Winners of our eBooks Giveaway

Thank you to everyone for participating and sharing your views on what makes a fab hero. It's been great fun to hear the who and what and why of loving those men.

And the winners are... We've tried to match as best as possible within the randomly selected winner comments :) NB please read thru to end for instructions to contact us in order to receive your copy

Winner #1 Vivien Jackson said...

I like them bad, tortured, angsty, sometimes even broken. Alpha is fine, but I don't mind beta either, so long as the character isn't inconsistent or irritating.

Vivien, you have won a copy of Almost an Outlaw

Winner #2 Robin D said...

I like a hero like The Marquess of Derrington in Miss Foster's Folly - an English lord, who wants an independent mate, passion, but for a lifetime.

Robin, you have won a copy of A Marriage of Inconvenience

Winner #3 Marie Dees said...

I like my heroes tall, dark and dangerous. I want them so self-assured that love actually throws them off. Who is this other person making their life complicated. (Long hair is a bonus.)

Marie, you have won a copy of Betrayed

Winner #4 Lindsay said...
My favorite hero is the heroine that puts the hero in his place and doesn't let him rule her ...
I've already and fell in love with Emma from Taryn Kincaid's 'Healing Heart' and gave it a fie star review but would love to win either 'A Sergeants Lady' or 'Of Dukes and Deception'

Lindsay, you have won a copy of Of Dukes and Deceptions

Winner #5 StacieDM said...

I love an uber Alpha hero with a dash of bad boy on the side. I like them grumpy, maybe slightly tortured and very possessive. I like to see how the heroine breaks down his barriers and gets to the sweetheart underneath the gruff exterior.

Stacie, you have won a copy of Miss Foster's Folly

Winner #6 Cindy said...

I love the alpha hero with a tortured past. Strong, protective and loves with everything in him, even if he doesn't know its there. I'm partial to knights and cowboys in historicals, cops and millitary in contemporaries.

Cindy, you have won a copy of Healing Hearts

Congratulations to all the winners. We appreciate that we may not have been able to make a perfect match, but we really hope you enjoy your read.

Please email at "claire.robyns @googlemail.com" (remove spaces added for anti-spamming purposes) so that I arrange to have your copy emailed to you

Spring Silliness eBook Giveaway

Everyone's talking about their favourite kind of hero this month, must be something in the spring air.

To celebrate every hero out there, in all shapes and forms, breathing and written, we're giving away 6 eBooks. All you have to do is comment on your favourite kind of hero and we'll pick 6 random winners.

To make it more fun, from the winners selected, we'll attempt to match the winner to a book we think they might enjoy the most, based on the favourite kind of hero from their comment.

What I love most about reading is the wide variety available at my fingertips, a hero for every mood and situation. I love 'em all. I often think a certain kind of hero is linked to the plot trope. For eg a Kidnapping the Bride is likely going to have an apha, a Friends to Lovers will usually have a beta. Because I read across all plot types, I'm happy enough to fall in love with all kinds of heroes.

Have you read books where the hero type defies the plot? The heroine having a male best friend who's uber alpha?

If I have to think of my favourite, though, it would have to be the alpha male. I love reading and writing Scottish medieval romances, and in the insane made-up-world that exists inside my mind, these are rough, tough kinda guys who live by the land, war, politics and surviving. They don't even know what true love is, let alone how to find it. They also deserve a heroine who is strong, who can outwit them and, before they know it, they're going soft on the inside and making all kinds of rash out-of-character decisions and don't even know why.

Why do I love the alpha male so much? I think it's the thought of him being brought to his knees, being tamed by love. Now, that's really a love you have to believe in, have to believe it will last through anything.

So, what's your favourite kind of hero? I can't wait to read everyone's thoughts :)

Remember to leave a comment for a chance to win one of our six eBooks up for grabs. The comments will stay open for 2 days and we'll announce the winners here on the 29th March.

Empty nest

So here's the stuff they don't tell you...or the stuff you're not ready to listen to...when you're going to all those workshops and conferences, polishing those three-line elevator pitches, focusing on taking a machete to every instance of the word "that" or the word "was" because that's what they told you to do in your critique group...and sending out all those query letters to agents and submission packages to editors...hoping to one-day be PUBLISHED.

Publishing is, as you may have heard, a business. It's thrilling. And it's also kind of exhausting.  So much to do. So much that isn't...writing. (Like, right now I'm fiddling about, obsessed with Jeannnie Lin's clever idea of Romance Trading Cards. Which, huzzah! Angela Waters, the fabulous artist who created my gorgeous HEALING HEARTS cover, has agreed to design for me.)

And then there's all that larking about, here and there on various social media sites, hawking your, er, wares.

And then...there are reviews.

When SLEEPY HOLLOW DREAMS, my erotic paranormal for The Wild Rose Press came out, it was a hurried thing with a small window of opportunity, because the publisher, editor and I were all trying to get the book out in time for Halloween -- when it had only been contracted about two months before. There were few reviews. None in advance of the release. Mostly from my friends.

But for HEALING HEARTS, the reviews started coming out even before the book was released. People were reading it. People I didn't know were actually discussing it! Debating it, even! I felt like Goldilocks. People were telling me it was too short, too long, too hot, too cold, too hard, too soft, just right. They wished they were the heroine, Emma; they were in love with the hero, Adam.

(Oh, no. Wait. You can't have him. He's mine. Um, I mean...he's Emma's.)

So your baby is not exclusively your baby anymore. It's what you wanted, didn't you?  But...you kind of go through empty nest syndrome anyway. You've launched your newly-hatched (no matter how long the labor pains) chick out into the wide, wide world. And now it must flap its wings on its own. Sink or swim. You've done what you can.

It's time to step aside.  And move on.

No matter how tempting it is to keep wandering into its room (or its slot at CarinaPress.com or Amazon or Goodreads) and moon over its picture! (Or gorgeous cover.) Which you've become obsessed with making romance trading cards out of.

How I do what I do

I have to admit from the outset that I don’t have a firm grip on how I write. To tell you the truth, I think that’s probably true of many, if not most, writers. I don’t know where I come up with some of the things that come out of my fingers…you know, the sort of instance where the author insists “the character said that,” or “I tried to make the heroine do X, but she just wouldn’t do it.” That’s all cute and cosmic and stuff, but the truth is there only is the writer and a blank piece of paper or, these days, screen.

Given the above, there are a couple of things that mark my coordinates in the universe of writers. One, I’m a pantser. Those of you who aren’t insane enough to try to do this may not be aware that as a group, we divide up pretty firmly into two camps: the plotters and the pantsers. Plotters plot. They lay out the whole story in advance and know what’s going to happen all along the way before they start on page one. Pantsers write by the seat of their pants. They pretty much open a new document and start writing. Then, they keep writing until the story’s done.

