Chapter 6

Cassandra’s insides were jumping, a kind of desperate fluttering, like a moth beating itself against a lamp flue, not caring if its delicate wings were destroyed in the process. It was as if all the heat that had emanated from her earlier now turned inward, spiraled downward and settled to roil between her legs. Every stroke of Garret Sterling’s fingertips on her skin sent a message of longing racing over her.

But she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to stop. She wanted . . . so many things. Impossible things. Wicked things. Cassie closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip.

What was happening to her?

She’d never been particularly affectionate before, not even with her family. Now, her whole world shrank to the featherlight touch of Sterling’s fingertips on the thin skin of her inner wrist. Even though he only stroked up her forearm as far as the crease of her elbow, she seemed to feel his touch in other places as well.

Intimate places.

Sliding along her jaw. Down the side of her neck and over the mounds of her breasts. Slowly circling the sensitive tips. They tightened almost painfully beneath her corset and chemise, the tender skin aching for a real brush of his fingers.

Dear Lord.

She hardly dared breathe.

“You needn’t worry that your family will be concerned over your absence,” Garret said softly.

His words sent a jolt of guilt to her belly. While her senses were fully engaged with unmaidenly imaginings, her family hadn’t once entered her mind. But of course they’d be worried about her. Daphne would be in hysterics when she didn’t find her on the street before the assembly room.

“Why do you think my family won’t be concerned?”

“Lord Westfall knows you’re with me and can ease your sister’s mind. I Sent His Grace a message that you are safe and on your way. No doubt the duke has dispatched a footman to your parents’ home with the news that you will be His Grace’s house guest for the foreseeable future.”

“When did you have time to send a message?” Let alone two of them. He’d claimed to have let Lord Westfall know she was in his care as they escaped from the burning assembly room at Almack’s.

“We all have certain gifts.” Garret shrugged. “When we arrive, you’ll see that you are expected. I’m sure his housekeeper is airing the bedchamber you’ll be assigned as we speak.”

“I can’t stay at Camden House.”

“If you’re concerned for your reputation, you needn’t be. His Grace’s sister, Lady Easton is in residence. She’s a stickler for good form. I’ve no doubt your father will be charmed by the duke’s intention to interest himself in you.”

“Interest himself in me?” Panic stirred her gut. According to Lady Waldgren, the reclusive Duke of Camden had a reputation for being a trifle odd. Whispers about the mysterious circumstances under which he lost his wife and infant son were grist for society’s gossip mill even fifteen years after the fact. But he was still a peer of the realm and his name wielded significant influence. “You don’t mean to say that His Grace is seeking a wife.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. By God, that would make me some filthy procurer. Besides, I’d never willingly help another bachelor give up that happy state.” Garret snorted as if he considered avoiding the parson’s mousetrap the highest and best use of a man’s time on earth.

He also stopped stroking Cassie’s wrist and she narrowly resisted the urge to beg him to continue. Without his touch, the heat inside her began to surge in a different sort of way that boded no good for nearby flammable surfaces.

“In any case, the duke is content that his nephew will be his heir,” Garret said. “Besides, you flatter yourself. His Grace is not in the market for a child bride.”

“I’m no child.”

Garret’s crooked smile returned. “No, I can see you’re not. In fact, I gather that’s what started all this trouble, isn’t it?”

Cassandra decided to ignore that cryptic remark and cast him a questioning look. Surely he couldn’t be aware of the way she’d succumbed to Roderick’s charm. “I still don’t understand. Why does the duke want to meet me?”

The coach rumbled to a stop before an opulent Mayfair home, bedecked with light streaming from every long Georgian window. Mr. Sterling made no move to disembark. “It’s like this, you see. His Grace is a bit of a collector.”

“What does he collect?”

“People like us, Miss Darkin.” Garret Sterling brought her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across the back. His warm breath streamed over her skin and sent gooseflesh rippling to her toes. “He collects people like us.”

