A Quick Jump Across a Narrow Stream

November 19, 1820

While this newspaper always approaches purloined correspondence with suspicion, we wish to assure our loyal readers that this particular missive came into our possession directly from the hand of the recipient. The marchioness so named in her correspondence is at some pains to defend the reputation of her cousin, the Countess of H_____, in the matter of her husband’s death and the unfortunate involvement of the Duke of W_____. She claims the letter shows the late earl’s illnesses, which the countess blames for his untimely demise, were more extensive and long-lasting than has been widely known heretofore. We leave our readers to draw their own conclusions.


August 1819

To Charlotte Marloughe, Marchioness of Firthley
London, England

By the hand of Bella Clewes, Baroness Holsworthy
Aboard the Arabella, flagship of Seventh Sea Shipping

My Dearest Charlotte,

Can it really be fifteen years since we have seen each other? We are only days away from France now; if the winds remain in our favor, we will make landfall in less than a sennight (when I will post this letter). From Paris to London, after so many years of travelling, seems like naught but a quick jump across a narrow stream.

I cannot say how thrilled I am to be so close to the family I left behind in England, though was deeply distraught to hear of your father’s passing. Uncle Howard was the only man in my family to treat me with any respect or dignity, and I am heartbroken I will now never be able to tell him how much that has meant in my adulthood.

Royal-Regard-Cover-Art-Parts-08Lord Holsworthy and I will remain guests of King Louis and the Duke and Duchess d’Angoulême at the Tuileries Palace until they are satisfied with my husband’s report on their investments, and have decided on a course going forward. We hope His Majesty will add another ship to the fleet, as he is second only to the Prince Regent in the returns my husband has accomplished on his behalf. Knowing royalty as I now do, I expect we will either be in London within a fortnight, or I will not see you for another twelvemonth or longer. I know better than most, the whims of the nobility can never be predicted, and the higher the rank, the more capricious they become. (I shudder to think how fifteen years of marriage to a marquess has “improved upon” your youthful impetuosity.)

It is with great sadness and concern that I confess substantial fear for my husband’s wellbeing. His gout continues to progress, the chalkstones increasing in severity and frequency, leaving him feverish and, for days or weeks at a time, unable to perform the most basic shipboard tasks. Added to this constant worry, his lungs have been visited this past year by a chronic complaint, and he begins to suffer a mild loss of hearing, which he is loath to admit.

Bella Clewes, Lady Holsworthy (A Sweet Glance, Émile Vernon)

I hope to persuade Lord Holsworthy to remain in England upon our return, rather than the short sojourn he intends. His advancing years beg rest and comfort, not further travels that can never improve upon his lifetime of adventure. I am not certain I can change his mind, and I pray you ask your husband to quietly speak to any gentlemen at Court who might assist. In correspondence, His Royal Highness seems reluctant to take my part, if only because it will cut into his profits. Until he can see Lord Holsworthy’s decline for himself, I am afraid he will continue to ask too much of a man who has very nearly given his life for the Crown.

I anxiously await our reunion, and look forward, with great pleasure, to meeting my niece and new nephew.

Your loving sister,
Bella, Lady Holsworthy


Learn what happens to the Holsworthys when Charlotte and Bella are reunited in Royal Regard.Royal-Regard-cover-500x750

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 society’s censure, the Earl’s 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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Meet Charlotte and Bella as young women in ‘Tis Her Season, a Royal Regard prequel novella.

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.

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To connect with Mariana Gabrielle

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Another Cross-Book Vignette from Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem

As part of the blog tour for Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem, the holiday box set by the Bluestocking Belles, characters from the novellas will be meeting up outside the covers of the book, appearing on Belles’ blogs throughout the month of October.

[This is Part One of a cross-book blog post. For Part Two, go to Sherry Ewing’s blog at: www.SherryEwing.com.]

Comment to win a print copy of The Bluestocking Belles’ Guide to a Good Time (random drawing): After reading this vignette, what do you think would happen if Guy and Sophie inhabited the same book?