I once managed to plot out an outline before I started writing the book, but the only way I could do it was to grit my teeth and promise myself that I wouldn’t have to stick to the damned outline if I didn’t want to. It was agony.

I generally used to think up two characters and an interesting opening situation and started writing. Since I started in (cough) 1990, I’ve learned that there are a couple of pitfalls I tend to fall into, and now I plan ahead how I’m going to avoid those before I start the story. I’m happy to report I never run out of pitfalls. So, I’m doing more and more planning as I mature as a writer. Which brings me to the next point.

Just about nobody is a pure plotter or pure pantser. I have one friend who writes an outline and then fills in the scenes and then the details for the scenes so that when she’s done, she pretty much just needs to flesh out her outline. She’s extreme. Most plotters work from a more general outline than that.

Even the most extreme pantser who writes romance knows some things about her story before she starts writing. She knows there will be at least two people who are destined to love each other but who have to overcome some conflict to be together. There will be a happy ending, usually following a dark period in which it appears their love can‘t succeed. Sexual tension will be a big part of the story, whether or not it’s expressed in actual sex. Most of us writers aren’t pure plotters or pantsers but are hybrids to some extent.

A second dimension on the plane of my writing lies along the continuum of what I call multiple-drafters and few-drafters. Some writers love to barf out whole books in what they sometimes call “sh***y first drafts” and go on to revise, revise, revise. Such writers thrive in forums like Book-in-a-Week or National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). They get it all out and go back and fix it. The few-drafters write more slowly, revise as they go along, and only need to polish (even if they do a lot of polishing) at the end.

I fall in the second camp. My idea of hell would be to take 50,000 words of stuff I threw at a page and turn it into a book. In fact, I hate revisions of any kind. (My editor can’t read this, right?) My friend, the extreme plotter I mentioned above, puts it perfectly. “Every day, I write six sh***y pages. The next day, I revise them and write another six sh***y pages.” That’s how I work. At the end, I have a book that needs a few pass-throughs before I send it in and wait for the inevitable revision letter. I don’t know of any evidence that the other method is better at avoiding revision letters than my method, so I’ll stick to mine.

I’ve met Chris Baty, the creator of NaNoWriMo, and truly, he and his creation are unmitigated Forces for Good. Someday, I will do NaNoWriMo, but when I’ve finished, I won’t have an entire book. I’ll have the first 50,000 words of a book. (Chris can’t read this here, right?)

So, I’m a slow-and-steady pantser. There’s one real danger at being that type of writer. If you write small amounts of material at a stretch, you’d better make sure that you have Discipline. Writing 1,000 words every once in a while will pretty much guarantee that you never get a book done. Discipline is where I shine.

I work at my day job four days a week. That gives me three-day weekends. I’ve found that 5,000 words per week produces enough pages to create finished stories on a pretty good schedule. Five-thousand words divided by three days is 1,666.666666666 words per day. That’s what I do. I have to take days off from time to time, but otherwise, I write those 1,667 words every Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. I will literally stop in the middle of a sentence once I get to that magic number.

That was working for me until a publisher asked me to do an extra story I couldn’t refuse. Rather than give up working on my main work-in-progress, I decided to add another 625 words per day on my lunch hours at work. That gave me another 2,500 words per week. Slower than 5,000 words per week but workable.

Then, I got involved in blogging regularly. To do that, I added another 500 words when I get home in the evening. (That’s what I’m doing right now.) I’m almost fanatical about doing this. If you’re a slow writer, you need to be religious about your schedule, too, even if it’s an hour per day and you get 500 words done during that hour.

Writers write. Period. You may take months plotting out your book so that when you sit down to write it, you’re only fleshing out what you’ve already planned, or you can sit down at the computer and let your freak flag fly. You can write in marathon sessions, producing twenty, thirty, forty pages a day, or you can schedule regular hours during your weekends and reliably produce small amounts of text that finally build to a completed manuscript. It doesn’t matter how you do it. Just do it.

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

authoralicegaines@yahoo.com

A Top Ten List

Over the next few months, we at Romancing the Past plan to blog about our favorite historical romances. Here's my Top Ten, in no particular order:

Wild At Heart (Patricia Gaffney, 1997) - A man raised by wolves and the daughter of the scientist who’s studying him, in 1890’s Chicago. The hero is delicious, and I love Gaffney’s writing style.

In for a Penny (Rose Lerner, 2010) - In the interest of full disclosure, Rose Lerner is one of my critique partners, but even if the author were a complete stranger I would’ve fallen for her deft writing and utterly human characters in this fresh take on the Regency marriage of convenience tale.

The Grand Sophy (Georgette Heyer, 1950) - My favorite of Heyer’s prolific output for Sophy’s exuberance and the delightful wit that pervades the whole book.

One Perfect Rose (Mary Jo Putney, 1997) - Though I read trad Regencies and YA romances in high school, I took a break from the genre in college and the next few years thereafter. This was one of the first books I read upon returning, and its story of a duke who thinks he has only months to live and decides to take a break from duty while he comes to term with the news has stayed with me.

Mr Impossible (Loretta Chase, 2005) - Egypt, archeology, scholarly heroine, beta-but-badass hero, Loretta Chase. What’s not to love?

To Love and to Cherish (Patricia Gaffney, 1995) - The hero is a vicar; the heroine starts the book married to his childhood friend. A heartbreaking, moving, and ultimately hopeful story.

The Shattered Rose (Jo Beverley, 1996) - I’m always a fan of Jo Beverley’s rich, well-researched historicals, but this medieval is my favorite. The hero returns from the crusades to find his wife, believing him dead, has moved on with her life. Not an easy story, but sometimes easy is just what I don’t want.

Heaven and Earth (Kathleen Eagle, 1990) - Kathleen Eagle is one of the few authors who can make me read contemporary or Western settings. Very early in her career she wrote a few Harlequin Historicals, and I wish she’d done more because they’re so good. If you can track down a copy of this story of a missionary widowed on the Oregon Trail and the Metis trapper who rescues her, give it a read.

The Rules of Gentility (Janet Mullany, 2007) - A playful romp of a Regency told in first person, alternating between the hero and heroine’s point of view. I’ve used it as a conversion tool on readers who don’t otherwise read romance.

Shattered Rainbows (Mary Jo Putney, 1996) - Military history geek that I am, my favorite part of this book is the Waterloo sequence in the first half, but it’s a great read from start to finish with an especially appealing hero and heroine.

Looking back at my list, it occurs to me that the mid to late 90’s was something of a golden age for historical romance. But I’m enjoying plenty of what I’m reading now, too--I’m just hesitant to put a book on my Top Ten list until I’m sure it’s not just enjoyable at that moment, but memorable years later. (Even In For a Penny qualifies on that count, since I read it in our critique group over a year before it was published.)

