Thursday, March 31, 2011

The Story Behind The Story....The Pleasure Garden

Ok, it's the last day of March, and my god, let us hope that Spring is right around the corner! I'm dead sick of winter, and have been chomping at the bit for a little spring action. Spring fever is actually a real thing, you know! The ancient Celts knew that! I happen to love the Celts. They're a really ingenous ancient people, and they loved festivals and sex! What could be better?

When Amanda McIntyre, Kristi Cook and I started thinking of an anthology idea, we all kind of hit on the Celtic people and their calendar of festivals. It all started with Winter's Desire. Spice wanted a Christmasy/Wintery type tale, but didn't want the proverbial Christmas tree and mistletoe type of thing. They wanted outside the box. So we thought about doing something kind of mystical, and non-religious, but in the spirit of the holidays and the season. The Winter Solstice came into being, and A Winter's Desire was born.

I think we had so much fun brainstorming this idea, that it naturally flowed into ideas for other anthologies. Which brings me to todays blog post--The Pleasure Garden, or affectionately known between us three as--The Beltane Anthology.

The Pleasure Garden does celebrate the rites of spring which was known to the Celts as Beltane. We might know it more today as May Day. It's the time of death to winter, and the birth of spring. It's about fertiility and liveliness and the frivolity of spring. It's about the flowering of plants and trees, and the growth of fruit and vegetables. It's the birth of animals, bunnies and rabbits, and calves, and those adorable spring lambs! The world is green and warm, and everything seems to hum with life! We knew we wanted to convey this feel, to make each story brim with passion and life, and the gift of a warm spring day.

Upon researching Beltane, and the ancient celebrations, we hit upon an old fable involving the May Queen and the Oak King. We liked how we could encorporate the image of the Green Man which is so rich in Beltane lore. So, we took the story of the Oak King and May Queen and tailored it to suit our premise. In the end. we have a cursed garden, and the Green Man sorrowfully looking out upon it. To make this garden grow, lovers need to visit, and make it flourish with their passion and love.

This idea is integral to Beltane. Villagers would run out into the woods, and chase one another. Lots of hanky panky out in the woods, and lo and behold flowers and plants and all kinds of other things start sprouting out fromt he ground. A bit basic in my outline, but essentially, that's the spirit of Beltane, and that's what we wanted to capture when we set out to write what we have dubbed, The Celtic Spice anthologies.

So, in hopes that spring comes soon, I decided to give you a little glimpse into the background of the book. Now, I'm off to see if my garden is perhaps hiding a man in the foilage!!

Be Well!

Friday, March 25, 2011

Reader Questions--Inspiration!

I thought I might add this feature, either weekly or biweekly for the readers who email me, and don't always get a pompt, or indepth answer from me. I hope followers will like it! I'm planning on combining reader questions, and  a behind the book series for readers.

One of the most popular questions that come my way are 'what inspires you', or more succintly 'how the heck did you ever come up with an opium addicted hero,' and in regards to poor old Wallingford, 'how come he can be such an ass?'

Well, the answer to these questions are; the character. They come to me as they come, an that's really a very fascinating part of the whole writing experience. But more on Addicted and Sinful, and the upcoming related novella to those books will be creeping into this blog in the coming weeks.

So, today, I'm gong to address inspiration. In one word, I'm inspired by 'everything'. Normally, for me, it's snippets of things. Perhaps one line in a song (music is probably the number one most inspiring thing for me; and I always make playlists for each of my books) and artwork. It can either be classical, photo's, or landscapes. Generally, it's something moody, desolate but romantic. That tends to be my formula for writing, and by now I've learned not to try my hand at light and fluffy, because it's just not me as a writer. I'm darker, I guess. I enjoy finding beauty in the stark and bleak, the humble, and the tortured soul. So, my inspiration naturally springs from this.

Take for instance, this gorgeous piece of artwork.

 The subject-Fallen Angels is a favorite of mine. GAWDS, I love me a bad boy angel, but it's not only the subject itself that inspires me, but the tone, dark, smoky, moody, the way the fog and mist curl around the lamposts like a lover snaking around a woman's body. It's the brilliant, sensual color of the woman's dress and the romantic, fluffy layers interspersed with lace. It's the way he's carrying her, and how her head is tossed back and her throat, so pale and luminous is exposed. It's the feeling of danger and security, sensuality, and a deep, palpable passion that exists in his expression, which is mysteriously, and inticingly partial covered.
I've already written a scene that very much resembles this couple's pose. I've made it my own, through setting, thoughts and the character's own traits, but there is no denying that this exact picture inspired a new picture in my mind. (Thanks, Barbara)
And that's usually the way it works for me, with art. My eyes see one thing, and it immediately turns to something different, but along the same vein in my mind.