Cassie peered out of the coach at the elegant Georgian townhouse. Light poured from an upper story window. There certainly didn’t seem to be anything sinister about Camden House, but apprehension still shivered up her spine. He collects people like us.

Her uncle had been a collector. When she was small, he tried to interest her in his plethora of insects, all impaled on placards, labeled and neatly numbered.  He studied them, he explained, and tried to learn why they were the way they were. Between the alcoholic fumes to incapacitate the specimens and the long pins to affix them to the placards, the whole process made Cassandra slightly queasy.

She had no wish to be part of anyone’s collection, least of all, the mysterious Duke of Camden’s. Being poked, prodded, studied was an unpalatable prospect. But she did wonder if His Grace could somehow explain the fires.

And why she was the way she was.

________________________________

I hope you enjoyed the first 6 chapters of The Seduction of Miss Darkin. I’ve had a great time creating this mysterious and magical Regency world. Now I have to admit that this will be the last installment of this online novel for a while. I have some contracted stories to deliver which must take precedence.

But if you remember when I started A Duke for All Seasons online, I did eventually finish that story. I plan to work on The Seduction of Miss Darkin over the next several months as I have time, aiming for publication in Spring 2014!

Also, it’s time to pick a winner from commenters over the past few excerpts. Congrats to Andrea! She’ll get to choose her prize from my Rock*It Reads titles.

If you didn’t win, please pop back here on May 21st. I’ll have a surprise for everyone that day!

We also walked the Freedom Trail.

I’ve done it before but this time I saw a historic house I’d missed. You really can’t blame me. It only measures a little over 10 feet wide. There’s no front door. You have to squeeze through a narrow alley to enter.

It made me wonder how such a strange little house came to be built. Its history is a bit sketchy, but here’s what I’ve uncovered. In 1874, two brothers inherited the land on Hull Street from their father. One was a soldier who was in active service. The other brother built himself a grand home on the land, set back from the street and left only a narrow sliver for his sibling. When the soldier came home and saw what his brother had done, he didn’t get mad. He got even.

He built this unique home in the space his brother left for him. The Skinny House (sometimes called The Spite House) tapers to a mere 9 ft. 3 inches to the rear of the property, but its width isn’t the most important dimension. Its four stories block the light and the harbor view of his brother’s home.

Spiteful indeed!

Oh! Before I forget, I need to let you know about a special offer from Sourcebooks. For a limited time, you can get Sins of the Highlander for only $2.99. That’s a 63% savings over the regular price.

Like the wronged soldier who built the Spite House, Mad Rob MacLaren wants to even a score too. He blames Lachland Drummond for his wife’s death, so he steals Drummond’s bride right from the altar. He never expected she’d bring his dead heart back to life.

I love Mad Rob’s story and hope you will too.

Buy links: Kindle , Nook , Kobo 

So one of the ways I reached out to readers was to join with Shana Galen, Monica Burns, and Heather Snow to do an UNDRESSING THE HERO workshop. Now, we weren’t really able to undress our cover model volunteer, but we did play a fun game. Readers had to tape the name of the article of clothing onto the appropriate place on Scott (a cover model who’s a firefighter for his day job.) He was a great sport about it and also played each of our heroes by acting out a scene from our books that revealed our hero’s vulnerable underbelly.

The scene I chose was the wedding scene from Waking up with a Rake because Rhys admits all the things he can’t offer Olivia. I read the Blacksmith’s part and we had a volunteer from the audience to play the heroine. Here’s the scene in script form:

Blacksmith: “This anvil has wrought many needful things for the making of a prosperous home. So may this marriage provide needful things for the happy couple— enough so they know no want, yet not so much that they forget to share. And may they never forget the most needful thing is love. And that’s the end of me speechifying. Now make yer vows.” 

Rhys: “Aren’t you going to lead us?”

Blacksmith: “How should I know what ye intend to promise the lady? I’m no’ a real priest, ye ken. Speak but the words in yer heart, man, and I’ll pronounce ye marrit when the pair o’ ye reach an end of yer jawin’.”