What about you? Have you read any of my choices? What are your all-time favorite historical romances?

Susanna Fraser is the author of The Sergeant's Lady (available now) and A Marriage of Inconvenience (April 11, 2011). You can visit Susanna's website here.

Erastes--my path to publication

Here's the first in a series of themed posts that each author will be blogging on from time to time, and for those of you who are just starting out, or who think "Oh, I'll never get published," I hope these posts give you hope--and show you just how different everyone's story is.

I'd always wanted to write, ever since I was a kid I was scribbling stories or telling myself adventures while I lay in bed. Sadly, although I had an artistic and encouraging mother, I didn't have the best teachers and my stories were often derided for being over fanciful or inaccurate. I remember once writing a story about a man dying of breast cancer (because I had read there were 300 cases for men against about 30,000 for women) and my teacher simply put a big red cross through the entire thing saying it was nonsense. I also remember writing about a car journey and watching the rain slide upwards on the windows (something I watched often myself,probably due to the wind pressure outside or some such reason) and again I was branded as having written nonsense. So I...kind of stopped writing.

But I didn't stop reading, and that probably kept the creative juices going through my late teens, and 20's and 30's. Unbeknownst to me, it was all just damming up and waiting to be released. I'd tried to write a couple of times in the 90's--spurred on by my mother who was herself writing a book, but nothing gelled--each book I started seemed derivative and I didn't know WHAT I wanted to write about.

In July 2003--and I wish I knew the exact date, because it was THAT kind of epiphany--I was cruising the internet prior to the release of the latest Harry Potter book. I was looking for any information about Severus Snape, who was at the time my favourite character, and completely by accident (just as well I didn't have "safe search" turned on, or my life may have been very different) I stumbled across a fanfiction community called the Snape Fuh-Q-Fest. My jaw dropped onto the desk. There were stories here about Snape...having...romantic liaisons with just about everyone in the Harry Potter Universe.

I'd not had a sheltered upbringing, but I'd never heard of fanfiction, and I'd never considered gay fiction as anything to read--but that day, reading story after story, I knew that this was what I wanted to write. In a matter of weeks I had written a 60,000 word novella about what happeend to Lucius Malfoy whilst not on the page of The Goblet of Fire whilst keeping entirely in canon. It was fun! It was exhilerating! It was...entirely a waste of time!

I realised that I couldn't do anything with this book--and so immediately began started on an original novel. I had first thought about converting the fanfic, but it wouldn't work, so I plumped for my comfort zone--Regency--and Standish, a gay Regency was born.

The trouble was (and probably just as well, or I might not have started it) that I didn't check to see if anyone was publishing gay romances before I wrote it, and when I finished it, I soon found out that--no, no-one really was.

I received rejections. Many, many MANY rejections. Some of them very encouraging and many personal ones which were spirit lifting, but generally I got the feeling that no one really knew what to do with a gay regency. There had been two that I knew of, but one (Gaywyck) had been published more than 20 years previously and nothing since, and the only other one (The Price of Temptation) was by a small publisher who wasn't taking on anything new. I contacted Scott and Scott who were the only people that I could see who were (self) publishing gay romance (because no one else would take it on) and received the same story from them--they went it alone because there was no other choice. It was all a bit disheartening.

So I put the book to one side, got on with writing: more fanfic (I stayed writing fanfic for about four more years) and a second original novel. Another thing I did in that fallow time was to write original short stories for submission to online websites, magazines and short story anthologies. It was with one of these short stories that I got my first sale and the euphoria still remains with me. It was a great way to build up that mythical and increasingly important "platform." With short stories, at least people were reading my words, learning who I was and what I wrote--visiting my website and learning about me.

After about a year a friend emailed me and said that she'd spotted a couple of gay historicals on Amazon, and "wasn't it about time I started trying to sell Standish?" I did as she suggested and in no time at all I sold it to PD Publishing - a small but hugely professional press to whom I will be forever grateful. In November 2006 Standish was published and it spurred me on to finish that second novel and to send it out and send it out and send it out until that also sold to Perseus Books. Now I have three novels, a handful of novellas and over 20 short stories in print and I'm one of the newest acquisitions for Carina who will be publishing my newest novella "The Muffled Drum" in July 2011.

If there's any moral to this story, it's simply: DON'T GIVE UP.Don't ever give up. Listen to advice, read read read all the information you can, learn as much about the business as possible - but don't give up. Believe in yourself and beleive in your product, even if you are writing something that no one is selling right now - you never know what's around the corner. Who says it won't be the next big thing? Who on earth would have predicted that Gay Historical Romances would be on the shelves? Who could have possibly guessed that zombie/classic mashups would be big, eh?

Of Dukes and Deceptions

The last time I posted here I introduced you to Nicholas Buchanan, the Duke of Dorchester, hero in my upcoming release from Carina Press, Of Dukes and Deceptions. Perhaps you'd like to learn how Alicia Woodley felt about her initial meeting with him. Here's how she describes it to her maid, Janet.

“You’ve already met him.” Janet stopped dead in her tracks and bestowed a suspicious scowl upon her. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

Alicia explained. “He wanted to wring the poor rabbit’s neck. Can you imagine such callousness?”

“And I suppose you gave him a piece of your mind.”

Alicia grinned. “Actually, I told him he was an idiot.”

Janet groaned. “Good grief, I wouldn’t be in your shoes if your uncle learns of your discourtesy.”

“How will he find out?”

“Oh, there are ways.”

“Well, I doubt whether His Grace will bother to enlighten him, and I certainly don’t intend to do so.”

“You’re very likely wrong. The aristocracy don’t care to be spoken down to. I expect His Grace will wish to have an example made of you.”

Alicia pulled a face. “He deserved to be put in his place.”

“But he helped you rescue the rabbit for all that. I trust you thanked him.”

“Oh, heavens!” Alicia covered her mouth to prevent herself from laughing outright and having to endure another of Janet’s lectures. “I knew there was something I meant to do.”

“Ye gods!” Janet shook her head but Alicia got the impression she was having difficulty keeping her disapproving expression in place.

They reached Alicia’s chamber and Janet became too preoccupied with her duties to spare further time for scoldings.

“What’s he like?” she asked instead. “Is he high in the instep? Well,” she continued, not pausing long enough for Alicia answer, “I suppose that’s only to be expected.”

“He’s quite the most arrogant individual it’s ever been my misfortune to encounter.”

“Aye, I’ve no doubt he struck you that way if he didn’t share your concern for some scrap of a rabbit. But is he handsome, my love? Your cousin will be devastated if he’s merely mortal.”