Next is music. Any kind of music can inspire me. In classical it's a feel. I think because I like to dvelve deep into the human condition I find that classical music, especially piano and violen help me to capture the tone and feel, and emotional depth that I desire in my books. Sometimes I can be listening to the music, and barely conscious of the words I'm typing. That's just a stream of conscious writing, and at that moment, I AM the character. For me, I have three--now four go to music selections that I ALWAYS write every book to. They are the Kingdom of Heaven movie sountract, the 2005 Pride and Prejudice soundtrack (Sinful was written exclusively to this soundtrack) and Loreena McKennit's The Mask and the Mirror.

Last week, I added the new Jane Eyre soundtrack, composed by the same man who brilliantly composed the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack. Let me tell you, it's just stunning. You can almost hear the violen weep. Just gorgeous. And this soundtrack has been instrumental in the writing of Pide and Passion while helping to achieve the emotional arc of this intense story.
The songs Wandering Jane and The End of Childhood are in heavy replay rotation on my iPod. I've written what  think is a beautiful and passionate love scene between Lucy and Sussex; they're stripped raw and naked, and emotionally they're both at the lenth of their tether. It's been passion denied too long, and hearts that have been bleeding too long. It's two souls desiring each other, but who are afraid to reach out; it's the mask of politeness dropping so that pain and sorrow, fear and a very great longing can be seen. I have to say, that the emotional connection between them is poignant, which makes the physical touching, and the act of making love all the more powerful. It's probably one of my favorite love scenes I've written thus far!
 Have a listen on Amazon, and you'll know what sort of love scene, and emotional itensity there is between these two! (Definitely listen to Wandering Jane and The End of Childhood, because those are the only songs I listened to while writng that scene!)

Occasionally I will listen to words with lyrics, but only to get me in the mood. I never write to lyrics because I'm afraid of inadvertingly typing out something I'm listening to.
And finally, another important inspiration for me, is words. Geesh, I love the power of words. They can hurt, tear us apart, but they can soothe and make us happy, or aroused. I love finding just the right context, and fit, and the perfect word to make a sentence or thought sing. It's not surprising then, that I love quotes. I'm especially fond of Shakespearean quotes, and one's from Anais Nin.
Here are a few favorites about writing, which I happen to think are sooo true....

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and open a vein--Walter Wellesley

The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say--Anais Nin

Words so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them--Nathaniel Hawthorne

And that is it, readers. The inspiration behind my books, and imagination!
If you listen to the Jane Eyre soundtrack, let me know what you think. As well, if you're eager for more of the Addicted world, stay tuned, lots of stuff coming up for Seduced By Starlight in the anthology, The Wedding of the Century!

And a question, if you wouldn't mind answering...does an author's musical playlist enhance your reading experience, or do you prefer to listen to your own musical choices? Or perhaps, you enjoy nothing but the sound of the character's voices in your mind?
Would a playlist for my books be of interest to anyone?
Be Well!

Friday, March 18, 2011

This and That

Well, it's Friday, and we can all breathe a sigh of relief that the weekend is upon us. For me, I'm still nose down, fingers flying over the keyboard. Pride and Passion is coming along. So is spring. Right now I am sitting in my study, with the window slighly open! The birds are singing, and the promise of a sixty degree day is whispering in the air. (of course, the weather forecastors are calling for snow on Sunday, but I'm choosing to live in ignornant bliss).

For me, spring is all about renewal and rebirth. Shedding the old and tired, and making a fresh start. I often make little resolutions in the spring. You know the ones, stop and smell the flowers. Take a few minutes to enjoy the fresh air and the solitude, feel the cool grass beneath my feet. And with this sense of new beginnings, it's no surprise that the spring is the time of year that new proposals and book ideas seems to pop into my head. I've been thinking of this new proposal quite a bit lately (although I should be completely lost in Pride and Passion)I cannot help but allow my mind to wander to Yorkshire, and the dynamic family that has so captured my imagination.

As I do every year, I stop at the local nursery and pick up two potted Hyacinths. I love the smells, and I bring one into my study to enjoy. Today I'm heading out to buy one. I think it's the perfect day for it, and it's my own small, personal indulgence.

I'll be going to my favorite local nursery, I love their selection, but what I love most is the the huge thick limbed Wisteria they have! It's just gorgeous, and the blooms hang in big bunches, just like grapes. It won't be blooming yet, but there will be signs of life, and it'll make me think that spring isn't too far off!
When I return with my plants, I will then start on my next two spring rituals, they are another form of comfort--buttermilk dill biscuits, and lemon squares. To me dill says fresh and spring. I always associate it with Easter because my mum always made these biscuits. However, my mum never cooks with a recipes-it's always a bit of this, and a bit of that-so I found a recipe that tastes almost as good as mum's. Ad the lemon squares taste fresh, and lemony, and for me, nothing says springs more than lemon. Once I get my squares and biscuits made, I'll post the recipes here in the extra section for you to enjoy, if you've got that mad spring
fever like I have.
And while we're talking fever, heree are two things that have inspred me today for my new series...