Rhys: “Are you sure this is legal?”

Blacksmith: “Oh, aye. Folk been marryin’ this way in these parts since the Flood. Once ye leave the presence o’ the anvil, ye’ll be marrit before God and man.”

Rhys: “Olivia, I have nothing you could want. No fortune compared to the one you’re leaving in your father’s house. No title. Come to think of it, I can’t even offer you a good name because I’ve soiled mine rather badly up to this point. So all I can offer you is myself and hope it’s enough. I’ll try mightily not to shame you with bad behavior, though you know as well as I, I’ve had little practice with good. I’ll provide for your comfort as best I can and protect you as long as I have a beating heart. I’ll stand by you, in sickness or in health. I’ll love you with my body and honor you with all that is in me. And if by some miracle we reach old age together, I’ll sit beside you as the shadows fall and hold your hand, until we are dust. These things I vow. Am I enough?”

Olivia: “Oh, yes, Rhys. You’re enough.”

Blacksmith: “Weel, then, that’s grand, isn’t it? I now pronounce— ”

Rhys: “Wait a moment. Isn’t she supposed to make a vow to me?”

Blacksmith: “The lass consented to marry ye, did she no’? After that list of what ye dinna have, I’m thinkin’ a canny man might be wantin’ me to hurry things along lest she change her mind. If ye’re still desirous of a promise from her, I’ll help ye, but let’s make it quick before she has a bit of a think about things. Tell me, lass. According to the laws of God and man, will ye be a good and faithful wife to this undeserving wretch of a man?”

Rhys: “That’s helping?”

Blacksmith: “Whist, man. Let the lass answer.”

Olivia: “Yes, I’ll be his good and faithful wife.” 

Blacksmith: “Then the necessaries having been satisfied— trust me, man. Her vow, simple as it is, will stand ye in good stead. Women have more sense about the doing part of being marrit than men do. She’ll do ye proud, I’ll be bound. Where was I? Oh, aye, I now pronounce ye man and wife. Now ye can kiss yer bride. (At this point, Scott dipped our volunteer into a romantic kiss!) Easy, man. Save a trifling for the weddin’ night.”

The readers seemed to really enjoy this workshop and one came up to me later and said she remembered my scene from when she read Waking Up with a Rake when it came out last January. Sarah from Arizona made my day.

Writing something that sticks with a reader after the last page is turned is always my goal. It’s very gratifying when I manage to do it.

What book has stuck with you long after “the end?”

My latest release, Stroke of Genius, is now FREE for your Kindle. I’m so excited to share Crispin and Grace’s love story with you and hope it will give you as much joy to read it as I had writing it.

Click to order!

Crispin is not your typical Regency hero. He’s a self-made man. Brilliant, brash to the point of rudeness, he’s an artistic genius who knows his own worth when it comes to his work, but is still struggling with the scars of his rough childhood. Grace Makepeace is an American heiress, and while she’s never known want as Crispin has, she still longs for someone to see her instead of her father’s bottomless pockets.

Here’s the link: FREE Stroke of Genius!

If you don’t have a Kindle, please don’t despair! You can download a FREE Kindle app for your PC, phone, tablet, etc. I’ve done it with my phone and I love having my library in my pocket! Check it out here: Free Kindle Apps

This free offer is only good for May 1st-5th, so please hurry.  I don’t want you or any of your reading friends to miss out. Thanks so much for spreading the word by clicking the links below to share this with your friends on Facebook, Twitter, Google+ and Pinterest. I really appreciate it!

Happy Reading,
Mia

If you haven’t read the first 4 chapters, please click here to get caught up!

“Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine
In another’s being mingle– Why not I with thine?”
-Percy Bysshe Shelley, from Love’s Philosophy

 Chapter 5

          The world around them faded into indistinct sounds of alarm and billowing smoke. She struggled for only a moment in his arms, but then it seemed her flesh heard the call of his and she quieted while he explored her lips. Garret drew the air from her lungs and replaced it with his own. She moaned softly into his mouth and submitted to the gentle exploration of his tongue. Then she grasped his lapels and thrust in her tongue to glide the tip along the roof of his mouth.

