Here’s a little something for my audiobook readers!

NEW RELEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My novella THE LOST PENDANT OF PETTIGREW PARK is contained the the Michigan Romance Writers anthology ONCE UPON A NECKLACE.

ONCE UPON A NECKLACE features FIVE historical romance novellas with everything from chivalrous medieval knights, stern Scottish Lairds, swashbuckling Pirates, English Regency Lords & Ladies, and the Michigan Orphan Train! Such a delightful eclectic mix with a story for everyone and every mood.

As always, you can check out my first chapter below to try before you buy.

buy it here for KINDLE UNLIMITED:  AMAZON

Pettigrew Park, Kent, England, 1814

Weston Broadbent smiled tightly at his grandmother, hoping his expression didn’t look nearly as false as it felt. Pettigrew Park was the last place in the world he wanted to be.

“Gentlemen don’t pout, Cubby,” his grandmother admonished him as if he were a naughty six-year-old with a solid thump from her ivory and silk fan. “I will not endure your sour disposition even one minute longer. Come, escort me to the receiving room, I wish to see who else is arriving.”

Sighing inwardly, Weston offered his arm. His father’s mother, who never once forgot she was born a lady, had been ancient his entire life. He had no idea of her true age as the number was kept secret from all but God. While her mind was still razor sharp, her frame was now thin, shrunken and frail.

No amount of face rouge, elaborate wig, or layer of rich fabric could hide the evidence of her many years. Delicately gloved hands, curled into painful claws by rheumatism, grasped his arm with a vice-like grip. If he avoided looking at her directly, he could imagine her living forever.

He’d agreed to accompany her this week as only a small repayment of the many kindnesses that had saved him from a life with either the military or the clergy. Grandmother’s money had not been able to secure a title for her progeny, but she more than made up for it by sharing a real estate savvy that bordered on witchcraft.

“Ready to stir the scandal broth already, Granny? We just arrived ourselves,” he teased.

“I want them all to know I am still alive.”

“Don’t be morose, Granny. You know you will likely outlive us all.”

“Bah, that would be no fun at all,” she scoffed. “Oh my, who’s that just now arriving?”

“Lord Whipple, I believe.” He leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Lord Pettigrew is determined to see three daughters wed after this house party. By the looks of things, he has invited every eligible bachelor in Debrett’s Peerage.”

“And you are certain you have no interest in one of them?”

“None whatsoever. The oldest has a voice like a squeaky hinge, the youngest is much too young for my tastes, and the middle one, Clare, is downright frightening. There’s something a bit wicked behind her eyes. She’d likely smother a man in his sleep.”

“What an uncharitable thing to say,” she replied. “I happen to agree, but they say there is someone out there for everyone.”

“I’ve yet to meet a woman who would tempt me into domestication. However, I promise you’ll be the first to know if I find one.”

“Perhaps you need to look harder, boy. You’re thirty and one this year. It’s time for you to start tending your garden.”

“Whatever that means,” he said dismissively. “However, you convinced me to accompany you here for a purpose, Madam, and the sooner that task is completed, the sooner we may leave.”

“We might still have a little fun as long as we’re here,” she said, clutching his arm a little tighter.

“Let me fetch you a chair, Granny.”

“Oh, no. That’s much too obvious. It would look as if I was here to watch a parade. I can bear to stand for a bit.”

“Why are you so determined to watch the door? I should think you already know anyone who has ever set foot in London. If not, introductions will be made at supper.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, patting his arm. “You are so good to me, Cubby.”

“Please don’t call me that in public, Granny.”

His grandmother was rather well-known for assigning colorful nicknames to her acquaintances. He’d long ago accepted that he was “Cubby” in her eyes, because she’d wanted to name him Cuthbert after her dearly departed favorite butler. It was an argument Weston was glad his mother had won.

“I grow forgetful in my old age.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “Granny, did you hear? Lady Pettigrew just announced there were no more guests expected until tomorrow morning. Come, let me find you a nice, comfortable seat in the parlor.”

“Very well,” she replied, already stepping away from her vantage point. “I’ll get settled there, and you can begin your search.”

“I still don’t understand why Lady Pettigrew’s servants couldn’t find it.”

“Stop grumbling. She only pays her staff a pittance, so they probably didn’t do a thorough search. I know you will take care with the task. Do you have the drawing I gave you?”

“Yes,” he replied, patting his pocket. “Right here next to my unencumbered heart.”

“Don’t be impertinent, Cubby.” She gave him a disapproving frown. Then, glancing around, she whispered, “You should begin now, while everyone is milling about and getting settled. The footmen are busy running here and there delivering trunks, so no one will notice you. Try the bedroom first, I marked it on the map.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” he whispered with a smirk. “Off I go to find the lost pendant of Pettigrew Park.”

* * *

Clementine Trevanion smiled nervously as the parlor began to fill with guests. It was unlikely they would pay her any mind. She was a mere country girl, who never had a proper come-out. They might snicker behind their fans, but they couldn’t stop her from enjoying her visit.

“Mimi, darling,” her grandmother said, placing a hand on the girl’s arm. “They’ll be setting up tables for cards soon. Would you be a dear and please fetch my needlepoint before the games begin? I mistakenly put it in your traveling bag.”

“Of course. I’ll get it now.”

It had been a long while since Clementine had played whist with a skilled partner, and she looked forward to an exciting game or two. While she doubted her grandmother’s eyesight was suitable for doing needlework, she wasn’t going to argue.

Pettigrew Park was one of the largest homes she’d ever visited, and she worried she might not be able to find the room she’d been assigned. Counting doors in the upstairs corridor, she took a step into the room she thought was hers then froze.

