… I made a mistake on my first posting, and sent Chapter 1 a week too early. I hope you won’t hold it against me that I won’t be posting the whole thing until next week. I also apologize for sending you three emails in quick succession, after months of nothing at all. Clearly, I need to practice this skill more often. đ
Mari
Today, I am starting a new feature, Weekly Serial Fiction. Three times a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, I will be posting three different books by chapter, with a snippet here on the regular blog (so you are notified), and on individual pages (so you can read start to finish, instead of upside-down, at your leisure). I will post full chapters, even if they are long.
If you like Historical Romance, stop by on Mondays for Lord Coventon’s Concubines, a short story sequel to La DĂ©esse Noire: The Black Goddess, or Saturdays to continue Never Kiss a Toad.
If you prefer poetry, come by on Wednesdays for Saqil pa Q’equ’mal: Light in Darkness: Poetry of the Mayan Underworld.
Today, I am starting with Never Kiss a Toad, a Victorian Romance I am currently co-writing with Jude Knight. (This means it may yet have a few typos, and the story is ongoing.) This book features characters–and their adult children–from my Regency Romance, Royal Regard, and Jude’s Regency Romance, A Baron for Becky. If you decide you want to read ahead, you can find more chapters available free at Wattpad.
David “Toad” Northope, heir to the Duke of Wellbridge and rogue in the mold of his infamous father, knows Lady Sarah “Sal” Grenford, daughter of the once-profligate Duke of Haverford, will always hold his heart. But when the two teens are caught in bed together by their horrified parents, he is sent away to finish school on the Continent, and she is thrown into the depths of her first London Season.
Can two reformed rakes keep their children from making the same mistakes they did? The dukes decide keeping them apart will do the trick, so as the children reach their majority, Toad is put to work at sea, learning to manage his mother’s shipping concern, and Sal is taken to the other side of the world, as far from him as possible. How will Toad and Sal’s love withstand long years of separation, not to mention nasty lies, vicious rumors, attractive other suitors, and well-meaning parents who threaten to destroy their future before it has begun?
© 2016 Mariana Gabrielle and Jude Knight
October 1823
Haverford House
London, England
Nick Northope, Duke of Wellbridge, paced the floor in a receiving room of Haverford House, waiting nervously for his oldest friend. He and his wife had been shown to the Duke of Haverfordâs family wing, where the rooms were as opulent and gargantuan as the public spaces, but a few touches showed that this space was for living rather than show. A workbasket stood by one chair, angled toward the fire, and a small stack of well-thumbed books sat within easy reach of another.
On a couch that favored comfort without sacrificing elegance, Wellbridgeâs duchess, Bella, clucked over little Davey, the new Marquess of Abersham, not quite half a year old, ensconced in Nurse’s lap. It had been more than two years since the Wellbridges had married and left England to live on her frigate in his Venetian lagoon, In two daysâ time Davey would be christened, with King George IV for a godfather. After all they had been through with His Majesty, the dinner he was throwing in their honor on the morrow might prove the most trying of all their joint experiences thus farâeven considering their previous ordeals had included kidnap, murder, penury, and exile.
I was a beta reader for the book referenced in this blog piece, A Champion’s Heart by Piper Huguley, and just loved it, and I love the blog piece about the twists and turns of publishing, especially books in a series.
1935. Champion Bates left poky old Winslow, Georgia when he was seventeen years old. He had promised to elope with his childhood sweetheart, but pressured by other influences, he took an earlier train leaving his Delie behind. The pain at leaving her behind has tormented him for the seven years he fought as a ham and egg boxer, trying to make himself worthy of her. He had no chance for the big time until now. He has a fight with a contender boxer–a white man. However, he has been told more fighting will possibly blind him.
Back in Winslow, Cordelia âDelieâ Bledsoe is out of luck. A teacher in the local school, she has the care of several children who have been abandoned by their parents. Sheâs offered $200 to take the children out of Georgia. She wants to take them to her family in Pittsburgh to live on a family farm, but Champion Bates shows up, insistent on helping her. She does not want to trust her old love, but has little choice.
Champion wants to redeem himself with his former sweetheart and doesnât expect much, but the hair and eyes of one of Delieâs young children tugs at his heart. In this story of sacrifice, Champ and Delie struggle to learn about love and both must grow A Championâs Heart.
I encourage everyone to pre-order it, and while you are there, check out her other books.