Alicia considered her response, even though she didn’t need to. She thought she’d been too angry with him to pay much attention to his person. But it took no time at all to summon up an image of the imposing individual who’d strutted in front of her in a quite insufferable manner, doing his best to bully her into submission.

“Well, he’s taller than average. A full head taller than me, in fact.”

Janet, engaged in pouring hot water into a ewer, chuckled so heartily that she slopped some over the edge of the basin.

“What’s so diverting, Janet?” Alicia stepped out of her soiled gown and draped it across the back of a chair. “Why should His Grace’s height be a cause for such mirth? It’s a pleasant change to be obliged to look up to a gentleman, even one as haughty as the duke.”

“Oh, I dare say it is, and it ain’t that what I find amusing. It’s more the thought of your cousin trying to win him round. She’ll need to stand on a box simply to converse with him. And even if she did manage to engage his attention, how would they…” Janet flushed and returned her attention to her duties. “Well, never mind about that. I dare say they’d manage.”

“Maria is not so very slight.”

“Of course she is, love. She’s barely five foot, even with the advantage of high shoes to aid her cause.” Tears of mirth were pouring down Janet’s lined face. “For all that she’s pretty and delicate, I should imagine a hulking great figure like you describe His Grace as being will scare her half out of her wits. You know what a flibbertigibbet she is.”

Alicia, out of a sense of duty to her cousin, attempted to look severely upon Janet but spoiled the effect by giggling. “Do you want to know more about the duke, or not?” she asked between splutters.

“Bless you, of course I do, lamb.” Janet helped Alicia to wash the grime from her limbs whilst simultaneously brushing her hair vigorously into submission. “Tell me everything about him that you can remember.”

“Well, he has broad shoulders and is very strong. He pulled the trap away from the poor rabbit’s leg as though it was nothing more than a piece of string. It was quite stuck and I wouldn’t have been able to manage it nearly so well without hurting the creature even more.”

“He can’t be all bad then. If he’s as high-handed as you suggest, he would simply have wrung the rabbit’s neck, regardless of your protestations.”

“Humph, I should like to have seen him try!”

“Anyway, never mind that. He helped you, and it was very good of him.” Janet tugged at a particularly stubborn tangle in Alicia’s hair.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, pet. Now sit still and tell me some more about him.”

“Well, he has light brown hair, brown eyes and a disgusting sense of self-importance. He was really quite cross with me, you know, just because I didn’t get all flummoxed when he deigned to notice me.”

“Seeing as how that old cob of yours almost caused him to break his neck, I don’t see as how you can hold that against him.”

“Matilda didn’t do it on purpose. Besides, he shouldn’t have been travelling so fast on such a narrow road. He can’t hold me to blame for his own irresponsibility.”

“Well, let’s hope that’s something else your uncle don’t get to hear about.” Alicia pulled a face. “What else did he say to you?”

“Nothing of consequence.” Alicia frowned. “But he did seem to think he was here solely to look at the horses.”

“Word hadn’t reached him of your cousin’s beauty, then?”

“Evidently not.”

Janet chuckled again as she twisted Alicia’s hair into a knot at the back of her head and jabbed at it with pins.

“Ow!”

“Keep still, pet, and let me do my work. Tell me more about His Grace. It’ll distract you and, God willing, it might even persuade you to sit still.”

“There isn’t much more to tell. He is good looking, I suppose, if you look beyond all that aristocratic pomposity. No, no, I take that back. I can’t persuade myself that he’s actually pompous. It’s just that he’s used to being deferred to, I suppose, and doesn’t realise he’s being condescending. But he didn’t seem to mind clambering about on the riverbank and wasn’t afraid to get his boots dirty.” She lifted her shoulders, which earned her a sharp reprimand. “Sorry! Still, I suppose it doesn’t matter to him if he dirties his boots. He’s not the one who has to clean them. That task would fall to his man.”

Janet sniffed her disapproval. “Don’t talk to me about that devil. He’s been in the kitchen this last hour, drinking tea, eating scones and being charming to everyone. He was actually flirting with Cook, if you please.”

Alicia laughed. “And why should that overset you, Janet? Would you have him flirt with you instead?”

“Certainly not!” Janet bristled with indignation. “I don’t hold no truck with that sort of behaviour.”

“Then why have you taken him in such dislike?”

“Because of all the impertinent questions he was asking. I found his manner quite objectionable.”

“What sort of questions?” Alicia stood and admired Janet’s handiwork in the pier glass. She’d managed to tame her rebellious locks into a style that was quite flattering.

“Oh, all about the family. Who was who and where everyone fit into the scheme of things.”

“That’s natural enough, surely?” Alicia wondered why she felt the need to defend the odious duke’s man. “I don’t suppose His Grace had ever heard of us before my uncle invited him here. It’s only to be expected that he should want to know whom he’s dealing with, and what better way to find out than by asking the servants.” She grinned. “Servants always know absolutely everything that goes on.”

“I suppose you’re right but even so I—”

“Oh, no! Must I, Janet?”

“Aye, that you must.” Janet forced Alicia to stand still as she laced her into a pretty corset edged with love-knots in emerald silk. “Your uncle won’t let you into the drawing room if you’re not properly dressed. He might overlook your rebellious ways when you don’t have company but he won’t put up with them when he has such an important guest. Besides, you wouldn’t wish to embarrass him and give the duke cause to look down on you more than you think he already does, would you now?”

“I suppose not. But it so vexes me that I must wear the wretched garment when I don’t need it. Besides, you always lace it so tight I can scarce breathe.”

“Don’t exaggerate, lamb.” Janet’s only concession was to loosen the laces a mere fraction before helping Alicia step into her petticoats. “There now, you look a picture.” She tied the last of the ribbons on her mistress’s gown. “Quite the equal to either of your cousins, just as I promised you’d be.”

“Don’t be so silly.” Alicia turned to look at herself in the glass again, startled by the image that stared back. She seldom took this much trouble over her appearance and was surprised at the difference Janet’s ministrations had wrought in so short a time. Surprised, but not especially interested. She left that sort of thing to Maria and Elsbeth. “Still, I dare say that for once my uncle won’t be able to find fault with me. Thank you, Janet.” She kissed her maid’s wrinkled cheek and slipped her feet into her evening slippers. “Right, hand me my fan and I suppose I’d better enter the fray.”

Of Dukes and Deceptions - Available from Carina Press from March 14. Go to my website www.wendysoliman.com, read the first chapter and enter the contest there to win a copy of the book.

Good luck!

Speaking of Love

Throughout the ages, humans have loved, made love, and strived to control nature before and after the fact. Contraceptive is by no means a modern concept. Nor is trying to escape the hazards of childbirth. Of course, it's much easier nowadays...