I see this quaint little walk on the outskirts of my fictional village. What a lovely stroll it would be for a duchess when she goes out to call on villageers, and hand out her gift baskets? What do you think?

This charming cottage, with the bunches of wisteria. I KNOW I will have to find a use for it!
It would be quite heady to be kissed beneath the wisteria, wouldn't it?

And this quote, by William Shakespeare. I love it, the imagery, and the sensuality of it..

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs. ~William Shakespeare

I think it sounds like the perfect quote for love in the spring.

So, what's your spring indulgence?
Be Well!

Monday, March 14, 2011

Frisky Friday Winners!

Wow, thanks for the great respononses for your ultimate Pleasure Garden! Some of the responses just made me long for my own little oasis, and of course, for spring to hit full force.

So, this is how I picked the winners. I wrote the names on separate pieces of paper and my 12 y/o daughter grabbed her old easter basket and randomly drew three names.

The responses were waaay too good, and toooo many to only pick two.

So here we go. The winners of The Pleasure Garden are....
                                                                     Virigina C
                                                                      Chris S
Congrats to all the winners, and a huge thank you to everyone who entered. Not to despair, lots more giveaways coming up! If you could, could the winners please respond to charlotte (@)charlottefeatherstone(.) net and let me know your snail mail addy!

Be well, and thanks again!

Friday, March 11, 2011

Frisky Friday Giveaway

OMG, March is soooo roaring in like a lion around my parts. ANOTHER snow storm blew in last night, and is still whirling around! I'm SO sick of winter, and it doesn't help that I'm writing Pride and Passion which is set in November, and there's a blizzard going on. Fine and dandy when you're lying in bed with the Duke of Sussex, but in reality...nah, I'm sick of it.

So, let's get our spring on......March 25th, The Pleasure Garden releases, and if that isn't a cover that says spring, I don't know what is!
So, I'm giving away two copies. All you have to do is tell me what your ideal pleasure garden would be. I'll randomly pick the answers on Monday morning!
So, put on your thinking caps, and think SPRING...hell, think this man in spring!!!!!!
If you want to know about The Pleasure Garden go Here
Good luck, and be well!

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

Tuesday Tidbits

Apologies for the shoddy housekeeping around here! I'm in deep deadline do-do and have been blazing my way across the keyboard. The good news is Pride and Passion is coming along nicely, and even better, it's turned out to be deep and dark, and emotionally wrangling, and sexy as heck, too! So, I'm feeling good about that. I am NOT feeling good though about getting four hours of sleep a night and living on coffee!

So, I got an exciting email a few days ago. Some more nominations for Sinful, and the first one for LUST! Yeah! So, over at The Romance Reviews Sinful has been nominated for best Erotic Historical Romance for 2010, and Lust has been nominted for best Erotic Paranormal/Fantasy Romance! I'm tickled pink! And if you're interested, you can click this link The Romance Reviews and vote for one of them, or both. No pressure! lol!

So, on to the next tidbit. Has anyone heard that there is a new version of Jane Eyre in the offing next week? OMG, I love Jane Eyre--I don't care how many versions come out, I'll watch every one of them. Jane is probably my most favorite character in all the world, and Jane Eyre is right up there in for one of my all time favorite books. The Bronte's are definitely my favorite literary authors--I love the bleakness, the drama, the melancholy, the over-the top depths of despair, and the bosom heaving romance! When we go to England this year, I'll definitely be visiting the Bronte Parsonage. I feel such a deep connection with Charlotte Bronte, and I can't wait to tred the floors that she did!

Jane..what can I say about her, she's a perfect mix of strength and vulnerability, of feminism and steel core. i love that she is plain, and unassuming, and that Rochester is completely smitten by her. I love the ugly duck trope, and the one in Jane Eyre is in my estimation perfect. I cannot wait for it to come out, and only hope that it will make it a theatre close to me!

In case you haven't heard of this new version, then feast on these treats!
All the best, and be well!

And my favorite dialogue in the whole book!


Tuesday, March 01, 2011

Seduction and Scandal-Chapter One!

At long last, here is Chapter One of Seduction and Scandal. Please note, if you come across any typos, they are formatting issues between galleyes and word docs, into blogger, and will not appear in the book Enjoy! 

