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Tag Archives: Regency

Beginning Again with Jane Austen

16 Tuesday Feb 2021

Posted by shehannemoore in Author Interviews, blogging, book tour, Guest bloggers, New book, Romance, Uncategorized, writing

≈ 99 Comments

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Elaine Jeremiah, Fan fiction, Jane Austen, Newbook, Regency, Romance, writing

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ELAINE JEREMIAH. Well funnily enough it was my husband who suggested I write Jane Austen fan fiction. TBH the sales of my romance books weren’t amazing. My husband pointed out that to be successful as an indie author, it can be a good idea to target a sub-genre to gain a bigger, more loyal readership. It can be easier to be more successful within a sub-genre. Romance is of course a huge genre, with loads of sub-genres to it. I’d read a bit of Jane Austen fan fiction, so thought I’d write a story about a girl who’s a huge Jane Austen fan (like me!) who accidentally time travels to Regency England. I then decided to turn it into a trilogy and having taken a break from writing it to write my ‘Pride and Prejudice’ variation, I’m now working on book 3.But being honest again, the first two books in my trilogy didn’t make waves. I hadn’t read that widely in Jane Austen fan fiction and as I read more and more JAFF,

I realised over time that what is most popular is ‘Pride and Prejudice’ variations, particularly those about Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy, set in the Regency era. Basically retellings of the Darcy/Elizabeth story which people love. The time travel story I’d written, while I’d enjoyed writing it very much, wasn’t quite what people wanted to read within the genre.So having written and published book 2 of my trilogy, I decided to turn my attention to writing a ‘Pride and Prejudice’ variation. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it, though it took me a lot longer in the end to write than I’d planned. I got bogged down with the plotting of the story and then the editing stage took a long time. I changed quite a lot, with the help of my beta readers and then my editor, which was absolutely right, but it did take quite a lot longer.

I’m very happy with the result though. The story is much stronger and better for all my hard work and I’m really pleased and proud to finally be able to share it with the world.

ELAINE JEREMIAH. Hahaha! I wish! But no, I don’t live in South Korea, I haven’t even been there yet, but it’s on my bucket list. I’m definitely going to go there one day, for sure. I kind of fell into a love of all things Korean by accident – a friend of mine recommended Korean dramas – or Kdramas as they’re known – and I started watching them and was hooked. They’re all on Netflix. I would highly recommend them!

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Most of them are romances and a lot of them follow the Darcy/Elizabeth trope of rich arrogant man falls in love with feisty, poorer girl. I just love them – I’ve watched more than 25 series now. The settings and the people are beautiful. It’s so interesting to learn about another culture this way. South Korea is a first world country, but of course it’s Eastern so they have a very different society to ours. There are good and bad sides to that and it’s fascinating to me to learn about their culture.

I was inspired by watching so many Kdramas to start learning the language and more about the country in general. I’ve got this Korean language audio course I’m listening to, mostly while I do housework! It’s so much fun. I also have an app on my phone I use. So I’m in love with all things Korean!

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ELAINE JEREMIAH . Of course (not) But you see I live in Bristol, South West England, which isn’t far from the Regency city of Bath, the setting for 2 of Jane Austen’s novels. Di you know has some beautiful Regency buildings and is also generally a great city to live in? There’s loads to see and do, like visiting the Clifton Suspension Bridge or the SS Great Britain, which was one of the first passenger steamships crossing the Atlantic in the mid-nineteenth century. It’s now a permanent museum in Bristol’s docks. Well worth a visit if you ever come to Bristol.

If you’re into street art, Bristol is also the home of Banksy and if you have a sharp eye and know where to look, you can spot some of his murals on certain buildings. Bristol also has loads of great shops, restaurants, museums, cinemas, art galleries – you name it, Bristol has pretty much got it.

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ELAINE JEREMIAH. RE Jane? Loads of reasons. Partly because the characters she creates feel so real, they’re so well developed. Characters like Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy stay with you in your mind long after you’ve finished reading her novels. And there’s always something new to spot in them, even if you’ve read them loads of times before.

For example, I’m realising the more I read ‘Pride and Prejudice’ just why exactly Mrs Bennet is so keen to get her 5 daughters married off and how in some respects she’s actually quite wise. It was very difficult for women in Austen’s day who weren’t working class to get work and support themselves except as a governess. Which wasn’t a great job. If they weren’t married and couldn’t get work, they’d have to rely on their male relatives to support them. So a young woman in the Regency era, especially if her family weren’t rich, would need to marry well. Mrs Bennet is very aware of this, particularly because being girls her daughters can’t inherit the family home when their father dies and it will go to his distant cousin Mr Collins instead.

Jane Austen is also very funny – I laugh out loud at some of the scenes in her books when I’m reading them. She also doesn’t hold back at subtly criticising the social conventions of the era she lived in. Like how Elizabeth Bennet, a woman who’s not very well off, turns down not one but two marriage proposals, defiantly refusing to marry without love. That’s very subversive for the era it was written in. 

As for the writing just now? Actually I would say it’s been easier than usual. It’s really given me something to focus on and take my mind off the dire news that we’re bombarded with day after day.

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And because what with the internet and me self-publishing digitally via Amazon, it can all be done remotely anyway. So you don’t need to physically be in the same room with someone to share your work with them, to use beta readers or an editor. I can also promote my writing entirely online. What with this new release and how well it’s going, I feel more motivated than ever now to crack on with my writing!

ELAINE JEREMIAH. Uhmmmmmm. Well…uhm…as I mentioned, I’m writing book 3 in my Jane Austen-inspired time travel romance trilogy. And that would be hard to do in hamster cage. It’s called ‘Captivated in Time’. So maybe one day I might be very willing to…might even enjoy..living in hamster cage. What’s more, I’ve more or less plotted it out, so I pretty much know what’s going to happen. I know the ending! So this could be sooner rather than later. I’m trying to keep the momentum going – I tend to write quite slowly, so I want to try and make more time for writing and get this one finished as soon as I can. After that, I plan to write more Darcy/Elizabeth Regency era ‘Pride and Prejudice’ variations. That’s what’s most popular within JAFF and actually I feel that writing in Regency-esque language is what I’m most comfortable doing. I feel like I’ve finally found my niche. Just maybe not in a hamster cage. …. But look on the bright side of keeping all that voddie to yourselves.

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Little does Elizabeth Bennet think the journey across muddy fields from her home at Longbourn to Netherfield Park will change her life forever.

But an unexpected encounter with the proud and haughty Mr Darcy leaves her injured and vulnerable. Worse still, she is left alone with him for a significant amount of time. Her reputation at risk, she is forced to make a decision about her future. Now her life will never be the same again. Can Elizabeth ever be happy? Or will she always loathe Mr Darcy

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3s7xr6dAmazon UK: https://amzn.to/2LiP3LH

Elaine lives in Bristol, South West England with her husband and their golden retriever, Dug. But she was privileged enough to grow up in Jane Austen country, in Hampshire.

She’s always loved writing, but it’s only been in recent years that she’s been able to devote more time to it. She decided to self-publish with the help of her wonderful husband who’s very tech-savvy! In 2013 she self-published her first novel, but it was only with her fourth, her novel ‘Love Without Time’, that she felt she finally found her niche: Jane Austen Fan Fiction!

She’s always loved Jane Austen’s writing and the Regency era, so this felt like a natural thing for her to do. ‘Elizabeth and Darcy: Beginning Again’ is the first ‘Pride and Prejudice’ variation she’s written.

If you want to connect with Elaine online, her Facebook page can be found here:

https://www.facebook.com/elainejeremiahauthor/

Her Twitter handle is: @ElaineJeremiah

Her website is here: https://elainejeremiah.co.uk/

‘I know I have not won Doom Bar Hall from you.’ O’Roarke’s Destiny Chapter 1

23 Friday Aug 2019

Posted by shehannemoore in book tour, heroes, heroines, New book, Romance, Uncategorized, writing

≈ 61 Comments

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Cornwall, New book, O'Roarke's Destiny, Regency, Shehanne Moore, Smugglers, Smuggling in Cornwall

 

I know I have not won Doom Bar Hall from you………

      CHAPTER ONE

 

   Cornwall 1801–For every smuggler, there is an exciseman who will hunt him down …

Destiny Rhodes was used to losing everything in one stroke. She’d just never thought it would be this stroke.

“A Gull Wrysen, here, you say?”

“I does, ma-am.” Lizzie’s voice tolled as befitted someone who was in the running to win the grand prize in the looking most like your surname competition at Penvellyn Fair.  So, Here Lies Lizzie Tooms, Loyal Servant of the Rhodes, Now Gone as Them, Probably unto Hell, could have been etched into her forehead.

Ignoring the rattle of the chimney pots crashing onto the lawn outside, Destiny stared harder at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

“And?”

“And quoth  I, seein’ as you be a’ askin’ and me havin’ spoken to him, far worse bells could be a’tollin’ for them what are cursed.”

“Do you know, I’m very glad you think so, Lizzie? After all, here was me thinking it could well be the man who did the cursing. So why don’t we all just look on the bright side and say a prayer of joy and thankfulness? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t got anything better to do, now is it? Where’s the captain by the way?”

“Busy.”

“Lying drunk on the stable floor, you mean? Having managed to get here on his sodding horse but not off it properly? Oh, that’s busy, I suppose, if you can call such things busy.” She clasped the mantelshelf tighter in her mittened fingers, the image of Orwell meandering home beneath frozen stars, flickering through the flames. If only she was such a frozen star, instead of standing here, staring as the straw end of this place disappeared down a dark rabbit hole. Doom Bar Hall. The only thing in her life still standing. The bricks and mortar she’d poured herself into. Every flower, painting, tuck on every cushion, even her pine cone garlands that made this room a work of art at Christmas. Gone. On the turn of a card.  “Yes, a fine thing to be as busy as that.”

“I can only reports what t’es my sacred duty to report, ma-am.”

“Well, it’s something of a pity you felt it was your sacred duty to come in here and report this.”

Maybe she should just fall down now on the fender and be done with it? Then at least she might be buried along with her garlands.

“Anyways, I be sure your brother’s done his sacred best.”

“You know, for once you and I couldn’t agree more. His level best, or should that be epic, to get drunk? His very best to lose this place. As for everything in it–?”