Birth contraceptive, some more effective than others, have been around since B.C. There is evidence in Mediterranean writings of vaginal suppositories using fruits, honey, cabbage leaves, crocodile dung, tree gums, wool and many other organic produce. Ingesting herbs and roots such as Queen Anne’s Lace, Pennyroyal, willow and rue was more commonplace. Desperate women even risked potentially fatal herbs such as the poisonous belladonna and honeysuckle.

It’s interesting to note that the Libyans made great use of a giant fennel plant, silphium. Modern day tests on relatives of this fennel give results of about 50% effectiveness. Silphium was so popular, being exported far and wide, that the particular species used became extinct by 400 C.E. and this possibly had a far greater success rate than the species which survived for our modern tests.

Caesarean section is by no means a modern concept, although the operation wasn’t widely practiced until medicine had evolved to hygienic environments and the use of anaesthetic – mother’s were far too likely to die of shock, infection and internal bleeding during the operation.

As early as 3000 B.C. (Egypt), this operation was mandated to provide separate burials for the mother and babe. In ancient Roman, there was a Law of the Caesars that sometimes prescribed this operation in an attempt to save a baby once the mother was dead. The name Caesarean section likely takes its name from this law rather than the rumour that Julius Caesar had been born by this method.

Progressing into the middle ages, there have been documented cases of caesareans being performed as early as the 1400s in an attempt to save both mother and babe although, as mentioned above, the survival rate would have been poor due to the medicine practices of the time.
Although the first reliable accounting comes from Germany in 1610, there’s mention of a Swiss pork butcher who delivered his own child successfully (using his carving skills) in around 1500.

More On Medicine

So, last week I slammed on the brakes and my computer bag went tumbling onto the floorboard of my car. Poor "puter" wouldn't boot after the incident. On Friday, I sent my little electronic baby to the Levono hospital to make it all better. In the meantime, I've been reduced to pecking out words on my iPad.

So, I asked my friend and Regency era expert Nancy Mayer if I could present a page from her website which I maintain. She suggested this nice article on a Regency lady's medicine cabinet.
(http://www.susannaives.com/nancyregencyresearcher/pages/med1.html)

Enjoy.

The Apothecary: Only The Lucky Lived

The apothecary shop was the forerunner of the modern drug store. For centuries, villagers and townspeople depending on the local apothecary for remedies of all sorts. In some areas, the apothecary was considered a doctor, despite a lack of medical training. They not only prepared medicine but they also preformed minor surgeries, did amputations and treated wounds.  They also performed bleedings and blisterings. There were no training schools to learn the trade. Like many vocations, it required an apprenticeship.

The available drugs at the apothecary were made from a variety of roots, plants, berries and other herbs.  Often the apothecary grew his own plants. From these plants, a variety of powders, liniments, lotions and ointments were made and sold for a variety of illnesses including everything from a cold to cancer. While some of the remedies had to have helped some patients, advances in science proved most of them to be ineffective in treating disease.

Just so you will appreciate medicine today, here are some of the unusual theories and medical advice given centuries ago:

A plant was supposed to cure the part of the body that it looked like. For example, walnuts were considered brain food because they resembled the brain. Rose petals were good for blood diseases because of their red color. Almonds could improve eyesight. 

Cure for tuberculosis: Smoke dried cow dun. Inhale fumes through pipe.  (That would've killed me right on the spot.)

Cold: Mix goose grease and turpentine. Spread on patient's chest. 

Whooping cough: Father should place head of sick child in a hole in a meadow for a few minutes at dusk.

Ague: Have patient swallow a cobweb rolled into a ball.

Scarlet Fever: Put saffron in an onion, baked onion until juicy and feed onion to patient.

Teething: Hang the foot of a mole around the baby's neck.

Everyone believed the more bitter the medicine, the better it worked.

In closing, I must say that I think it was only the lucky who survived and I'm glad medicine has advanced so much in the past hundred years.  There is just no way I could swallow a cobweb!!  Could you?

Patricia Preston
http://www.patricia-preston.com/

The Language of Flowers

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray,
love, remember: and there is pansies. that's for thoughts...
There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue
for you; and here's some for me: we may call it
herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with
a difference...

~ Hamlet, Act 4, Scene V

                                                              

                                         

On Valentine's Day, we say it with flowers. Florists everywhere do a brisk business, especially, in beautiful, long-stemmed, blood-red roses, and even today we all recognize these say,  "I love you."

But back in the day, long before ladies spoke the language of the fan, lowering coy eyelashes behind fluttering sprays of feathers, ivory, silk and painted paper, and conveying meaning with every gesture (which perhaps we'll visit in another post!), flowers held sway.

We all remember crazy Ophelia, driven insane by murder, mayhem and wishy-washy Hamlet's commitment issues, reciting her poignant litany of herbs and flowers.

That language of flowers, or "floriography," much of it lost to us in these instant days of pixels, texting and Tweets, harks back to the early Chinese dynasties -- if not earlier. The fashion was transported to Europe by Charles II of Sweden, whose courtiers popularized the fad  in 1714, upon Charles returned to Sweden after years in exile in Turkey at the Ottoman court. Four short years later, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu,  the wife of the ambassador to Constantinople, found herself intrigued by the fragrant coded messages used in Turkish harems and introduced the symbolism to Britain.

                                 

During the Regency period, a young lady, or even a taciturn gentleman, could say what otherwise they did not dare to, by wearing a flower or presenting one, even scenting a handkerchief with a particularly recognizable fragrance.

And when Queen Victoria came to the throne, flowers truly became the rock stars of their era. Their language was spoken everywhere.  Flower dictionaries, including an actual "The Language of Flowers" were published, in case anyone might be unclear of the translation when sent a surreptitious message.

Flowers adorned everything, from hair and gowns and jewelry and bonnets to men's lapels, furniture and china patterns. Coded messages were transmitted depending on the type of flower, its color, its size, whether a single bloom or grouped together in a bouquet, or presented with the left hand ("no") or the right ("Yes!"), in an upright or lowered position! 

                                          

 "Tussie-mussies" -- small nosegays of tightly-gathered mixed flowers and herbs that live on today in bridal bouquets -- were carried to provide sweet-smelling antidotes to the odors of the cities. Mixed with herbs such as rosemary and thyme, and thought to ward off malady, as well as lift spirits, this was Victorian-era aromatherapy combined with romance!

The floriography is endless -- and, of course -- open to translation, but here are a few to tantalize:

Apple blossom: good fortune

Asparagus fern: fascination

Baby's breath: innocence

Carnation (yellow): rejection

Carnation (red): heartache

Clover (white): Think of Me

Clover (four-leaf): Be Mine

Daffodil: unrequited love

Dill: lust

(I will never make another pot of chicken soup without thinking of that last one!)