*****
Source: PLAN B | RT Book Reviews
Passion…
It’s what drives us. Connects us. Our passions make us who we are, define who and what we love.
This is a collection of poetry and prose designed to speak to all the different types of passion within us.
Let the words found on these pages wash over you. Allow them to move your spirit and speak to your soul.
Open your hearts and minds for Igniting Passions.
©David S Scott 2016
Igniting Passions Goodreads Link
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2ekuPPF
Amazon Canada: http://amzn.to/2dSjhSX
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2drkn4F
Amazon AU: http://amzn.to/2dEs8r4
You can find David S. Scott’s other books including paperback by clicking the following link: http://amzn.to/2e8WILg
Check out Dave’s website where you can order signed copies: http://davidscottauthor.weebly.com/
Daydreamer
The taste of your lips intoxicates my soul,
Your mouth is as delicious as the finest of wine.
Our tongues dance an erotic tango; vying for control.
Dreams of more to come if I could make you mine.
I’d like to peel all your clothes from you,
Allow my eyes to feast on your beautiful form …
If you could read my dark desires, it’s true,
I bet you’d run, or would you give in to the storm?
Wish I could feel you tremble at my touch,
Your legs would shake, your toes curled tight.
Nails dug into my flesh, sensations too much,
Climaxes reached, screams silenced by gentle bite.
But instead, only your lips shall I kiss,
And dream of a day it shall be like this.
©David S Scott 2016
I don’t often post political stuff on this blog, but loved this post and it deserves to be shared widely.
*****
Iâm scared to post this. Iâm afraid of alienating people I love, people I interact with on a daily basis, people whose friendships I value. I wouldnât say this if it hadnât âŠ
Source: So, Which Is It? â It’s Fine.
His hands shook as he heated the letter opener over the candle flame and slid it beneath the wax seal. Since the killing had begun in earnest, the Duke of Malbourneâs hands had been shaking more often than was seemly for a man of the nobility, but there was more reason today than most: this letter represented the last hope his one remaining family member was still alive.
Three sisters and their families had already been executed by Madame La Guillotine, twenty-five souls in all, including his newest nephews, twins, born to his third sister not even a half-year ago. He could not imagine an animal as bloodthirsty as the ill-bred, ungrateful, insolent serfs of France.
He had lost one blood relation after another until only his youngest sister was left, and then she was taken by the rabble. Not for a quick, clean, killing, but ransomed by mercenaries more interested in a share of noble wealth than fair-minded principles of equality. Even assuming her abductors hadn’t killed her within hours, any demand was more than the duke could pay, as he had been moving gold, silver, jewels, and valuables overland for several months, preparing to relocate his family and close retainers from France to England. When the letter came, he had only enough gold available for the journey. They would all be safely across the channel by now, living in relative luxury, if Marie had not defied his express command, and taken a walk in the garden.
Monseigneur,
I am inconsolable at the loss of your sister. I was not able to secure Mademoiselle Marieâs release. She is gone.
Further word on household activities by usual communiqué.
I am, as ever, your humble servant.
âMâ
His hand fell to the desk like the letter weighed as much as a brick. He closed his eyes to stave off the rare tears forming. Marie. Le bĂ©bĂ©, Marie. His youngest sister, not yet married, the sweetest and kindest of all. The last woman who had been under Adolphe Fouretâs protection, now that his wife was dead and buried these five nights past.
He could not wait two more days for Michelleâs weekly missive from her husbandâs house, the center of the revolutionary elements in Alsace. The other note he had opened this hour, from one Pierre Bouchard, another spy in different circumstances, had warned: Go now. Do not delay. Michelleâs intimate knowledge of the insurrection would do him no good if her bourgeois husband and his ilk dragged their rightful liege lord from the chateau in chains.
Goddamn Michelle! She was to have found a way to remove her former mistress from whatever peasant hovel the kidnappers had hidden her in. He had placed his inamorata, his familyâs most faithful servant, in the nest of revolutionary vipers, and paid her well, to meet exactly such a need.
The plan had been to take a coach and collect Michelle on his way out of Alsace with Marie. She had been Marie’s lady’s maid since the age of fourteen, and the duke’s confidante since they were children, and would have retained both positions in exile. But if he looked on her face now, he might kill her outright. Better to leave his lover alive, to imagine he might one day mete out sufficient punishment for such a grand failure as this.
He would travel faster alone. And he had no more time to lose.
