For Love of the Earl recently got some love on Romance Lives Forever! Check it out here.

London

March 1833

Lady Emily Black liked presents.

It wasn’t that she always expected to receive presents nor did she expect everyone to bring her presents when calling on her.  It was just comforting to think about presents and what might be forthcoming.

Like the anticipation on a rainy day.  There were so many possibilities when one was confined to an indoor space.  One never knew what one might embark upon.  Given a rainy day, Emily would most likely be found in the sewing room, patterns splashed across the sofas, fabrics spilling to the floor, her nose near touching the fashion plates of the latest edition of La Belle Assemblee.  She could have an entire season’s wardrobe designed in the space of one drizzly afternoon.

As she contemplated the pencils in E.B. Worths on Marlborough, her eyes didn’t see plain, black stubs of charcoal.  She saw designs springing from their tips to radiate across the blank page of her sketchbook, a waterfall of fashion from a single nub.

Yes, Emily Black very much liked presents, and these pencils would do just nicely.

“Papa,” she said then, spinning about and holding the charcoals aloft.  “I think I should like these.”

Her father did not seem to have heard her as he stared out the front window of the shop.  The light fell across him in such a way as to accent his finely tailored coat of dark cloth and trousers cut just right along the thigh and knee.  There were things about her father Emily found lacking, especially his inability to keep his gray-smattered dark hair in neat fashion, but his choice of tailor was not something with which she could find fault.

“Papa,” she said, louder this time with quite a lot of girth as her mother would say.  “Papa, I said I would like these charcoals.”

Still nothing.

After presents, the second thing Emily Black liked most was attention.  She found the blood in her temples pounded a little harder when someone denied her the attention she wished.  Right now, her papa was guilty of such a thing, which was rather unusual.  She would expect such behavior from Jane, her older cousin, and certainly from her brothers, Ashley and Michael.  She had the pleasure of her younger sister’s complete and total attention when she was present, but Emily feared that was more out of some sort of worship phase the child was going through.

Emily softly patted the cascading folds of her skirt, the fabric just the right shade of pink to complement her untarnished skin, and a soft, knowing smile came to her lips.  Madeline had every reason to adore her.  The child had shown outstanding astuteness in the choosing of a proper role model for such a thing.  As the eldest daughter of the Duke of Lofton, Emily was worthy of such a position.

What she was not worthy of was her father’s current state of inattention, and Emily’s tolerance wore thin.

“Papa,” she said again, her teeth nearly scraping with her impatience.  “Papa, I—”

“Just a moment,” her father said, raising a single hand in her direction.

Her blood went from pounding to rampaging.

If Emily felt immense joy at the prospect of presents, she felt an equally intense but entirely opposite emotion about being ignored.  Anger flared inside her.  For but a moment, her nostrils flared, her mouth tightened, and her fingers curled into fists.  However, such gestures wreak havoc on fair and untouched skin, so with a breath, she purposefully released the tension in her body.

Shaking her head, she approached her father standing at the front window of the shop.  Mother was always saying how her father did not always understand the proper handling of womanly issues, and this was apparently one of those situations.  She assumed an expression of tender understanding, not unlike the one she used on simpletons, like servants and the sons of viscounts or gad, barons.

“Papa,” she said once more, her tone dripping with what others might term condescension but Emily liked to think of as helpful and necessary correction of one’s behavior.  “You seem not to understand the importance-“

“Worth,” her father said, his tone gruff and forthright, the way it sometimes sounded when Uncle Nathan would burst into their house at whatever hour of the night, ruthlessly rousing her from her needed rest.

Something was amiss, and it was not her father’s slip in appropriate behavior.

Her father strode past her to the back of the shop where the proprietor stood, the Mr. Worth from which the name of the store was derived.

“Worth, have you an errand boy?  Anyone who could deliver a note for me?”

Emily did not like this line of questioning whatsoever.  Her father had brought her here to shop, and it was to her his attention was due.  Why was he asking about errand boys?  She put fisted hands to her hips in the manner her mother had taught her.  One’s fragile skin must be sacrificed for the good of straightening men from their misdeeds, such as not paying adequate attention to Lady Emily Black.

“Papa, I demand to know what is going on.”

London

March 1833

Richard Black, the Duke of Lofton, died peacefully in his bed.  It was a Tuesday, as unremarkable as any other Tuesday, and he had gone to bed as he had any other Tuesday for the whole of his eighty-three years.  It was only as dawn broke through the curtains that his wife, Jane, found him gone when she woke beside his cold body.

His colleagues and friends had all remarked on such a virtuous end to a life lived in constant pursuit of death.  For in his work with the War Office, Richard Black had more than once traveled into the vicinity of death, caring not for the safety of his person but for the safety of an entire nation.  To have death finally come when one had lived a life as full as it was wide, having escaped attempt after attempt on his life by nefarious traitors and the like, it was a rather remarkable feat and oft mentioned at the clubs by those that survived him and admired him.