Taryn Kincaid is the author of an erotic paranormal romance, Sleepy Hollow Dreams. Her debut historical, Healing Hearts, a Regency romance, will be released by Carina Press, February 28. Please come visit her at http://dreamvoyagers.blogspot.com/, or follow her on Twitter.

Why orchids used to be more rare and expensive

Another blog about orchids in history? Be glad I’m not blogging about my other obsession - reptiles, especially snakes. I love snakes. I’m weird. What can I say?

So, now that I’ve thoroughly creeped you out, let’s get back to the world’s most exotic, erotic, romantic flowers - orchids. First, let’s clear up some misconceptions. There are no black orchids. You can send your Victorian adventurer off to search for one, if you want, but he/she won’t find one. Also, orchids aren’t parasites. Many types grow on trees, and their roots cling to the bark to hang on, but they don’t harm the trees except, maybe, by weighing them down.

Please note: For the rest of this blog, I’ll be referring to the cattleya orchid for two reasons. 1) there are around 30,000 species of orchids, and nothing I say could be true about all of them, 2) the cattleya, or “corsage,” orchid is the one most familiar to the general public, and perhaps, the most beautiful.

We hear stories of orchid plants so exceedingly rare they were worth thousands of dollars, and yet today, we often see them at the garden center and even the supermarket for under $30. Is there a contradiction there? Actually, no. Modern science has made what used to be unique and extravagant quite common.

Orchid seeds used to be almost impossible to germinate. They’re tiny and only can establish themselves in the presence of symbiotic fungi. These days, horticulturists “plant” seeds in sterile flasks with nutrients suspended in liquid. As the tiny, tiny plantlets grow, they’re transplanted several times into other flasks and only after a year or more are put into pots. Before the latter half of the 20^th century, all a grower could do was pollinate a plant in the hopes that, of the thousands of almost-microscopic seeds, one might fall into just the right situation in the pot and grow into a plant. Then, the grower would have to wait years for the new plant to bloom to see if he had a truly magnificent flower or only a ho-hum one.

Because, you see, not all orchids are created equal - not even orchids that originate in the same seed pod. In order to explain, I’ll have to science-geek-out for a moment. Please, pardon me.

Orchids have a high chromosome count - almost as high as the number humans do. As a result, orchid siblings vary as much as human brothers and sisters do. You know the scenario. One of the brothers is drop-dead-gorgeous, and while the other one resembles his handsome sib, he’s not nearly as good looking. For the sake of discussion, let’s call them Jim and George. Your heart goes pitty-pat when in the presence of Jim. George you love as a friend, even though you aren’t IN love with him.

For just this reason, truly beautiful orchid plants get their own individual names. I’m not kidding you. Cattleya intermedia ‘Jim’ is highly desirable, while cattleya intermedia ‘George’ is not so much. Owning just any cattleya intermedia isn’t good enough for a true connoisseur. You need to own cattleya intermedia ’Jim.’

But there is only one Jim, and given how hard it is to get more cattleya intermedias by any name, Jims is doubly valuable. To get a new plant, you can spend large amounts of money to get an orchid hunter to find you one in the wild. Because cattleyas are New World plants, that would involve paying for an expedition to the Americas. Or you can pollinate the plant you have in your greenhouse and hope you get someone as gorgeous as Jim and not just a bunch of Georges.

In either case, you have no guarantee of the worth of the flower you’re getting. If you want to get a piece of the Jim you already know exists, your only hope there is to talk Jim’s owner into dividing him (essentially taking a cutting) and selling you a piece at a Truly Astronomical Price.

These days, modern science can clone hundreds of little Jims, and you can order one from a supplier for under $50. But you can see that when Lord Whatsizname had a precious orchid in his Victorian hothouse why it was such an investment.

Let me conclude by saying that I put orchids in almost all of my books. They feature in a scene in Miss Foster’s Folly and will play an even bigger role in Always a Princess, due out from Carina this August. I don’t put snakes into my books, so you’re safe.

Historical TMI

It has occurred to me that, should I happen to meet certain historical figures in the afterlife, our conversations might prove a bit awkward.

It’s the TMI factor, you see. What do you say to a man when you’ve seen the love letters he sent to his wife in the early days of their marriage? Letters which contain such revealing passages as:

"Come soon; I warn you, if you delay, you will find me ill. Fatigue and your absence are too much. You are coming, aren't you? You are going to be here beside me, in my arms, on my breast, on my mouth? Take wing and come, come! A kiss on your heart, and one much lower down, much lower!"

Well, all right, then. Good to know this guy--we’ll call him General X--could be so generous and amorous when his passions were engaged.

And then there’s General Y. A more circumspect soul, he left us no correspondence allowing us to deduce just what he planned to do to his woman of the moment next time he got her into bed. And when one of his brothers was being a bit too scandalous in his womanizing, General Y complained in a letter to another brother that he wished their errant sibling was ”castrated, or that he would like other people attend to his business & perform too. It is lamentable to see Talents & character & advantages such as he possesses thrown away upon Whoring.”

Though don’t let that fool you into thinking General Y was any kind of model of chastity. Among other things, he had at least two mistresses in common with General X, one of whom was generous enough to the salacious curiosity of posterity to publicly state that Y was better in bed.



And who are our amorous generals? X is Napoleon and Y is Wellington--and speaking as someone who’s read stacks of biographies of both, it’s amazing how much of their personalities and voices come through in those two brief quotes above.



Do you know any good historical TMI? And would you prefer Napoleon or Wellington for your Valentine? (I’m on Team Wellington all the way--he’s much better-looking by my tastes, I like cool-headed, reserved, snarky personalities like his, and on the whole I prefer my Secret Historical Boyfriends to NOT try to take over the world.)



Susanna Fraser is the author of The Sergeant's Lady (available now) and A Marriage of Inconvenience (April 11, 2011). The lovely lady in the picture is NOT her, but the French actress Mademoiselle George, our informant on the relative sexual prowess of Napoleon and Wellington. You can visit Susanna's website here.

History of Men's Underwear - Part Two

Catch up: Read The History of Men's Underpants - Part One.


Now, where were we? Oh yes. The Middle Ages.Where the codpiece had to be invented to prevent one's tackle from drifting around in the breeze and men "started" to *cough* exaggerate--just a little--what they had...

Some people, and I know this is hard to believe, had some space left over in their codpieces, so they'd keep objects in there too. Handy! Or something-y.

Of course, they stopped exaggerating... It's not like they do it now...

As the trousers got gradually longer,the undergarments grew with them. They resembled the breeches in shape and size, although they were made with a softer material such as silk, cotton or linen. This was important if you were wearing scratchy wool next to the skin. You find, too that underwear was ditched by many in favour of the coattails of the long shirts. Men would pull the tails between their legs and wrap their family jewels in the shirt. I'm just glad I wasn't a washerwoman in the 18th century, that's all I can say.