Yet, despite what she’d thought a moment ago, was this really so unexpected when Orwell inhabited the drinks cabinet the way fish did the ocean and would be sure to win the empty cider barrel in the drinking it dry competition at Penvellyn Fair.  In fact, there was no might about it. The miracle was it had taken him this long. As for what she could do about it? Apart from winning first prize in the breaking her hand by punching a wall competition?

“Ma-am, I be sure that despite everythin’, he has this in hand.”

“Really? Well? That’s a first. A second first, I must say. You thinking and him having this in hand.”

“If he does not have it in hand, the Lord shall. You watch this. He will be our salvation, ma-am.”

“Oh, please do spare me. Truly. Unless you think a sermon to match the one on the Mount, is something I can stand tonight? Wait around for the Lord being me salvation, and first prize in the look at all them moldering bones competition is what I’ll win.”

“Then what do you require, ma-am?”

“Right now? Apart from a sodding great dose of arsenic, you mean?”

The strength to deal with this but that didn’t look like it was coming unless that sodding, great albatross that had just careered inside her velvet gown–a triple-weighted blind one at that—found some other gown to career into. Finally, ashes existed she couldn’t rise from, despite everyone always saying she should have been named Phoenix. Imagine that, when Lizzie was sure to have it broadcast all over Penvellyn by this time tomorrow, if not before, how Destiny had collapsed in the library fireplace and lain there, cursed, like all who’d passed down the long, dusty road to the charnel house before her, too?

“Ma-am, I know we have had our differences—“

“You can say that again.”

Mostly on the subject of accents. Destiny sounded like her mother who had come from up north. Yorkshire somewhere.  And Lizzie only took instructions from those who didn’t, which made it even more ridiculous she took them from Orwell who was more refined than a glass of malt whiskey. Orwell who probably reeked worse than one right now and was in no fit state to open his mouth, let alone let an order fall out of it.

As for Lizzie’s pity? Another lecture on the Lord? Lizzie producing a bible from her apron pocket in another minute or so, in all probability, and asking Destiny to read from it? Well, Destiny wouldn’t want first prize for making the heavens fall down. Now, would she? Especially not when she’d already won the one for having her head panned in with the meat mallet. After all, it was vital she at least try to raise her chin, though what she was lifting it for she’d no idea.

“No. Don’t.” Lizzie parted her lips and Destiny hurried on. “Once is quite enough. Look, just send in this … this man. Me brother may be lying on the stable floor too drunk to deal with him. I’m not. Go on.”

Yes. Let those who thrived on the pantomime of her life, say her black heart dripped something so common as blood? Over her burned and beaten body. That would be death, not this, even if all of it was death now. How could Orwell do this?

“If it is yore wish and yore command, ma’am?”

“I’d hardly put it that strongly. But what else can I do?  Still, fear not Lizzie,”  she lowered her gaze from the mirror as Lizzie nodded. “Whatever happens, I’m sure the servants’ places will be guaranteed. After all, in my humble experience, everyone needs servants. Even a death knell one like you.”

Well? Everybody did. How very lucky to be one. Suppose she said she was? Found a mob cap, claimed to be the housekeeper? Bit an arsenal of bullets, swallowed them too, suffered the laughter, the snide remarks, the fact Orwell  wasn’t the only one to drag the family through the gutter?  Endure the servants too? The ones who had so  recently been hers?

How far a falling from a heaven too high.

What? Have it round the county that she qualified for entering the best servants competition because she cleaned boots and changed beds for her new master, fetched him his pipe and slippers, dusted his ornamental vases?

No. She’d sooner starve. After all, she wasn’t exactly likely to win it.

My God, if only Chancery had lived. Actually, if everyone who had ever touched her sorry life had damn well lived, she’d not be in this mess. But Chancery’s death, over that sodding Rose O’Roarke had started an endless procession to the charnel house. All beneath the winding sheet of one certainty. The hollow toll of another death would shortly follow.

Until the moment Chancery took up with Rose O’Roarke, he’d been heir to Doom Bar Hall, not sodding Orwell and sodding Orwell’s brandy bottles. Captain Rhodes, if you pleased, seeing as he, and them, commanded the local militia. Then the curse uttered by Rose’s grey-eyed brother, Divers O’Roarke, across her marble-veined corpse had come true. They were all rotting in hell. Destiny most of all.

Her shoulders sagged. She glanced back in the gilt framed mirror, wreathed in ornamental cherubs on their way to heaven—lucky them–the mirror she’d found in the attic and spent weeks cleaning, mending and wiping dead flies off. Gull sodding Wrysen’s mirror now. Well?

Unless?

Unless she took it down, of course. Took it with her. It was heavy as an elephant. That much was obvious the second she reached forward to wrench it free. Not that she’d ever won any prizes for wrenching an elephant. No. There weren’t exactly many of them about in Cornwall. And any there were, were hardly likely to be nailed to the wall, the half of which she’d be trying to get out of the door next if any more plaster showered onto her fingers. And where would she put that?

No. This was over. Over. Over. The words ticked like the grandfather clock in the hall outside. All she could do was go with her head held high. Let the locals have their farthing’s worth. Well?

Unless?

She fingered her throat. It was an idea. Even if she wasn’t quite sure where it came from.

“Dstny … ”

The French doors banged open in the gale howling over the cliff face. Orwell, staggering in here with wet boots and slurred apologies for losing her pine cone garlands, was the last thing she needed. Certainly, if she was really considering that idea.  She slipped her gaze from her—actually, some might say, edifying as a dead viper’s–reflection.  And they would be right.  Some things had to be faced when it came to ideas.

“Goodness me. Orwell. Sit down, why don’t you? Preferably not in here, before  your wet feet take first prize for ruining the rug, when it’s no longer ours to ruin either. At least I hope that’s from your wet feet.”

The spindle chair nearly went over beneath his backside as he collapsed into it. She braced for the crash. It  would certainly be one thing less for Gull Wrysen to claim if it smashed.

Unless?

Orwell sank his head with its untidy chestnut quiff on his chest and tried pulling his coat-tails from beneath his backside. “I say, old gril, l mean girl … I’ll need … that is, I’ll nleed to … I’ll need ver’ much to …  to … ”

“What? Sober up? Stop drinking? Get Doom Bar Hall back? Likely as a chocolate doily surviving in hell that is, if you must know.”

“Mulst know? Well, I… I sullpose, I sullpose I do. I mean … Do you know, it’s the damndest thing … but I don’t knlow what I mean …”

“Oh, I think we can all see that, Orwell. Maybe we should hang a sign in Truro, saying, ‘This is Orwell Rhodes. He doesn’t know what he means but one thing’s for certain, he has lost Doom Bar Hall. Throw him a farthing someone, so he can maybe buy it back.'”

Unless?

Hearing footsteps marching along the hall, she raised her chin.

“Yes Lizzie, what is it?”

“Milord Wrysen, ma’am.” Lizzie’s bobbed curtsy was probably the lowest the man towering in the doorway had ever seen. It was certainly the lowest Destiny had ever seen it. Start as you mean to go on her father had always said. Lizzie was starting well. Destiny should take a leaf out of that book.

“Should I fetch tea, ma-am?”

A good question. But no amount of tea in the best china cups Destiny had found moldering in the stables would sort this.

Unless?

She flicked her gaze over the man opposite. About thirty? Black haired—not her preferred color–a dusting of stubble on his chin.  Eyes like gleaming black bullets. A plain, if not inelegant greatcoat, and leather boots, flecked with mud. No wedding ring. It didn’t mean he wasn’t married.

In that moment she decided.

“No. I am sure His Grace here would prefer something stronger, Lizzie.”

Like herself.

She pinched her cheeks, although this Gull Wrysen could take her as she was. So long as he did take her.

It could be worse. Orwell could have lost the wager to Divers O’Roarke. Then she’d really be in trouble. It was common knowledge he regularly gambled the fortune he’d amassed designing houses and gardens in London.

Hadn’t the sun’s rays shone on him since he’d sworn that oath? Shone to the extent his chestnut hair must be burnt black while she looked more of a corpse than his sister, Rose.

This was the hand she’d been dealt. This was the hand she’d play though.

Smiles were beyond her. Gull Wrysen would see what he was getting and what he was getting was someone young enough at twenty five, to be thought attractive, despite her cropped hair and–all right–the fact she’d give a dead viper a run for its money in the looks’ stakes. But really, some might say, that was all.

As for what she was getting? Well? Doom Bar Hall was what she was getting. Very nice it was too. When nothing else mattered, she wouldn’t be the first, or last, to  manage a few ecstatic moans where required.

Only think of the fuel for the fires of all these little effigies the locals liked to make of her. The fires that had been dying of malnutrition lately.

She settled her gaze on his face.

“Well, Your Grace? Do allow me.”

She meant a drink. Orwell was sitting there, after all. Besides Gull Wrysen was standing as if she was Medusa and he’d been turned to stone. But hopefully this was purely temporary.

“Thank you, Lizzie,” she added, seeing that only Lizzie’s jaw had moved and that was in the direction of the floor. “Yes. As you can see, I will deal with this. And please shut your mouth while you’re about it. It’s wholly bad enough you look like a tombstone. We don’t want you adding trout to the mix. Not when Mr. Wrysen and I have things to discuss, regarding the house.”

She waited for Lizzie to win every prize going in the collecting her jaw and sailing like a doom-ridden ship away competition, before setting out two glasses. Gold rimmed ones from the set that added perfection to her Christmas Eve when she  finally sat before the fire in the cavernous, leather armchair and treated herself to a measure of port. Glasses she’d be keeping now if this went her way. Why shouldn’t it? She was cursed, not incapable.

Yes. This man wasn’t so bad. Fair hair would have reminded her of Ennis, who some might say, was probably birling ten times in his coffin. Not the man to think of and face this one standing in the candlelit shadows in his mud-spattered boots and greatcoat, holding his hat beneath his arm as if he’d no idea what to do with it.

Well, she knew, she knew exactly. She slipped the top off the decanter, inhaled the rich ruby scent. If it came right down to it here, she could cook and dust, if need be. If he wanted to bring in a woman, if need be, she’d say nothing. After all, there would be nothing to say anything about on her part. No jealousy. Nothing. She wouldn’t insult Ennis’s memory with that kind of thing that betrayed low moral fiber.