His gut clenched in anticipation. It wasn’t often a woman wrested control of a kiss from him. He wondered what she’d do next.

He didn’t have long to wait. Cassandra Darkin took from him, savaging his lips, ragged with need. He planted his feet firmly and let her have whatever she cared to pillage from him.

Vesta LaMotte had warned him that a fire mage was an elemental of the fiercest kind. Consuming, devouring, once they came into their gift, their physical needs were ravenous, almost uncontrollable. Females of the type were rare, but the few Vesta had encountered were just as ferocious in this regard as the males.

And more insatiable.

If Garret initiated a sensual dalliance with one, he should be prepared to be used up by the experience as a cord of dry wood surrenders to flame. The way his body responded to Cassandra’s demanding kiss, he didn’t think it would be a bad way to go.

Suddenly she pulled back and the fire around them was instantly snuffed out, as if a giant’s hand had pinched off an equally over-sized candle flame. But even though the blaze was extinguished, the room was still awash in dark smoke.

“Very good,” Garret said. “Now we need to get you out of here. The Duke of Camden is anxious to meet you. Will you be so kind as to accompany Viscount Westfall and me back to Camden House so we can introduce you to His Grace?”

She huffed in surprise. “I most certainly will not. I can’t go anywhere with you. We’ve not even been properly introduced.”

“After a kiss like that, I hardly think proper introductions signify in the slightest.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How can you think to present me to His Grace? I doubt you even know the duke.” Miss Darkin pulled free of his embrace and darted forward into the smoke, calling out her sister’s name.

Garret followed. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but he was forced to Send her a strong suggestion of compliance. It was usually enough to knock all other thoughts from his target’s head, but she kept clawing her way through the gloom, coughing as she went, as if she hadn’t received his implanted thought at all. He caught her hand and brought her to a halt.

When she turned to face him, he Sent her another directed thought, a stronger suggestion this time, that she should desperately want to go with him. Without question.

Her arched brows nearly met over her fine straight nose. “Why are you looking at me like that? Are you soft-headed? Now release me at once. I have to find Daphne.”

“I’m sure Westfall will see to your sister’s safety. Meanwhile, the backstairs look to be less crowded. Come.”

“No. Let me go.”

“Suit yourself. If His Grace asks, you must tell him I tried to do this the easy way.” Garret hefted her over his shoulder, her shapely bum pointed at the fire-darkened crown molding, and strode purposefully toward the servant’s staircase in the far corner where the smoke seemed less dense. Cassandra Darkin screamed, but when every woman in the place was shrieking, what was one more?

Of course, the woman he carried was also pummeling his back with her fists, but there was so much confusion, no one took notice.

Before Garret ducked down the narrow servant’s stairs, he Sent a quick message to Westfall, hoping the man could detect a deliberate thought headed his way amid the bombardment of panic that must be assailing him. Garret informed the viscount that he had secured the fire mage and would be leaving with her forthwith.

If Westfall met them at the ducal coach, well and good. If not, he’d have to make his own way back to Camden House. Cassandra Darkin was squalling like a scalded cat. If Garret didn’t steal her away amid the cover of general panic, there’d be no way to accomplish it later.  

The lady didn’t seem disposed to come willingly and no amount of Sending seemed to change her mind.

“Put me down this instant, you miserable cretin!” she demanded, her voice echoing in the smoky stairwell. A fit of coughing dulled the bite of her words as Garret hustled down the flight of steps.

“Since you asked so nicely, rest assured I’ll comply,” he said. “As soon as we’ve reached safety.”

“As if you . . . give two figs . . . for my safety.” Her words came out in short bursts as his jogging steps forced air from her lungs. “A man who forces his attentions on a woman is not to be trusted.”

“Neither are you if you think I forced that kiss on you. I may have initiated things, but by God, you gave as good as you got, and you know it.”