Chapter One

London, 1875

The first time I met death, it was at a ball and we danced a waltz. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, and amidst the swirls of ball gowns, their silk trains decorated with pearls and lace, Death guided me in sweeping circles until I was dizzy and breathless and all the other dancers had seemed to melt away, leaving only Death and myself whirling on the dance floor.

I should have feared him, and his steely embrace, but I did not. Death had been by my side for so many years that I felt a kindred spirit with him. I have seen Death. He is beautiful in his severity, heartrending in his coldness. A dark, shadowy specter whose web draped like an ethereal veil over the humans he would one day lay claim to.

A man, in every appearance, whose isolation and loneliness he could not hide. It shone in his eyes, which were a mesmerizing dichotomy of coldness and warmth.

His irises were a light shade of blue with the faintest chips of pale green, reminding me of the turbulent, chilly waters of the North Sea. But his lashes, thick and luxurious, and black as a raven’s feathers, put me in mind of a sable wrap, warm and comforting, and soft—so supple and inviting. His hair was just as dark, inky and shining as it hung to his shoulders. Like a pelt of fur, I yearned to run my fingers through the long strands, burying them in the thick suppleness and warmth.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked me, his voice deep and velvety. It slithered along my pores, awakening a deep feeling inside me—not fear, but something else. Something that made me warm and languorous, and as though my will were no longer my own.

“Lord Death,” I replied in a breathless whisper.

“And do you not fear me?”

I looked up, held his icy blue gaze steady. “No. I do not.”

He pulled me closer, till our chests meshed and our bodies danced, pressing and moving as if as one. It was indecent. Hedonistic. Exhilarating. My pulse raced, heating my skin. He found the frantic beating in my throat, his gaze lingered there, and I knew then that he could snuff the warmth that was climbing steadily inside me.

“Have you come to claim me, Lord Death?”

His gaze slowly lifted to mine, and the thick, onyx lashes lowered, casting a hood over his ice colored eyes. “I have. Will you come with me now?”

We finished the turn and he took me by the hand, threading his fingers through mine, guiding me toward the French doors, and the velvet blackness beyond.

I followed him willingly, his beauty beckoning me, and like a sleep walker, I trailed beside him, compelled by something I could not name.

“Am I to die?” I asked, and he stopped, raised our joined hands to his mouth, and gently kissed my knuckles.

“You are, my love, and in your sleep, you will become Death’s Bride.”

“And that is it?” cried Lucy as she threw a pillow at Isabella. “You fiend!”

Lucy rushed to the dressing table where Isabella sat and pulled the black leather journal from her hand. Flipping through the pages, Lucy searched frantically for more.

“I told you, Luce, that I had only just begun the story.”

Lucy looked up from the book, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “I was just about to swoon when you ended it. I vow I am in love with Death!”

A tremor of pride curled within Isabella as she accepted the volume back from her cousin. “Do you think it’s that good?” she asked, feeling nervous as she gazed down at the words she had written. “I will admit it is a rather strange concept.”

“Good? Gracious, Issy, you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not even Mr. Rochestor is as gloriously brooding as your Lord Death.”

Smiling, Isabella, tucked her journal and pencil into the seed pearl reticule she was using for the night. “I could not outdo Mr. Rochestor, Lucy. Charlotte Bronte has penned an unsurpassable hero with him.”

“Death, with his black hair and pale blue eyes…” Lucy murmured, closing her eyelids as she began to dance around the room, as though she were waltzing. “He is every maiden’s dream. To be swept up into the arms of a man focused solely on you… Issy,” she said, stopping before her. “It’s perfection.”

“I must confess, I do rather like the opening.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Lucy ordered as she glanced in the mirror and replaced a few wayward auburn ringlets, “it’s only me. You can say you think it’s a smashing opening, and I will whole heartedly agree.”

Hiding her grin, Isabella turned on the little stool and straightened the amethyst and diamond necklace that adorned her throat. It had been a gift from her uncle, and she wore it whenever possible. Never could she have imagined wearing something so beautiful—and expensive.

Her hair could use a fixing, she noticed, but there wasn’t much that could be done with the riotous flaxen curls that enjoyed springing from their pins. She had been able to cover up most of her past, to bury her common roots, and essentially make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but her hair, it seemed, had other plans. It would not obey, and she hid her smile, realizing that bit of tough Yorkshire stubbornness would not be stretched, ironed, or pulled out of her. At least not yet.

“Tell me about your heroine, Issy, the woman who is to capture Death’s heart.”

Isabella frowned. That was the strange part. She hadn’t really put much thought into the woman who was to be Death’s bride. The opening had come from some place deep inside her, the words spilling out from her soul. She did not want to look too deeply there, afraid of what she might see of her past—or perhaps it was the future she feared?