“But perhaps I am being presumptuous with your drink and your servants, now Doom Bar Hall has fallen to you, Lord … Lord …?”

“Me?” He shifted uncertainly, the ghost of a smile hanging to his lips. Totally unnerved. No bad sign. “Oh, good God, no. Miss … Miss Rhodes, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not the devil incarnate, though there’s plenty round here certainly say so.”

“Good .. I mean … No, I mean I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”

She nearly clattered the decanter top onto the sideboard. Some kind of mistake?  My God.  Damn Orwell. And yet, Lord love him. A mistake. It was all a mistake.  Thank God she’d had enough moral fiber not to open her mouth.

“I mean … You mean you’re not Gull Wrysen? And you’re not here to take Doom Bar Hall from me? Well, I never.” Especially given how close she’d been to offering herself. ”You know, I just can’t believe how I—well, never mind, have the drink anyway.”

“Gull?” Gull Wrysen lips twitched as he reached for the glass. “I’m not Gull Wrysen. Not that I know of anyway, unless I’ve been re-christened. I’m not Wrysen either. My name, so far as I know my name anyway, is Gil. Gil Wryson. And I’m not a gentleman either. Well … again… Not that I know of.”

“I see.”

Damn Lizzie. As ever, she won first prize in the being spat on by the Fates competition. After they fell about the floor laughing at her first. Why hadn’t she known no man would be called Gull? And Wrysen was a Cornish pronounciation? Still, she could surely weather a blob or two of spittle seeing as this was all a mistake?

“Although that’s not the mistake,” he added.

Damn the Fates to hell. Still, one mercy in a drought dropping from the heavens? She hadn’t danced  about the floor waving her drawers in the air.  Whether he was a gentleman or not, was neither here, nor there, when it came to getting him to agree to this. And she would, so long as her own name was Destiny Rhodes, she would. Now. She’d have to. Just swallow what rose in her throat, forget about the fact that when everything she touched turned to dust, the pity was he didn’t drop at her feet, and do it.

“Then … let’s get straight to the point. I’ve always been a frank talking kind of girl.”

“The point, Miss Rhodes?”

“Doom Bar Hall is not just my home, as well as my brother, Orwell’s, it has been  my whole life since my husband, Ennis, died. You look surprised?”

“Only in that—”

“I seem young to be a widow? Well, I was and I am, I suppose. Of course I could have lived at Pangbury, the family home but we were guests there ourselves, him having a younger brother with family. So I put the money he left me into Doom Bar Hall, because it has been in the Rhodes family for generations. I returned to my maiden name too. I think you’ll find I’m quite a woman of the world, however.”

It was the most tactful way to put what she was about to propose, which was why she turned away. Not before she saw Gil Wryson’s gleaming black eyes were searching her face in bemusement. But perhaps he simply couldn’t believe his luck? She knew she couldn’t. Believe her luck that was. Certainly at having got this far.

“I suppose what I am trying to say to you, is that I am in this house,” she added. “Yes. It is in me even though you may have won it from my brother, Orwell.”

“I think you’re mistaken there, Miss Rhodes.”

“Really? Well I don’t. You did win it. I’m not going to argue about that, or how easy it probably was, knowing Orwell’s drinking habits, to diddle him of his left pinkie. His thumb too.”

“Perhaps. But it … ”

Must he keep interrupting her when she was doing her level best here to get up from the pit, soar to the sky and secure the roof above her head? And the desperation he might refuse, lay like a lather on her bones? She glided forward then turned to face him.

“Doom Bar Hall is too precious to me. As you will see when I show you around, I am in every scrap of this place. In fact you might even say I am this place. That is why you should also know something.”

“What?”

“I come with it.”

Start as you mean to go on. Finish too. The blank cut-out she was inside meant it was nothing for her to stand here and offer herself like this. Once. Perhaps. But now? Given the alternative? Although equally, some might say, she had risen to this with a surprising fervor.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, I am too, Mr. Wryson, but I honestly have no choice.”

He blinked, as if he hadn’t known what was coming, or didn’t want her, although he did have the good manners to smile. “Am I to understand?  Are you … are you suggesting … ”

Orwell’s boots scraped on the scuffed floorboards.

“Dstny. Dsny, old girl, thart’s what … you see … it’s like this … I relemmber now. …”

“Oh please, Orwell, do be quiet for once in your sorry life. Let’s just agree I’ll handle this, shall we? You can go to the devil for all I care. In fact, shall we say Truro marketplace if you don’t button up?”

Yes. Gil Wryson wasn’t the devil and he wasn’t Divers O’Roarke–not that the devil troubled her, if she’d to narrow that list down. Divers O’Roarke now? Exactly how likely was he to be here in Cornwall?

Ignoring the wind banging the shutters, the batter of incessant rain cutting a silver stream down the moonlit glass, she continued,

“Now then, Mr. Wryson, these are the terms I place honorably on the table before you. They are very simple. Doom Bar Hall is my life. I will not be separated from it. So if you take Doom Bar Hall, you take me, to do what you will with. I’ll be your queen, your housekeeper, I’ll be your whatever you desire, because no-one knows this place like me. If you can’t do that, if you have some other agenda, some other woman, for that matter, whatever you have, walk away now.  I know I have not won Doom Bar Hall from you, that in a million years I may not have done that, but then again I never lost it in a devil’s hand of cards, played against a man too drunk to know his own name, let alone the family one he’s thrown away. These are my terms. I’m not leaving here, unless it is in a box. Do you understand?”

“Miss … Lady … ?”

Ignoring him, she lifted the glass to her lips. Courage flowed into her veins, all the way to her pounding temples.  It always did when she made up her mind.

“In the circumstances, you may call me, Destiny.”

Orwell tried again to struggle to his feet. “Dstiny. Don’t. You … you don’t know … “

“Orwell, I asked you to stay out of this. What you do is up to you just as this is up to me. I am doing this. I am keeping our home.”

Her shell would anyway. What followed behind, a pallbearer at an unspeakable funeral might wince. She waited, a prisoner of the silence, the one existing in her soul, for Gil Wryson to speak. His lips cinched uncertainly, as if he didn’t know how to approach this. Gentlemanly of him, but not the point.

“Destiny?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I … I’m sure I can call you that, Miss … Miss Rhodes, if that’s acceptable … ”

“Why shouldn’t it be? We’re going to be things to each other, after all. Let’s drink a toast to it.”

“But what I was trying to explain, maybe not terribly well, that is true, and perhaps your brother—“

“Oh, him? He doesn’t count for anything where this is concerned.”

“– is too, is that I didn’t actually win the game. So really … ”

Her heart beat in such hope it almost felled her, although hope was something that had lived in the dark for the last two years. Doom Bar Hall wasn’t lost at all.

Relief washed like an ocean, ambushing her as she stood there encased in tortuous, threadbare velvet. Her cheeks pulsed. To think she’d abased herself for nothing. But what did that matter? She downed the drink in one, wiped a mittened hand across her mouth.

“Then … if you didn’t win …?”

“No. I suppose that’s what I meant when I said I wasn’t a gentleman.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wryson, you will think me thick as a sea mist—“

“Not at all.”

“–but the truth is I really don’t understand what you being, or not being a gentleman, has to do—“

“I’m acting on behalf of my employer.”

“Your employer?”

So it was true? She’d lost Doom Bar Hall. Still, she’d made that decision before this man walked in here.  How he looked, how old he was, who he was, had made no difference then. Why should it now?

“He thought there would be difficulties, you see.”

“Apart from me brother lying drunk I can’t imagine how.”

“Well he did. And that was why he asked me to spy out the lie of the land, if you will. After all, this is quite a house to lose–”

“Do you think I don’t know that? That is why my offer is the same because I don’t intend to lose it–”

“Especially when there’s past associations.”

“Past associations.” She resisted the urge to finger her throat, which prickled as if a moth’s wing was stuck in it somewhat of a sudden. “What do you mean?”

“I mean my employer once lived—not in the house itself—but on the estate, and is known to you.”

“Known?”

She swallowed the astonishment sitting cold as marble in her mouth. There was only one man she could think of who’d done that but of that one man, she didn’t want to think. Not when the blood drained from her face, the floor loomed so perilously close she struggled to stand in her black slippers and Orwell staggered to his feet.

“Dstny … I triled to tell you. But you … you … Anyway, you’re nlot seris … ”

“Unless the name Divers O’Roarke is unfamiliar to you, Miss Rhodes?” Gil Wryson’s voice was oiled velvet.

“Divers O’Roarke?”

How did she say the name as if it was nothing to her, the name of the man who had cursed them, cursed her loudest of all?

Because she must.

“No. I believe I have vague memories of him.”

“Good, because he is waiting outside. I will be sure to pass the details of your offer to him if you still desire it.”

Before she could think whether she did or not, whether some might say this was putting it rather strongly, or she should change her mind, a footfall sounded in the doorway behind her.

“Good evening, Destiny,” clanged the sounding bell of hell and a voice she sort of recognized from there. “I see you haven’t changed.”

BLURB

Once he’d have died to possess her, now he just might…

Beautiful, headstrong young widow Destiny Rhodes was every Cornish man’s dream. Until Divers O’Roarke cursed her with ruin and walked out of Cornwall without a backwards glance. Now he’s not only back, he’s just won the only thing that hasn’t fallen down about her head—her ancestral home. The home, pride demands she throw herself in with, safe in the knowledge of one thing. Everything she touches withers to dust.

He’d cursed her with ruin.

Now she’d have him live with the spoils of her misfortune.

Though well versed in his dealings with smugglers and dead men, handsome rogue Divers O’Roarke is far from sure of his standing with Destiny Rhodes. He had no desire to win her, doesn’t want her in his house, but while he’s bent on the future, is there one when a passionate and deadly game of bluff ensues with the woman he once cursed? A game where no-one and nothing are what they seem. Him most of all.

And when everything she touches turns to dust, what will be his fate as passion erupts? Will laying past ghosts come at the highest price of all?

 

Releasing Friday September 2019 .. It is about a curse after all …Paperback and Ebook. E book can be pre-ordered here.

 

Halls, Museums and places to set books in.