His funeral was quite the spectacle with everyone in attendance including the Earl Grey.  It was rumored even Peel would have appeared if he had been in the country at the time.  As it was, St. Paul’s ran over with the respectable and noble, the pews crammed with the latest in mourning fashions.  The people were all there to see the great Richard Black, the Duke of Lofton, celebrated spy for the War Office, and in his later years, tremendous supporter of the reform acts sweeping through the House of Lords, laid to rest.

It was an exultant affair for all that those types of things could be.  His life was carefully articulated by his sons, each milestone given its due.  His achievements were itemized in detail and revered with exuberance by Lord Crawley, a man simply referred to as exemplary in his work alongside Lofton at the War Office.

As Richard Black’s merits rang through the dome of St. Paul’s, the attendees all bowed their heads, absorbing the passage of time, reflecting on their own life’s achievements or lack thereof, and all pondered on the greatness of the man they had lost.

All except one, that is.

One slight head bent not in reflection but in fear.

Fear of the days ahead.  Fear of the unknown.

Fear of not being able to keep the last promise she made to her grandfather.

April 1826

London

“You are not at all concerned your wife will find out?”

Alec stood in the bedchamber of one of London’s most refined and most adventurous widows and casually replaced the stopper in the decanter of brandy.  He set it carefully down on the gold-plated tray that seemed rather ostentatious even to him.  Lady Hilary Hunisett had a reputation for ostentatiousness though, and he supposed the tray was simply indicative of the rumors circulating about the ton.

“My wife?” Alec said, turning to the woman now.

Lady Hunisett’s robe was tied loosely at the waist, its soft folds of silk accentuating the exposed expanse of her bosom.  She was in rather good condition for her age and hedonistic lifestyle.  Alec would have thought the woman’s drinking, poor eating habits, and reckless living would have taken their toll.  But her skin was still firm and flawless, a porcelain white against the red silk of her night rail peeking out from under her robe.

Hilary Hunisett had been a catch during her season twenty years ago, or at least that was what Jane had told him.  Alec wouldn’t have doubted it.  It seemed the woman was still accustomed to such attention.  Attention she now demanded from Alec.

“I think you need not worry about my wife,” Alec continued when no response from the woman came.  Handing one of the brandy glasses to Lady Hunisett, he was careful to stroke her fingertips with his own.  He could see the responding thrill illuminate Lady Hunisett’s eyes, and Alec smiled, allowing heat to enter his gaze.

Lady Hunisett smiled coyly, reaching up to toy with a strand of her auburn hair, twirling it around her finger before allowing the curl to fall and trickle invitingly down her bosom.

“Why is that, my lord?” Hunisett said.

Alec turned his smile into more of a smirk.  “My wife is a simpleton, my lady,” Alec said, bending forward as if his words were a secret meant to be shared only between lovers.  “Surely you’ve heard the story of where my father found her?”

Lady Hunisett looked up at him through long eyelashes, much darker than her auburn tresses.  “The story?” she said.

Alec laughed softly, picking up his hand to run a single finger along the line of her collarbone.  She trembled under his touch, and Alec captured her gaze in his.  “She’s a nobody, I’m afraid,” Alec said.  “My father took pity on some old woman’s charity case, and I’ve been strapped with the burden my entire life.  You cannot imagine what I’ve been forced to endure with such a lowly bred wife.  Just once I would like…”

His finger had trailed dangerously close to the valley between her breasts.  He looked up at Hunisett’s face, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes speaking of untold horrors, terrible afflictions he’d been forced to suffer during his awful marriage.  Hunisett blinked, her lids closing slowly over her amber eyes, her gaze drinking him in until he felt completely absorbed.

“You poor man,” she said.  “Someone as extraordinary as you should never have had to suffer the way you have.”  She stepped closer to him, the folds of her robe rubbing against the fabric of his breeches.  “Whatever can I do to make your life just a little more comfortable?”  Here she slipped a single leg between his, her thigh rubbing against him in a most intimate manner.

Alec smiled.  “Oh, I think I can come up with a couple of ideas of how you might help.”  He paused, took a sip of his brandy.  “But first, you must tell me where you acquired this lovely brandy.”

Hunisett’s eyes flashed, and her smile grew devilish.  “I have a source,” she said.  “A wonderful source who gets me the finest French brandy.”

Alec laughed softly.  “Of course, the finest brandy would be French, but this is rather exquisitely aged brandy.  Tell me, my darling, could it have been acquired during that terrible skirmish with that Napoleon chap a few years ago?”