At a holiday house party, there are always those young people too old for the nursery party (or so they say), but too young to participate in the dancing. At one such occasion, Sophie Templeton, from Under the Mistletoe, a fanciful child who likes to chase butterflies and kiss frogs, hoping one will turn into a handsome prince, meets up with Hugh and Guy Amberly, younger brothers to the heroine of ‘Tis Her Season. The thing about young people of this age, however, is that they are but a few years away from seeking matches of their own. One never knows if a childhood friendship might blossom into romance…

1820-januarySophie Templeton sits on a log beneath a tree watching her puppy, Tulip, frolicking in the snow. The pup gives her a bark, as if asking Sophie to join her, before diving into a snowbank. The puppy begins tunneling her way across the ground, then pokes her head up—a golden-haired snow dog with her tongue hanging out. Sophie gives into the impulse and plops down next to her dog, who begins licking her cheek. There’s nothing better than being outside in the snow, and Sophie begins creating her own snow angel, waving her arms and legs back and forth with a girlish giggle.

A young man appears on the track between the trees, ice skates slung over his shoulder, the puppy suspended by the scruff of his neck. “Is this your dog, Madam?”

Another boy sticks his head out from behind the young man’s shoulder. “Capital pup you have! Chewed a hole through Hugh’s saddlebag and ate everything before we even saw him, then led us a merry chase to get the bag back.” The boy holds up a leather sack, torn to shreds. “Smart dog, that’s certain.”

11986324_10207953478458294_7646750764487640404_n

Sophie Templeton, age 13.

Sophie sees her poor puppy suspended in the air, struggling for her freedom.

“Tulip does not like to be manhandled. Surely you must be speaking of some other misbehaving dog. Please put her down!” She stomps her foot to make her point. It has little effect on the young man holding her beloved Tulip.

Hugh holds the dog out, “A girl dog. No wonder it is a pest.”

“What a mean boy you are!”

Sophie gazes at the other boy, who is attempting to hide his laughter. She motions to the youth still holding Tulip. “Is he always like this?”

Guy rolls his eyes and laughs, “He ‘will be the viscount someday.’ Takes himself seriously, this one.” He grabs the dog and hands it back to its owner. “Guy Amberly. This is my brother, Hugh. We are visiting at the manor house with our parents.” He holds up a pair of skates that has been dangling from his shoulder. “We were going to go skating, but haven’t come across the pond. Are you from near here? Can you point us in the right direction?”

Guy and Hugh Amberly, Ages 12 and 14 - George_and_John_Soane_Jr_Owen

(L to R) Guy and Hugh Amberly, ages 12 and 14, respectively.

Grouchy though he is at the pup having eaten the luncheon in his saddlebags, Hugh is not so mean as to kick the obnoxious dog scampering about, trying to chew on his boot and jump up to bite his fingertips, and manages to get in some petting of its head, as it bounces around. “Who names a dog after a flower? Poor thing will be demoralized all her days.”

“Can she track? Will she be a hunting dog?” Guy asks.

With a sudden start, Hugh draws himself up to full height—not very tall at all. “We had better go, Brother, before this young lady gets designs on me. One cannot be too careful when one is safeguarding a peerage. I’d hate to be compromised and forced to marry someone I’ve hardly met.”

Guy shoves his brother. “You pompous prat. No one wants you to marry their daughter.”

Sophie laughs, gives Tulip a hug, and then sets the pup back down. The dog begins to prance around Guy, before sitting down and barking at her rescuer. “Thank you for returning my dog. I am sorry about your lunch but I am certainly not looking to marry either of you.” Sophie continues to plaster a smile on her face. Hugh would certainly run as fast as his feet would carry him if he learned her father was a vicar!

“My sister and I are also guests at the manor. The pond is out past the garden area, and I know they also have sledding planned. I can show you where it is, unless you are afraid I might be trying to get a parson to wed us.” She laughs again and raises her brow at Hugh… as if she would wish to marry an arrogant boy like him.

“Will you come along to the pond with us, then?” Guy asks, blushing a bit and keeping his face turned away from his brother.