A strange man was lying on the floor, peering under her bed.

Clementine held her breath. Whatever is he doing?

Placing a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming, she backed out of the room. It had to be the right place. She’d recognized her things set about the room.

Swallowing hard, she came up with a plan. Making certain the door was left open for an easy escape, she would enter the room again, but this time, making enough noise that it could not be ignored. Then she would see what the stranger had to say for himself. Perhaps he was another guest who’d lost his way.

As she took the few steps back into the room, she began speaking loudly, as if conversing with someone in the hallway just out of sight.

“I’ll catch up with you at supper,” she called over her shoulder to her imaginary hallway friend.

When she turned back to the room, the man had sat up. His eyes widened momentarily as he pushed himself to his feet and smiled a little too broadly. He was obviously up to no good and was now going to try talking his way out the door. Rather that, she supposed, than have him try to talk his way into her bed.

“Who are you?” she demanded in a haughty voice. “This is my room.”

“So it is,” he replied, looking around with that stupid smile still plastered on his face. “My apologies. I’ve never been a guest here before, and I must have gotten a bit turned around.”

“Why were you crawling under the bed?” she asked, taking a step back to put a bit more space between them. He was handsome with a modicum of charm, but that didn’t mean he was harmless. For all she knew, he might be a jewel thief. Unfortunately for him, she didn’t own any.

“Was I?” The smile faltered but quickly returned and he patted the breast pocket of his coat. “I dropped my…pencil,” he explained. Leaning down, he scooped something up from the floor. “Found it!”

“I see.” So, he was a liar at best and a rogue at worst. “Now that you have it, you’ll be leaving, correct, Mr. …?”

“Broadbent,” he supplied. Giving her a courteous bow, he quickly backed out of the room.

Clementine waited until she was sure he was well away, then dropped to the floor and peered under the bed. He hadn’t befouled the chamber pot or put anything under the bed. She glanced around the room, nothing seemed amiss. How curious. With shaking hands, she retrieved the embroidery before heading back downstairs.

Clementine arrived in the parlor just as their hostess began assigning partners for whist. She handed off the needlework to her grandmother, then sat beside her to wait to be assigned a place.

When she was called to the next open table, Clementine sat down excitedly. She was a skilled player, and with an adequate partner, she hoped to take top position.

“Gentlemen, please find your partners,” Lady Pettigrew called out. “We’ve some lovely prizes for each day’s champions.” She pointed to a Staffordshire porcelain dog figurine on the mantel.

Clementine nervously chewed her bottom lip. All she needed was a partner who was not an idiot, and the dog would be hers. How delightful it would be to win top prize at her very first house party. When someone sat down across from her, she looked up with a hopeful smile.

“Mr. Broadbent,” she murmured as her smile faded.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Miss…. Embarrassingly, I do not recall your name.”

“Because I didn’t give it,” she replied, testily. She was about to say more when their opponents took their seats. “Clementine Trevanion,” she offered begrudgingly.

Determined to win all thirteen tricks herself, she began to play a bit recklessly, but quickly became frustrated.

“You have a partner, Miss Trevanion,” Mr. Broadbent commented, shaking his head. “A little trust would go a long way in the game.”

“Are we allowing table talk?” their female opponent, a Miss Dawes, remarked with a flirtatious giggle. “I thought these were to be regulation games.”

“My apologies, Miss Dawes.” Broadbent nodded his head. “I shall refrain from further comments upon the cards.”

Clementine relaxed her shoulders and smiled. She’d always thought Whist a fun game, and she should be enjoying herself. Stealing a glance at the Staffordshire dog, she then looked pointedly across the table at her partner. She had but one trump left, and it was low. It would be up to him to save the round.

The room grew silent as each table turned into a competition. The only sound was that of the servants offering refreshments, or the occasional grunt of dismay at a poor hand. It took her a few moments to notice an increasing pressure on her foot under the table. It should not have surprised her that Mr. Broadbent was trying to cheat.

Staring down at his cards, he gave no clue as to what he wanted her to do. Was he oblivious to crushing her toe? Moving her foot away, she noticed him frown and shake his head. What on earth did the man want? The rules were clear, if she had the high card, she had to play it.

She sipped the punch she’d been served to buy a moment to think. She looked across the table, hoping to find clarity. When he finally looked up, their eyes met.

She deemed him handsome but not classically such as a Roman or Greek statue from the museum. His mouth was a bit too wide. His nose not exactly straight. But his eyes, they were his best feature by far.

Hazel was a common enough eye color, but his changed from green to brown and gold depending on the tilt of his head, his expression, and—if she had to guess—his mood. Here at the card table, they teased her with a friendly chestnut hue that promised comradery. A woman could get lost in those eyes if she wasn’t careful. They practically screamed trustworthiness.

She found herself smiling as she wished it were true, then she played her top club.

It was her last trick of the game. Hand after hand, he claimed the cards. They were soon up 9 to 4, and Miss Dawes no longer giggled.

“Keep your partners,” Lady Pettigrew instructed. “Winning team, stay at your table. Losing team, please move one table to the left.”

“I suppose I should share this with you,” Clementine said, cradling the Staffordshire dog after they’d won their remaining sets.

“As a gentleman, I insist that the lady takes the prize.”

“Are you?” she asked with a sly smile.

“Am I what?”

“A gentleman.”

“Absolutely,” he answered. Then, executing a bow worthy of court, he quit the room to join the other men for brandy and cigars.

“I’m afraid I slept through the cards,” her grandmother said as she came to Clementine’s side. “Who were you speaking to?”

“Nobody.”