The last surviving member of la famille Fouret gave instructions to his few remaining loyal men-at-arms, ordered his horse and weaponry and provisions prepared, and walked, one final time, through the halls of the chateau built by the first noble Fouret in the seventh century.
To discover the fate of Monsieur le duc de Malbourne and his lover, read Royal Regard.
After fifteen years roaming the globe, the Countess of Huntleigh returns to England with her dying husband. She soon finds herself plagued by terrible troubles: a new title, estate, and sizable fortune; marked attentions from the marriage mart; the long-awaited reunion with her loving family; and a growing friendship with King George IV.
Settling into her new life, this shy-but-not-timid, not-so-young lady faces societyâs censure, the Earlâs decline, false friends with wicked agendas, and the singular sufferings of a world-wise wallflower. Guided by her well-meaning husband, subject to interference by a meddlesome monarch, she must now choose the dastardly rogue who says he loves her, the charming French devil with a silver tongue, or the quiet country life she has traveled the world to find.
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Source: Ferdinand Tellgman, Portrat eines Kupferstechers (retouched)
âItâs Newgate for sodomites, you know, but I got some questions first.â
âOf course.â
âMight be easier on you if you hadnât been caught with a viscount in your bed.â
Solomon Peate rubs a hand across his face. Once before he had been caught, prancing about a molly house, but he had been cheap entertainment then, not the paid companion to a lord. The owner of the flash house who had rented him out had just paid off the Watch to look the other way. He certainly hadnât been taken up by Bow Street, and the newspapers hadnât followed him. Drew was going to hate him after this. Not to mention stop paying the bills.
âIt wasnât what you think.â
âNo? What was it, then?â
Source: Crimes and Punishment Magazine, 1810
The man stares expectantly, not looking for an answer, but rather, the lack of one. Would that Solomon and Drew had established some sort of lie to cover this eventuality. Surely, this man hadnât heard the rumors screaming through the ton, of the two men sharing the favors of The Black Goddess. He was only a functionary, after all.
âIt was just⊠he needed a place to sleep. There is only one bed. I could hardly let a viscount sleep on the floor.â
âMm hmm.â The man made a note in a file, the shifting of his beady eyes leaving Solomon feeling, if only for a moment, less pinned to the wall.
âNewry pay your rent, then?â
This was safe territory. Plenty of men were compensated with room and board. Sadly, in this case, it hadnât been provided in Drewâs servantâs quarters, where a viscountâs title might have provided some measure of safety. Not that living in Drewâs town house in proximity to his staff would have been at all safe.
âHe is my employer. I am his secretary. Part of my remuneration is the upkeep of my rooms.â
âIn a building filled with nothing but mistresses to wealthy men.â
âI cannot be held responsible for the life choices of my neighbors.â Whether or not the on-dits had reached Bow Street, his options were running out. âIn fact, my location is how he met his true mistress, who lives just across the hall from me. Kali Matai, La DĂ©esse Noire? You might have heard of her.â
âHeard you and Newry are sharing her,â the man states baldly, rolling his eyes, âbut I also hear that might be a front. Secretary, you say?â
âYes.â
Another note. âKeep his accounts then?â
âAmong other things.â
âItâs the other things that interest me.â
Solomon only just manages not to laugh at the implication; he must be slightly hysterical. None of this was a laughing matter, and suggesting the man would act as voyeur to two catamites was not at all the best idea.
âThere are no other things of the type you insinuate. I manage his everyday business affairs. Estate matters and the like.â
âMm hmm. How many estates does Newry own?â
The interrogator clearly knows, and Solomon hopes he has no specifics in his file, for what Solomon knows of Drewâs business affairs is limited to discussions he has overheard his protector having with other gentlemen, and the monies he spent to keep his companion in cravats.
âThree estates. Four houses, though, if one counts the one here in London. Or rather, three and a half. One burned last year, and is only now being rebuilt.â
Oh, he could tell this little roach of a man that Drew prefers weak tea and almost burnt toast, that he always wears silk shirts and owns one hundred twenty-two watch fobs and thirty-seven snuff boxes. Solomon could easily recall the placement of his birthmark and the exact size of his⊠thumbs. But the specific nature of the viscountcyâs investments? The cost of the servantsâ wages? Problems on his tenant farms? Any of the details a good secretary would know? He hadnât the least idea.
