I love this woman.

So, I guess, I fall into the category of not automatically following authors across genres, but I do like to give them a try.

One real win for me was Karen Marie Moning. I absolutely love her Highlander series and, because of this, I dipped my toes into the paranormal genre (which I'd been avidly avoiding). But I love her so much, I was willing to give her Fever series a shot, and oh boy - she got me well and truly hooked not only on her Fever series, but on the entire paranormal genre.

I'd love to hear your experiences and thoughts of following authors across genres and if it worked out for you.

Regency Medical Men

2011-09-19T00:02:00.014-04:00

This is my first post on Romancing the Past, and I'm so pleased to be joining the authors here! Since my first two regencies won't be coming out until 2012, I thought I might tackle a general topic today. Have you ever wondered why some medical men in historical romances (and during the regency, they were uniformly men) are referred to as "Doctor," and some are called just plain "Mister"? I'd like to discuss the differences between the three major medical practitioners working in nineteenth century England: physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries.

But first, a word about the state of medicine during the regency. Doctors had no sonograms, no X-rays, no MRIs; they didn't even have a germ theory of disease. Hippocrates had theorized centuries before that poor health stemmed from an imbalance of bodily humors, so doctors routinely bled or cupped their patients. Illness was also attributed to unhealthy vapors, leading medical practitioners to prescribe "a change of air." Because antibiotics were still unknown, compound fractures and other serious wounds usually meant either amputation or death, and frequently both. Childbirth, too, was often fatal, especially in maternity wards, where hospital-acquired infection drove the mortality rate as high as forty percent. Operations were performed only as a last resort, not only because of the high risk of sepsis, but also because the poor understanding of blood group compatibility made transfusions so risky they were not even attempted successfully until 1818. The use of modern anesthetics was still decades away. Want to read something harrowing? Try novelist Fanny Burney's letter to her older sister, in which she gives a first-hand account of her 1811 mastectomy. The operation required seven men and a nurse, most of whom were needed just to hold the patient down.

But if medicine was more art than science, the artists at the top of the professional ladder were physicians. Distinguished and expensive, they were socially respected figures who hailed from genteel backgrounds and obtained their educations at universities like Edinburgh, Oxford, and Cambridge.

Doctor examining an obstetric patient, 1831 (at least, that's his story and he's sticking to it).

As a percentage of medical practitioners, physicians were a minority, and until 1858 they weren't permitted to perform surgery or dispense medicines—not that they would have wished to stoop so low. They took a more cerebral approach, diagnosing internal ailments and perhaps deigning to write a prescription or two. Physicians' fees were charged in gentlemanly guineas, not pounds, and payment was a matter of some delicacy. Licensed by the Royal College of Physicians (such colleges existed in London, Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Dublin), they could trace the university degree they received back to the medieval church, and were the only medical professionals properly addressed as "Doctor."

Surgeons were not nearly so well regarded. Though respected today, in the early 1800s they had yet to live down their origins as medieval barbers. More numerous than doctors—in 1815, there were only 14 physicians attached to the Royal Navy, compared to 850 surgeons and 500 assistant surgeons—they were looked on not as true professionals but as technicians, sawbones who treated the distasteful aftermath of accident and infection.

Amputation without anesthesia, 1775. Compare the struggle here to the following picture.

Because blood loss was a major obstacle and modern anesthesia was unknown (Humphrey Davy discovered in 1799 that nitrous oxide could dull pain, but his discovery was never put to practical use), the primary skill to recommend a good surgeon was speed rather than finesse. Richard Hollingham notes in his book Blood and Guts: A History of Surgery how the famous surgeon Robert Liston could remove a limb in under thirty seconds—but once accidentally sawed off his assistant's fingers in the process. "The patient died of infection, as did the assistant, and an observer died of shock. It was the only operation in surgical history with a 300 percent mortality rate." In the face of such bold measures, cleanliness was considered an affectation; Liston reportedly operated in Wellington boots, and to free his hands when switching between the scalpel and the bone saw, he clamped the bloody knife between his teeth.

"The First Operation Under Ether" (detail), Massachusetts General Hospital, 1846.

(To Liston's credit, he also went on to pioneer the use of anesthesia in Europe, in 1846 amputating the leg of Frederick Churchill, a butler, while Churchill was under the influence of ether; Churchill subsequently survived.) To become a surgeon in 1800, a man had only to complete an apprenticeship and pass an examination, whereupon he obtained a diploma—though not a degree. Surgeons were (and in the U.K. still are, despite today's postgraduate requirements) properly addressed as "Mister."

So physicians were for the rich, and surgeons were for the desperate, but for most everyday medical complaints, patients consulted an apothecary. Apothecaries could trace their origins back to medieval grocers, who in turn grew out of the Guild of Pepperers. They were the nineteenth century equivalent of pharmacists (or chemists, if you're British), only they dispensed medical advice along with their pills. Up until 1704, apothecaries were supposed to know their place—namely, behind the counter of a shop, keeping their opinions to themselves and concocting remedies prescribed by a real physician. Then a disgruntled patient named John Seale sued his apothecary, William Rose, for "practicing physic"—that is, for charging the staggering sum of fifty pounds to sell Seale medicines that left him "never the better but much worse."

Apothecary's shop, 1752.

When Seale turned to the College of Physicians, they acted to shut Rose down, but Rose appealed and the House of Lords overturned the original judgment. The decision opened the door for apothecaries to practice medicine. Legally, an apothecary could not charge a fee, theoretically making his money only from the remedies he sold, though by the nineteenth century most apothecaries left a blank space on their bill for patients to write in the amount, if any, they wished to bestow as a courtesy in return for services rendered. Unlike physicians, surgeons could hold dual licensure as apothecaries; of the more than 6000 apothecaries' licenses issued between 1815 and 1834, more than half went to surgeons. Realizing the best way to expand the business was to bring new customers into the world, apothecaries quickly added midwifery to their repertoire. An 1815 act of Parliament required apothecaries to serve a five-year apprenticeship and pass an examination, and to have reached a minimum age of twenty-one. Perhaps the most famous of all English apothecaries was the Romantic poet John Keats, who was licensed but did not practice, choosing instead to compose odes and die tragically of tuberculosis.

Throughout the nineteenth century, the accelerating pace of scientific advances changed medicine profoundly. The social and legal distinctions between the professions evolved, until by 1900 they had assumed much the forms they have today. Sterile operating conditions and the advent of anesthesia reduced mortality rates considerably, raising the surgeon's prestige, while the apothecary's role narrowed to the more limited duties of the modern-day pharmacist. Physicians, meanwhile, remained as pleased with themselves as ever.

Alyssa Everett is married to a handsome doctor with an excellent sense of humor. Her debut regency, A Tryst With Trouble, is available now for pre-order from Amazon. She hopes you'll visit her website and follow her on Twitter, where she promises not to spam you relentlessly.