At least the younger boy seems a pleasant sort of chap. “If you do not mind a girl tagging along, it sounds like fun. I am Sophie Templeton, by the way,” she proclaims with a smile. “I have my skates up at the house, and I am certain the cook will be able to provide a lunch, to make up for Tulip’s bad manners.”

Hugh looks down his long nose. “It does seem unwise for a little girl to be roaming about unaccompanied. I will take you under my protection, and under the protection of the viscountcy—temporarily.”

Guy puffs out his chest and steps in front of Miss Templeton. “I will accompany the young lady, Hugh, not you.” He waves his hands at Hugh, trying to chivvy him away, with no success.

“My, my,” Hugh says, smirking.

“He isn’t even a viscount,” Guy grumbles. “Only a courtesy baron.”

“While you have no title at all, Brother.”

Guy gallantly holds out his elbow for Sophie. “To the kitchens, then? And skating?”

Sophie reaches out to accept Guy’s arm. No boy had ever asked to escort her anywhere, let alone claim he would take her under his protection, no matter that it was temporary. She smiles at Guy, while her cheeks begin to flush. “Thank you for your gallant offer.”

Trying to think of something witty to say, she asks, “Are you a good skater?” as they begin making their way to the manor. “My sister, Margaret, taught me how to skate, although she has not had much time for doing anything fun of late. Too busy helping with all the holiday preparations. She likes to help out wherever she can. Do you have any other brothers or sisters that are here with you? I always wanted another sibling but it is just me and Margaret.” Sophie realizes she is rambling about nothing that would interest two boys older than herself. She blushes again in embarrassment.

“We are here with our parents, the Viscount and Viscountess Effingale, and our sister, Charlotte,” Guy says, “She is older, and will be betrothed soon, so she has no time for games, either. But she isn’t much fun, anyway. Bossy sort.”

“I believe Margaret shares much the same disposition. My father has been meeting with would-be suitors for her. She is not happy, but do not tell her I told you, if you happen to meet her during your stay.”

“At last!” Hugh proclaims, when they arrive at the kitchen. “I am starving.”


Meet Sophie Templeton in Under the Mistletoe, by Sherry Ewing, and Hugh and Guy Amberly in ’Tis Her Season, by Mariana Gabrielle, both available in:

Box-Set-3D-Square-WebMistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection
In this collection of novellas, the Bluestocking Belles bring you seven runaway Regency brides resisting and romancing their holiday heroes under the mistletoe. Whether scampering away or dashing toward their destinies, avoiding a rogue or chasing after a scoundrel, these ladies and their gentlemen leave miles of mayhem behind them on the slippery road to a happy-ever-after.

***All proceeds benefit the Malala Fund.***

Pre-order for November 1 delivery
Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble  |  iTunes Kobo  |  Goodreads Reviews

JOIN US FOR THE FACEBOOK LAUNCH PARTY
November 1, 4-9 pm EDT


This blog post co-written by:

Mariana Gabrielle
http://www.MarianaGabrielle.com

MarianaGabrielleMariana Gabrielle is a pen name for Mari Christie, who is not romantic—at 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.

Sherry Ewing
http://www.SherryEwing.com

 SherrySherry Ewing picked up her first historical romance when she was a teenager and has been hooked ever since. A bestselling author, she writes historical and time travel romances to awaken the soul one heart at a time.


Bluestocking Belles logo-02The Bluestocking Belles Online:
— Website and home of the Teatime Tattler: www.BluestockingBelles.com
Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest: BellesInBlue
— The Bluestocking Bookshop online storytelling game

Support the Bluestocking Belles’ fundraising campaign for the Malala Fund:
www.classy.org/BluestockingBelles

 

A Cross-Book Vignette from Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem

As part of the blog tour for Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem, the holiday box set by the Bluestocking Belles, characters from the novellas will be meeting up outside the covers of the book, appearing on Belles’ blogs throughout the month of October.

To see the scene from the opposing point of view, go to Caroline Warfield’s blog.

Comment to win a print copy of The Bluestocking Belles’ Guide to a Good Time (random drawing): After reading this vignette, what do you think would happen if Jeremy and Sylvia inhabited the same book?