âWhere are his properties?â
âPortslade, Whitney, and Swindon. And the town house on Curzon Street.â
The quill just kept scratching across the foolscap. Such a slight sound to be giving Solomon such a large megrim.
âPrimary source of income?â
âSheep. And mining.â At least those were the investments of which Drew spoke most frequently. âHe has started a stud, but it isnât turning a profit yet.â
Newgate Exercise Yard by Gustave Dore
For the first time, a lecherous grin crosses the manâs face. âWay I see it, started a stud in his own bedchamber. Thatâs enough, Peate. I can call you back after Iâve spoken to your⊠paramour. See how your stories hang together.â His laughter barks like a badly loaded musket. âHang together. Thatâs funny.â
âHe is not my paramour, and I sincerely doubt anyone will hang a viscount,â Solomon said, unsmiling. A viscountâs paramour, though, was another thing altogether.
âMm hmm. Best warn you. Donât much like gentlemen of the back door in Newgate.â
Solomon felt the blood draining from his face. He had thought nothing could be more injurious to body or soul than his former lifeâservicing any man with a guinea to keep his bed in a flash houseâbut even an hour or two imprisoned for this particular charge would be far worse. In Newgate, he wasnât even worth a guinea.
Find out what happens to Solomon Peate in La DĂ©esse Noire: The Black Goddess.
Sired by a British peer, born of a paramour to Indian royalty, Kali Matai has been destined from birth to enthrall Englandâs most powerful noblemenâthough she hadnât counted on becoming their pawn. Finding herself under the control of ruthless men, who will not be moved by her legendary allure, she has no choice but to use her beauty toward their malicious and clandestine ends.
When those she holds most dear are placed in peril by backroom political dealings, she enlists some of the most formidable lords in England to thwart her enemies. But even with the help of the prominent gentlemen she has captivated, securing Kaliâs freedom, her family, and the man she loves, will require her protectors stop at nothing to fulfill her desires.
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âI. Am. A. Viscount!â
Andrew Marsham, Lord Newry, had been shouting for at least a quarter-hour, since this⊠lackey from Bow Street appeared at the door. When told the viscount was Not At Home, the lout forced his way past the butler, calling out through the halls and opening doors like he had a right to be in the house. Eventually, he had found Drew in his study, making himself quietly drunk.
Red face perspiring, veins in his neck and forehead distended and twitching, the viscount insists, at a continued loud volume, âYou cannot keep me here! You cannot lock me in my own house and treat me like a criminal!â
âYou may as well sit, Newry.â
âLord Newry to you, Sirrah!â
âCall you anything I like, and if youâre lucky I wonât call you a molly.â
âThis. Is. Preposterous!â
The man points with his quill to a chair and says, his voice a bit tired, having been awake since the small hours when he dragged Drew and Solomon from a shared bed, âSit, Newry. This can get a lot worse for you. And it might be preposterous if I hadnât seen you in bed with a man with my own eyes. Can you explain how you came to be there?â
The volume dropped as he stumbled a bit over his words. âWe⊠we were both⊠bosky, and there was only one bed. I was hardly going to sleep on the floor, nor ask the roomâs resident to vacate his own chamber.â Donning a viscountâs display of indignation, he added, âI cannot imagine why that would necessitate imprisonment.â
âIf you had been clothed, I might be more inclined to believe you. The only reason you are here and not in Newgate is the gentleman speaking for you. Marquess of something-or-other. Outranks the earl whoââ
âMarquess of what?â he demanded. âWho is speaking on my behalf? And to which earl are you reporting? I am a peer of the realm, Sir, and require you provide me the information without delay!â
âI cannot provide you information I do not have. Godâs bollocks! Will you sit, man?â
Source: Crime and Punishment Magazine, 1810
Lord Newry splashes brandy into a glass and downs it quickly, as he has done twice already since the interrogation began. Pouring another, he finally lowers himself into a chair, worry beginning to take its toll. There was no chance he could ask about Sollyâs whereabouts, but the thought of him sitting in Newgate, rotting away for who knows how long, is enough to make Drew cast up his accounts. Were he not a disciplined man, he might have done already.
Then, a thought occurs that turns his weak stomach into a strong knot. Solly will surely want nothing to do with him after this, no matter how much Drew pays as a quarterly stipend. He is already distrustful of the nobility, given his prior experiences with gentlemen seeking brief, anonymous paid entertainment with a desperate man, but never, in those encounters, had he been followed by the newspapers and tossed into Newgate. And, it must be said, Sol hadnât been entirely dependent on them. He hadnât been forced to trust them, which made this situation much worse.