 

 

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Please enjoy the first chapters of all my books for FREE. Take a peek into the world of my characters and get to know them a little better. Want to keep reading? There’s a buy link after each chapter. Enjoy!

LYON IN THE WILD

Part of the Lyon’s Den connected world through Dragonblade Publishing

Lion’s Den gambling hall, Whitehall, London 1814

With his arms occupied by his sister’s cold, lifeless body, Crispin Morgan kicked at the door of the servant’s entrance to the Lyon’s Den gambling club. His was hardly a front-door type of visit.

“For the love of God, let me in,” he bellowed to the wolf he knew stood just behind the door. Heart pounding in his chest, fear curdled his gut while white-hot anger stabbed his mind. She couldn’t be dead. He’d promised to protect her.

“What the…” Lysander jumped aside and waved him in. “Quickly. The sick room is unoccupied,” he said, pointing to a doorway next to the pantry on the far side of the kitchen. “Take her there. I’ll get the Black Widow.”

Crispin had no sooner laid Mary-Alice down and covered her with as many blankets as he could find than Mrs. Dove-Lyon stormed into the room.

“Quite a surprise to see you, Lord Morgan, and you’ve brought us a… guest?” she asked, rushing to the bed. “How bad is it?”

“My sister, Mary-Alice. She’s cold as a stone, but I can still feel her breath against my hand.” Crispin shook his head with doubt as he replied. He should have hidden his sister away a year ago when she begged him to. Until he found her in such a state, he’d never believed her husband could be so cruel. “She gave birth a few days ago and was left to die in an abandoned townhouse in Goulston Square. It was only by chance that I found her. I pray I did so in time.”

“I’ll send for someone I trust in these matters for both their expertise and their discretion.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned over and laid the back of her hand on his sister’s forehead. “Be prepared. If she has childbed fever, it may be too late to help. Where’s the child?”

“I don’t know. There was evidence of a birth but no child,” he explained. “There were no servants and not a scrap of food. Her husband abandoned her to die alone.”

“Who’s her husband?”

“Lord Dunwoody.”

“Not one of mine.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon closed her eyes as if relieved by that fact.

“Mary-Alice has our father to thank for the pairing.” Fighting the urge to punch a wall in frustration, Crispin chose his next words carefully. “Yours was the first establishment that came to mind that I knew would open its doors. I need your help. I’m willing to pay.”

“This seems an odd time for the sort of bargains I make. Do you understand what you’re asking?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “If Mary-Alice lives, I need your help hiding her away where Dunwoody can’t find her again. If he discovers she’s still alive, he’ll redouble his efforts to kill her next time.”

“I can hardly safely marry her off for protection if she’s already married. That’s beyond the pale. Even for me.” She picked up Mary-Alice’s hands and gently rubbed them warm.

“I’m offering myself for your matchmaking services. Keep my sister alive and help me whisk her out of Town to somewhere safe.”

“Not that I’m unsympathetic, but that’s a lot to ask from someone in my line of work.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon reached out to brush the hair from Mary-Alice’s face. “The dear lamb is already looking a bit pinker, is she not?”

“I’ll marry your toughest case. Anyone.” With fear, and impotent anger still wrestling in his brain, he saw no other path. He’d do anything to save his sister’s life. He owed her that.

“Anyone or anyone with money?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked without a hint of judgment.

“With money,” he admitted. “I’ll need enough to set my sister up in an anonymous household far from here.” His pride rankled to admit that until he inherited his father’s title, he couldn’t afford to support his sister, a wife, and himself.

“Lord Dunwoody won’t sit on his thumb while his supposedly dead wife is spirited out of town. You’ve made a serious accusation against a peer. Not that I doubt you. He’s an odious man who’s allowed entry here only because he loses bucketsful of money.”

“I convinced a servant at their usual address that I needed to repay a gambling debt and they provided the address on Goulston so I might reimburse Lord Dunwoody before he left Town. It was barely more than a hovel. I had to break a window and crawl in. She was left with nothing but her sleeping gown and a bloody sheet.”

“He’s going to be furious when he finds out she’s not where he left her to die conveniently. You’ve only a courtesy title and he’s a powerful earl. Your sister is his chattel. The courts will not favor you. As long as he lives, she may never remarry. If she regains her senses, what shall I tell her about the child? She will ask.”

“Tell her the baby died. Dunwoody cannot get her back in his clutches. I’m not even certain the child lived. Perhaps that’s why he abandoned her.” Try as he might, Crispin couldn’t imagine the level of depravity necessary to strip a newborn from their mother’s arms and then abandon her to die. He suspected Dunwoody never wanted a bride. All he wanted was a legitimate heir.

“I feel your anger, Lord Morgan. You’re practically vibrating with it. I beg you not to call Dunwoody out. For now, at least until after your sister is safely away, it’s best to let him think he got away with it. It will give us time. You marry my choice and I’ll do everything within my power to keep your sister alive and to see her safely out of town. Return in one week—through the main entrance—if your sister still lives, I will have a bride for you.”

“Conditions?” he asked. Based upon rumors from secret conversations whispered outside the walls of the Lyon’s Den, Crispin knew Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a shrewd negotiator. With his sister’s life in the balance, there was little time for him to gain an advantage.

“Whatever your bride’s dowry, we split it fifty-fifty.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked down at his stricken sister and frowned. “Time is of the essence.”

“Seventy-thirty. In my favor, thank you.” Crispin paced across the small room. “I’m getting a life sentence out of this. While your aid is much appreciated, I’m the one taking the bigger risk.”

“All marriage is a gamble of sorts. Just as much as betting on a toss of dice. I’ve been doing this a long time, young man. I will choose the right person for you. It is in my best interest to fashion happy, successful marriages. Favorable outcomes keep me in business. I’ll grant you sixty-forty. Do you accept my terms?”