Lucy caught her scowl, and lowered her head, so their temples were touching as they looked at their reflections. “Or are you Death’s heroine, Issy?”

Isabella’s mouth fell open and Lucy laughed as Isabella flushed furiously. “Don’t be silly, Lucy.”

Her cousin gave her a dubious look. “You naughty little girl, penning such a thing.”

Had it been her in that opening? Had it been herself she envisioned, had written about dancing indecently with Death?

She was no stranger to him, that was for certain. But to write him as a hero? As someone who could lure and seduce…someone to be desired, and not reviled…

“You know I’m just jesting,” Lucy grunted. “For Heaven sakes, Issy, do not be so temperamental. I can’t abide that in artists. That’s why I broke off my flirtation with Eduardo. He was too moody for my tastes.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Isabella mumbled, finally recovering from her shock that she might possibly be the heroine in her story. “You met him at a séance.”

Lucy’s emerald colored eyes flashed with excitement. “And there’s going to be another one in a few days. Say you’ll come, Issy.”

It wasn’t as though she didn’t have loved ones she’d dearly love to connect with in the spirit realm. Her mother, grandmother, and now her aunt. They had all been taken from her, and each time she had felt Death’s shadow, standing quietly in the corner, waiting to take them.

Perhaps it was just her active imagination, but each time she had fancied that she had seen Death with her own eyes. Of course, she had never dared to admit such a thing. For who would believe her? Still, a part of her feared she really could see death, and that part absolutely refused to attend a séance with Lucy, for fear the Grim Reaper would present himself.

“Well?” Lucy prodded. “If nothing else, it’s a good night away from balls and soirees. You might even think of it as research for your book. Bring Mr. Knighton if you wish.”

“I don’t think the curator of Medieval studies at the British Museum would be very interested in a séance, or chair tipping, or communicating with dead spirits while using a talking board.”

Lucy huffed as she pulled on her long leather gloves. “What you see in that stuffed shirt, I’ll never understand.”

“He’s very kind. And…and I think him handsome.”

“I’ll give you those two, but I would like to remind you that he’s rather boring in his conversation, and that he’s probably not going to look upon your dream of being a lady novelist with a kind eye. The academic sort never do,” she reminded her. “Knighton is a scholarly fellow in a science, hard facts sort of way. Novels are made up stories, after all. I doubt Knighton could wrap his rather well formed brain around that fact to grasp the delight to be found in them.”

“What is it you are trying to say, exactly, cousin?”

Lucy’s gaze softened. “That he is likely not going to be able to understand your brilliant mind, Isabella. He deals in facts, and you delight in fantasy. You’re opposite in every respect.”

Isabella dropped her gaze to her hands, where they folded primly in her lap. The black jet bracelet which held the key to her journal caught her eye, and she brushed her thumb over the shining black stones. “It would do me well, to give up this fantasy I so enjoy. Perhaps that is what I need, Lucy, a man who keeps me planted on earth, not in the ethers of some magical realm.” Shrugging, she glanced up to see her cousin watching her with what Isabella could only think of as sympathy. “It hardly matters. The chance I will be published is very slim, Lucy. It’s really only a hobby.”

Lucy lifted Isabella’s chin with her slim fingers and gazed down upon her with her brilliant green eyes. “Repeat after me. I, Isabella Fairmont, will finish this book and submit it to every publisher in London-”

“And New York,” Isabella reminded her.

“And New York,” Lucy added, “And I will not rest until I see it published. I will not give up on my dreams.”

Isabella stood and hugged Lucy, who although was her cousin, was more like her best friend. They were sisters of a sort, now that Isabella had come to live with Lucy and her father. “I promise you, Luce. I will finish it, and it will find a home. And I will make Mr. Knighton a devotee of the fictional world if it’s the last thing I do.”

“And you must promise to read to me, every night when you’ve written something new.”

Isabella flushed. “You only want the parts that speak of breathlessness and heaving bosoms.”

“Well, of course,” Lucy drawled. “Why else does one read a novel? Now then,” Lucy groaned. “Let us go downstairs. We’re already late and Papa will be snorting with indignation. We must not keep the Marquis of Stonebrook waiting.” Lucy shook her head, although she was grinning. “Papa is such a pompous aristocrat.”

Yes, the old Marquis was rather self important, but he was a good man. He had taken her in, his niece by marriage, despite the scandal of her parent’s nuptials. He had clothed her, protected her, and Isabella loved him like the father she never knew. He had saved her from an unknown future and from herself. She owed her uncle more than she could ever repay. Still, she missed the comfort of her mother’s stories, and her grandmother’s arms. She missed Whitby with its dark and forbidding abbey, and the mist that rolled in from the sea. She missed the heather covered moors, and the rocky cliffs that stood tall and proud against the foamy, turbulent waves of the North Sea. She missed home, and everything about it.

