Happy St. Patrick's Day! An excerpt from the Work In Progress

Happy St. Patrick's Day!  I'm not Irish, but I'll gladly tip my hat to a population that has had significant influence in American history.  I've always had a fascination with Ireland, so much so that I've been working on and off on a fantasy historical novel set in that beautiful land.  As a result, to salute the day, I'm posting an excerpt from the story below.  My goal is to finish writing the story by the end of this year, so that I can get it published in ebook form by St. Patrick's Day next year.  Wish me luck (of the Irish, of course)!

* * * *

Ireland, 1798

Mary Kate McCree closed and latched the shutters against the rising wind.  It was a wolf wind, and no good ever came from such weather.  It whined around the corners of their cottage like a sick dog, but as the night crept to its zenith, she knew it would howl like a wolf on the hunt.  She pulled her woolen shawl closer about her, but it did nothing to stop her sense of foreboding. Her mother and her grandmother had told her of such a wind.  Evil was coming soon, and there would be little stopping it, if Mary Kate's sense of it was right.

Her sister looked up from where she bent close to the candle at the table near the hearth.  “It’s not yet night, Mary Kate.”  But a quick shudder shook her shoulders.

“And that’s not a shiver I’m seeing, Rose?” Mary Kate teased.  Even she could hear her own voice falter in the midst of the teasing.

Rose pressed her lips together for a moment, bending her attention to her embroidery.  “Leave it shut, then.”  She cast a quick glance at her older sister.    “The...the wind is different.”

Trust her little sister to be sensitive to it, even though she had not the training.  Mary Kate’s heart ached.  She would not wish the sensitivity she’d been gifted with at birth on anyone, for it set one apart.  Though she was from an ancient line of wise women in the village of Baile an Faolchú, the deference given that position...set her apart.

A wail curled around the whining wind, then turned to a shrieking cry.  Rose started and dropped her stitchery, and then gazed at Mary Kate.  “The bahn sidhe,” she said, her voice frightened.  “Where is our Ryan?”

Terror seized Mary Kate’s heart at the spirit’s warning of death, but the door burst open, and her sandy-haired brother ran into the room.  “Wolfe Tone’s dead.  Curse the damned British, for they’ve killed the last hope we had.”

“Dear Mother of God.”  Fear and anger forced Mary Kate to her feet, crossing herself as she did so and sending up a quick prayer for the brave leader of the rebellion who had sought to bring all Irish together in cooperation against the English.  “Never tell me you were with the United Irish, brother, for I’ll have your head as quick as the English if you were.”  She hurriedly went to the door, and shut and latched it, but not before she looked quickly outside, casting her gaze around the front yard and twilight-dim landscape beyond the gate.  “And hush your voice!  Do you wish to bring ruin to us?  The English have ears, and if they do not, who knows on what whim the Peep o’ Day boys will decide to string you up themselves?  Or the Defenders, for that matter?”  She closed her mouth on her next words, casting a glance at Rose’s anxious face.  No need to speak of their own fate, should they be caught between warring gangs and English troops.

Ryan’s face reddened in both anger and embarrassment.  “What’s left of the two, you mean, for we’re all one Irish now.”  He paused, clearly trying to rein in his temper. “My apologies, sister,” he said stiffly, but there was an edge of impatience in his voice.  Mary Kate held his gaze and made a slight movement of her head toward Rose. His gaze softened; Ryan had an impetuous temper, but equally fierce was his love for family. He would not wish to upset his younger sister.

“I was not,” he said.  “You’ve warned me enough as it is--‘tis a right nag you are, after all.”

Kate let out a sigh.  “Good, then,” she said.  She cast another glance at Ryan.  Though he looked at her straight and with some defiance, and though she was sure he was not lying to her, she could not help feeling uneasy.  There was the cry of the bahn sidhe, after all--

But it was upon Wolfe Tone’s death, and not anything to do with her brother, surely.  Indeed, why wouldn’t a bahn sidhe cry out at the death of a man with the great aspiration of throwing off the oppression of the English?

As impossible as that must be.  There was never peace in a large Irish household, and Ireland was a large household indeed. She suppressed a grimace.  In a grim way, it was almost a blessing to have one less revolutionary influencing a seventeen year old boy to war.

“Have you eaten, Ryan?” Rose asked.  “There’s stew in the pot, still hot, and a good oat cake.”
The sullen look on Ryan’s face disappeared, and his eyes brightened.  “Aye, I’ve a little bit at Fiona’s house, but I could do with more.”

Rose grinned.  “I think it’s the fourth time this month you’ve dined with Fiona and her mother.  You must be careful you do not eat them out of house and home, brother.”  She rose from her chair and went to the hearth where the pot of stew sat, picking up a bowl and ladle on the way.  Mary Kate could see her grimace as she poured the stew—it was soup more than stew, and watery at that, but it was more than what many of their neighbors had.

“Mrs. McKinnon has said naught.”  He waved a dismissive hand at Rose.  “Besides, I caught a brace of pheasants and gave one of them to them, so they shall not go without a meal.”

“Pheasant?”  Alarm coursed through Mary Kate.  “Never tell me you were hunting on Faolchú land?”