“Y-yes,” Crispin choked on the word. He drew in a slow breath, fortifying his resolve. “Yes.”

* * *

“Who’s doing what now?” Birdy Carmody resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her father’s long-winded explanation. They were foreign fish in this pond called England and she, with her Ojibwe blood, was even more so.

“I may have missed a few details, but my overall understanding is that the young man asked for you specifically.” Hardy Carmody poured two fingers of brandy into a glass and handed it to her. “You’re going to need this.”

“What have you done, Father? Explain it one more time because I thought you said—as ridiculous as it sounds—I thought you said I was getting married.” Birdy gulped down the brandy and instantly regretted it when her throat burned in protest. She’d much prefer a good homemade cherry bounce to this devil’s spit.

“You’ll be a lady. Imagine it, Lady Carmody. Oh, wait,” her father said as he poured himself a second brandy, “You’d be Lady Morgan. That has a ring to it. Of course, his father has to die before he’s a proper Earl. You’ll be a countess. Shouldn’t be too long. I’ve not met his father yet, but everyone here looks sickly, don’t they? So thin and pale.”

“It’s the air, I think,” she said, settling herself into a comfortable chair. “The air smells bad here.”

“That’s coal smoke. It’s big city air. The country air must be better. I hope this Morgan fellow has a country estate. You’d be happier there.”

“I don’t recall meeting a Lord Morgan. Why should he offer for me?” Suspicion began sneaking its way up her spine. Her father, famous for his business acumen, may have bartered away the rest of her life on a whim. He was impulsive, but she’d never questioned his intelligence before.

“Nenokaasi,” he said, using her tribal name, “My little hummingbird, when your mother died, I promised myself I would find someone for you who would love you as much as I loved her. None of the trappers, traders, or warriors our island will do. They don’t know your true worth. To them, you’re still the little girl who grew up behind the counter at the trading post. You deserve a prince, but I got you a lord. Well, nearly a lord, he’s as close as I could get.”

“You told me this was a business trip. I thought we were here to sell lumber and pelts and see the sights.” Birdy closed her eyes and swallowed down her anger. He means well, she kept repeating in her head. There wasn’t a respectable man on the island who’d dare to court her after the incident with Ben Red Feather. Her father must have gotten desperate.

“It is business. I just worked out a little matrimonial business on the side.” He had the decency to look sheepish.

“What have you done?” The reason for her new wardrobe and all the social gatherings she’d been dragged to since setting foot on English soil became clear.

“What I intended to do when we came here. You’re an educated young lady. You deserve better than some barefoot Romeo, drunken Lothario, or a trapper who smells like beaver piss.”

“Father! We trade with those men. They’re our friends.”

“I’d trust them with my life,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “That doesn’t mean they’re good enough for you. You’re smarter than the whole lot of them mashed together. Heck, you’re smarter than me. You deserve an educated man with manners.”

“And this Morgan who is almost a lord is that man?” Whether from the brandy or the conversation, Birdy’s brain stuttered over this revelation. Her father was on a mission to find her a husband and what Hardy Carmody wanted, he got.

“His name’s Crispin Andrew Morgan. I followed him around a bit. He’s tall enough and built like a mountain lion, with wiry strength rather than bulk. He’s got the same middling brown hair color as nearly everyone else here. Honestly, I was hoping for a noble redhead such as myself, but I couldn’t be too choosy. Princes and dukes aren’t as thick on the ground as I imagined.”

“A lion? What color are his eyes?” she asked before thinking better of it. What did it matter if her father had already decided? She and her brother couldn’t have asked for a better or more loving parent. Hardy Carmody was a provider, a problem solver, and the most determined, hard-working man she’d ever met. But now, he was testing the limits of her obedience.

“Blue,” he answered solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

“Weak eyes,” she replied as she placed her cup on the table, determined to never drink brandy again.

“Seems like a smart fellow,” her father said with a shrug. “High class, but not extravagant. Treats merchants and common folk with dignity. I was impressed.”

“Will I be?” In this land, she was a dark-faced goose among a bevy of swans. Would Crispin Morgan’s blue eyes see her differently?

“Your mother took her chances with a pasty Irishman, and I hope to think she never regretted it.”

“You met at sunrise and were one by sundown,” Birdy repeated the story she’d heard a thousand times. “Brody arrived one night the next spring. The name-giver called him Beshkwe, the nighthawk. Three springs later, I was born the day the catmint first bloomed. I was named Nenokaasi, after the hummingbirds who came to feed.” Birdy turned away wistfully. She wanted her own love story.

The thought of marriage to an Englishman had crossed her mind more than once this past year. While her father had set his cap on a peer of the realm, she’d have been happy with a barrister or ship owner who might help them fend off the Hudson Bay Company and keep their island trading post under a partnership with her mother’s tribe. What good would this Crispin Morgan be to her cause?

“Someday you’ll be telling the stories of the day your children were born,” her father announced, capturing her attention once again. “They’ll be little lords and ladies.” He beamed as he spoke.

“They’ll be English,” she said, with a twinge of apprehension. The Ojibwe people had always been more welcoming to her than the English. Even at school in Montreal, some treated her like an oddity or, worse yet, an untrustworthy foe. Sometimes her father only heard the information he wanted to hear. That’s what frightened her.

“Can you imagine the faces of the regulars at the trading post when I introduce you as Lady Morgan? Ben Red Feather will throw himself into the Gichigami and swim to a new village.”