Whether from the sting of truth or lack of oxygen, she fell silent. Garret wasn’t disposed to complain no matter which was responsible for the blessed reprieve. He wasn’t accustomed to having to work so hard. Women generally found him charming even without a well-aimed suggestion from his gift. His Grace had detected Garret’s thought invading his mind, but Camden was the only one who had ever recognized that Garret’s implanted idea was not his own. Cassandra Darken acted as if she’d not even received his Sending. No one had ever deflected one of his directed thoughts so easily.

Cassandra Darkin might be a fire mage, but she was obviously much more as well.  

The stairs ended in a small stone-floored scullery. Garret shouldered the low door open and pushed into the alley behind Almack’s.

Fire truck bells clanged an urgent message as they raced toward the scene. Men shouted. Women and horses screamed. The fire was out, but until the building was cleared, there was still danger from thick smoke. Garret wished he’d thought to toss a chair through a window to give it a way to escape and fresh air to enter the assembly room.

“We’re safe,” Cassandra said. “Put me down.”

Garret ignored her and broke into a dog-trot around the building to where His Grace’s equipage was waiting at the head of a long queue of coaches. He gave a quick glance up and down King Street, looking for Westfall, but didn’t see him anywhere.

First things first, he thought ruefully. Delivering Cassandra Darkin into the duke’s custody where she couldn’t set any more fires was more important than playing nursemaid to a half-mad viscount who, by rights, still ought to have been in Bedlam. Garret opened the carriage door and unceremoniously hustled in Miss Darkin. Then he barked an order to the driver to return to Camden House with all speed. Garret barely had time to slam the door behind himself and settle on the squab opposite Miss Darkin before the equipage lurched forward and began bouncing along London’s cobbles.

A bar of yellowish light shot into the coach each time they rattled past a street lamp, illuminating Cassandra’s face every few seconds. Her luminous skin was stretched taut over her cheekbones and pinpoints of flame seemed to flicker in the depths of her amber eyes. But she didn’t seem angry.

With the whites showing all around, her eyes flared with fear.

“You can’t do this,” she said quietly.

Her half-whisper was far more compelling than her earlier screams. Garret’s conscience pricked him for a blink, but he shrugged it off.

“And yet,” he said, “I just did.”

“My father is a very wealthy man. If it’s money you want—”

“I’m not abducting you. Well, not in the usual sense. I’ve told you the truth. Look around you. This is the Duke of Camden’s equipage.” Even in the half-light of the occasional street lamp, the interior of the coach bespoke opulence. Garret moved over to sit beside her so she could see the duke’s crest embroidered in gold thread on the tufted seat. “For better or worse, you’ve come to His Grace’s notice and he wishes to see you.”

She made a scoffing sound. “Do you know how likely I think it is that a duke wishes to see the daughter of a knight?”

“In the ordinary scheme of things, you’d be right, but you and I both know you are far from ordinary.” Even more than her penchant for flames, Garret wondered why his thoughts had no impact on her. If you can hear me, smooth your hair behind your ear.

Her hands remained in her lap, fingers laced. “If the Duke of Camden wished to make my acquaintance, His Grace might have called on any day at my father’s home.”

“He wasn’t certain whether it was you or your sister,” Garret said. “For all the duke knew the one causing the fires might have been the lass who empties your chamber pots.”

That earned him a frown, then her gaze returned to her lap where she studied her gloved hands with absorption. Even though she was doing her best to ignore him, he felt a tug toward her unlike any he’d ever experienced. She was a presentable girl, with fine, even features and a bosom that was rather spectacular, but she certainly wasn’t the most beautiful woman Garret had ever seen. And yet, his chest constricted when her chin trembled.

“I did not cause those fires.”

Garret heard barely concealed desperation in her tone. He remembered the gut-wrenching sickness of the first time he dreamed a future for someone and watched in helpless horror as it inexorably came to pass. Cassandra Darkin was meeting a part of herself she hadn’t suspected existed and didn’t much like. The acquaintance wasn’t likely to improve with time, and there was little help for it.