26 Tuesday Jun 2018

Posted by shehannemoore in blogging, heroines, Romance, time travel, Vikings, writing

≈ 74 Comments

Tags

Coxwold, Laurence Sterne, Regency, The Fauconberg Arms, The Viking and The Courtesan, TIme Mutants, Tristam Shandy, Vikings, Yorkshire

Places stayed. Hovingham – one free night. The Worsley Arms.
Easingwold – The George Hotel.

Places would stay again – 1
Places visited. Hovingham, Coxwold, Helmsley, Easingwold, York, Ampleforth Estates.
Places driven through by mistake…rather a lot. …
Places not stayed. The Old Vicarage Easingwold now closed.


Walks – Ampleforth Estates. York Walls


Hecklers spotted- One


Attractions visited – Railway Museum York


Attractions not visited. The Minster- there was a wedding on as in NOT just the ceremony….place closed.


Kippers spotted – On the menu


Pubs visited – The George Hotel, Easingwold, Yorkshire Terrier, Three Legged Mare, Guy Fawkes,York. Fauconberg Arms, Coxwold -where Malice spent her non wedding night with her her cousin/hubby in the Viking and The Coutesan backstory. The Malt and Shovel, Hovingham.


Faux Pubs – The Cricketers Arms, Hovingham.
Alcohol consumed – No telling.
Dundee mentions – one


Book character mentions- one


Pairs of shoes and boots worn – all of them.

 

‘Twice, the sight of him had almost caused her to expire. When she had walked into the church at Coxwold and seen him standing there with a carnation in his lapel—their wedding day—and then that night in his apartment. Very well. She lied. It was thrice. When she had knocked on the door of his room at the little inn across from the church.

    Now, seeing him chucking wine down his throat as if the vineyard was about to run dry, casting his eye over some serving girl–her backside rather—and wagering what Lady Grace possessed, nausea rose in her gorge. When she considered a man who made her heart pound–a man who she should not be thinking of here–her heart also pounded wastefully.  Whatever the problem with Cyril—and there were a good twenty dozen—you knew where you stood with him. That was nowhere at all.

She glided closer. She had come to speak with him, wife to husband. And she had chosen here to do it because it was public. Those who thought the sun shone from the backend of his brown velvet breeches had a lot to learn. 

      “My lord.”

Of course, she might have known Cyril would be more interested in looking at her breasts than her face. Maybe she should have ventured in here topless?  Still, at least he was looking at her.   

“Cyril. Husband.”

      Now that jerked his chin up. If ever there was a way to bring a dog to heel, this was surely it.

      “I knew I should find you here before me, my dearest. And involved in a wager too. My lords, you must excuse Cyril, especially when he does not possess the money to pay any debts. And, we are shortly to require every penny we own.”

      “Malice?” He peered at her closely. “Malice? Is that you?” 

      “Most certainly it’s not Aunt Carter’s silver teapot, my dearest husband.”

copyright Shehanne Moore Soul Mate Publishing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Interview With the Earl. Take 2.

23 Monday Oct 2017

Posted by shehannemoore in book tour, heroes, heroines, Romance

≈ 75 Comments

Tags

Chess, Etopia Press, London Jewel thieves, Regency, Shehanne Moore, Splendor, Starkadder Sisterhood

https://thecontentedcrafter.com/

http://bit.ly/2gCShdD

Stillmore. If they cheat I will.

Stillmore. Sorry. I do not know if I was listening there. Didn’t you mean the winner?

Stillmore. Oh, what is wrong with you dudes and this unbearable whining? You must know how it does my head in. Obviously cheating is the only way to beat me.  And if you do that you deserve to be shot. Now then, let’s open shall we?

Stillmore… Hang it all where has that piece gone?

Stillmore. Oh stop sounding like Splendor. The one that was there a moment ago. I know I am not mistaken about this. any more than I am mistaken about anything. Ever.

Stillmore- Or should I say two pieces? Well, it matters not. Certainly I am not about to be beaten by a hamsterous bunch of cretins.

Stillmore- Obviously Shey wanted me to look my best so she used several of the most famous chess games in history as the basis for these bits of the book. For example the  Splendor /Baxby final, where she offers her queen early, was based on a famous Russian game and  worked like this….  Excuse me, where’s that piece gone?

Stillmore- If YOU are meaning THE first one where Splendor cheated–

Stillmore. Where’s that piece gone?

Stillmore–Let me say to you what I said to her…’You never let me finish.’

Stillmore — Right. Where’s my king?

Stillmore–Believe me… the waste of a bullet that would be. Now, if you don’t mind I have far better things to do with my time than sit here listening to this cretinous chatter.

  Extract.

Drawing his collar up as protection against the chill night air, Stillmore strode to the edge of the curb. “Hang it, Chasens, my cane. And find the woman a carriage. She looks like she needs a ride home.” Well, wasn’t this a dilemma. How the bloody blazes could she have lost and that check still be in his pocket?

“Thank you, but I shall walk,” Splendor said, her chin held high and her face whiter than if she’d seen a ghost.

“Suit yourself.”

She must want to spend the night with him. How else could he explain her sitting there like a moonstruck mouse messing up every single move she made? How was he meant to reward such imbecility? By making himself look stupid? He’d tried. He’d let her have his rook, his bishop, his knight, and half his pawns. But his queen? No. There were things he drew the line at. God knew he had tried every trick he knew to throw the game in her favor without making it glaringly obvious, and she had still lost. She was a damnable woman. Not at all his type. Too tall. Too argumentative. Too vexing. Too much trouble.

He withdrew his watch from his pocket and snapped it open. “Although you must know you are being perfectly ridiculous insisting upon walking at this hour. It’s late. It’s been a long day. And you don’t exactly live close at hand.”

“And that is somehow your concern?”

“Well, no, now you come to mention it.” Having admired the watch’s pale face glinting in the moonlight for several seconds, he flicked it shut. “I was merely trying to be helpful.”

Her widened eyes left him in very little doubt that she didn’t just believe the concept of him being helpful was as far as the stars beyond him, she believed it was going to stay at that distance for some considerable time. Probably forever.

He was just going to have to keep the ten thousand pounds. Anything else would make him look a fool. His gaze flitted over the oval of her face, shadowed by the street lamps. They’d had a wager, hadn’t they? He might as well get his wager’s worth.

“But I shall pick you up tomorrow evening at seven. Be ready.”

‘Lady’ Splendor better not think of bolting either.

 

Interview with a ferret and a Miranda Sings award

25 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by shehannemoore in blogging, book tour, Guest bloggers, Romance

≈ 62 Comments

Tags

A Miranda Sings award, Etopia Press, London Jewel thieves, Regency, Sally G Cronin, Shehanne Moore, Splendor, The Starkadder Sisterhood

 

AWARD: The Miranda Sings Award – A chance to say I Love Me! https://smorgasbordinvitation.wordpress.com/2017/09/24/award-the-miranda-sings-award-a-chance-to-say-i-love-me/

Here are the rules of the award...

  • Announce your win with a post, and link the blogger who nominated you.
  • Include the featured image on your blog post.
  • Nominate 10 bloggers (or as many as you can think of) and link your awardees in the post.
  • List 7 things you love about yourself. (This can be about your appearance, your personality, your achievements, etc.)

Rules

Don’t use negative connotation (i.e. Don’t say things like – “I’m prettier than an average person.” or “People have told me I’m smart.” You are pretty. You are smart.)

 

Mrs Ferret:    Beggin’ your pardon your  furryship creatures an’ meanin’ to give no affront. or that, but I thought it was seven things about me?

 

Mrs Ferret  : Well, I must say, again meanin’ no disrespect,  it’s not whot was agreed.

Mrs Ferret     :  You won’t be doin’ no Cossack dance, nor drinkin’ no vodka here.  Beggin’ your pardons and meanin’ no affront or that, not unless you wants ter meet with me broom handle and be swept out into the doostbin you won’t.  And you won’t be bullyin’ me like you did that artist hero of Shehanne’s whot came here and never got a word in yet. Now then . Three things about me that I like.

  1. Well, contrary to the many words what are spoke about me 

I’m secretly very soft hearted, soft-hearted as any can be whot has been left ter fend for themselves in a bitter,  hard, cruel world, one step away from the workhouse at sixteen with a sister and young brothers ter support. You can ask Splendor herself about me soft heart.  But I got a good nose for sniffin’ out whot people are inside. I can always recognise another servant and I will look out for them. I just won’t be taken a loan of is all. But if I see someone needin’ a helpin’ hand, well, I think I can be counted on.

2  I love that I like people, people whot are interesting. Them that might have secrets. But I aon’t no gossip.  The things I could have told Stillmore about his ‘wife’ and her friend–cos, meanin’ no affront but I reads the newspapers and I knows about that Sisterhood lot. But I never. As for the goings on of him at Catterton whenever he deigned to visit …..

  I was discreet. As for me figuring out they wasn’t really married, he must have thought I stitched up the back of me mob cap.

3 I know I may only be a servant but I am very good at me job, unlike some I could name whot drinks on the job, I see everything runs like clockwork whotever house I am in, Catterton,

or His Grace’s place in London.  That’s because I take pride in knowing whot people want. Of course, meanin’ no affront and provided anyone would have had me. it would have been nice to have had me family roundabout me and a man to love me, but families require keepin’ and it really isn’t easy for women of my social class that way, as I found out when my husband left me. 

Thank you very much for letting me come by and get  a word in.

 I am going to give  you with the names of some bloggers. It would be more but Sallly has already bestowed the award on many whot come here and might like doing this kind of thing. Not everyone accepts awards. Though if YOU would like doing this, please do feel free. Meaning no disrespect but that you’re not here is probably on account of Shehanne not having time to look all the links up.

.

Catherine Cavendish http://t.co/NekQqtJiEc

Purva Narang.  https://t.co/WUn4iLM0b3

Jean Lee  –

Explore Jean Lee’s World

Sarah Potter http://sarahpotterwrites.wordpress.com/

Annika Perry http://annikaperry.wordpress.com/

Leslie Noyez http://www.nananoyz5forme.com/

Aquileana  http://aquileana.wordpress.com/

Christy Birmingham https://whenwomeninspire.com/

Extract…Mrs Ferret first raises her lovely head  

“This is Mrs. Ferret.”