Ryan shrugged.  “The old lord is dead--bad cess to him--and the steward does not look too closely at what a man might bag.  By rights we McCrees should be free to hunt as we wish on that land.”

“English lord,” Mary Kate said.  “Should his heir hear of your poaching, you’ll have the soldiers at our door.”

Ryan grunted a quick grace over the spoon of stew he already had in his hand and then quickly stuffed the stew in his mouth.  “It matters not what we do, we will have soldiers at our door,” he said after swallowing his spoonful, and shrugged.  “I might as well be strung up for feeding those who need it as anything else.”

“Stop, Ryan!  Never say such a thing!” Rose cried.  She clutched her embroidery, then shook her hand before sucking on a pricked finger.

“Silly goose.”  Ryan sopped up the dregs of his stew with his oat cake, and then stood up and took his empty bowl to the washing bucket.  He stretched and his eyes went to the door and the bag he had thrown there.  "Oh, the pheasant--I brought the other home for us."

"Well, give it over,"  Mary Kate replied, irritated.  "Since you brought it, we should use it soon, as it wouldn't do to have anyone see it hanging about."  She took the bag from  him and opened it.  It was a plump pheasant, clearly one that had fed on Faolchú land.  It'd feed the three of them for the next few days in a stew if they were careful.  She hung the bag up away from the hearth; she would pluck it tomorrow. A recurrence of the Great Freeze was ever a worry, and it had already become cold enough to have ruined some of their potatoes.  However, she had a good lot that hadn't been touched by bad weather, and had been careful to put the good ones by in the earth cellar.   She'd heard enough of the Freeze from the elders in the village to be cautious, and it was her training to put away food and herbs and other simples.

She allowed herself a satisfied smile.  Though Ryan was correct saying that the McCrees had a birthright to the Faolchú land, it was not a right the ruling English agreed they had.  Nevertheless, her great-great-grandfather had managed to retain a small portion of the land from Cromwell’s forces over a hundred and fifty years ago, and her great-great-grandmother and her descendants had kept it from English hands by wit and guile.  Indeed, they had prospered compared to many, for they had enough land to keep sheep for good fleece, goats for milk, and grow more than potatoes.  Should the animals survive the winter, they would surely have enough spun yarn and cheeses to sell and buy more chickens in the spring.  That would be a fine thing, indeed.

She went to the hearth and sat next to Rose, and picked up the sturdy woolen socks she was knitting for Ryan.  She thought of the elderly English earl who never saw fit to step foot in Ireland but a day or so, much less the land he owned.  It was just as well; his absence made it easier for the McCrees to continue holding the land they had.  She hoped the new master of Castle Faolchú would do the same.  The last thing they needed were more English, and the truth of it was, the man's neglect would benefit both her family and the next landowner of Castle Faolchú.  She thought of the failed rebellion and shuddered. God help us, no more English, no more Irish factions pitted against each other. Just leave us alone.

Mary Kate found Rose looking at her anxiously, and though she gave her sister enough of a reassuring smile that the girl attended her embroidery again, she made herself pay attention to the sounds in and about their cottage as she knitted.  The rhythmic clicking of knitting needles focused her senses; she could separate the sounds within and without.  There was the crackling of the fire, the first scrape of a bow over Ryan’s fiddle, and then a fine sweet tone.  Soon, Rose began to hum, and her fine clear voice sang the words of a love song.  Beneath it all were the whispers of air that floated and swirled between the fire’s warmth and the cold draft from the door.  And beyond the door—

The wolf wind began to howl, and the faint weeping of the Bahn Sidhe sang a dissonant chorus.  Mary Kate closed her eyes, suddenly weary, and prayed that no one was out long in the rising storm.  The Sidhe did not only wail for Wolfe Tone.

* * * *

James Marstone pushed back the hair that had come loose from his queue, pushed his hat more firmly onto his head, and urged his ride forward.  He half wondered if it had been a bad decision to come to see the land he’d inherited from his great-uncle, for he had heard of the unrest and growing rebellion of the Irish.  But the soldiers he'd met before embarking for Ireland had assured him the rebellion was now over, and he was well-armed with both sword and pistol.  He grimaced.  He now wished he had paid more attention to the newspapers than he had in the past few years, but he had not time for things that--he had thought--would not concern him, for he had thought he’d stay on his family’s estate and work as its steward into old age.  He hadn’t expected that he’d have an estate of his own.

He had also not expected he’d be as sick as a dog crossing over the sea, that carriages for let were suddenly unavailable at each inn he entered, and that the only animal he could find for transport was an ill-trained donkey that insisted on investigating every promising-looking piece of green vegetation along the road.  But duty was duty, and it was a bad landlord who didn’t take stock of what he owned and those who worked it on his behalf.  Besides, he’d already spent five years managing the estate of his older brother, and as a very ordinary member of an unusual family, it was the one thing he took pride in, that he excelled in land management, and so he itched to manage property of his own at last.  Never mind that it was in Ireland; land was land, and that it was supposedly poor land he’d inherited was merely a challenge.