“Perhaps you didn’t cause them on purpose,” he said as gently as he could. “But can you deny there have been . . . unexplained conflagrations in your life of late?”

Her shoulders sagged.

“You admit it.”

“I admit nothing, Mr. Sterling.”

The streetlamp they passed flared white-hot. She might seem to be riding passively in the duke’s coach, but inside he sensed she was a bubbling cauldron. The glass in the next lamp shattered as they approached and flames licked down the iron post before sizzling to smoke and vapors at the pavement. 

“My dear Miss Darkin, if you aren’t responsible for that light show, I’ll eat my cravat.” He took one of her hands. She tried to pull it away but he held her tight. “We’ll have a series of infernos dogging us all the way to Camden House, unless I help you find a more harmonious frame of mind.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

“A spooked mare requires a soft word and a gentle touch and—”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Sterling.” She lifted her chin and stared pointedly out the window, avoiding his gaze. “What young lady doesn’t live to be compared to a horse?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant the same principle might apply.” Garret resisted the temptation to gather her into another kiss, though the urge was strong. Cassandra Darkin was a prickly sort and he liked his women soft-spoken and biddable. Still, covering her mouth with his at least had the virtue of shutting her up. “I’ve never had dealings with a fire mage before, you understand.”

“A fire mage?”

“That’s what the duke believes you are.”

Curiosity made her fist unclenched in his hand. When he stroked her palm, her fingers uncurled completely.

“And a fire mage is . . . what exactly?”

“A powerful elemental.” When her furrowed brow told him she still didn’t understand, Garret continued. “An elemental is a magician of sorts with a special affinity for one of the four elements—earth, water, air or, in your case, fire. You are able to bend the flames to your will.”

“No, I’m not. That’s just the problem. I have no control.” Her hand began to tense so he laced his fingers with hers to keep them from closing up again. “I’m not even sure—no, I’m positive I didn’t cause any of those fires. How could I?”

“It’s a gift. Just as some people are quick to comprehend mathematics or intuitively grasp languages, your mind is able to harness fire, whether you understand how you’re doing it or not,” Camden said.   

One finger at time, he tugged at her glove until he was able to peel it from her hand.

“No, don’t do that.”

“I must,” he said. “At Almack’s distracting you with a kiss allowed you to focus well enough to put the fire out. A few light caresses ought to see us safely back to Camden House.”

As if to prove him correct, there seemed nothing out of the ordinary about the next street lamp they passed.

“There you see,” he said. “You’re calmer already.”

 She arched a brow at him. “I wouldn’t lay money on that were I you.”

___________________

Hope you enjoyed this installment of The Seduction of Miss Darkin. Here’s your chance to get in on the creative process. If you have suggestions, questions or ideas you’d like to toss out for this story, I’m all ears.

I’m in Kansas City now for the RT Booklovers Convention. When I return I’ll draw the winner from among the commenters on my serialized novel. Someone will receive their choice from my Rock*It Reads!

May 1st, Wednesday
2:30-3:30 pm: Undressing the Hero, I’ll be presenting this fun workshop along with with Monica Burns, Shana Galen, Elisabeth Naughton, Heather Snow, and Joan Swan! Oh, yeah, we’ll be rewarding participants with free reads!

3:45-4:45 PM Sourcebooks Workshop—How to work with your Publisher: Publicity & Marketing

6:15-7:30 PM Rosie Gulch’s Gals– I’m one of the hostesses of this little shindig along with Amanda McIntyre, Victoria Alexander, Monica Burns, Elizabeth Essex, Shana Galen, Heather Graham, Sabrina Jeffries, Alma Katsu, Sahara Kelly, Kieran Kramer, Sharon Page, Bobbi Smith, Heather Snow, and Mary Wine! The goody bags will be stuffed with books, assuring a good time will be had by all!

May 2nd, Thursday:
10:00-11:00 AM Sourcebooks Spotlight–Come meet me and the other authors who share my Casablanca imprint. 