Sol had no reason to stay; his pocket watch aloneâthe one Drew had had engravedâwould keep him for a year.
Unfortunately, asking about Sollyâs whereabouts or his condition was no way to convince this functionary of the innocence of their association. He hopes Sol is suffering only in pride, not person.
âSo, you say heâs your secretary.â
âBecause he is my secretary.â
âWhat kind of work does he do, then?â
Lord Newryâs nostrils flare. âThe same sort of work as every other secretary in England. Estate matters, correspondence, appointmentsâŠâ
âCan anyone verify that heâs responded to a letter or scheduled a meeting? Does his writing appear in your dairy?â
âHis writingâ?â Lord Newry stands again, pacing to the hearth, where he tosses a log into the fire. His observation was slightly less bellicose now: âThis is preposterous!â
âJust answer the question, please.â
Drew was well aware Sollyâs hand appeared nowhere in his diary, nor in his ledgers or correspondence or estate reports. Sollyâs hand appeared nowhere but on Drewâs⊠well. It was critical this horrid little man not get his hooks into anything in the study or estate office. Especially not the more personal missives Drew would have burned, had they not so heated his blood.
âHow am I to know to where he has written every note?â
The man looks up, eyeing Lord Newry with more interest now. âYou donât keep track of your own secretary? What if he should cheat you?â
âHe has been in my employ almost three years. If he were going to cheat me, he would have done it and disappeared long before now. And I am hardly the only man in London who doesnât stand over the shoulder of his man-of-business.â
Making a note in his book, eyes on the paper and ink, the man asks, âYou pay his rent?â
If the man knew who paid the rent, it meant he might already have access to the account books. Drew was now unsure in what instances he could lie.
âAs part of his remuneration, I pay the lease and maintenance of his rooms. He was in a sorry state when I found him, and it seemed the honorable thing to do. I could hardly have a man representing me in tattered clothes, living in a cheap room in Saffron Hill.â
âMost peers would have hired a man more suited to the position.â
âMost peers have no compassion for the downtrodden.â
âThat is certainly true.â Shuffling through papers, the man asks, âThe rooms you pay for⊠the building is owned by the same woman who owns the Masala Rajah whorehouse. Most of those apartments are rented out to the demimonde.â He laughs as he corrects himself, âThe dark-skinned demimonde. Any reason you have your secretary housed in the same building as other men keep their mistresses?â
âI cannot be held responsible for what goes on in every building whose threshold I cross. The rooms were clean and inexpensive.â
My man just raises a brow. Perhaps inexpensive had been a bit too much of a falsehood. âAny truth to the rumor you are keeping the woman across the hall from him?â He checked a note. âKali Matai? A dancer of some sort?â
Of course! Kali! How could he have forgotten Kali? âMiss Matai and I have⊠an arrangement.â
âWhat sort of arrangement?â
âDo you honestly believe me to have so little honor I would give you details of my relations with my mistress?â
The man shrugs and shuts the portfolio of papers before him and stands. Drew looks up, having expected the interrogation to last longer. He had been spinning lies in his head that might have lasted all week.
âYou cannot leave the house, NewâLord Newry. There are guards posted. I will return if I have any further questions. Your friends hold more influence than I, and likely, at this moment, more than you. Perhaps they can keep it quiet and out of The Lords. Were I in your shoes, I would trust in them.â
Find out what happens to Lord Newry in La DĂ©esse Noire: The Black Goddess.
When those she holds most dear are placed in peril by backroom political dealings, she enlists some of the most formidable lords in England to thwart her enemies. But even with the help of the prominent gentlemen she has captivated, securing Kaliâs freedom, her family, and the man she loves, will require her protectors stop at nothing to fulfill her desires.
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If you haven’t started Never Kiss a Toad yet, now is your chance. đ
December 15, 1803
The last time the Earl of Herrendon’s voice was heard in the confines of England, the Watch was called to the London residence of the Marquess of Firthley, where it was feared the marquess would kill his firstborn son, rather than allow him to marry the woman of his choosing. That circumstance, however, is of ancient vintage, and who can remember back more than a quarter-century?
Lucky for you, dear Readers, this reporter can.