A spit of rain hit his nose, but he ignored it.  He looked into the distance.  It was growing dark, but the last innkeeper had grudgingly told him that Castle Falcoe lay near the village of Baileyanfalcoe; he’d not be far from it if he passed the McCree cottage.  And he’d know the cottage by the fine slate roof instead of the usual thatch.

Well, the sky was darkening with approaching night and clouds, but if the sharp edges of the roof on the house in the distance was an indication, he was approaching said McCree cottage, and beyond that would be the village and then at last his destination.  With luck, the steward—Mr. Kilpatrick—would have the servants ready a warm fire and a decent meal, and then he could rest his weary bones in a well-mattressed bed.

The thought of physical comfort made him nudge the donkey more firmly than ever with his heels, but the animal only grunted and plodded faster for the length of a few feet before it settled back into a slow trudge.  A sudden uptake of wind buffeted him, and nearly tossed his hat from his head, but he seized it just before it flew entirely from his grasp.  Rain took the opportunity to slash his face with freezing cold before he could slam his hat on his head again.

The donkey did not pick up speed.  James gritted his teeth.  Was the damned beast insensible to cold?  Surely it wanted a warm stable as much as James wanted a warm bed.  He glanced at the cottage ahead of him; he could see light through the cracks in the shutters covering the windows.  Someone was within—someone who was enjoying more warmth and food than he was enjoying now, which was none at all.  He looked into the dark distance, the road ahead hardly discernible from the horizon now that the clouds had wholly overtaken the evening sky.  The castle was but a few more miles from where he was now, but there was no guarantee the idiot donkey would stay on the path without a strong guiding hand.  He had the hand; however, he did not have the guidance of familiarity with the landscape.

James looked again at the cottage now not far from the road.  He’d get little welcome there, if the attitude of the innkeepers he’d met were any indication of Irish sentiment toward an Englishman.  But he could not help noticing that there were few plump Irishmen, and he’d heard the McCrees were an old and honorable family.  If they were as poor as the rest of the Irish he’d seen, perhaps they would put up with an Englishman if he paid them well.

He turned the donkey toward the path that led to the cottage, and perhaps the animal sensed that food and warmth were closer than anticipated, for it picked up speed with alarming alacrity, nearly unseating him in its haste.

The donkey came to a halt in front of the cottage door, snuffling around the entrance as if looking for food, and James quickly dismounted and tied it to a post before the animal decided to leave with his saddlebags still attached.  He hesitated before knocking at the door, for he could hear music within: a fiddle and the sound of a young woman’s voice lifted in song.  But the wind now howled and forcefully pushed him toward the door.  It was worth trying, certainly.  He lifted the door knocker and rapped twice.  The music stopped mid-phrase.

The door opened, and a young male face peered out.  “Aye?  And who are you, sir?”

“James Marstone of Suffolk—Mr. McCree, I presume?  I have been traveling for a long while and—”

“English!  We’ll have no damned English here.  You’ll do us a favor if you dirtied our doorstep no longer than a minute, sir.”  The door slammed in his face.

James clenched his teeth and felt his face grow hot with anger.  Then he sighed.  He should have expected such.  There was nothing for it but to push on.

“Ryan!”  A scandalized female voice rose above the wind that began to howl around the corners of the house.  “Are you daft?  Can you not hear the wind?  ‘Tis a storm a-brewing, and leaving anyone out in it would be the death of them.”

He paused, pulled between hope and doubt that he’d be welcome once the woman—young, he thought, from the sound of her voice—learned of his origins.  The donkey next to him snuffled at the door again and let out a whinny that sounded very much like a whine.  He felt a sudden sympathy for the animal, and patted its head.  “Let’s hope the lady feels less of a prejudice than her relative, Sir Donkey.”  He leaned toward the door, listening.

“It’s an Englishman, Mary Kate.  I’ll not have one of them in this house, by God.”

The lady’s voice rose.  “Will you listen to yourself, then?  You’re swearing by the Almighty that you’ll not let an Englishman in our home, but I’m thinking Father O’Brian will have a thing or two to say about letting a fellow human being die of cold when it’s your turn in the confessional.  Englishman or not, I’ll thank you to be a true McCree and not tarnish our reputation for hospitality, boyo.”

“But what if the—”

“Whisht!  Stop your nonsense.  All of Baille an Faolchú knows anyone who comes in courtesy to our door is not turned away, and so we are treated in return.  So it has been since McCrees have been in this land, English or no English.”

The door suddenly opened before James could straighten himself, and he came face to face with a pair of large eyes, a tip-tilted nose lightly covered with freckles, and a mass of wavy dark hair.  The eyes widened in surprised, then slitted in suspicion.  “Listening at the door, were you?  I’m half inclined to think my brother was in the right of it.”  But she pushed the door open wider.  “Well, you’re in luck, for he isn’t right, and English or not, I won’t have a frozen corpse at the door for the authorities to find in the morning.”

He hesitated, but she seized his coat sleeve and pulled him in.  “It’s little enough fuel we have to heat the house, so I’ll thank you not to let what warmth we have leave on the wind.”