She missed them.

How dearly she longed to see her mother and grandmother again, and Isabella felt her eyes begin to well with tears. Thankfully Lucy’s voice drew Isabella out of her thoughts. “My feet ache already just thinking of the night ahead of us. Dear me, Issy, I’m tired of the social whirl.”

Whitby forgotten for now, Isabella strived for composure. “I am as well, Luce. I would pay a very high price for a chance to stay in my room and sit at my desk and write until my fingers are blackened with ink.”

“As much as I’d like more of Death, Issy, it’s pertinent we make an appearance at my father’s ball.”

“You know when I was a young girl, I envied you your life, the gowns, the balls, the suitors…Now, I’m not so certain you had it better than I.”

Lucy tossed her a cheeky smile over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “I always envied you your cozy cottage and the meadow and woods where you and the other children from the village ran and played without any concern for deportment. You had a childhood, Issy. Something I never did.” Lucy tipped her head and smiled. “I’ve always been envious of that. And here we were all this time, feeling resentful of the other. It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“It is, indeed for I’m sitting here loathe to go to a ball, something I’ve always dreamed about.”

“Chin, up,” Lucy ordered, “there could still be light at the end of the tunnel for this night. Perhaps you can write more of your book. Our ballroom has many private corners, you know.”

“And of course that will have the suitors flocking to my side,” Isabella muttered ungraciously. “Men adore lady novelists.”

“I bet Lord Black does.”

Isabella sent her cousin a glare, before she reached for the ivory gloves that sat atop her dressing table. “How could you suppose such a thing, Luce? Lord Black never comes out of that mausoleum he calls a townhouse.”

Lucy stopped at the threshold, and slowly turned, the salmon pink silk of her gown’s elaborate train wrapping around her legs. “I saw him last night.”

“Fibber! You did not!” Isabella challenged.

“I did, I swear it. I couldn’t sleep after the Anstruther soiree. I was sitting on my window box, gazing out at the stars when I saw those massive iron gates swing open. A carriage, black and shining and led by four black horses came clattering out of the drive. The conveyance lingered for a moment, and then I saw it, a shadow that was illuminated by the lanterns. It engulfed the interior, like spilt ink, and then I saw him, his pale face appeared in the window, and he was looking up, and I swear his gaze lingered on the window beside mine—your bedroom window, Issy.”

“Nonsense,” Isabella scoffed.

“It’s the truth.”

“I think, Luce that you should take up novel writing with me. You’ve the imagination for it.”

“Think what you like, Isabella, but I know what I saw. And you mark my words, our neighbor will be here tonight. The Marquis of Stonebrook will have it no other way, I assure you.”

* * * *

There was one thing that had surprised Isabella after coming to live with her uncle, the Marquis of Stonebrook, and that was the strange fact that she rather despised balls.

For most of her girlhood, she had sat on the weathered window bench of the small cottage her mother rented, thinking of her beautiful cousin, laughing and flirting and dancing around the Stonebrook’s glorious ballroom, wearing an outrageously expensive and beautiful gown. Her young heart had ached with longing. She had wanted to attend a ball. To wear a stunning gown. To have a handsome suitor.

It was rather satirical, that now, after she possessed all three, she had no taste for it. She would have much preferred curling up before the large hearth in her room, wearing her old flannel nightrail, writing her stories—just as she had before Stonebrook and Lucy had come to Whitby to bring her back to London.

The wonder and novelty of Town life had soon worn thin. There had been so many balls this past week, despite it being October. It seemed that the aristocracy no longer found it necessary to depart for their country estates at the end of the Season as they did in the past. Perhaps it was because the noveau riche rarely ever left London. An aristocrat could hardly marry off his titled daughter to a wealthy businessman if he was up in Yorkshire with sheep and trees.

No, the Marriage Mart had extended well beyond the traditional Season. And this Season, it was no secret that the Marquis not only wanted to marry off his daughter, but his niece, as well.

Isabella had been taken with the idea at first. The romance of a courtship, rides in the park, the soirees, the balls, the musicales. It had not taken long before she realized that the thought of going out yet another night provoked her to distemper. Not even Lucy who had been born and raised in this way of life enjoyed the endless parties.