So Splendor’s death hadn’t happened. Instead, the front door had swung open, because there weren’t any rugs on the flagstone floor to stop it. Splendor thought that was why the door didn’t just swing open, it almost removed itself from its hinges and careered across said floor. Before she was anywhere near it, which was not always the case. Penetrating cold blew out, not in. The sun hadn’t just gone behind a cloud on a nice day, Arctic winter had followed.

Ferret was an unfortunate name. The woman herself had the appearance of having dropped a guinea and found a farthing. Some people were so devoid of the desire to better themselves that they dressed in pinched black to match their expressions. Splendor’s desire was to show his majesty how unfazed she was by this rapid and unprovoked downturn in events. London and Babs Langley. She fixed a smile on her face. Her best.

“You will pardon me, Your Grace, openin’ door in advance of you ringin’.” Mrs. Ferret ignored the smile and her. “But Bates told me you was here. And had brought company. Young ladies.”

Was it a crime to be one? Splendor had never thought so before. But the look Mrs. Ferret failed to cast her said her education was sadly lacking that way.

“Yes.” Stillmore strode over the stone threshold into the pale white hall. “My wife and her friend.”

“Wife? Wife?” Mrs. Ferret’s voice rose. “Mr. Bates never said nothing about no wife.”

Stillmore stared at the ceiling. “Perhaps because he’s not married to her. Well. It happened, whether Bates said so or not. If I say she is, it should be good enough.”

Splendor swung her gaze around. “You mean, you take my getting out that cart as assent—?”

“Oh, sir, I never meant…” Mrs. Ferret interrupted. “Oh bless me no. I mean, I wouldn’t, bein’ mindful of me position here’n all, dream of offerin’ an affront. Excuse me, Your Grace.”

Mrs. Ferret touched a feeble hand to her breast, as if she wouldn’t take issue with him arriving on the doorstep with a two-headed hamster and saying he’d married it.

“Will I just show her downstairs, same as usual, Your Grace?”

“I will do that. Thank you.”

As usual? Splendor turned her gaze back, swallowed the hot tide that rose. Thank God in some ways. Remove this old bat from the equation and Catterton House might have her otherwise. From the outside it looked like a two-roomed cottage with a tower that stood like a sentinel. Inside though, it was a completely different fish. A whitewashed palace, with steps leading down to other levels that were set into the steeply dropping cliffside. It would be private here. The kind of place Topaz would be safe. The kind of place they could both hide.

Not if it was home to his women. Not when she’d thought London.

“But, of course, Your Lordship Grace.” Mrs. Ferret curtseyed so low it was a miracle she didn’t keel over on the flagstone floor. “And what about the other…lady, sir? Will she just be left sitting out there in the cart, while you…you know?”

“Yes. No. I… I mean…” Splendor burst out before she could stop herself.

“Not at all,” Stillmore said. “She will be coming in here. But would you have a problem with that, Mrs. Ferret?”

“No, Your Grace. All I were doing was asking.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Fine then I won’t. I’ll just go tell Bates to start peeling the vegetables for lunch. A light one will it be, Your Grace? Or do your guests require stuffing?”


The only thing he hates more than losing at chess is marriage…

 For Splendor, former servant to the London’s premiere jewel thieves, the Starkadder Sisterhoiod, pretending to be someone else is all in a day’s work. So when she learns of a chess tournament—a men’s chess tournament—with a ten thousand pound prize, pretending to be a man is the obvious move. The money will be enough to set her fiancé up in his own business so they can finally marry, and more importantly, it’ll pay off her bills and keep her out of debtor’s prison. But she doesn’t plan on her opponent, the rakish Kendall Winterborne, Earl Stillmore, being a sore loser—and a drunken one, at that. But before she can collect her prize, she finds herself facing the most merciless man in London across a pair of dueling pistols at dawn. Chess may be Splendor’s game, but she’s never fired a pistol. And dressed as a man with ill-fitting shoes on the slippery grass and borrowed glasses that make it hard to see, she’s certain she’s finally tipped her own king.

 Bitter divorcee Kendall Winterborne, Earl Stillmore, is the ton’s most ruthless heartbreaker. And he’s got three pet peeves: kitchen maids, marriage…and losing. So when he realizes the “man” opposite him has entered the chess tournament under false pretenses, he’s in the perfect position to extort the little chit. But that’s before the exasperating woman begins to slip beneath his skin, and soon all he can think about is slipping beneath her skirts. But the confounded woman is engaged to someone else, and worse—she’s nothing but a former kitchen maid, just like the one that lured his father into the marriage that ruined the family name. And his ex-wife taught him more than he cared to know about why marriage was the worst kind of checkmate of all…

 

There’s Reviews and There’s even more of Robin’s Reviews.

03 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by shehannemoore in blogging, Book review, book tour, Romance, time travel

≈ 60 Comments

Tags

Book review, Regency, The Viking and The Courtesan, Time-travel, Vikings, Witless Dating After Fifty

 

http://bit.ly/2wzcC7g

The photograph depicts a sense of

danger and intrigue, in that the

stereoview device is looking

like a weapon and the gold

gloves look ominous. The

positions are accurately

depicting the foreboding

sense one gets reading

about Lady Malice’s

business of meddling

into affairs of

the

Heart.

When the case she

is requested to take on

involves breaking up her own

marriage: Watch out, folks!

This book I had the delight

and honor reading is called,

“The Viking and the Courtesan.”

Shehanne has done it again.

It is quite exciting and uniquely

plotted where a woman who has

a certain lifestyle stands a chance of

losing it all over another pretty

woman’s interest in her husband.

Lady Malice has her business to

carry her through destitute times,

where she is hired to bring in a

woman of the evening to besmirch

and defame the marriage of one

who needs “proof” of this to

get a divorce. Aptly named,

“Strictly Business” keeps

her in fashionable gowns

and Madame Faro’s shoes,

~ * Silver shoes with

pearl-encrusted

buckles, perhaps? * ~

I won’t reveal immediately the

unseemly circumstances, but

must proceed to entreat you

to set aside your distate for

unfaithfulness and hope

for the best! Shoes are her

passion which isn’t at

all distasteful. One parlour

subject matter for women of

breeding and social standing

should help you to rally and

cheer on Lady Malice’s behalf.

A twist revealed on the book cover,

should appeal to adventurous readers

who wish they could travel back in time.

But. . . would you wish to visit or stay

in the ancient year of 898 A.D.?

Incredulously, such a plotline

is designed to transport you

there, becoming attracted

to Sinarr, whose nickname

appropriately is “Sin.”

Imagine a Thor-like

ruggedly handsome,

physically fit man.

He is the proud owner of two

Viking ships, the Raven

and the Reindeer.

Horrors, dear Malice

is found amongst nuns,

when rousing from a foggy

recollection of kissing her

husband, Cyril, in one time frame

only to find her becoming a “bed slave”

in another more rough, primitive time.

She is meant to become a “wedge”

between Sinarr’s betrothed,

“Snotra” and marriage.

Snotra has humiliated Sinarr,

having twice taken another man’s

name in marriage, only to be

finally available (deaths).  Sin

wants her to suffer and wait,

while he pretends to bed her,

taking advantage of Malice’s

1800’s knowledge of romance,

or practical lack of. . .

(A side note: don’t you love these

Viking, vividly rich character names?)

Will Malice once transported back

to correct period in time, miss

wild, passionate Sinarr?

Will she find her love in the

arms of her dear husband again?

There are many humorous situations

with nuns wishing to become

“bed slaves,” while one who

is heavy is called Gentle and

the head nun is Mother Bede.

Finally, Lady Malice finds herself

in not only a quandary about which

time and place she wants to exist in,

she also realizes she is in the ~

“Family Way.”

How embarassing and who

will she choose to be the father?

The story flows along with telltale

items and household details which

are distinctly recognizable for

each historical period.

Both pigs and bed slaves

in Viking cottages create

a funny and fume-filled setting.

The 19th century tea pots, cracked

windowpanes and rustling satin gowns

would hardly seem to be a contest

as to which would be preferable!

Shehanne Moore’s exciting,

romantic historical novel

has just the change of

pace style to keep you

reading as quickly as

you are able, to find out the

surprising and yet, satisfying ending

for Lady Malice Mallender.

Cyril’s story ends as quite modern

in its libertarian point of view.

Sinarr’s story concludes with as

much force and vigor as

Thor’s famous hammer

may thrust. . .

Or so, we hope!

This book is rated

five diamonds out

of five diamonds.

:::::::::::

Photo is taken by reocochran,

 

 

Items depicting an era which

Lady Malice started her

adventures out in.

We used to call

postcard viewing device

a “stereoptican.” My

research found out we had

mislabeled this wooden antique.

EXTRACT……

“Well, I…I do want a divorce but only because…  I mean only so…”

“You can marry her for her money?”

“Malice…I am vexed you think so little of me that I would do that and set the law on you into the bargain…”

Her heart began to pound so loudly it drowned the strains of the Haydn minuet drifting through the open doors. After all these years. Years in which she had waited. Abandoned hope in. Lived like a drudge at times on a penurious income. She had him at a disadvantage. She reached inside her reticule.

“So you can live in a state you should like to become accustomed to? Ruining her as you have me?”

“Well, the thing is, the thing was, I had no choice regarding the law. That woman you sent to do whatever she was meant to do, she let you down badly.”

“Really?”

“I’m sure that your other ladies aren’t so workshy. Why, your business came highly recommended.”

She unfolded the square of gauze. His expression as she placed the square on her head then arranged it over her face was worth a king’s ransom.  “That woman was me.”

Every scrap of color drained from his face. Not that there had been a great deal to start with. There never was. It was one of his many attractions, what gave him that boyish look at the age of thirty.

“You?”

“Yes Cyril.”

“Y-you mean… Well, Malice.” Give him his dues, his recovery was excellent. But then it had every reason to be.  “May I say how very—”

“You may say nothing. But I will say I think we will agree there will be no divorce. How can there be when we are so very happy, so joyous together?”

“I don’t—”

“That I am having your child?”

“What?”

Was it any wonder his eyes widened? Widened so the wonder was they didn’t pop clean out his head and ping about the paving slabs? She tilted her chin. If there was ever a doubt she shouldn’t do this, that moment was past. What was he going to do? Have it all over London his wife ran a marriage wrecking business? That he was a cad who stole from the woman he had abandoned? Hardly. No, the man was a leech she would do well to stay married to. And one who would support her from now on.