With many thanks to Anteros - who has an informative post about Age of Sail underwear here.

What do you think spurred the invention of this contraption?

The bicycle, apparently. Men found that they needed a lot of support while riding it-- although you'd think they would have realised this with horses too...

It's sad that after 6000 years we come almost full circle and where we started with the loincloth, with the jockstrap we finish off with the loincloth.

It's always fascinating to write gay romance because of the wonders to be found under a man's overclothes. It's interesting that names are so difficult to pin down. Small clothes, underthings, underwear--all were considered too delicate to mention and a writer risks getting it wrong no matter what she chooses.

But here's to them all. To the braies, the strossers, the drawers, the jockstraps, the loincloths, the smallclothes, the boxer shorts, the codpiece, the hose. Here's to everything that wraps around that small difference between men and women--viva la difference!

Erastes
www.erastes.com
Erastes writes gay historicals, and her first book for Carina is "Muffled Drum" (set during the Austro Prussian War) and will be out in July 2011. It's full of soldiers, horses, angsty love drawers and many many buttons.

Of Dukes and Deceptions

When writing Regency romances I never really know where the story's going. I start with a basic idea and then allow my imagination, and characters, to take over. Sometimes they take me completely by surprise, doing things I hadn't expected at all.

Take my up-coming release with Carina Press, for example. Of Dukes and Deceptions came about because I decided it would be fun to tinker with the class system. My hero is a duke, an only child brought up in opulence and doing precisely as he pleases, regardless of the consequences. He's handsome, rich and single so it's hardly to be wondered at. But Nick meets his match in Alicia Woodley, a mere poor relation, when visiting her uncle's stud farm he visits. Here's how they first make one another's acquaintance.

Nick left Gibson to keep the horses calm and went in search of the owner of the offending vehicle. He strode across the road, following the sound of voices coming from a nearby thicket, ready to tear the malefactor off a strip. As he paused to listen, he detected the soft tones of a woman’s voice and the deeper rumble of an adolescent male.

“Hold her steady if you can, Will. I almost have it.”

“Will she be all right, miss?”

“She will if I have any say in the matter.”

The woman sounded both angry and full of determination. Nick’s own anger at the manner in which she’d so carelessly abandoned her transportation was still clouding his mind as he descended the steep riverbank and moved closer to her position. He was keen to see what so occupied her attention that she’d blocked the road in her anxiety to attend to it. He made no effort to move quietly, but she was so taken up with her task that she didn’t appear to realise he was there.

Nick swore volubly when he discerned the cause of her anxiety. It was nothing more than a scrawny rabbit caught in a trap. His valuable horses could have been badly injured for the sake of a damned rabbit! It defied belief.

He looked again to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. No, it was definitely a rabbit, and it had its leg caught in a snare. It was clearly in acute pain and half scared out of its wits. The woman was trying to twist the vicious-looking trap clear of its leg. She was taking infinite care, speaking reassuringly to the captive, but the snare was too strong for her to break its hold.

“It’s no good, Will,” she said with a frustrated sigh. “It appears to be stuck fast and I don’t have the strength to—”

“It would be a greater kindness to put it out of its misery by wringing its neck.”

The woman started violently and her companion, equally discomposed, almost dropped the rabbit.

Investing his tone with a wealth of sarcasm, he stepped up to her. “And if it means you’ll move that nag of yours out of my path, I’ll be glad to provide you with that small service. Presumably you’re too squeamish to attend to the matter yourself?”

“I’m not trying to kill it, you idiot! I wish to save the poor animal, and your creeping up on us like a thief in the night almost made us do it further harm.” She glared at him, her expression hostile. “Whatever did you suppose you were about?”

Nick was so taken aback that it took a moment for him to realise her remark had actually been intended for him. His Grace the Duke of Dorchester was accustomed to being pandered to. Obsequiousness came high on the list of attitudes he was compelled to endure. Deferential, sycophantic and unctuous behaviour was also much in evidence in his dealings with the lower classes. He must have become immune to it all over the years because he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had dared to refer to him as an idiot. At least, not to his face. Even Gibson, who felt he’d earned the right to speak his mind, wouldn’t go so far. His anger drained away in the face of the woman’s refreshing attitude and he decided to help her anyway.

“Here, allow me.”

He took the strong wire from her fingers and twisted. It barely moved. He glanced at her in surprise.

“Yes, indeed.” She nodded vigorously, her eyes alight with fiery anger. “The poachers around these parts are as desperate as they are devious. They don’t give the poor animals a chance.”

“And you thought you’d be able to free the creature unaided?”

“There’s no call for such scepticism.” She tossed her head, eyes now flashing with indignation. Her attitude left Nick with the distinct impression that she had little time for members of the opposite gender who thought themselves superior in the ways of the countryside. “I’ve done it successfully several times before. There’s a technique to it. It requires more than mere brute force. Even a female can manage it, with patience and an obliging captive, which this poor rabbit appears to be.”

Nick raised a brow, starkly cynical. “I admire your optimism but fear you’re chasing a lost cause.”

“Nonsense! The rabbit suffers more with every second we delay but I shall free her. This is how it’s done. Look.” She moved closer to him. “You must unthread the wire, through that gap there. That’s the difficult part. No, not like that! It will tighten if you turn it in that direction.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because the animal would naturally move that way to escape. The poachers understand that and know it will doom itself. Yes, now you have it.” She nodded, apparently satisfied with his clumsy fumbling. The abrupt movement of her head dislodged a few loose curls from the ribbon which was supposed to be holding them back. They fell across her face and she pushed them impatiently aside. “Now, simply pull the wire away. Gently now, don’t distress the poor thing unnecessarily.”

The wire snapped away from the rabbit’s leg. It was badly injured but not, according to his as-yet-unnamed companion, broken.

“It is as I’d hoped.” The woman bestowed a reassuring smile upon the animal. “We’ll be able to make her well again soon enough, Will.”

She pulled the shawl from around her shoulders and wrapped the rabbit in it, cradling it against her chest. Amazingly, it seemed happy enough with that situation and made no effort to escape. She stroked its ears and cooed at it. Not once had she so much as looked in Nick’s direction and had yet to thank him for his assistance.

Amused rather than offended, he took a moment to assess the rabbit’s benefactress. Early twenties was his estimate of her age. She was of above average height, dressed in a serviceable gown of scarlet wool that had seen better days. There was no corset beneath it—he’d bet the duchy on that fact—but she filled the bodice very adequately without any artificial assistance. Her white petticoat showed beneath the hem of her gown, dripping with mud, presumably as a result of her foray onto the riverbank they were standing upon. Nick’s boots were similarly afflicted. In spite of the coolness of the day, she wore no pelisse and had sacrificed her shawl for the greater good of the rabbit without a thought for her own comfort.