Vampire Romance bestseller on Amazon

I'm happy to say that The Vampire Viscount hit #4 on Amazon's Kindle Bestseller list for vampire romances.  Thanks all of you readers out there for helping it get there!  As a result, I'm  extending the promo a bit (Amazon only allows me a couple of days of promo every few months).  As a result, it's now 60% off the regular price (down to 99 cents) until New Year's day.  Enjoy!

Happy Halloween! It's Heeeerrrre!

Yep, at last The Vampire Viscount is available as an ebook. It's been a long time since that book has seen light (so to speak) and as I went through it to clean out the OCR scan errors, I remembered it was controversial at the time (1995), and now we have vampires and werewolves everywhere, but I think it still holds up as a decent story.

 It's free, today only, at Smashwords.  And since I also honor All Saints Day (the day after Halloween), you can still get it free on that day, too.  All device formats are supported there--Kindle, Sony, Nook, etc.

It's also up at Amazon, although not free (99 cents). I think you have to join Kindle Select or something to change the price to zero or something, and I'm still working out the details on that.

Barnes and Noble...It will be up there, too, but the site that produces the ebooks has technical difficulties, and since I believe B&N is based in New York, it may well be that Hurricane Sandy is causing them some problems. If you are a Nooker (why does that sound so...hmmm.....) and can't find the ebook for download, e-mail me and I'll see if I can make it available to you at a special price after Halloween.

Anyway, enjoy!

Miss Carlyle's Curricle Available as eBook!

Signet is releasing many of their previously out-of-print Regencies in ebook form out of their Intermix "imprint."  (Is it really an imprint if it's not printed?  Hmm....the new dynamics of the ebook world....)  Today, my book, Miss Carlyle's Curricle is available at Penguin's Intermix site, for Apple iBooks, Barnes and Noble's Nook, Sony eReader, and Amazon's Kindle, among others.  I'm happy to say that it's available at the very affordable price of $2.99.

Want to read an excerpt?  Here it is, below:

Lord Brisbane ran his hand over a curve of the carriage in a contemplative manner. He glanced at her. “I understand this McKinney has been in your uncle’s employ for many years.” It was a statement, but with just a hint of a question in it.

Diana frowned. “If you are thinking of blaming McKinney for my uncle’s accident or of discharging him from his post, I would advise against it. The man has been employed here since my uncle was a very young man, and his service has been loyal and faultless. Indeed, he felt most deeply regarding the accident and proffered his resignation, which I refused to consider.”

Lord Brisbane glanced at her. “You?”

She blushed lightly; it was not her place to accept or decline a servant’s employment unless it was her own, personal, servant. “McKinney was distraught, and Uncle Charles had said more than a few times that my word was as good as his when it came to the stables,” she said stiffly. “If you must know, I directed him to Sir James, thinking he would be the heir.”

“Ah.”

That was all he said, an unassuming sound, but it made her very conscious that she had presumed, and presumed wrongly. “Sir James will not have discharged him, I am sure,” she said.

“Mmm hmm,” he said, gazing at her thoughtfully.

Diana shifted her feet uncomfortably. “I am sure McKinney is about somewhere. You may speak to him yourself.”

“Is he?”

“But of course. I saw him—” She stopped and realized she had not seen McKinney lately. “Surely Sir James did not....”

“There may be some other explanation for why McKinney is not here,” Lord Brisbane said.

Diana made herself look at him, but she could not hold his gaze long, for remorse hit her hard. “I have presumed a great deal,” she said. “And I was wrong to do so. I...I apologize.”

“Yes,” he replied, but there was no censure in his voice. She felt a finger under her chin and she stared at him. He smiled slightly. “Come, cousin, it is no tragedy. Let us be frank: I well know that your uncle’s wish that we wed was unexpected, and highly unusual. Would it be less awkward for you to know that I had no knowledge of it? I met your uncle only a year ago, when he first found me, and because of business our subsequent meetings were infrequent. Had I known of the conditions, I would have protested, of course. I am not certain why he decided we should suit, but he did, and made it nearly impossible for you not to comply.”

“Mama said it was perhaps the closest he could come to giving me the estate...he thought of me as a daughter, almost a son, I think.” His hand left her chin, and she looked down at her hands, then up at the earl again. “Then, too, perhaps he thought it the best way to take care of me and my mother.”

“I wonder, then, that he did not give you a larger annuity.”

She shook her head. “Uncle Charles was never one to reveal his reasons, and we had never real cause to ask, for our lives had always run smoothly while he was with us. I am sure everyone on the estate thought so.”

“Which makes me seem very much the interloper, I see,” Lord Brisbane said, smiling wryly. “Making it even more difficult to see me as a prospective husband and heir to the estate.”

Diana felt definitely guilty now, but made herself look directly at him. “Yes, that is true, and I am sorry for it. My uncle was held in highest esteem by everyone; it would be difficult to accept the presence of any heir, but to have a complete stranger makes it even more difficult.”

“Held in esteem by everyone? He had no enemies? No detractors?” Lord Brisbane shook his head and put on a morose expression. “I have a great deal to live up to, indeed. Most certainly I shall fail, and the estates will fall to ruin.”