“Yes, husband dearest. From that night, the one that was so special to both of us.”

“That’s a damned lie. That night you disappeared. Vanished right before my eyes. I shut them for a second. One second only and poof.” He snapped his fingers. Indeed, his face had contorted with such rage, the only wonder was  he didn’t snap more with his fingers, he didn’t snap her neck.  “If it was so damned special how come I don’t remember the first damned thing about it?”

 

 

There’s reviews then there’s Robin’s reviews.

11 Friday Aug 2017

Posted by shehannemoore in Book review, heroes, heroines, pirates, Reviews, Romance

≈ 69 Comments

Tags

Book review, dating., Pirates, Regency, Shehanne Moore, The Unraveling of Lady Fury, Witless Dating After Fifty

 

My pleasure today is to review

My pleasure today is to review

Shehanne Moore’s exciting book,

“The Unraveling of Lady Fury.”

There’s a back story worth sharing,

an unbelievable event left

Fury Celia Fontanelli on a quay

by a pirate-style Captain who didn’t

look back, commandeering his

large ship, the Calypso, off

into the Caribbean.

How embarrassing!

Fury had to keep going ~

life wasn’t going to be “easy”

nor ever “uncomplicated.”

Establishing her good manners,

throwing herself into society

with a goal to capture a

fine Gentleman who

could marry her.

These days we might say:

Fury needed to be

“back on the market.”

Establishing her genteel persona,

Lady Fury gets married to

Thomas Beaumont.

Don’t worry, this is not a

Big Reveal!

Unfortunately, Thomas is

long gone before the first page.

The setting is in Genoa, 1820.

An important mission must be

achieved, a Beaumont heir!

How this comes about, who

will be chosen from three

“worthy suitors.”

There’s Count Vellagio,

The Duke Malmesbury

or the Duke of Southey.

There’s a sexy scoundrel,

thrown in for good measure:

Captain James Flint Blackmoor.

This is a taut, tightly wound

plot in the beginning,

until the unraveling

starts to take apart Lady Fury’s

resolve and staunch “rules”

which actually form a contract.

❤  💓  💕  💘 💋  💗  👄 💟 💞  💖 ❤

So much fun, such steamy scenes

ensue. Please invest in a pretty fan,

to prevent swooning from the heat

generated from two remarkable

and most memorable leading

characters, Lady Fury and

“Flint” which varies to

“James,” depending

on  her  mercurial

moods and temper.

It has depth in emotions

and secret plot development,

motivating change and surprises.

The side characters like Susan,

Lady Fury’s personal attendant

(her maid, friend and confidante)

and the brothel keeper, Frau Berthe,

provide practicality and humor

in equally measured doses.

There’s not just Fury;

but a Storm ahead!

I hesitate to say too much,

preferring to recommend highly

this exceptional historical

romance novel.

I would give

this book,

5 of 5 stars.

🌠🌠🌠🌠🌠

Please check out

Shehanne Moore’s

blog which has the

invention of a word:

“Smexy”

which needs to be

added to all

updated

dictionaries!

https://shehannemoore.wordpress.com

and if you are interested in her other

books, please look at her other blog:

http://scandalousreads.com/author/3081/shehanne-moore

Have a sizzling read

and terrific Tuesday!

s

“What did you say to her?”

“What do you think? I told her that her precious son was lost at sea.”

“You didn’t!” Fury did her best to keep her voice lowered, even though the Blue Chamber stood at the other end of the landing. The prescience that this only made things worse intensified. As if Thomas’s ghost had risen up to haunt her for pushing him on that staircase and keeping him in a box. “How could you?”

He frowned. “Because you didn’t leave me a whole lot of choice with that little story you told about his holiness, the Pope.”

“What was I supposed to say? That Thomas is lying dead at the bottom of the bay, because you put him there, after I kicked him down the stairs and kept him in a box in the cellar for several days?”

He canted his jaw. “Well, how about a thank-you for getting you out the hole you were in?”

“It wasn’t a hole. I just didn’t know he was a freemason. They keep these things secret.”

“And you didn’t seem to know he was a protestant either. Is there anything you do know?”

They were going to quarrel. It was not the place with Lady Margaret along the corridor. Maybe Flint had left Susan with her. But no doubt Lady Margaret had disposed of her and had her ear to the wall. Then there was Malmesbury. The thought of Malmesbury made Fury sick to the pit of her stomach.

“Flint, I am grateful. It’s just her. Lady Margaret. You have no idea how much she hates me.”

“Isn’t that funny? She was soon guzzling out my hand.”

Of all the nasty, recalcitrant, self-seeking toads. She supposed she should just be grateful. Even Lady Margaret wasn’t immune to this man. But when Fury thought of all she had suffered at that woman’s hands, and Thomas too, because of her silly dictate…

“Of course, you like to imagine.”

It was just the thought of Flint encountering that lack of immunity with other women. Women far younger and more beautiful than Lady Margaret. He was going to now. There was no question of it. Despair engulfed her.

It wasn’t wrong he was so handsome, so beautiful. It wasn’t wrong she had succumbed to him as all other women did. It was terrible.

Sighing deeply, he turned his face to the side. “Look, I did it for you.”

“Me?” Oh, that was rich.

“Hell. It’s not exactly like it’s a lie, you stop and think about it for a moment. It’s probably quite smart. Smartest thing either of us could come up with in the circumstances. ’Specially if his body ever washes up.”

https://witlessdatingafterfifty.wordpress.com/

The Time Mutants’ Guide to Time Travel with Paul Andruss

07 Monday Aug 2017

Posted by shehannemoore in blogging, Guest bloggers, Paul Andruss, Romance, time travel, Vikings

≈ 132 Comments

Tags

Jack Hughes Books, Paul Andruss, Regency, sci-fi, The Viking and The Courtesan, The Writer and the Rake, Thomas the Rhymer, TIme Mutants, Time Travelling Dynasty, Time-travel

dictionary-5

 

The Mutants Guide to Time Travel  by Paul Andruss.

Please… settle down.

If you let me talk, everything will be explained.

I know this is unsettling.

But it is not your first unsettling experience, is it?

 

That got your attention!

 

dictionary-9090090

Many of you fear you are going mad or perhaps caught in some nightmare; which is unsurprising after your recurring vivid dreams and the recent dislocation experience.

You are frightened and alone. Let me assure you. You are not alone. We have all been through the same thing: because each of us is related.

I see you looking at the different styles in the room, clothes, hair, cosmetics, and wondering if I joke. You think you know your family: parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. You were brought up to view family as those around you. You do not to think in terms of deep time: about generations past and those to come. But you will learn. Believe me.

Why am I here? You want to ask.

We all carry a double recessive gene from our common ancestress that makes us time travelling mutants.

Oh dear! How to put this simply?

Genes are what make you look like your parents or grandparents. If grandparents, you may have been told it skipped a generation: this is a recessive gene. Over centuries, families separate. Generations later, distant relatives meet and fall in love. When this happens often enough, you are the result.

Our common ancestress lived in the early 21st century. Her name was Brittany Carter. She wrote romantic fiction distinguished by the fact her heroines time travel: her granddaughter to the Viking age and another, in a thinly veiled autobiography, to the 18th century.

dictionary-55

I know many of you read her classic novels when studying English Literature, and perhaps experienced a thrill of recognition in their pages. No doubt you were taught they were written by that literary giant Shehanne Moore. A pleasant fiction I am afraid. Brittany Carter wrote these works. Shehanne Moore was merely her nom-de-plume. A ruse used at the insistence of her publishers.

But time travel I hear you protest, surely you need a machine like the fabulous TARDIS of legend, or perhaps a sacred circle of standing-stones to concentrate the Gaia force. Not at all! Our research at the Institute, shows time travel is simple. It is caused by the relatively common ability of psychokinesis: the power to move objects with the mind.

Historical records show many of you experienced poltergeist activity when you hit puberty. Would it shock you to learn poltergeist activity is in fact involuntary outburst of psychokinetic energy, brought on by hormonal changes? As you grew older you no doubt noticed the violent outbursts subsided.

About the same time lucid dreams began. Lucid dreams are a psychological term for vivid dream states where your conscious mind remains aware making it seem you are actually experiencing the dream as reality. If it seems so, it is because you are.

Such dreams are a psychokinetic by-product; a telepathic bond with your ancestors and descendants. It is widely known Brittany Carter wrote about her granddaughter, Malice, under the influence of such dreams. This is why we time travel during moments of heightened sensation, usually, but not exclusively, during sexual arousal.

At this point I need to tell you everything you understand about time is wrong. From an early age you were taught to view time as a progression of events paralleling birth, growth and gradual decline towards death.

Here are some ancient flick-books, please take one and pass the rest on. See how each photograph, taken exactly a year apart, shows the person moving from birth to death at a fixed rate.

 Normally we do not question this.

But think for a moment, even identical twins do not die at exactly the same time. Age is relative. It depends on a series of complex interactions governed by genes and environment.

In the 20th century the oldest person on the planet died at the age of 140 – which is nothing now; while children with the disease progeria died of advanced old age when no more than ten. Some individual cells, like cancer, never die. Others can be indefinitely held in suspension, such as the 5,000 year old seed from a Chinese tomb that grew into a magnolia tree when planted by archaeologists.

Aging is not due to minutes flowing into hours; days into years.

Aging is not time travel. The minutes and hours of your life merely mark the earth’s revolution on its axis and the year its orbit around the sun. Even a light year is a measure of distance, 5.9 trillion miles to be exact.

Stephen King claimed time particles, or chronons, were formed by the past colliding with the present and evaporated when the present dissolved into the future. Michael Moorcock agreed. Moorcock envisaged humans, called Time Dwellers, evolving to live permanently within a single moment. For Moorcock the only answer to the question: ‘What is the time?’ was ‘The present’.

Einstein, the father of science, did not believe in time. He said it was nothing other than a measurement of space like height, width and depth. To him we were no more capable of seeing the bigger picture than a word printed on the page can read the novel it belongs to. Like fish in a barrel we cannot see or understand the world outside, never mind swim in it. He explained it thus:

If a fish swims in a tank at 4 miles per hour, inside an airplane travelling at 500 mph, that is flying across the earth rotating at 1,000 mph at the equator, and orbiting around the sun at 68,400 mph, in a solar system spiralling around the Milky Way at 515,000 mph, in a universe expanding at 158,000 mph. How fast is the fish swimming? The answer is 4 miles per hour. That’s relativity.