Jeremy Smithson - 1stLordLyndhurstJeremy Smithson, of ‘Tis Her Season, is at loose—if a bit desperate—ends. He has been twice thwarted in his honorable pursuit of a lady. The first incident was an unrequited love match, and does not bear description, but in truth, there had never been a serious chance of the second: marrying his cousin, Charlotte Amberly, to lay hands on the money left to her by her father’s mother. If Jeremy’s father had been serious about that prospect, he should have cultivated Charlotte’s father as an ally years ago, not let Aunt Minerva stir up trouble for the Smithsons with her viscount husband.

Two decades ago, his aunt, the daughter of a new baronet, married far above herself to become Viscountess Effingale; now, the viscountess’ daughter will become a marchioness. Jeremy would give anything for a decent scheme to ensure Charlotte became a baronetess, instead, but as yet, there is as much chance of that as finding money in his pocket the next time he looks.

What he does have is a fresh horse and a stack of IOUs in the name of the dead Duke of Murnane (from Caroline Warfield’s A Dangerous Nativity), who has left a widow, a young son, and—hopefully—enough money to make good his vowels. The man’s solicitor refers Jeremy to an executor and steward at the country estate, which is, as it happens, on the road to a house party where he will find enough games of chance to tide him over until the Little Season. But he has barely the cost of coach fare, much less the more stylish transport required to spend a fortnight with a wealthy baron one knew from White’s. He will make a stop in Wheatton, pay a call at Eversham Hall. If things go in his favor, the executor will open a strongbox, count out five hundred guineas, and Jeremy will be on his way. If worse comes to worst, there are always baubles in houses that size that can be pocketed and sold.


11988372_10153567034265833_8915374228152316645_n“Your Grace,” Mr. Smithson says, looking over his shoulder to nod his thanks to the butler, who has been more than accommodating, in return for a small consideration. He bows elegantly over the hand of the woman he has come upon, who could only be the widow, in bombazine from head to toe.

“I am all but a broken man, hearing of your recent bereavement, and came with all due haste to pay my respects to you and, of course, Murnane’s heir. The late duke was a fine man who will be missed greatly.”

The duchess blinks rapidly and seems to shudder at the very sight of him, looking around as if expecting a ghost. Her hand scrabbles at her skirt as her eyes roam the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name,” she says at last, a quiver in her voice.

“Smithson, Your Grace. Jeremy Smithson. And entirely your servant.”

She seems confused by his presence, but not enough so to question him, nor sound an alarm. She only grimaces in the time-honored style of a political wife. She is well trained. “I am honored, Mr. Smithson.”

Jeremy peers around the room. The appointments are not lavish, nor cheap. He would not even have to sell a few of the widow’s accouterments in this room to clear the debt he was owed. But she was still young, and not unattractive. And biddable, if the duke’s drunken ramblings were to be believed. There might be more opportunity on the table than the price of a silver hairbrush and the ear bobs lying out on the sideboard.

Laudanum_poison_100ml_flasche Following the direction of her eye, he spies a bottle on a nearby table. “May I be of service?” He picks up the bottle and brings it to her. “I hope I do not find you ill, Your Grace. Your late husband would think me no kind of gentleman, were I to allow you to languish in misery. Have you had a physician?”

Her shoulders shake at the word, as does her voice. She reminds him of a gin drunk with no money to fill his glass. “Y-yes. He, ah, told me I—” she eyes the bottle longingly. “I suffer a weakness of the nerves, Mr. Smithson. And grief, of course.”

He shakes the bottle minutely.

“Please. My tonic. If you could just put few drops in some lemon water. There—on the table.”

Not much left. He pours a glass of lemon water and adds a few drops of laudanum. “Of course, I shall not keep you from your medicine. Tell me, what is the dosage?” Her eyes are already a bit vacant, and she wants more. Biddable, indeed.

“Thank you, Mr. Smithson. Uh, why did you say you were here again?”

He adds one drop after another to the water, reading the required dosage in her eyes. When her shoulders relax, he hands over the glass with a flourish. “Why, Your Grace, it is as I said. I merely wished to assure myself of your safety and well-being. I would hate to see you fall into trouble… a woman alone.”