Her hair was dark but not quite black. He’d already ascertained that the scarlet ribbon holding it back was woefully inadequate, and her tresses cascaded across her shoulders in a riot of insubordinate curls. There was no evidence of a bonnet or gloves. She looked dishevelled, as though she had more important things to do than concern herself with her appearance, a factor greatly in her favour from Nick’s perspective. He was rather enjoying her irreverent company and decided to delay the moment when he must reveal his identity, which would inevitably change everything.

He took advantage of her preoccupation with her patient to examine her face. She wasn’t handsome in the accepted sense. However, a serene quality of self-containment about her held his attention, and an intelligent light in her eyes suggested quiet strength of character. Her features could best be described as arresting. Her face was slightly tanned, lending proof to a preference for the outdoors. Freckles dusted her pert nose, presumably the price paid for cavorting about the countryside on a one-woman crusade to deprive local poachers of a dishonest living. Her chin was a little too long to lend her true beauty, and the ear peeping through that riot of curls was decidedly too large.

But Nick wasn’t about to hold such misfortunes of nature against the chit. He was swamped by beautiful wherever he went. It was a refreshing change to encounter one who didn’t conform to that pattern, both in appearance and in manner. Besides, this creature owned such compelling green eyes, currently full of compassion as she gazed upon the injured animal in her arms, that he’d have forgiven her just about anything. He’d already absolved her from blame for the accident she’d almost caused.

She must be the daughter of some local worthy. But whoever she was, she ought to remember her manners and display some gratitude toward him for assisting her. A method in which such a spirited chit might discharge that debt sprang spontaneously to mind. Nick felt himself hardening at the prospect and almost smiled in anticipation of the challenge he’d just set for himself.

Perhaps his sojourn here wouldn’t be such a massive waste of time after all. Being of relatively lowly birth, the girl was probably unaware of the obligation she’d placed herself under when accepting his help. He’d enjoy educating her in that respect. And in other ways too. Afterward he’d reward her with a few trinkets, the like of which she’d never have anticipated owning in the normal scheme of things, and be on his way.

When she opened her mouth again, doubts filtered into his brain. She spoke in a refined manner and the lad deferred to her authority as a matter of course. His enigmatic companion was obviously well connected. Obliging females littered Nick’s path at every turn. The disappointment he experienced when he realised this one was very likely forbidden fruit was surprisingly profound.

“Do I have the honour of addressing Miss Woodley?”

She must have forgotten all about him in her anxiety for the rabbit because her eyes widened at the sound of his voice. She turned in his direction, openly assessing him. Amusement lit her expression as her eyes roved from his mud-splattered boots, taking in his tight-fitting inexpressibles, caped driving coat and finally coming to rest on his hat. Her smile broadened, indicating that, far from being cowed by unexpectedly conversing with a gentleman of high birth, she found the situation diverting.

“And you’re the Duke of Dorchester, I collect.”

Without waiting for a response she executed a surprisingly graceful curtsey, given that she was still clutching the rabbit. It ought to have looked ridiculous but somehow conveyed the impression of being just the opposite. She chuckled, presumably in response to his quizzical expression.

“Don’t look so crestfallen, Your Grace. I’m Alicia Woodley, the poor relation. It’s my cousin Maria you’ve come to look over, and I can assure you she’s every bit as beautiful as the reputation which precedes her.”

“Really!” Nick quirked a brow imperiously. “You have the advantage of me, Miss Woodley. I was under the impression I’d come to the district to observe the workings of your uncle’s stud farm.”

She chuckled again, apparently unaffected by his display of aristocratic superiority. As she did so, Nick noticed that her lips were a perfect cupid’s bow. The tip of her tongue protruded and she moistened them unselfconsciously. He didn’t think the gesture was contrived—this girl was no flirt—and couldn’t recall the last time any female had behaved so artlessly in his presence. He regarded her with a modicum of interest.

“Did you indeed.” Her smile was invested with a wealth of amusement. “Still, it doesn’t signify, about Maria, I mean. Unless I mistake the matter, you’re no stranger to ambitiously determined females anxious to make a favourable impression.”

“You might well be right, but at present my path is being hindered by a different sort of female altogether. To wit, one cob intent upon the choicest pasture, mindless of the danger she causes to legitimate road-users in her determination to reach it.”

“Oh, gracious!” Miss Woodley’s hand flew to her mouth. “Matilda must be up to her old tricks again. I apologise if she endangered your progress, Your Grace. However well I tether her, she seems to have mastered the knack of freeing herself if she desires something out of her reach. It’s a very trying habit but, you see, she was so badly treated by the farmer who previously owned her that I can’t bring myself to chastise her for her lack of manners.”

“I quite see your difficulty.” Instead of embarking upon the lecture he’d been preparing, Nick found himself smiling. “Under the circumstance, perhaps we should be thankful that Matilda consents to be harnessed to your conveyance at all.”

“Oh, she’s perfectly happy to make herself useful.” A capricious smile illuminated Miss Woodley’s face. “Although she doesn’t care to be hurried and prefers to attend to matters at her own pace.”

“Then given her independent streak, might it not have been wiser to choose a wider stretch of road upon which to abandon her?”

“I don’t see why that should concern you.” She lifted her shoulders, as though bored with the entire conversation.

“It concerns me because it would have greatly reduced the likelihood of causing an accident.”

“Perhaps, but I can’t be held to account for the location where poachers set their traps. Besides, this back road is so seldom used that I didn’t think she’d be in anyone’s way. I’d quite forgotten you were expected today, you see. But even if I’d remembered, I wouldn’t have anticipated your approaching from this direction.” She wrinkled her brow. “Don’t dukes automatically take the front entrance?”

“So you hold me responsible for your own neglect.” Nick, who until that point had been enjoying the exchange, felt his anger returning. “In which case, perhaps I should beg your pardon for interrupting Matilda’s lunch.”

“Oh, don’t concern yourself about that.” Miss Woodley waved his words aside. She didn’t seem in the least put out by his caustic tone. A tone which had been known to reduce grown men to quivering wrecks. “Matilda has a very forgiving nature.”

For once Nick had no answer to make and concentrated instead upon quelling his surprise at her latest revelation. She’d forgotten that he was engaged to call at Ravenswing Manor. His arrival at any location was usually keenly anticipated, and he couldn’t recall when it had last been overlooked by anyone.

“I hope no harm came to your equipage,” Miss Woodley said, almost as an afterthought.

“None, I thank you. And my man and I escaped injury also.”

She looked at him with an impatient expression. “Well, obviously, I can see that.”

Of Dukes and Deceptions - Available from Carina Press March 14. Don't miss it!