If we stepped outside relativity, we would see the past, present and future happening concurrently. It would be like looking at a road from a hilltop. This is how Brittany saw her granddaughter’s life 800 years in the past.

You must understand atoms are not like specks of dust. They are infinitesimal amounts of electrical energy clustered into a nucleus of protons and neutrons and orbited by electrons. If the nucleus was the size of a tennis ball, the atom itself would be four miles across. This means most of the universe is empty space.

The universe expands in every direction at approximately 158,000 mph; as does every atom in it. Think of drawing two circles on a balloon then blowing it up. The bigger the balloon gets the more distant the circles become and the bigger they get.

If we could compact or expand an atom, it would automatically shift to the point when the universe was at the same density. In other words it would time travel.

The electro-magnetic force holding the universe together is the same as Gaia, the life force within every living creature. Outbursts of psychokinetic energy are measurable electric currents. This is how we time travel. Psychokinetic outbursts cause our atoms to contract or expand, hurling us through time.

The final question I am asked in this introductory session is: Am I immortal?

Yes and no.

Remember Michael Moorcock’s Time Dwellers living within a single moment? Like them we can dwell in a single moment of time and so do not age. But in that case, how did Brittany and Malice manage to live with their lovers?

That is relativity. As we cannot exist outside our immediate space-time environment, we take it with us, like a deep-sea diving suit. It is perhaps no more than an atom’s thickness but enough to keep us safe.

If you would care to get to know each other and work out your complex and often confusing relationships, there are refreshments next door. However, before you leave let me assure you, my fellow time-travelling mutants, you have long and interesting lives ahead of you, and many difficult skills to master. But master them you will. For we already know your future.

 

http://www.paul-andruss.com/
http://bit.ly/2wxqs9H

Paul Andruss is the author of 2 contrasting fantasy novels

Wanting to engage readers and build an audience 2 novels are available as free downloads in different E-books formats.

Thomas the Rhymer – a magical fantasy for ages 11 to adult about a boy attempting to save fairy Thomas the Rhymer, while trying to rescue his brother from a selfish fairy queen.

If you enjoy the Harry Potter & Narnia books & films? Thomas the Rhymer is right up your street

Thomas the Rhymer is the 1st of a trilogy.

 

E-Book Cover: Finn Mac Cool

Finn Mac Cool – rude, crude and funny, explicitly sexual and disturbingly violent, Finn Mac Cool is strictly for adults only

Finn mac Cool is a modern retelling of the Irish Myth cycles with a science fantasy edge.

Finn Mac Cool is a must for those with Irish ancestry or anyone interested in Irish legends and folklore. Ever since being a child Paul was fascinated by the phantasmagorical and strange. Blessed with the type of mind that squirrels away peculiar facts, he  supposed it was only natural these should become a central feature in his novels.

As Paul got older he often forgot where he found these oddities in the first place. Odds and Sods: A cabinet of Curiosities was born as an on-line notepad and sort of grew from there. Now it showcases the curious stuff he’s  come across when researching his novels. He also get a tremendous kick from sharing it with friends.

The blog includes stories from science, history, myth, miracles, occult objects & fabulous beasts.  Sample Posts:  History – Bonfire of the Vanities / Myth – Philemon & Baucis / Miracles – The Lady at Lourdes / Occult Objects – The Turin Shroud/ Fabulous Beasts – The Horse Cock / Science – Alma (Are Neanderthals still alive?)

Paul  is a guest Writer in Residence on ‘Smorgasbord- Variety is the Spice of Life’ where you can enjoy exclusive extra articles: Still Waving – the poet Stevie Smith / Marc Bolan’s Millions / Who were the Proto-Indo-Europeans? / The Truth of the Cottingley Fairies / Venus in Furs & Justine in Tears- De Sade & Masoch / Rosabelle Believe – Did Houdini return from the dead?

Why don’t you subscribe to both?

 

More Hecklers, More Hamsters and More Reviews

18 Sunday Jun 2017

Posted by shehannemoore in book tour, Reviews, Romance, time travel, Uncategorized

≈ 70 Comments

Tags

Book review, Dundee, FinnMacCool, Jack Hughes Books, Joh Quinn, Jute, O Halflins and hecklers and Weavers and Weemin, Paul Andruss, Play, Regency, Shehanne Moore, The Writer and the Rake, Thomas the Rhymer, Time-travel

 

 

 

http://www.paul-andruss.com/the-writer-and-the-rake/

Book Review:

The Writer and The Rake

by

Shehanne Moore

 

I can confirm Shehanne Moore is no Miss Barbara Cartland.

Now there is two ways you can take this news. If you are anything like me it will be with a lusty huzzah and an air punch. I was never one for simpering virgins and sex scenes discretely ending outside the bedroom door.

Shehanne Moore writes historical romance with a sci-fi twist that’s unapologetically smexy. For those who don’t know, smexy (her word, not mine) is a cross between smutty and sexy… raunchy romance in the raw… or is that with a roar? Cos, boy, does the gal deliver!

If you want a complex heroine, so feisty she could bitch slap you in a stand-up row, meet tough but vulnerable Brittany Carter – ‘brittle as porcelain and deadlier than shattered glass. An irresistible combination.’

If you like a ruggedly handsome man, oozing animal magnetism, you can’t go far wrong with Mitchell Killgower. He’s not so tough. Underneath them smouldering looks and icy demeanour beats a heart to make you melt. At least something will be wet by the end of the novel.

By that I mean if a ‘good man who needs saving from himself’ don’t bring a tear to your eye then you are no Brittany Carter – not matter how smexy and gorgeous you are – ‘darling!’

Brittany is a struggling historical romance writer and no simpering virgin. Like most good-looking modern women in their mid-twenties, she’s had her fair share of men; all of them disappointments.

The book opens when a stranger called Morte stops Brittany for her autograph. Or so she thinks.

To be honest she’s not taking much notice. The girl’s got a lot on her mind. Off to straighten out her finances with some crap-head she used to date – he took everything but somehow managed to leave her name on a mortgage he’s not paying.

Morte’s weird, more stalker than fan. As his ominous warning about making the right choice rings in her ears, lightning strikes him. Brittany does the decent thing: calls an ambulance; helps Morte live.

Wrong choice!

Next thing Brittany wakes up in a sixteen year boy’s dusty bed. Wound tight as a cheese wire garrotte, she desperately plays it cool, frantically struggling to keep herself together while figuring out what the hell happened?

The boy’s furious. Handsome dad’s furious too. Not with her; with each other.

All the while she’s praying it’s a nightmare and she’ll wake up. Gradually it dawns. She’s somehow travelled through time, back to 1765 to be precise. To a crumbling stately home in Georgian England and the middle of a bitter inheritance feud between handsome rakish father and puritan unloved son, and with a cow of a sister-in-law holding the purse strings and fuelling the whole debacle.

The Writer and the Rake starts at 100 miles an hour and never flags. It is an unrelenting tour de force; a dazzling pas-de-deux of searing wit and laugh out loud moments between Brittany and Mitchell. The frisson between them is tangible, popping and fizzing across the pages as they slog it out to gain the upper hand, only to have the other snatch it back.

Despite wanting to return to her own time Brittany can’t take her eyes off Mitchell; while he can’t keep his hands off her behind. So, what about Morte? Don’t worry, he’s there too. Intent on sealing his Faustian bargain.

When Mitchell sees Morte with Brittany, he’s jealous as hell of her secret lover. It’s just the spark they need for scorching emotions to boil over into reckless sex. Even if you don’t smoke, you’ll be reaching for that post-coital cigarette Brittany can never have because she ran out in the first few days.

Casual sex has consequences. Hell, Brittany knows that. But she’s not prepared for what they are. Ok it’s not the first time she’s woken in a strange bed. But this one’s oddly familiar. She’s leapfrogged forward to her own time to find she’s been missing for weeks, presumed kidnapped, and her books are now best sellers.

Bingo!

Morte picks his moment to explain it all; a drunken night out with the girls. Apparently she’s a time mutant – the mother of a dynasty. Shame she’s too pissed to take it in.

Talk about sealed with a kiss. One drunken snog with some bloke in the club and Brittany’s back to Mitchell’s crumbling house. Only one thing for it, seduce Mitchell and use the ride of her life to hitchhike through the centuries back to her duly deserved fame and fortune.

Here lies the rub.

Mitchell’s the man she wants, the one she’s been waiting for all her life. She knows it from the moment he sweeps her up in his strong arms and drops her on his big old bed. From the second he unbuttons her bodice, and she his breeches. If only he was from her time. If, if, if…

If this is her last kiss; the last time she can make love for fear of ricocheting through the ages with every orgasm, then there is no one she would rather do it with.

Life’s never that simple, is it Brittany? Not with destiny calling… loud and clear.

The Writer and the Rake is a genre-bending adventure. It confirms Shehanne Moore as an author who know today’s woman is as likely to be into science fiction, playing computer games or watching light porn as reading heavy romance. And Moore’s not afraid to give her readers what they want … without ifs, buts or apologies.

The dialogue is racy, witty and thoroughly modern. This is no cod 18th century comedy of manners. That would get in the way of the lust and punishing pace. Her characters are real: gritty, decent and flawed as the rest of us. And ultimately, as redeemable by love we all are. Though it’s bloody hard work for them sometimes!

And in case you are thinking this is just for the girls, I’d advise you to give it a shot, lads. Cos let’s face it… it does no harm knowing what your woman wants.

It’s a Man’s World. The lot of women in later Regency times.

02 Friday Jun 2017

Posted by shehannemoore in blogging, book tour, heroes, heroines, Romance

≈ 59 Comments

Tags

Caroline Lamb, Christian Cavanagh, Etopia Press, George Sand, Katherine Ferrers, Mary Wollstonecraft, Regency, Romance, Shaakespeare, Splendor, Starkadder Sisterhood, The Wicked Lady, Twelth Night, Women, women in Regency times

It’s A Man’s World – with Shehanne Moore

‘You wait ages for one Shehanne Moore book and then two come along at once! Hot on the heels of her irrepressible timeslip novel The Writer and the Rake, comes her long-awaited Regency – Splendor – sequel to the fabulous Loving Lady Lazuli. Shehanne has the knack of creating unforgettable heroines set against an authentic historical backdrop.