12067244_10153622395565833_717004058_nHe slides into the chair next to hers and picks up the book she had been reading—or more likely, pretending to read, for he would not be convinced her eyes can focus long enough to parse a sentence. He raises an eyebrow at the title, now certain she hadn’t been reading. Murnane wouldn’t have allowed this trash in his house, much less in the hands of his wife, if there were any chance she would comprehend it.

“Do you often read Wollstonecroft, Your Grace?”

“Wollstonecraft?” She struggles to keep her attention on the book in his hand. “I don’t think so. Chadbourn thought that one would amuse me.”

“Chadbourn, Your Grace?”

“My brother. He, he is managing Emery’s estate. He’s only here for a while.”

A brother. Damn.

“I see.”

Lady-LilithJeremy sets the book aside, well out of her reach. “I do hope he is seeing to your amusement, Your Grace. It would not do for you to be crushed under the weight of your grief. While I do understand there must be no hint of impropriety, I will be staying in the village for a time, and would welcome the opportunity to entertain. Perhaps… if it can be managed without fanfare, of course… perhaps we might make a picnic?”

He reaches out and traces the back of her hand with one fingertip. It is a risk, to be sure, but there is every chance she won’t even feel it, and if she does… well… after her marriage to Murnane, the dolt, she might be susceptible to a bit of tenderness. Jeremy can feign tenderness as well as the next man.

The duchess closes her eyes and leans into his touch.

Her eyes flew open. “I don’t like what happens next.”

No, Jeremy wouldn’t have liked bedding Murnane, either, but was starting to see the appeal of the man’s wife. “Next, Your Grace?”

“After, you know. And Emery always did.” Her voice trails off, confused. “Emery gave me my tonic. Chadbourn takes it away. I like to dance when I…”

Jeremy watches her mind meander with increasing delight. She is really not all there. A quick marriage will leave Jeremy in control of everything of the late duke’s that isn’t entailed, and anything in trust for his wife and son. Lock her up in Bedlam for her own good—just look at her—send Murnane’s brat off to Eton for the next ten years, and Jeremy could do whatever he pleased with a duchy.

He leans in closer. “You like to dance, you say?”

Her face turns so quickly, their lips nearly touch. “I love to dance, but Emery won’t let me. I like flowers, too. Do you like flowers?” Her eyes might as well be made of glass, and he would wager all Murnane’s vowels, she has no memory of him walking through the door.

12085178_10153622396055833_1275783763_o“I love flowers, my sweet. We can pick bouquets on our picnic, and while I know Murnane preferred not to dance, I do not share his distaste. I will partner you in any figure you like.” He leaves the whisper of a kiss behind her ear.

“I do enjoy a picnic,” she murmurs, leaning toward the kiss. “Isn’t it a lovely day?” The dim sitting room, drapes drawn and windows firmly shut, looks nothing like a picnic venue—except perhaps in her drug-addled imagination.

“Glorious,” he croons, letting his breath trail against her lobe and the back of her neck, his eyes following his fingertip, tracing the edge of black lace on her mourning gown from her shoulder to her collarbone. She tries to rise, and he tests his influence and her sobriety, keeping her seated by the lightest touch of his hand.

Jeremy does have a partiality for girls who will fight back—briefly—but there is something intriguing about one who cannot conceive of making an argument. He wonders, idly, what other things Emery might have trained her to do without squabbling. It might be worth keeping her for a while to find out, before handing her over to Bedlam.

Sylvia blinks up at him with a flash of lucidity. “Emery? You’re not Emery. What do you want from me?”

Jeremy slides into a chair right next to her and takes her hand in both of his, stroking her fingers, turning her hand to touch the wrist, massage the palm with his thumb, holding her blank eyes with his sharper, more knowing ones.

“I wish only to assure myself of your happiness, Your Grace. And I am Jeremy. I hope you will call me Jeremy.”

“Jeremy.” She nods. “Do you—I mean, did you know Emery?”