Hunisett tipped back her head and laughed, the sound that of bells tinkling in a soft wind.  “Oh, you are lovely, Stryden,” she said.  “Of course, my source smuggled in brandy for me during the war.  Do you think I would have gone without?”  She reached up, ran a fingernail along the line of his jaw.  “My man not only gets me fine brandy, my lord, but he’s very capable of doing…other things…when I ask.”

Alec raised a single eyebrow.  “Is that so?” he asked.

Hunisett’s smile faded into something more beguiling.  “My man brings me the finest silks, the best tea, and the loveliest spices from India without having to go through the East India Company,” Hunisett batted her eyelashes at him.  “I haven’t paid a single tax or fee on anything in years.  I’m a rather spoiled woman, I’m afraid.”

Alec smiled, reaching out to pull Hunisett closer.  The movement brought her body against the length of his, and he cradled her in his arm.  “And I know you would share your source with me, wouldn’t you, my lady?  I mean in the interest of improving my rather burdened life?”

Hunisett smiled, reaching up that single finger to once more stroke the line of his jaw.  She seemed to push herself higher against him, and her lips came closer to his.  “His name is Lord Lucian Rye,” she whispered, closing her eyes as she waited for his kiss.

Squee, peeps! Jack and Maggie recently visited the Teatime Tattler! If you’re not familiar with the Tattler, then you probably don’t know the Belles in Blue either. Pop on over for a scandalous account of Jack and Maggie’s first encounter in society.

For more about To Save a Viscount, the bestselling Regency romance, visit the book page.

So now I want to ask you!

Which of the Spy Series short stories is your favorite?

Were you surprised by Samuel’s choice in To Be a Spy?

Who do you think will win the heart of the Marquess of Evanshire?

Was Lady Emily a surprise? Do you love her or hate her?

And I’d like to say I’m sorry about To Be a Lady and what happens to Richard. But it needed to happen for the story to go on. Are you sad about it? Or do you understand?

What are you most anticipating from Once Upon a Page?

Join in the conversation and let me know in the comments below.

Download your copy from Audible or iTunes.

Visit the book page for more format options.

Want to know more about what it’s like to produce an audiobook? Check out my visit to Alicia Dean’s blog where I talk about finding Rachael and producing the Spy Series for audio.

I don’t know what’s more exciting about this post:

1. The amazingly talented Rachael Beresford is currently hard at work on the audio edition of To Save a Viscount or…
2. I got to write SPRING in this post!

Yes, To Save a Viscount will be available in audio this spring, so if you’re like me and use any excuse you can to listen to audiobooks, set aside the cleaning for a few weeks and store up some cleaning time to listen to this Regency romance.  You won’t regret it!