Diana cast him a suspicious look, then laughed reluctantly. “You need not try to pull the wool over my eyes, my lord. I suspect you are quite capable of managing this estate, and it is no doubt one reason my uncle saw fit to want you to marry me.”

He raised his brows in question. “And how do you know?”

“I am honest enough to admit you are more perceptive than I had given you credit for. You talked of business—I suppose you were not precisely an idle man, for your hands are not as smooth as I suppose a dandy’s might be. Since your clothes are of a fine cut, I imagine your business endeavors were successful. I suspect you were in trade; you seem to be familiar with the making of carriages, or at least woodworking of some kind. Then you mention you were familiar with illnesses and healing.” She smiled slightly. “I imagine you must be engaged in some sort of merchant shipping. Such a business would at once give a man the opportunity for making a fortune”—she gestured at his Bath superfine coat—“thus enabling him to buy whatever he wishes in clothes, and give him the opportunities to learn of ships and their construction. The illnesses and healing—one would have to be more self-reliant regarding these things if one had to travel to foreign lands.”

“Well, well.” Lord Brisbane rocked back on his heels, then smiled widely. “I congratulate you, cousin; you are correct on all points. Very perceptive. I see it would not do to underestimate you.”

Diana grinned. “You are correct, my lord, it would not. Be warned!”

“I am grateful for the warning. You are a formidable woman, to be sure. It is a good thing I had not the intention of asking you to marry me; I had a distinct feeling it would displease you.” His voice was solemn, but she thought she saw his lips turn up for a moment.

“Very wise of you not to wish to propose to me, for you would be living under the sign of the cat’s foot, and no man could wish a marriage like that.” She shrugged off the feeling of discontent—she had never had a proposal before, why should she have one now, even if it had been dictated by Uncle Charles?—and turned to leave the carriage house. Lord Brisbane moved in step with her.

“Now there, cousin, your perception has failed you.” He gave her a small, crooked smile. “I wanted to marry you the moment I saw you, and have no fear at all of being henpecked.”

Diana stumbled, and Lord Brisbane’s hand came up under her elbow to steady her. She stared at him. “You jest, surely.”

“No, alas, I do not.” His smile widened, and his normally sleepy look had fled, replaced by sparkling mischief instead.

“You are jesting, and trifling with me,” Diana said, and marched toward the house. “Do not, for I dislike it, and as you said, I am a formidable woman, and could make more trouble for you than you could like.” She could not believe him, of course, but she did not repel him with her words as she could have; an irresistable curiosity as to what he would say next stayed her.

“Behold me trembling,” Lord Brisbane said, his long legs easily keeping up with her.

“Oh, you are odious!” She eyed him sternly. “You cannot have fallen in love with me, not in such a short time.”

“Love at first sight.”

Diana blushed. “Nonsense! There is no such thing.”
Lord Brisbane sighed. “So I thought, myself. But there you were, rain-soaked and beautiful, and I was instantly lost.”

“Lost on the road, not in any other wise,” she retorted. “You are making fun of me, for none of that can be true.”

“Of course it is true. You were definitely rain-soaked.”

“Oh, and you are in the habit of falling in love with rain-soaked women, is that it?”

“Not at all,” Lord Brisbane said. “However, if a woman is beautiful, that would certainly be an incentive.”

She frowned. “Now I know you are hoaxing me. I am not at all beautiful. I am too tall for that.”

“Not for me.”

Diana looked up at him—obviously this was true. “Well. . . well, then, I am not fashionable.”

“Fashion does not make for beauty.”

“Quite the contrary,” she said. “I have had my Season in London, and know that it’s your fashionable sylph who is much feted. Fashion does indeed dictate what is beautiful.” She wrinkled her nose. “I am not sylph-like; therefore I am not beautiful.”

He cocked his head and looked at her. “No one has ever admitted admiring you?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, of course not.”

“More fool they.” He shot a quick, laughing glance at her. “No doubt they were intimidated by your formidableness.”

“I am not—” She stopped and closed her mouth, belatedly remembering that she had indeed agreed she was formidable. She gave him a sour look. “Believe me, I was as meek as my Aunt Matchett could make me.”

“Impossible,” he replied. “Nothing could subdue those magnificently flashing and scornful eyes—are they gray or blue? Blue, I believe.”

“They are pale blue,” Diana said firmly. “And they neither flash nor are they scornful.”

“No? They seem to be, now.”

She let out an exasperated breath. “Only because you are the most provoking man imaginable.”

Lord Brisbane shook his head mournfully. “Worse and worse. First I am odious and now I am provoking. A very good thing I decided not to propose to you; you would have refused me immediately and I would have been cast into abject despair.”

“I doubt it,” Diana replied, banishing a slight feeling of discontent. “Count yourself fortunate: I am persuaded you would not wish to marry a woman you hardly know, and I would much rather live on a pittance than marry a complete stranger.”

His lordship’s expression lightened. “How gratifying to find you are not mercenary and not looking to marry a fortune or a title. Should I ever take it in my head to propose to you, I shall do so in happy confidence that your acceptance would come from your heart.”

“And if I were to decline?”

“There would be nothing for it but I must put a period to my existence,” Lord Brisbane said cheerfully.