“Does this soon-to-be lord know you expect him to return to Ziinzi Island with us?” While earls weren’t required to live on the English continent, she’d be surprised if he chose a life among the Anishinaabeg, a trading post, and months of freezing weather each winter.

“A minor detail. We just need him to visit. Once he sees our patch of heaven, why would he want to live here?” her father asked. “This place smells funny.”

“It does.” Smiling wanly, Birdy knew their discussion was over. Her mother once warned her it would happen like this. One day a man was a stranger, then you blinked and suddenly you couldn’t imagine your life without him by your side. Their love seemed so pure and effortless.

Could she and this man Morgan create the same magic? Was it even possible? She’d often said she wanted to marry a man like her father. Perhaps she should have been more careful about what she wished for.

“Father,” she asked without being able to meet his eyes. “Have you made promises? Did you shake hands?” Her father’s business was successful because he was an honest man of his word. Deals were made over strong spirits and sealed with handshakes. If he’d already given his word …her marriage was fait accompli.

“I felt it in my gut, Birdy. He’s the man for you.” Pouring himself another drink, he walked around the chair until he was standing directly in front of her. “I know you yearn to spread your wings. You agreed to accompany me to this place for a reason. Am I wrong?”

“Did you shake hands?” she repeated, ignoring his question. Were her inner thoughts and secret dreams so transparent to those who knew her?

“I met his representative, a respectable woman by name of Mrs. Dove-Lyon. We shook hands.”

When one of the hotel’s footmen came to lie out that evening’s fire, Birdy retreated to her bedroom. Throwing herself on the bed, she waited for tears that never came and huffed out her frustration.

She was neither sad nor scandalized, and the realization was unnerving. Her father must have known of her plan all along. It had always been difficult to get anything past him. Her desperation must have shown through.

But did he realize her desperation was for him, not her unmarried state? Her father needed help and had denied the fact for too long. It would take her brother Brody years to set himself up in a position to be useful. By then, it might be too late.

A well-placed marriage, however, might allow for a timelier rescue. If the man her father chose wasn’t useful, he must somehow be made to be. If Crispin Morgan’s father really was an earl, perhaps, if she played the doting daughter-in-law well enough, he might prove helpful.

But only if he didn’t take offense to the hue of her skin. A fifty-fifty chance at best based on her prior experiences.

If Crispin and his father were useless, she had to find a third option. Or create one. The trading post must survive. The island must remain under the tribe’s control. Losing the land was not an option.

Marriage was the answer for now. Crispin was a silly name for a man, but it didn’t really matter. His social standing and business contacts were more important than his name.

But there were risks. Was Crispin a drunkard? A gambler? Did he intend to beat a wife into subservience?

What about children?

* * *

In what was surely the longest week of his life, Crispin got his affairs in order. Dunwoody had not returned to Town, and no one asked about Mary-Alice. It was as if she had never existed at all. His decision to keep her condition and whereabouts a secret from their father had not been an easy one. His father was a man of his time. He’d bargained his daughter away to a rich man thrice her age and patted himself on the back for a job well done. With him, it would be a matter of honor. Given the chance, he’d return her to Dunwoody.

For the first time, Crispin was thankful his mother didn’t live long enough to witness her husband’s actions. She would never have forced Mary-Alice to marry the old curmudgeon.

Unaware of the importance of his visit to Lyon’s Den tonight, his valet had laid out Crispin’s standard gambling ensemble. While a perfectly presentable brown would suffice for faro and hazard, tonight called for something special.

Flat black was too formal and a little depressing, but the green was too cheerful for his current mood. Crispin settled on a charcoal gray superfine with a blue silk waistcoat his valet insisted matched the blue of his eyes.

He’d happily gambled at the Lyon’s Den for years, never losing more than he could afford to pay, and keeping himself outside of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s notice. While on the surface Lyon’s Den was a reputable gaming establishment, the matchmaking deals that took place behind closed doors were an open secret. While he’d known men who, through their debts, got caught in the Black Widow’s web, Crispin never thought he’d one day beg for her services.

The carriage ride to Whitehall was spent in silent contemplation. Before the evening was over, he’d be introduced to the woman with whom he would share the rest of his life. One day of chaos changed his life forever. Somehow, Dunwoody would pay.

Mouth turning to dust the moment he walked through the door, Crispin snatched two cordials off the tray of a passing servant and swallowed them down one after the other as he made his way to the sickroom. What had been a small dark room with a tiny bed was now transformed into a space befitting a lady. His sister, dressed but still wrapped in blankets, sat in an overstuffed chair, reading a book.

“Brother,” she cried out, jumping from her seat and wrapping her arms around him. “You saved my life.”

“I’m so sorry about the baby, Mary-Alice.” Crispin kissed the top of her head and led her back to her chair, relieved he didn’t have to look into her eyes while lying.

“No, Crispin, I heard the baby cry. I saw him. He’s a perfect, beautiful baby boy. Where is he?”

“You were very ill,” he explained. “There is no child. I’m so sorry.”

“No, he lived. Dunwoody must have taken him. I must find him.”

“Mary-Alice, please, you’re still so weak. It would be best if you focused on getting well now. I’ve made a deal with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I can get you away from your husband. We’ll hide you away where he can’t find you. Somewhere you can be safe and happy.”

“How could I ever be happy without my child?”

“Shall I ask someone to bring you some laudanum?”

“I don’t need laudanum,” she replied. “I need my baby. Show me my baby or show me his grave.”

“I can’t,” he said, turning his face to the wall so she wouldn’t see the tears forming in his eyes. Only his cruelty would save her now. “The child did not survive. Dunwoody has left town. God only knows what he did with the body. Without christening, there would be no proper grave to find. I hope he showed the little soul more concern than he showed you. You nearly died, Mary-Alice.”