During the 1775 Season, the featured soprano at the Royal Opera, Miss Lourdes Andreadis, was a dark-eyed, Grecian beauty who had traveled the Continent, performed for the Crowned Heads of Europe, and reportedly taken more than one royal son, in more than one principality, as lover. Inevitably, every British nobleman with the purse to finance a mistress wanted a contract, but she was not a woman for hire. No, she was heiress to a shipping fortune and had made her own money and fame. She chose her paramours for the enjoyment and had no need of a husband, even one with a title.
When the Earl of Herrendon, heir to the Marquess of Firthley, fell in love with her, no one thought there was any question of marriage. Not only was he only one of dozens of men offering her their sincere devotion (by way of worldly goods), but Preston Marloughe was a dutiful son, not given to fancies like love at first sight and midnight elopements. Older, wiser men than he had been ensorcelled by Miss Andreadis, however, and Herrendon was caught up like all the others. Before the end of the Season, they were publicly acknowledged lovers, and she announced she would retire.
Speculation was rife she was increasing with his by-blow, but still, no hint of a marriage until one morning, in the small hours, the Watch was called to Belgrave Square by the screaming of the marquess’ housekeeper, who ran from the house, shouting about the master killing his only son. News of the earl’s marriage arrived back in London within a fortnight, and announcement of a birth no fewer than three years later, but the Earl of Herrendon was never seen in England again.
Until now.
Readers, I can confirm that the Earl of Herrendon has returned to English soil. The son of Firthley’s prodigal heir and his scandalous opera singer has taken up residence in Belgravia as heir presumptive to his grandfather, the Marquess of Firthley.
So, who is Alexander Marloughe, the new Earl of Herrendon? If the ladies of London are lucky, he is his father’s son, for anyone who remembers Preston Marloughe, does so fondly. He was a kind, funny, honorable young man, and this writer admits to shedding a tear on news of his death by fever some dozen years ago. The noblewomen of England were done a great disservice when Miss Andreadis took him out of the marriage mart, and no less a personage than Lady Sefton has said so.
But will the same be true for the son? For surely, the first order of business for this young bachelor must be securing a bride.
He is handsome, it is reported, and a noted businessman in Greece, but after a lifetime in trade in Crete, raised to manage a shipping operation rather than take his seat in the Lords, one wonders if the new earl will have even a loose grasp of the social graces, to say nothing of understanding the social, political, and economic realities of our nation. It is sure he will have but a slim purse, as his mother’s fame and fortune have long since dimmed, his English property has been lying fallow since his father’s desertion, and his mother’s family’s fleet of ships has been requisitioned at gunpoint by Napoleon’s forces, presumably why he has chosen now to make his return and take possession of Herrendon (both the Hall and the courtesy title).
But does any of that matter at all?
Even were he a bricklayer, he will yet become Firthley and take a seat in the House of Lords upon his grandfather’s passing. The marquessate is wealthy and strategically significant, the current Lord Firthley is a hinge vote in his bloc in Parliament, and no one has the least notion of the character or temperament of England’s latest peer. The question uppermost must not be whether Alexander Marloughe will fit in with the beau mondeâfor his bloodline is irrefutableâbut rather, how?
What kind of nobleman will he be, and perhaps more important (certainly more entertaining to contemplate), which of our noble daughters will redeem Preston Marloughe’s betrayal of his class and welcome Herrendon back home?
Meet Alexander Marloughe, Earl of Herrendon, in âTis Her Season, a Royal Regard prequel novella:
Charlotte Amberly returns a Christmas gift from her intendedâthe ringâthen hares off to London to take husband-hunting into her own hands. Will she let herself be caught?
Available FREE during the month of July at Smashwords, with Coupon Code SFREE.
Charlotte Amberly would rather eat a lump of coal for Christmas dinner than marry the Marquess of Firthley, so when her parents cancel her London Season in favor of a rush to the altar, the feisty debutante takes husband-hunting into her own hands.
Alexander Marloughe, reluctant heir to a marquessate, would rather not spend his holiday dashing through the snow after a flibbertigibbet just out of the schoolroom, but no woman before Charlotte has ever led him such a merry chase.
Mariana Gabrielle
Mariana Gabrielle is a pen name for Mari Christie, who is not romanticâat all. Therefore, her starry-eyed alter ego lives vicariously through characters who believe in their own happy-ever-afters. And believe they must, as Mariana loves her heroes and heroines, but truly dotes on her villains, and almost all of her characters’ hearts have been bruised, broken, and scarred long before they reach the pages of her books.