Son of a Duke

April 1815

Eleanora stood for a moment by the refreshment table as she gathered her thoughts about her once more.  It was not everyday that she inadvertently mingled with duchesses and earls in quite such proximity in the middle of a ball.  And thank goodness it was not for she would never be able to keep such a close eye on the happenings about her if her attention were always so judiciously averted.  Especially by the Earl of Stryden.  She knew he was married even though she had never seen his wife, but she also knew that did not matter when it came to his seductive powers.  And for the first time that she could remember, Eleanora suddenly wondered what it would be like to be seduced by a man.  A real man.  A gentleman.
She physically shook her head in the middle of the crowded ballroom as if to shake the thought from her head.  The heat was clearly getting to her, and she would have to seek fresher air or risk collapsing on the spot.  She moved quickly then, sliding around the refreshment table and escaping through a door at the back of the ballroom.  Her sturdy shoes made no sound as she quickly moved below stairs, expertly dodging the footmen as they carried the trays of champagne above stairs.
It was a maze of hallways and staircases on this level of the house, and Eleanora moved quickly through them.  She knew Hawkins was likely to be in the kitchen if he were not above stairs where his energy could be put to good use.  Eleanora would speak to him about that tomorrow, but tonight it would do her no good to argue with the man.
She dodged a rather green footman who still carried his tray with two hands and rounded a corner to turn expertly out of the way of a rushing kitchen maid exclaiming something that sounded like the hen is on fire.  Eleanora did not spend a moment’s worry on whether or not that was exactly what the maid had said for she trusted Cook to have everything under control.  Finally, Eleanora spun into the kitchen and stopped.
Hawkins hovered in the doorway on the other side of the room where another staircase lead up directly into the dining room where an elegant banquet table had been laid with the night’s supper assortments.  There were to be plates of cold roast beef and ham, a radiant display of cheeses and rolls, and decadent savory pastries and sweetmeats for the guests to enjoy.  And Hawkins should have taken his place amongst the footmen in the room to ensure that the meal neatly progressed.  He should not have been below stairs worrying a hole in the floor with his concerned pacing.
Eleanora approached him carefully.
“Mr. Hawkins, I do believe you have expressed concern over the number of footmen with us this evening.”
She kept her hands behind her back, tucked under the bow of her apron.  She felt the scratch of starch even through the fabric of her gloves.  She wondered for a moment what it would feel like to wear clothing of a more luxurious fabric like the gowns she had seen on the dancing women upstairs.  The thought was preposterous, and she quickly banished it to take care of the matter at hand.
Mr. Hawkins paused in his pacing, turning his sagging face toward her.  Every time he cast her a look of dismay, she thought  of the long face of a Basset hound and felt the corners of her mouth pull upward, which never helped the situation involving Hawkins.
“There are only eleven footmen, Miss Quinton.  Surely, we need an even dozen.”
Eleanora nodded in sympathy.
“Yes, Mr. Hawkins, I can see where an even number would feel more solid and provide a sense of security, but Gregenden House is fortunate enough to say the best footmen that can be found in all of London are here tonight, and they are serving the guests above stairs now even as we speak.  But do you know what would make it a solid dozen servants above stairs ensuring the meal is as much of a success as the ball itself?”
She watched Hawkins peel himself out of his misery as if it were a physical thing that clung to him like a wet cloak on a dreary day.  It gave her such a start to watch it unfold, and she knew that she had him.
“You, Mr. Hawkins,” she continued, “You would make a solid dozen servants and a perfect completion to the evening’s meal.”
Hawkins straightened, a noticeable change coming across his features.
“That would be a dozen, indeed, Miss,” he said, scanning the room above her head.  What he was looking for, she had not a single idea, but it did not matter as long as he moved his body upstairs.
She turned quickly, snatching a tray from a footman’s outstretched arms.  She shooed the young man away, pushing the tray into the Hawkins’ ready arms.  He looked down at the tray as if it had magically appeared.
“You are our twelfth and most gifted footman, Mr. Hawkins.  Now, go up those stairs and make this a memorable occasion.”
Her talks with Hawkins were starting to sound like the drivel found in ladies’ novels, and she worried her mind would turn to philosophical mush.  But Hawkins only stared at her in no apparent sense of recognition before turning and moving up the stairs before her.  She waited until he had reached the top and disappeared through the door leading into the dining room before she turned round.
Cook watched her from the other side of the large table that took up much of the center of the kitchen.  The table was strewn with bits of mauled vegetables and scattered pieces of dough.  The older woman’s red cheeks rounded on a smile.
“You get better at that every day, love,” she said and moved away to retrieve bread from the ovens.
Eleanora relished the moment of resolving another issue but put aside her feelings to return to the matter at hand.  Guests who required attention and a lord and lady to serve.  But what would it feel like to have no one to please?  No one to serve?  Would it be as refreshing and exhilarating as Eleanora imagined?
She quickly looked over her shoulder, down the hall that led off the kitchens to a door at the very end of the corridor, hidden in the dark recess and just as quickly pushed the ridiculous thought away.
Returning to the ballroom, she found it just as she had left it.  Not that she had any doubt that anything would be amiss.  Hawkins was in his place, and supper could be served.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed midnight.  One, two, three strokes of the bell so far.  The guests should start milling into the other room where the banquet table was set up.  A few had straggled in, but most were still here in the ballroom wanting to gossip a little more while their mouths were free of the ridiculously expensive food set out for them in the opposite room.
Eleanora looked to the footman across the floor guarding the doors to the buffet.  He shook his head once to the left.  Less than ten people had moved then.  Well.  She would have to make an announcement to get the rest moving, or they would never get them out of the house by dawn.
She stepped away from the pillar she had been pushed against as she had come back into the crowd and began to make her way to the orchestra in the far corner.  It was a crush as always, and various bodies stuffed into outrageously huge garments impeded her way.  She had said Pardon me more times now than she cared to count and suddenly did not feel like saying it any more.  She just started pushing as the rest were pushing back against her.  It really was the only way to move some people.
The grandfather clock had struck four more times now.  Seven down, five to go.  She had almost reached the orchestra.  The crowd was starting to lessen over here.  It being so close to the orchestra was probably the reason.  One cannot gossip with loud music pounding in one’s ears.  She passed the Earl of Stryden, and he winked at her again.  Blasted man.  Why did he keep doing that?  She nodded politely back at him and thought once again of his reputation of seductive powers.
Seduced by a man as wickedly handsome as the earl?
She wondered again ever so briefly before her mind snapped away from the thought.
She reached the platform where the orchestra had been set up and turned to face the noisy crowd of the ton’s most important peers.  She cleared her throat as the clock in the hall tolled its twelfth stroke.  She opened her mouth to get the crowd’s attention.
Then a gunshot cracked through the air, and a body fell from the balcony above to the ballroom floor.
Eleanora closed her mouth, realizing she really should give Hawkins more credit for all his worrying.