“Wait, you made a deal? What does that mean?”

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will help me set you up somewhere away from London. A cottage of your own with allowance enough to support you and a servant or two. Maybe even a horse and gig. We’ll keep you hidden away from Dunwoody so he can’t finish the job. You cannot contact him looking for a baby that no longer exists. He’ll have you thrown into Bedlam. Once away, you cannot return to Town.”

“And what did you pay for this assistance?” His sister sat up straight and demanded he look at her. “What have you done?”

“The Lyon’s Den doesn’t just gamble with dice and cards,” he tried to explain. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon deals in matchmaking as well. Debts that cannot be repaid by normal means are settled with marriage. I have agreed to such an arrangement.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You didn’t. You can’t. I won’t ask that much of you. There must be a better way.”

“Dunwoody will not rest until you’re dead. I need to get you out of town as quickly as possible before he realizes you’re still alive. Mrs. Dove-Lyon has the connections to make this happen. This is the only way.”

“Who are you to marry?”

“I won’t meet her until later tonight when the settlement papers are signed.”

“You’re going to use her dowry to support me, aren’t you? I can’t let you do that.”

“It isn’t up to you. I’ve already decided and chosen the best course of action. I need you to obey me because I can’t bear to lose you again.” She was always a handful, but he’d secretly admired her quiet bravery in the face of so much adversity. She was stronger than she realized and somewhere she’d have to find the additional strength to move on without her baby.

“Would father let me hide away at one of his properties?” she asked, her voice so hopeful that it nearly broke his heart.

“Father would return you to Dunwoody in a heartbeat. He can’t know where you are. We can’t count on his help.”

“I should have died with my child. It would be easier all around if I had.”

“Never say that! You will outlive that blackguard, Dunwoody.” He hadn’t come here to get cross with her and shame rolled in his gut. After tonight, it was likely he’d not lay eyes on her again until after Dunwoody’s death when it was safe for her to come out of hiding.

“I didn’t mean it. Don’t be angry. I won’t ever say it again. Please don’t send me back to him. My husband is a monster. He’s threatened to kill me often enough. He’ll find a way. I’ll go wherever you send me.”

“It’ll be Dunwoody’s problem to explain your disappearance to the world. Once you leave here, you and I may only communicate through Mrs. Dove-Lyon. That will keep Dunwoody from having me followed to find you. He’ll hire someone to look for you as soon as he realizes you’re alive and outside of his clutches. If he can’t kill you outright, he’ll have you shut away in an asylum. You cannot, under any circumstances, contact him or anyone who knows him. That includes our father.”

“I agree, except for one thing,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “Promise me you’ll never stop looking for my son. I won’t allow myself to believe he died.”

“My priority is keeping you alive, but I’ll do what I can.” Guilt burned in his chest even though he knew his lie was necessary. If the child lived, there was no legal way to get him out of Dunwoody’s clutches. In that matter, he was helpless. “I promise.”

“Lord Morgan.” One of the house servants appeared in the doorway. “You are expected in Madam’s office.”

Crispin hugged his sister tightly, once again relieved she wouldn’t see the anguish on his face. He had to leave before he wept. With one last kiss to the top of her head, as she pressed her cheek against his heart, he stepped through the doorway and out of his only sibling’s life.

Reader praise for Lyon in the Wild:

What a fabulous addition to the Lyon’s Den! Lloyd’s story never stutters. Action-packed romance and adventure from beginning to end. Loved the two settings and the well-developed characters within the relatively short book length. Every good romance deserves an epilogue and Lloyd does not disappoint. New author for me and I will definitely be looking forward to reading more of her work. Stellar. A verified purchase Amazon review of Lyon in the Wild.

My musical inspriation while writing Lyon in the Wild, was a song by the artist Pink, Try. It is a song about resilience. About a couple who knows they need to keep trying to get to the happily ever after that they know they deserve.

Want more? Click here: YES, I WANT TO KEEP READING THIS!

Until then, check out my other books!

WHAT HAPPENS IN THE BALLROOM REGENCY ROMANCE TRILOGY:

Candles flickering in crystal chandeliers, music floating in the air, distant laughter, and muted conversation as dancers take their opening steps… drama simmers underneath the glamour.

The room is ripe for chance meetings, mistaken identities, and secrets. The desperate mingle with the determined while keeping in time with the music.

Once upon a time in a ballroom…

A man with a dark past meets a woman who fears she has no future.

A good deed leads to a desperate journey.

A cup of punch and a secret throw two unlikely lovers into peril.

Book One – How To Train Your Baron

London, 1812

She’d only ever seen a pen and ink likeness of the man, but there was no mistaking him. The wild hair, the blithe smirk, the awed parting of the crowd as he passed through the ballroom, leaving his name whispered in his wake. Byron. Lady Elsinore Cosgrove stood on tiptoe to get a better look as he finished his single circuit of the room and turned down the grand house’s main hallway. Most likely making his way to the card room…or else to an assignation. How very romantic.

In a maneuver she’d reserved for the direst of situations, Elsinore grasped two of the pearl buttons on her satin evening gloves and wrenched them free. “Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, attempting to sound devastated. “Look, Mama.” She held the buttons for her mother and older sisters to see. “My gloves are falling apart.”

“Good gracious.” Her mother frowned at the offending pearls. “I see I’ll have to have a word with the glover for passing off shabby goods. Take yourself to the ladies’ retiring room and find a seamstress with a needle to let. Quickly now,” she ordered. “You’re to dance the next set with the marquess.”