Diana stopped, then turned to stare at him, her hands on her hips. “My lord, I think you must be the strangest man I have ever met.”

He appeared to consider her words seriously, then shook his head. “Since your sojourn in London was so short and you have grown up in the country most of your life, I cannot think your experience of men to be very great at all.” He smiled. “I am quite normal, truly.”

He had an answer for everything it seemed, but Diana’s annoyance with him was weak at best. She smiled slightly. This conversation was indeed the most peculiar she had had with anyone, but somehow her irritation was mixed heavily with a certain exhilaration. She had never traded quick and spirited words with a man before; her conversations in London had always been awkwardly constrained or excruciatingly polite. Indeed, she noted in surprise, the awkwardness she had when she first met this new Lord Brisbane had disappeared.

“You are smiling, I see,” he said. “But I assure you, no one has ever accused me of being odd.”

“Really?” Diana could not help chuckling. “I am surprised, my lord.”

Signet Regencies

Before I started writing romance novels, I read an enormous number of books--I have, since childhood, and read every kind of book I could get my hands on.  I eventually found a friend in high school who also read a lot, and her favorites were romance novels, in particular Regency romance, and she introduced me to those.

Don't know what a Regency romance is?  Oh you poor dear.  Think Jane Austen.  Pride and Prejudice.  Sense and Sensibility.  Fun, romantic, often witty, and set between the years of approximately 1790 to 1820.

Check out Library Journal's description here:  http://www.libraryjournal.com/article/CA6413456.html

I took off on those like a rocket.  Had to get my teenaged hands on every kind I could find, from Georgette Heyer (the founder, essentially, of modern Regency romance) to Barbara Cartland.  I found, over time, where I could find my favorites, and that was within the covers of the Signet Regency imprint.  I ended up going to those Regencies by Signet first, then the others.  Don't get me wrong, there were plenty of wonderful authors writing for other imprints and publishers, but I could always depend on reading something different, yet still adhering to the Regency feel in a Signet Regency romance.  Signets became my mainstay into adulthood.

I think many Regency and historical romance fans can recognize the names that published with Signet Regencies:  Mary Jo Putney, Jo Beverley, Clare Darcy, Catherine Coulter, Sandra Heath, Barbara Hazard, Joan Wolf, Edith Layton, Marion Chesney (aka M.C. Beaton), Mary Balogh, Anita Mills, Amanda Scott, Laura Matthews (aka Elizabeth Neff Walker), Carla Kelly, Michelle Kasey (aka Kasey Michaels), Elisabeth Fairchild, Candice Hern, Elizabeth Mansfield, April Kihlstrom, Teresa DesJardien, and many more.  If you haven't read these authors' books, go forth, find, and read. For a complete list of Signet Regency authors and their Regency romances, here's a good web site reference:  http://www.thenonesuch.com/signet.htm

When I started writing romances, they naturally were Regency romances, the ones I liked the best.  And my ambition was to be a Signet Regency author, because those were my favorites.  I considered Signet to be the premier publisher of Regencies.  I could count on the history to be as accurate as possible, and the storytelling to be superb, with just a bit of the unexpected thrown in.  If I could achieve those ranks, it would be confirmation of the quality--in my mind, at least!--of my stories.

Eventually I did become a Signet author.  Of the eleven novels I have published, seven were with Signet.  Of the four novellas I've written, three were also with Signet.  To top it off, when I received a letter from one of my favs, Mary Jo Putney, complementing me on the first Signet Regency I had published, I just about cried and ran to tell my husband, I was that thrilled.  Not that he totally understood the significance of this, but he knew enough to give me a hug and congratulate me.  :-)

Unfortunately, in about March of 2006, Signet ceased publication of their Regency line.  For me, and for many others, it was a sad day in romance history.  No, not because I had been a Signet author, but because there are a limited number of Georgette Heyer and Jane Austen books around, and there has to be some way to feed the Regency-era habit.  For a Regency fan (e.g., me), it was a day for weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Well, I'm glad to say that Signet has revived the Signet Regency line, this time as ebooks.  These will include both out-of-print books as well as never-before-published Regencies.  You can find them at Penguin's Intermix site (Penguin is the publisher of the Signet imprint), or click on the "invitation card" at the top of this blog.

Will one of my books be e-published there?  Yes (Miss Carlyle's Curricle, sometime in July).  Will I totally spend my royalty check at this site?  No doubt.

Seriously, Signet should just have a buyer's account for me into which they deposit my royalty checks and out of which I can buy Regency romances.

A Special License is available at Regency Reads!

Description:  When the Earl of Rothwick mistakenly absconds with Miss Linnea Ashley, all he has to do is the honorable thing:  marry her.  But life is never as simple as that for a man as wrong-headed as Lord Rothwick, especially when his ex-fiancee Sophia becomes hell-bent on retribution.

You can find the book here:

http://www.regencyreads.com/bookstore/online/a-special-license-p-534.html?zenid=3gv3akh8log800mnl1cu394ar2

My second book was published by HarperCollins back in 1995, so is out of print.  I believe I have some paperback copies of this, so if anyone wants to read this book the old-fashioned way, let me know.