Here she talks about some extraordinary women on the late 18th/early 19th century.’

In terms of being a wife in ruination only which is what he has just asked, you can see my latest hero, Kendall Winterborne, Earl of Stillmore, is following in well-trodden footsteps when it comes to my heroes.  As for Splendor the heroine? Well, being up to her neck in it, goes with the turf.

I recently did a guest blog for the lovely  poet Christy Birmingham,  on the pretty awful lot of Georgian Women.  Splendor  is set in a slightly later time, Regency more than early Georgian, where the hunt for a husband was a serious business, families spent a fortune on their daughters,  ‘coming out’ and unattached ladies had but one goal, NOT to signal what that goal was. But what happened when they achieved that goal?

Mary Wollstonecraft, mother of Mary Shelley—and a woman who defied convention– had published her  Rights of Women in 1792.

It highlighted the ‘means and arts by which women had been forcibly subjugated, flattered into imbecility and invariably held in bondage’. So all good for women then? A great time being spent in pursuing frivilous  goals?  On going to dances with wet skirts as a means of showing off their legs and getting lots of attention from the male sex, of arriving dirt-poor from the country and passing oneself off as an heiress to bag a rich suitor? All things that went on, things that are alluded to in Splendor. So, a jolly good time for women then? Right?  

 Well, no. Contraception, childbirth etc, had  not greatly improved.  For women, chastity before marriage, was often as much a matter of necessity.  

 Also women were still their husband’s property.  My hero Stillmore may be divorced, he certainly got all his wife’s money beforehand. In fact marrying her saved the family fortunes after his father ran off with a kitchen maid who bankrupted them.

So, given all this, you can understand Splendor being glad when Stillmore informs her that while this ’thing’  he’s asking her in such polite and patient terms, involves marriage, it will be one in name only, since he utterly despises and actively fears the institution. In fact he regards anyone foolish enough to take that trip down the aisle, as he once did, as an imbecile. 

He has his reasons by the way.

 You can also see, given the only slightly improved lot of women in the early 19th century, why quite a few of them wanted to be a man. And that is something Splendor is masquerading as at the start of the book.  Not because she especially wants to be a man but because the prize money in a certain chess completion is much greater in the men’s part of the tournament, than the ladies. Nine and a half thousand guineas greater to be precise. Money she needs—badly.

   In that respect she’s not the first woman to decide that going about this as a man was the way to ensure her future as a woman. Katherine Ferrers—The Wicked Lady anyone—was said to have taken to the highways as a man in her husband’s absence,  to sort out the little blip in her finances, get them on a more even keel. 

 Too bad that she was apparently shot, exhorting a victim to stand and deliver, which they did, killing her in the process.  Looking on the bright side, at least her financial worries were at an end.  Something Splendor certainly considers when she gets challenged to a duel by Stillmore. Just one of the little drawbacks of entering a man’s world. 

 Very well, Katherine’s case has never actually been proved but the idea of women dressing as men is not stupid.  Shakespeare chooses to make his main character in Twelfth Night, Viola, a cross-dresser. She wasn’t laughed off the stage either. all right she was no doubt being played by a man dressing as a woman, masquerading as a man. 

 Shakespeare also has each of the three women in the Merchant of Venice, dress as men at certain points of the play, for perfectly valid reasons. Again, the idea wasn’t derided.

Why does Viola cross-dress?  Because, ship-wrecked and needing to find her brother, she is also faced with the harsh economic reality of finding work and the only opening? Yep, you guessed it. It’s for a man.

There are several instances of women cross dressing for that reason.

Christian Cavanagh, an Irish-born mother, left her children with her mother and a nurse to pursue her husband who had disappeared, into the army. Christian the subject of a book by Daniel Defoe, fought in several battles before it was discovered it was Mrs. Davies not Mr. 

  Pirates Anne Bonny and Mary Read never masqueraded as men but they certainly lived as them. 

 Lady Caroline Lamb, as mad, bad and dangerous to know as her lover,  the poet Byron, being rich, didn’t need to dress as a man to make her way in that world, unlike her poorer ‘sisters.’ But when she fancied a quickie with Byron, she did find that sneaking into his chambers was a lot easier, if she was dressed as a boy.   

Author and mistress of Chopin, George Sand, who I forgot to mention in the original post- (How the hell could I ever miss out George?) never dressed as a man because she wanted to be one, took the name George either. Originally she only wanted to go to the theatre, to the cheap seats where women were forbidden. Why did she want the cheap seats? Because she couldn’t live with her husband any more, divorce was illegal and he cut her monthly allowance.    I reckon that women, were doing what resourceful women, have done from time immemorial, and that’s survive. Whatever the era.  And freed from having to be a woman certainly seemed to make them quite as dangerous to know in some instances too.    Catherine Cavendish, thank you so much, lady and writer extraordinary for asking me to your wonderful blog today.

And now? That duel.

Extract from Splendor: Shehanne Moore

He was an unashamedly driving, look-at-me male. Unless he knew her body was shaped differently? Did it mean he wasn’t going to shoot her? She could stay in the tournament? Win the ten thousand pounds? If he knew she was a woman, he was surely going to say…

“For God’s bloody sake, you’re damn well meant to move,” Stillmore snarled. “Stop bloody arsing, will you?”

In all of her intimate brush with the Starkadder Sisterhood, she had never been told to stop doing such a thing, especially not by a man whose buttocks seemed glued to hers. She felt him turn his head. 

“Don’t damn well add miscounting to cheating.”

“Miscounting? Me? When you—”

“Fram, start the count again. As for you, try to do what he says this time if it’s not beyond you.”

Despite the fact the pistol felt like ice in her hand, she gritted her teeth. “Do you somehow think it’s my fault I’m not? Look, Your Grace—”

“One.”

Whether it was her fault or not, the shock she got at hearing the word yet again and the difficulty of forcing her feet to move, meant she took a giant step forward, almost sliding on her said arse on the wet grass. These damned boots of Gabe’s were too large and thin as milk dribble on the soles. But so long as Kendall Winterborne didn’t think this was another trick on her part to delay the action, it would be all right.

“Two.”

Another step. She could barely keep hold of herself as she took it. But, count her blessings, her senses weren’t being accosted by the feel of him. The man…good God…who might kill her.

“Three.”

A drag of air into her tortured lungs. All she had to do was get off one round. How hard was that? Her finger tightened on the trigger. What if she killed the earl? Was he so black-hearted he deserved to die?

And all because he’d undermined her when she’d meant to say, I’m a woman. You can’t shoot me. Or had she undermined herself, precisely because she was a woman?

“Four.”

For God’s sake, was it five paces or six? Seven even? She could not remember for the mist snaking into her nostrils. And she needed to remember. As surely as her name was Dora Malachi whom everyone called Aurora Splendora, she needed to remember. She would be shot in the back otherwise. Then…then she’d be dead.

“Five… Six…”

But there was no sharp retort, no searing agony, no impact of a bullet tearing cloth and flesh, so obviously, obviously, when it came to how many paces, it wasn’t, five, or six. It couldn’t be. It must be…

“Seven.”

 The word wasn’t even out when she seized a breath and swung on her heel, managing just to keep her balance in the dew. Her fingers squeezed the trigger. She should have aimed, but it wasn’t as if she could see, so it made no difference. The crack ricocheted through her head, reverberating around every cavity in her eardrums. Crows rose like a screeching blanket from the ground. It was nothing to the noise Kendall Winterborne, the Earl of Stillmore, made as he hopped on one foot.

“Jesus bloody Christ. Jesus suffering bloody Christ.”

Nothing to the way he limped about, blackening the air with curses as she stood trying to look knowledgeable either. The buzz in her ears swelled. Starkadder and his silver watch fob chain she never got to polish, she hadn’t hit him, had she? How on earth she had managed to get that shot off, she had no idea. How it had blasted him in the foot either. But she had blasted him. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She had fired. He hadn’t. It meant one thing.

Even the somewhat large, staggered first pace she’d taken had not substantially increased the distance between them. For that she’d have had to bolt. So now…now he didn’t just stop hopping, he stopped dead center in the space opposite, the space he’d occupied just before she’d shot off her pistol, the smoking pistol that slithered from her palm, making a funny thudding noise as it struck the soft grass.

He raised his arm. Raised one eyebrow too. Her gaze widened in an involuntary spasm, so she saw the drizzle-sprayed mist, and his eyes primed on her like flintlocks above the shining barrel of the gun. The one now leveled at her breast, so carefully aimed, he could not miss.

A shudder shook her as his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed. His finger fastened slowly on the trigger.

Then he drew it slowly, deliberately toward his chest.

BLURB

 The only thing he hates more than losing at chess is marriage…

 For Splendor, former servant to the London’s premiere jewel thieves, pretending to be someone else is all in a day’s work. So when she learns of a chess tournament—a men’s chess tournament—with a ten thousand pound prize, pretending to be a man is the obvious move. The money will be enough to set her fiancé up in his own business so they can finally marry, and more importantly, it’ll pay off her bills and keep her out of debtor’s prison. But she doesn’t plan on her opponent, the rakish Kendall Winterborne, Earl Stillmore, being a sore loser—and a drunken one, at that. But before she can collect her prize, she finds herself facing the most merciless man in London across a pair of dueling pistols at dawn. Chess may be Splendor’s game, but she’s never fired a pistol. And dressed as a man with ill-fitting shoes on the slippery grass and borrowed glasses that make it hard to see, she’s certain she’s finally tipped her own king.

 Bitter divorcee Kendall Winterborne, Earl Stillmore, is the ton’s most ruthless heartbreaker. And he’s got three pet peeves: kitchen maids, marriage…and losing. So when he realizes the “man” opposite him has entered the chess tournament under false pretenses, he’s in the perfect position to extort the little chit. But that’s before the exasperating woman begins to slip beneath his skin, and soon all he can think about is slipping beneath her skirts. But the confounded woman is engaged to someone else, and worse—she’s nothing but a former kitchen maid, just like the one that lured his father into the marriage that ruined the family name. And his ex-wife taught him more than he cared to know about why marriage was the worst kind of checkmate of all…

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