12:20-1:20 pm Kensington Afternoon Book Soiree–My publisher is giving away signed copies of Touch of a Scoundrel!

2:45-3:45 Kensington Spotlight–Just think of all the Zebra and Brava authors you love. Chances are they’ll be here with me.

May 3rd, Friday:
8:30-9: 45AM Fountain City Jazz Club Breakfast, Celebrate the ‘morning after.’ You can’t come to the City of Fountains and the home of Kansas City jazz  without swingin’ by! “In the  Mood” for cold mimosas and hot jazz? Come scat with the cool cats for  great food, champagne fountains, live jazz, games and  prizes. I’m hosting along with Jennifer Bernard, Colleen Gleason (AKAJoss Ware), Samantha Grace, Liliana Hart, Lauren Hawkeye, Tamara Hogan, Sabrina Jeffries, Mina Khan, Katy Madison, Elisabeth Naughton, Theresa Ragan, Heather Snow, Carla Swafford, Joan Swan, Denise Grover Swank, Julie Ann Walker Saturday

May 4th, Saturday:
11 AM-2:00PM: Giant Bookfair –Calling this booksigning “Giant” is no hyperbole. Hundreds of authors will be there, so many you’ll likely need a map to find the ones you want. Even if you haven’t signed up for the convention, this booksigning is open to the public. For $5.00, you can even bring in the books on your keeper shelf and have your favorite author sign them. Click here to see who else will be there.

5:00-6:00 PM: Sourcebooks Bookseller & Librarian Party–Looking forward to meeting my personal heroes and heroines, those who “handsell” my work.

__________________

Even if you’re not attending RT, be sure to check back here on my blog on May 1st! I’m planning a special treat for all my readers, whether you’re in KC or not!

Rest assured, I have contacted my formatter and asked them to fix the problem. I’ve posted the missing chapter here and to make it up to my readers, I have a special treat planned for you from May 1st-5th. Be sure to check back then so you don’t miss out!

Chapter 16

     Trevelyn stopped by the small suite of rooms he kept as Thomas Doverspike and changed into his alter-ego’s threadbare cast-offs. After his sleepless night, he looked even more ragged and unkempt than usual in his guise as Doverspike. It was early enough that the duchess should be working in her studio. He planned to keep his appointment with Artemisia as if nothing untoward had happened. But after the way she fled the ballroom when his father made his cursed announcement, Trev knew he had some explaining to do.

     He only hoped she’d let him do it.

     He banged the knocker twice and received no response. Then he drummed his knuckles on the imposing door of the duchess’s home and was greeted after a few moments by the ubiquitous butler.

     “Hullo. Cuthbert, ain’t it?” he said in his best country burr. He smiled ingenuously, hoping to slide by the man’s eagle eyes and continue to pass as Thomas Doverspike long enough to work his way into the duchess’s studio.

     “Quite, sir.” The crusty gentleman’s gentleman inclined his head slightly. “If you will be so good as to follow me, please.”

     The butler turned and walked in the opposite direction of Artemisia’s studio.

     “That’s the wrong way, guv,” Trevelyn said. “I’m here for Her Grace.”

      “Indeed, Mr. Deveridge.” Cuthbert never slowed his stately pace. “Madam gave specific instructions regarding you, sir. This way, if you please.”

      So, she’d given her butler his real name. The game was definitely up. Trevelyn trailed Cuthbert through the empty ballroom, now cleared of all evidence of a late-night revel, and down a hall lined with suits of armor and portraits of past Dukes of Southwycke. The ancient peers seemed to glare down at him as he trod by them.

      Cuthbert paused a moment before the French doors leading into the solar and cast a scathing look at him. The butler was too well-trained to voice his poor opinion of Trevelyn, but the frosty glance plainly said he’d been weighed in the balance and found sadly wanting. Trev wondered how much Artemisia had confided in Cuthbert and how much he had deduced from his own observations.

      Small wonder servants were always the best source of information in any great house.