This is a traditional Regency romance.  It’s...somewhat humorous, and I have a somewhat quirky sense of humor that occasionally slides into the outrageous, so there’s no telling how it’ll come off to other people.  However, I enjoyed writing it, so I hope that comes through to whoever does read it.

I think it did, actually, because Romantic Times Book Club said this about it:

"...bright and shining talent...gleams with added lustre in this impeccably crafted Regency romance...(a) lively tale with the flavor of authenticity so valued by Regency connoisseurs, along with a fiery spark of passion sure to win every romance reader's heart."

Bless their romance-loving hearts.  :-)

Want to know what the book is like?  You can read an excerpt here:

http://www.regencyreads.com/bookstore/online/excerpts/a_special_license.html

And an extra excerpt here:

Well, well, thought Rothwick. Opportunity knocks.  

Although, if he had known at the outset that the woman was Paul's so-called inamorata, he would have left her to her fate. No doubt it was all some squabble about money or jewels.

He grimaced to himself, feeling the knuckles he had bruised on one man's jaw. Untrue. He could no more have let her be assaulted than if she were his own sister. In truth, no woman should be assaulted, regardless of what she was. Besides, he had not known who she was until he had seen her face. 

However, he could teach her a lesson. What an actress she was, to have claimed kinship with Lord and Lady Boothe, and with such an unconscious air! But she had slipped, and slipped badly. He had heard long ago that Lady Boothe was a woman of rigid propriety; he would bet his estates that she would never let a young female relative out of her sight or from the close proximity of one of her dragons. Much less would Lady Boothe let a female of her household walk alone at a time of night when only men and prostitutes dared appear. He felt himself confirmed that this woman was no innocent maiden at all, but as sly a bit of muslin as he had ever come across. 

Rothwick pursed his lips slightly, as if a sour taste had entered his mouth. He did not like liars. His past mistresses had been honest, making no claim to be anything other than they were. He would not bother making her his—but most certainly he would teach her a lesson. She would learn to stay away from members of his family. 

The earl turned up the carriage lamp and surveyed her in the dimness. She neither moved nor spoke during their ride, and though she was not deeply asleep, he thought she dozed. The lights made shadows under her closed eyes; she looked very tired. Rothwick shrugged. The light was muted, and if she was tired, it was no doubt from dissipation. Women grew old quickly in the oldest of professions, for all their knowledge of paints and lotions. 

The carriage slowed, and Rothwick could see that the Boothes' town house was near. He quickly made a decision. Leaning out of the door, he murmured a few words to Grimes. The groom's brows rose, but the man said nothing. The carriage continued down the street. Rothwick gazed at the woman, thinking about what he would do. Should he expose her charade at the nearest stopping place, or should he continue to his hunting box? He reviewed the various inns on the periphery of London and thought better of it. An inn was too public a place—if she set up a screech, it would cause no end of scandal, and he wanted to keep his—well, he would admit it—abduction of Miss Pickens quite private. It would have to be his hunting box. Once more he leaned out the door and gave his groom the new direction, then smiled to himself and settled back down on the carriage seat. 

When she finally opened her eyes, she sighed, looking around her for a few seconds. Her eyes rested on the earl and lost their sleepy vagueness, looking embarrassed instead. "I am truly sorry, sir—I think I actually slept for a while. Your carriage is remarkably well sprung." She laughed tentatively. "It must have been terribly dull for you. Was it long?" 

"No," replied the earl. "It was but a moment." He did not want her to know they had been traveling for more than half an hour. It would be most inconvenient if she made a fuss before they were out of London; indeed, he had hoped she would actually sleep. They were already at the outskirts of town, however, so it was not likely she would be able to make much headway in escaping if she did find out. He smiled briefly at her. "I do wish you would not call me 'sir' every time you address me. It is quite tiresome, you know." 

She blushed but said with a touch of spirit, "I can hardly address you otherwise, since I do not know your name." 

He raised his brows. "I am remiss; you must forgive me. I am William, Lord Rothwick, at your service." He inclined his head slightly. 

She returned his bow with quaint dignity, he noted with reluctant admiration. "I am honored, my lord. And I am—" 

"I know who you are, Miss Pickens. You have become quite well known to me." He laughed shortly. 

"Pickens?" she said. "I am afraid you are mistaken; I am not Miss Pickens, I am—" 

"Come, come, my dear—shall I call you Cassey? No matter. There is no need to pretend you are other than you are. I know what you were up to with my nephew, Paul. He may still be wet behind the ears, but I am not. I have had experience with your sort, and I needed only to look at Paul's expression when he escorted you that day to see he was almost secured in your trap." 

"Of—of my sort?" She looked confused. "What can you mean? And who is this Cassey? It is not I, I assure you, my lord. My name is Linnea—" 

"Really, Miss Pickens," Rothwick drawled. "I concede you are a good actress, but did you really think you could fool me with that story about Lady Boothe? It does your case no good to change your name, either." He leaned back in a leisurely manner. "It was a good story—one I have heard before, however—though the invention of a relationship between you and Lady Boothe was a bold stroke, I must say! But I happen to know Her Ladyship is extremely strict in her observance of the proprieties, and would never let a young woman of her household leave without escort. So, my dear, why don't we dispense with this unnecessary pretense and engage in some pound dealing, shall we?" He smiled genially. 