Elsinore looked over to spy her mother eyeing an ancient marquess. The man was as old as her father and twice as round. One by one, her sisters all nodded their silent approval and Elsinore cringed inwardly. She’d known when the season started that her days as an unmarried woman were numbered. Tonight’s taste of liberty might be her last. She had better make it count.

As they married, Elsinore witnessed her older sisters change from semi-intelligent, articulate human beings into demure and proper matrons. Each had squandered the paltry freedoms marriage offered in exchange for domestication. They now reminded her of the automatons she’d seen at an exhibition in Spring Gardens a few years ago. Mechanical beings endlessly repeating lifelike tasks with great precision, yet without a glimmer of emotion. She would not let it happen to her.

“I’ll hurry.” Elsinore turned and ducked behind a potted palm to make her escape before one of her sisters thought to accompany her. Weaving her way across the room, dodging dancers and ignoring a summoning wave from the hosts’ daughter and her dearest friend, Libby, Elsinore plowed forward. She would make amends for the social cut and the grief her mother would heap upon the poor glover tomorrow. Elsinore could let nothing stop her from completing tonight’s mission.

Nothing, that is, but a wayward baron.

My musical inspiration for this novel was The Blower’s Daughter by Damien Rice. The lines “And so it is the shorter story. No love, no glory. No hero in her sky” along with Rice’s yearnful delivery foreshadowed Elsinore and Quin’s long road to love and their happily ever after, where Quin finally becomes the hero Elsinore deserves.

Reader praise for How To Train Your Baron:

Diana Lloyd’s skill at creating a Regency world will pull you in and hold you until the end of the story. Her ability to develop characters who are delightful, wounded, misguided, and endearing captured my heart from the beginning. The witty banter between Elsinore and Quin is foreplay for their steamy romantic encounters, all written with deft cleverness. They are witty without being snarky, and they are well-rounded without being forced. I confess that Regency romances are not my favorite reads, but Ms. Lloyd may have converted me. She weaves such an intriguing mystery into the plot that I couldn’t stop reading. Her ability to insinuate a clue, to drop a hint as to some evil in the past kept me turning the pages. I was delightfully surprised at how much I enjoyed Ms. Lloyd’s story. If you enjoy Regency (and even if you don’t) this book is a must read.  An Amazon reviewer for How To Train Your Baron

Book Two- About an Earl

April 19, 1775

I beg you heed this missive, good sir. Meet me in the garden by the fountain of the goddess Themis. Your future is in grave peril.  JL Julianna Latham’s hand trembled as she scribbled her initials underneath the desperate plea and folded the strip of foolscap in half. She folded it again, worrying her fingers along the seam as the waiting footman’s hand extended eagerly so that he might be on his way. Hesitating to draw a single nervous breath, Julianna surrendered the note along with a coin she’d borrowed from her cousin Edwina.

“This must be delivered to the Earl of Winchcombe in all haste.”

“Winchcombe?” A rare expression of confusion clouded the footman’s face. “The Earl of Winchcombe?”

“He’s a guest at this evening’s ball,” Julianna replied. “As a favor to me, Thomas.” She pressed another coin, her last, into the footman’s hand. “Tell no one who sent it.”

“Aye, miss.”

“Thank you.” She lifted her hand away, releasing the note to begin its perilous journey. The footman turned and hurried off, his purposeful footsteps clicking across the polished marble floor. As he turned down the hallway and out of sight, fear that she’d just made the second biggest mistake of her life prickled the back of her neck.

Scrunching her toes in the too-big dancing slippers to keep them on her feet, she made her way out into the garden to await fate. The fountain of the goddess Themis seemed a fitting place to exact a measure of justice. Blindfolded, with her balancing scale held aloft, perhaps the Greek goddess would silently bless Julianna’s betrayal of her cousin Udele’s mad plan to trap the earl into a compromising situation.

With a lace domino masking her face and the sound of the fountain obscuring their conversation, it was unlikely anyone would take notice of Julianna’s warning to the earl. All he had to do was show up.

Forcing someone to offer for you was just as bad as, well, as bad as making certain promises to a girl and then abandoning her. Eldridge’s cruel words still brought tears to Julianna’s eyes. After years of pretty talk and a dozen stolen kisses, Eldridge was now betrothed to another. How calm and cold he’d been when informing her of his sudden “cessation of affection” for her. She would not have her justice, but she could use tonight to spare someone else misery.

“Well, your majesty…” How did one properly address a goddess? Glancing back up at Themis, Julianna smiled sheepishly. “I hope you and those of your ilk are looking down upon me kindly this eve.” Julianna felt around for a dry spot at the edge of the fountain and sat, rubbing her arms to keep warm as she waited.

The starched lace edge of the domino tickled, and she pulled it off to give her nose a scratch. Her cousin’s insistence on a masked ball was one more piece of her outrageous plan. The masks suggested an anonymity that made the reckless bolder and the ill-mannered even more so. If the earl could be warned before Udele sprung her trap, Julianna dared to hope everyone would walk away unscathed.

Cousin Udele’s ruthless determination to capture a title via marriage was beyond the pale and unsupportable. That her Aunt Hester had agreed to the scheme was only further proof that Julianna never should have come to London. Weeks of pinches, pokes, and petty insults made her more determined to thwart their plan and save some poor fellow from a life without love.

Winchcombe, just out of mourning for his father, did not deserve the cruel fate her aunt and cousin planned for him. They were counting on his sense of honor while they acted dishonorably. If she performed only one noble act before returning to Boston, it would be saving Winchcombe.

My musical inspiration for About an Earl was Aimee Mann’s song, Save Me. “You look like the perfect fit for a girl in need of a tourniquet,” sums up how broken Jewel feels at the beginning of the book and the chorus of “Why don’t you save me?” is Oliver asking Jewel to stay.