They were a fine pair, Isabella thought as she slipped the delicate silver strap of her reticule higher onto her wrist, Lucy was content to pursue her knowledge of the occult, and Isabella was happy writing the stories that constantly filled her head. Both of them were Originals, and nothing like a young lady of good breeding should be. Perhaps both of them had inherited Isabella’s mother’s taste for shunning the ideals of what made a woman a proper lady. Lord knew her mother had been nothing like her sister. Aunt Mildred had always been frightfully proper—haughty even. So unlike Isabella’s mother who shunned society’s ideals. Lucy, Isabella thought, very much reminded Isabella of her mother—both in looks and temperament. She wasn’t the only who had thought that, either. Aunt Mildred had despaired of Lucy becoming just like her ‘fallen unfortunate sister’. That fear had been so great that upon Lucy’s tenth birthday, Aunt Mildred had refused to come to Yorkshire to visit them. They had been kept separate after that, lest Lucy catch the wanton, wild streak Isabella’s mother had never outgrown.

There hadn’t ever been any fear that Isabella would end up like her mother. She had learned a hard lesson, from a very young age. She would not follow her mother’s footsteps.

“My toes are already pinched,” Lucy hissed into her ear as they stood and watched the swell of dancers waltzing around the overly hot room. “And I fear my forehead is glistening.”

Isabella studied Lucy. “Only a titch. Can you discreetly wipe it?”

“Not likely. I feel like all eyes are on us.”

“Not us, you, sweetie,” Isabella murmured. “I think they’re waiting to see if the Duke of Sussex will come up to scratch tonight.”

“Good Lord, let us hope not,” Lucy moaned as she furiously beat the air with her fan. “I cannot for the life of me imagine His Grace at a séance.”

Hiding her laugh behind her hand, Isabella stood on tip toes, searching for the Duke who had become increasingly more ardent in his pursuit of her cousin. He glanced their way, and immediately his expression changed from feigned politeness to brooding. Sussex certainly could brood, and he looked immensely handsome while doing so. Why her cousin could not see this, Isabella had no idea. The way he stared at Lucy was positively worthy of a dramatic swoon.

“Do you like him, Luce?”

“He’s handsome. Rich. Titled. He has at least four estates spread throughout the kingdom and I hear he’s a bit of philanthropist to boot—belongs to all sorts of charities and committees to better the ordinary man and those less fortunate. A virtual paragon,” Lucy muttered as she glanced away from Sussex’s prolonged stare. “Of course I should like him, but I confess that I do not feel much more than friendliness toward him. He’s too shiny,” she said, her tone turning thoughtful. “Rather like an immaculate archangel. I admit—but only to you—that I have a taste for more of the fallen angel. With those black curls and his beautiful face, you would think him one of the fallen, but no, he’s not the least bit dangerous, but one hundred percent glowing and pure.”

“Dangerous men prove only useful in selling books,” Isabella muttered as she watched Sussex conversing with his friends. “In real life they serve to be more of a handful than what they’re worth. Trust me, I am the product of a dangerous rakehell and a naïve, overly passionate woman.”

Lucy let out a most unrefined snort. “Issy, there is no woman on earth who can pen a more compelling, delicious rakehell than you. Pray do not pretend that you do not also covet a bit of danger in your life. Your writing is an extension of your soul. A glimpse deep inside. No,” she said, slapping the tip of her fan over Isabella’s hand, “do not deny it. Admit it,” Lucy whispered, “there is someplace inside that wishes for a dangerous man to come and sweep you off your careful, proper feet.”

“No. I do not. Of that I can safely say you’re wrong, Lucy. If I were ever to encounter a dangerous man I would run screaming in the opposite direction.”

Lucy laughed, and Isabella scanned the dark haired man from across the room. Sussex was tall, well formed, extremely well dressed, and possessed a light, jovial personality. He enjoyed a laugh, as did her cousin. Isabella had thought it a perfect match when the duke had sought an introduction to her cousin, by way of Isabella’s suitor, Wendell Knighton. Unfortunately, her cousin remained utterly obtuse to the duke’s merits.

At the thought of her suitor, Mr. Knighton suddenly appeared beside the duke. She felt the slight lurch of her heart at the sight of him. Her pulse definitely leapt when his dark brown gaze found hers from across the room. He smiled, and Isabella returned it, along with the delicate beginnings of a flush. “Your Mr. Knighton is obviously smitten, Issy.”

Her flush grew to a full out blush. “I like him very much.”

Lucy tipped her head and studied her. “And yet I still feel, as I always did, that he’s not the right man for you. You need someone different. Deeper. More complex. Someone who understands who you really are, Issy.”

“Nonsense,” Isabella scoffed as she watched the dancers. “You make me out to be a mystery when I am nothing but a simple Yorkshire country girl.”

But that wasn’t true. After the Unfortunate Event of last spring, everyone knew she was different. Neither she nor her family talked of it, but it was there, always lurking, threatening to come out.

“Oh, look,” Lucy murmured. “He’s come.”

“Who’s come?” Isabella tried to peer over two ornate feathered headdresses, but could see nothing.

“To the left, on the balcony.”