Her face was the picture of stunned astonishment, and she seemed bereft of words. Really, he thought with a touch of irritation, she was an excellent actress, but he would prefer she be open with him now. 

"But—but, I assure you, sir, I am not who you think I am," she managed to croak. She cleared her throat and said more calmly, "Please, you need only let me down at Lady Boothe's and she can identify me." 

He laughed. "And have you make a run for it?" She opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a hand. "Or, no. You seem to be an imaginative young woman.... Let's see. You will be so bold as to approach Lady Boothe and demand her presence. She will not recognize you, and you will then protest that she is against you and seeks only to cast you out from her house." 

The young woman opened her mouth again, only to shut it. A hopeless look came over her face. "But, my lord, she must acknowledge me!" she whispered. "I am her kin, after all." She seemed almost to be talking to herself. He could see she was on the edge of giving up her act. 

"Come now. You know she wouldn't," he said soothingly. 

She looked at him as if bewildered. "But wait—wait! Am I to assume from this conversation you are not taking me to Lady Boothe's?" 

"No, I am not." 

She half rose from her seat. "Then where—" She stared at him in horror. "You must be mad! You cannot just—just abduct someone and carry her off!"

"Your presence here proves that I can." 

"No. I cannot go with you, it's impossible!" 

"What, another assignation with a... er... paramour? Or is it Paul?" 

Her gaze was one of incomprehension. "Paul? What has Paul to do with all this?" 

"So you are on a first-name acquaintance with him, are you?" 

"Why, yes, I have known him for a good while." 

"Your mask slips further and further, Miss Pickens. There is no one in Lady Boothe's household who is closely acquainted with Paul." 

She pressed herself into the seat, away from him. "You jump from one thing to another! You must be mad or—or full of drink! I cannot see why you chose to abduct me and then talk of people I don't know, and acting as if I should!" 

"People you don't know," mocked Rothwick. "You just said you knew my nephew!" His distaste grew. She was playing the innocent maiden role, an act that often lent some spice to other men's pursuit of women, but it was one he detested. 

"Ah, sir! Why do you do this to me?" she exclaimed. She looked about her wildly. "You must be mad—or I! I cannot go with you!" She jumped up and seized the carriage handle, tearing open the door. 

She moved so swiftly that she was halfway out of the moving carriage before he seized her about the waist and pulled her back in again. From out the swinging carriage door, Rothwick could see the quick flashes of reflected moonlight on the road's rocks and pebbles. She could have been killed. He turned his head and looked at her. She had fallen against him, and he still had one arm around her waist and a hand clamped around her wrist. She breathed in small gasps, and he could feel how thin her wrist was in his hand and how little flesh covered her ribs that were pressed against him. Her eyes looked up into his, and in the turned-up carriage lights he could see a spark of defiance beneath the fear and fatigue in her eyes.

The horrible suspicion that had risen in Rothwick's mind when the woman had gone for the door now turned into certain consternation. Women of the demimonde may act the unwilling maiden to tantalize, but they soon gave way to seduction at the end. They did not try to escape into what might have been death or at least severe injury. 

"Who are you?" he whispered tersely. He let go of her waist and let her down gently on the seat opposite him. 

She pushed herself into the corner away from him, her hands clutching the cushions. "I am Linnea Ashley. I live with Lady Boothe, my—my cousin. She lacked a footman to send a message to Lady Strahan, and she sent me instead."

"Oh, my God." Rothwick sank his head into his hands and wearily ran his fingers through his hair, pulling a little. He glanced up at Miss Ashley. "You can stop trying to wedge yourself into the woodwork. I don't ravish women, much less ladies of quality." She relaxed a little but kept a wary eye on him. "Please," he amended. 

She lifted her chin mutinously. "You might change your mind," she said. "Indeed, I do not know what you will do next."

"Surely you don't take me for a madman—yes, well, I see you do." He sighed. "I assure you, I am quite sane. You see, I, ah, I thought you were someone else, and was trying to teach her a lesson." The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears.

"How flattering." Her voice was sarcastic, but she unclenched her hands from the upholstery.

The Marriage Scheme available on Amazon!

The Marriage Scheme is now on Amazon, and can be downloaded to your Kindle.

Which is motivation for me to get the next one out there.  And write more books.  And revise more!  I have one book that never got published that was going to be called "Midnight Surrender," and I really need to go over it and fix it.  It's very dark, and I don't think I want it to be that dark, because the world needs a bit more levity these days.  Plus, there is such a thing called "comedic relief."

There are so many things I want to write, now that there is this new territory called "e-publishing" to explore.  I love the novella form, so I'd love to write more of those.  Also, I'd like to write the continuing adventures of Arabella Templar and William Marstone (from "Miss Templar and the Holy Grail"), as well as of Anna Vanderzee and the samurai-ryu-kami Nakagawa (from "Anna and the King of Dragons").

So...gotta get crackin'!