“I know Murnane well enough to concern myself with his widow, my dear. I am heir to a baronetcy; I am not unknown in court circles; and we have… done business in the past, your late husband and I.”

The man died owing Jeremy five hundred guineas the Smithson men had worked hard to steal, but the lady would do, in lieu of payment.

12067163_10153622032355833_51831040_nThe door is flung wide by a land steward of some sort, judging by his clothes and muddy boots. The man with whom, presumably, Jeremy will have to do business. Perhaps, though, the brother, considering the look of indignation at finding him alone with the duchess. Jeremy inserts himself in front of her, holding an arm out, as though to protect her from the intruder’s wrath.

“Who are you, and what are you doing with my sister?”

Chadbourn, then. Jeremy smoothly steps to one side, not impeding access to the duchess, but distracting the man from questioning her more closely.

“Jeremy Smithson, Sir. I came to settle a bit of business with the late duke, and found Her Grace… well… she seems unwell. I feel quite sure Murnane would be upset to think his wife ill-treated.”

Chadbourn’s eyes narrow, and Jeremy sees the moment he recalls some rumor or innuendo about the Smithsons. The accursed man steps closer to his sister.

“I find myself wholly motivated to ensure her safety and wellbeing,” Jeremy continues, “and if you are her brother, in Murnane’s absence, it beseems you are the man responsible for her condition.”

Chadbourn pushes his body between Jeremy and his prey. Every muscle on alert, he leans toward the intruder. “And you, Sir, have no right whatsoever to intrude on Her Grace’s privacy. I will thank you to leave.”

Straightening his cuffs, Jeremy sniffs, “Perhaps it is not such a bad thing someone has intruded.” He looks over at the duchess’s vacant expression and feigns great sadness, furrowing his brows, pursing his lips, tut-tutting. “She is clearly not adjusting well.”

He turns his shoulder on Chadbourn, takes up her hand and bends over it, kissing the fingertips. “Your Grace, I will remain in the village a few nights more. Should you have need of anything, you must only ask. I place myself entirely at your service.”

Chadbourn glares daggers. “Take your leave, Sir, before I feel obliged to help you do it.”

Jeremy can spend another few days in this country village to suss out what use Chadbourn has for the duchess—if any—and how the man intends to settle the debts of his brother-by-marriage. “My thanks, Your Grace, for your company.”


Meet Sylvia, Her Grace of Murnane, and the Earl of Chadbourn in A Dangerous Nativity, by Caroline Warfield, and Jeremy Smithson in ’Tis Her Season, by Mariana Gabrielle, both available in:

Box-Set-3D-Square-WebMistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection
In this collection of novellas, the Bluestocking Belles bring you seven runaway Regency brides resisting and romancing their holiday heroes under the mistletoe. Whether scampering away or dashing toward their destinies, avoiding a rogue or chasing after a scoundrel, these ladies and their gentlemen leave miles of mayhem behind them on the slippery road to a happy-ever-after.

***All proceeds benefit the Malala Fund.***

Pre-order for November 1 delivery
Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble  |  iTunes Kobo  |  Goodreads Reviews

JOIN US FOR THE FACEBOOK LAUNCH PARTY
November 1, 4-9 pm EDT


This blog post co-written by:

Mariana Gabrielle
http://www.MarianaGabrielle.com

MarianaGabrielleMariana Gabrielle is a pen name for Mari Christie, who is not romantic—at 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.

Caroline Warfield
http://www.CarolineWarfield.com

Caroline Warfield grew up in a perapatetic army family and had a varied career (largely centered on libraries and technology) before retiring to the urban wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania. She is ever a traveler and adventurer, enamored of owls, books, history, and beautiful gardens (but not the act of gardening). She is married to a prince among men.


Bluestocking Belles logo-02The Bluestocking Belles Online:
— Website and home of the Teatime Tattler: www.BluestockingBelles.com
Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest: BellesInBlue
— The Bluestocking Bookshop online storytelling game

Support the Bluestocking Belles’ fundraising campaign for the Malala Fund:
www.classy.org/BluestockingBelles