Reader praise for About an Earl:

An engaging Regency with a fascinating blend of romance and intrigue. Two social outcasts unwittingly align to discover an evil man’s motive for destroying them both. When a dawning attraction complicates their efforts and the crisis comes down to the wire, you’ll be glued to your chair! An Amazon reviewer for About an Earl

 

Book three – The Last Lord Standing

1812

Ruined. A public snub from the daughter of a duke was as silent, quick, and efficient as a blade through the heart. Lady Olivia Liberty Chalford always thought she’d fall from Society’s grace with a bit more fanfare. She raised her chin as her face warmed with indignation and watched her former friend disappear into the crowded ballroom.

Refusing to look around to see the shocked faces of those who’d witnessed the cut direct, she adjusted her mouth into a semblance of a blithe smile and stared at the orchestra. The most notable event of the evening was supposed to have been the attendance of the poet, Lord Byron. Instead, the recklessly ill-mannered lord had breezed past the ballroom without greeting her parents or wishing her felicitations on her birthday.

Two and twenty today, the evening portended the beginning of her downward slide into spinsterhood. After three seasons, she’d spurned three unacceptable offers. At least, they’d been unacceptable to her. Today’s fete, with all the blooms, gilt, and ribbons suggesting a more joyous outcome was, to her, more of a starting line in her race to achieve upheaval. Looking around at all the silken, jeweled gowns and crisp superfine coats, it was hard to believe she was the only one in the room who viewed it all with a large measure of disdain.

While she considered her father fiscally responsible and a thoughtful guardian of the family fortune, in truth, titles weren’t portioned out based upon merit. They lived in this grand house, burned beeswax candles in the ballroom, and summered at Winchcombe Abbey courtesy of the fickleness of fate for having been born into a titled family. Every year the great chasm betwixt the haves and the havenots stretched a little wider and more of the working class tumbled in, never to claw their way back out again.

As if her soon-to-be-implemented plan to insert herself into the fray wasn’t enough, the cut by Lady Elsinore Cosgrove, the Duke of Wallingford’s youngest daughter, may have sealed her fate as an outcast. Any offers of marriage received now would come from fortune hunters, elderly rheumatics, and gentlemen who’d also fallen from Society’s good graces.

Convincing her feet that there was no need to grow roots into the floor, Libby lurched forward and crashed into a wall of midnight blue wool with silver buttons. The unfortunate occupant of the blue coat was forced into an impromptu juggling act with the cup of punch he carried. His performance left them both spattered in blood-red cherry liquid.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I wasn’t minding my direction.” Abandoning her retreat for the moment, she pushed her own calamity aside and apologized by force of habit. The man managed a deceptively warm smile in response. Her social life was most likely about to come crashing down around her ears, but she could be no less than cordial to one of her parents’ guests. Matching his smile with one of her own, decorum dictated she offer the poor man assistance with good humor.

“May I…” he said, executing a reasonably elegant bow with empty cup still in hand.

“Might I…” she said at the same time, their words bumping into each other along with their heads.

Nervousness forced her lips into another smile as she rubbed her temple and bobbed a curtsy. His face elicited no memory of acquaintance or name. Who is he? Neither as tall nor as old as her father, the stranger’s bright blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, and youthful face teased at any age from twenty to forty. Perhaps he was a rogue Corinthian who’d slipped into her birthday ball for liquor and cards.

“Punch, miss?” he asked, offering her the empty cup. “I hope you’re not too thirsty.”

“No, thank you,” she said, looking down at her stained gown. “I just had some.” Snatching the cup away, she slipped it onto the tray of a passing footman as she considered her next move. “Follow me, I’ll direct you to the gentlemen’s retiring room and have someone meet you there with something to clean your coat.”

“You need to dance with me.” Offering his arm, he turned to the dance floor.

“My gown is ruined, sir, I couldn’t possibly.” Determined that her last evening before becoming a social pariah shouldn’t end as badly as it started, she boldly looked him over. Ignoring the punch stains, the guest’s suit was well tailored with no threadbare spots or loose seams and his shoes well-made and polished. His tailor and valet might be meticulous, but it was impossible to decipher anything of this man’s character with so little evidence.

“Ruined?” His tone was teasing, as if they were already old chums who could speak of such things publicly. “I say it is an improvement. An embellishment of rosebuds or flock of robin redbreasts taking flight across your skirt. You wear it so well no one would be the wiser.”

“I would.” Curious, yet distrustful, she said the one thing that would surely send him packing off to sniff around someone else’s hem. “You’re quite the accomplished liar, sir.” “True. I’m very good at it. I might be England’s greatest liar. Take my hand,” he said, still teasing. “A new set is starting.”

“I will do no such thing. We’ve not been properly introduced.” Cheeky bastard. Civility be damned, she had her own problems and owed him nothing. “Enjoy your evening, sirrah, the offer to have your coat cleaned stands but I will not be dancing with you.”

“I saw,” he said in a contrived whisper. “If you quit the room now, you confirm what everyone else who saw is thinking. Refuse to be cowed by Society’s perception of someone else’s rudeness. Dance with me and plant doubt in their minds that their eyes may have deceived them. You’re wearing my punch, what more of an introduction do you need?”

The song Poison & Wine by the Civil Wars served as my musical inspiration for Last Lord Standing. The line, “I don’t love you but I always will,” is Kerrigen and Libby’s relationship in a nutshell.

Reader praise for The Last Lord Standing:

“As soon as I got this downloaded, I was nose to reader. It’s sexy, genuine, characters who had me falling hard for them.” Net Galley Review of The Last Lord Standing

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