The crowd quieted, sensing something was about to happen. All heads turned in the direction of the balcony where the butler stood and pronounced, “The Earl of Black.”

The cacophony of music and laughter faded into stillness as the guests pressed forward, waiting for a glimpse of the man whose name had just been announced.

The room went perfectly quiet as all interest was now focused on the crab-shaped staircase. Like a magi arising from a cloud of smoke he appeared, looking down upon the faces that peered curiously up at him.

Hair as black as night fell in loose waves to his shoulders. Skin, pale and smooth, glinted beneath the blazing chandeliers. Eyes, a haunting shade of turquoise, scanned the crowd with unconcealed interest. Black brows, perfectly arched, enhanced his eyes which had a slight upward slant.

His fingers, long and elegant, ever so slightly rapped against the balustrade as he surveyed the scene below him. He was very tall and immensely broad in the chest and shoulders. His black dress clothes and white cravat were impeccably tailored. Bow ties were the fashion now, but the elegance of the old fashioned cravat suited him, giving him an aristocratic allure. So, too, did his black velvet jacket which was styled in the Eastern fashion—mandarin collar with two rows of gold buttons in the military style.

He looked liked an ancient Romany prince—a warrior boyar—as his head moved slowly from right to left, his gaze spanning the entire room and its occupants.

Here was a man of the world, Isabella thought, as she perused him from head to toe. A man who was mysterious and experienced, and utterly captivating. There was an air of danger about the man, a thought that was supported by the fact that a few matrons to her right were quietly, but rapidly speaking behind their fans. More than one gentleman stiffened, their eyes wary as they watched the commanding earl. Everyone seemed to move in the smallest of increments—as if they were in slow motion. Was it out of fear that their movements might catch the infamous earl’s attention?

Warmth spread through Isabella’s body as she watched the Earl of Black stroll with negligent ease down the stairs. He was all arrogance and predator-like grace. Tall and sleek, he resembled the Bengal tiger Wendell had shown her on display in the British Museum. He had the same rapacious look in his eye as she had seen in the tiger’s green eyes. He was on the hunt, that was for certain, but for what, or who, she feared to guess.

Lord Black never emerged from his townhouse which was across the street from her uncle’s townhouse. She had only ever caught the odd glimpse of him. His reclusiveness only fueled her imagination, and Isabella felt her breathing grow rapid and shallow, her writer’s mind taking over. Her skin had grown taut, itchy beneath the lilac satin of her tight fitting bodice as she watched him cut a swath through the guests who parted for him as though he were as powerful as Moses, parting the sea. Suddenly he stopped, turned his head and found her amidst the crowd. Isabella felt strangely lightheaded as their gazes collided from across the ballroom.

He was all mystery and exoticness and more than a touch hazardous to a lady’s wellbeing as he held her gaze. Needing to break the hypnotizing spell of Lord Black’s aqua colored eyes that were holding her captive, she blinked and forced her body, which now felt overheated and lethargic, to move.

“It’s grown rather warm, don’t you think?” she asked her cousin in what sounded like a strangled voice. “I do believe I could use some air.”

Before Lucy could protest, Isabella backed away and turned in the direction of the French doors that led to the terrace. Reaching for the handle, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw that Black was still in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by hordes of London’s elite. He paid his admirers no heed, but instead stared at her with his piercing eyes. There was a promise in those eyes—a very dark, forbidden promise.

“My dear,” her uncle said behind her. She felt his hand pull hers from the handle, then the feel of his arm threading with hers. “Someone wishes an introduction with you.”

She tried to refuse as her uncle steered her to where Lord Black held court in the middle of the ballroom. His gaze was focused solely on her, and she shivered.

“Here now, there’s nothing true about what you’ve heard about Black. It’s only rumors.”

She hadn’t heard anything about the earl, other than his appearance at tonnish events was much sought after, and that he was generally considered a recluse. What rumors could her uncle be referring to?

When she stood before him, when their gazes met, she gasped, unable to disguise the sound. Black did not possess turquoise eyes, but pale blue, with flecks of light green. Tempest tossed eyes, she thought, like the churning seas in Whitby.

“Your servant, Miss Fairmont,” he murmured in a dark, husky voice that was as velvety as a starless night.

“Shall we?” he asked, accepting her hand from her uncle. “I believe a Viennese Waltz is next on the program.”

As he pulled her to him, she was shocked by the tingle she felt beneath her glove. When the music started and he pulled her close, his hand resting low on her back, the words she had written whispered to her.

‘The first time I met Death, it was at a ball, and we danced a waltz.’

Black looked down at her, his gaze lingering over her in a far too familiar way. “And you were not afraid,” he murmured, then swept her up into a graceful turn that stole her breath.
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