      The butler rapped smartly on the door and Trevelyn heard Artemisia’s soft “Come.”

      The solar was the exact twin of her studio on the far side of the expansive house. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in early morning light, but the space seemed strangely bereft without the hodge-podge assortment of paints, pots and chalk that were the staples of her artwork. Instead of the scent of oil-paint and canvas, this room smelled of lavender and slightly musty Brussels lace and, of course, her.

      The duchess was seated on one of a pair of matching settees with her cats, Castor peeping from behind her skirts and Pollux snugged against her hip. A book was open on her lap and she held a china cup to her luscious lips.

      Trev was used to seeing her in her paint smock, totally unfussy and all business. The Indian princess costume last night cast her in the most exotically alluring light and stark naked she was the finest thing he’d ever seen, but he was unprepared for the sight of Artemisia in the guise of an English rose.

      She wore the latest Parisian fashions with casual elegance, the lines of her dress molded to her curves, her breasts modestly concealed with a filmy fichu. A tasteful strand of pearls looped her neck and a gem-encrusted brooch winked over her left breast. She was every inch a duchess, and he knew he looked like a vagabond from Fleet Street.

      “Good morning, Mr. Deveridge,” she said. “Pray be seated. Will you take tea? Cuthbert can fetch some fresh scones, if you like.”

      “No, that won’t be necessary. Just tea, please.” He’d expected stormy recriminations, not this stony civility. As he perched uneasily on the opposite settee, he noticed faint smudges of fatigue beneath her green eyes. They gave him hope. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who’d lost sleep last night.

      “That will be all, Cuthbert,” she said crisply.

      “Very good, madam.” The butler gave a sharp bow, then for Trevelyn’s benefit, he continued. “I shall remain within easy call should you require anything.”

      He pulled the double doors closed behind him. Trevelyn didn’t doubt Cuthbert remained standing at the keyhole ready to protect his mistress from any and all threats.

      “Larla—” he began.                                                                                       

      “Mr. Deveridge, I seem to have forgotten how you take your tea,” she interrupted, giving him a sharp set down. There would be no secret names used during this interview. “One lump or two?”

      The glance she cast him as she poured out a steaming cup suggested she’d rather give him lumps on the head than in his tea.

      “Two, please,” he said, God help him. How could he hope to bridge this chasm of excessive manners?

      She plopped the sugar into the dark liquid and stirred it with barely restrained viciousness.

      “Thank you,” he said as he accepted the cup and saucer from her pale hand. He wondered fleetingly if she’d thought to lace the sugar with strychnine.

      He raised the cup to his lips and drank manfully. “About what happened last night . . .” he said, unsure how to begin.

      “A masked ball is always marked by flights of fancy,” she said as coolly as if she commented upon the weather. “A night filled with surprises, was it not?”

      “No one was more surprised than I.”

      “I take leave to doubt that,” she said in a tone dripping poison.

      “Madam, I had no idea my father was planning to make that announcement.”

      “That I will believe,” the duchess said. “It would be extremely bad form for one to seduce the elder sister on the same night one announces his troth to the younger. After all, one must pace one’s self.”

      “I made no pledge to your sister.” Trev raked a hand through his hair in annoyance. “This is some scheme hatched by your mother and my father for God knows what reasons. By Heaven, a single dance constitutes my familiarity with the girl. I barely know the chit.”

      One of her brows lifted in reproof. “Careful, Mr. Deveridge. You are speaking of my dearly loved sister.”

      “I realize that and I mean no disrespect to her, but you must believe me when I say I had no knowledge of this supposed engagement.” He placed the china teacup and saucer back on the low ivory-inlaid table that stretched between them. “I have no intention to marry. Not ever. Not to your sister or anyone else.”

      A shadow passed behind her eyes and for a moment he wondered if she was expecting him to say something different, to make some sort of declaration to her. Given the degree of intimacy that had developed between them—Heaven help him, he could still taste her—it would not be surprising for her to expect a proposal of marriage. Part of him would be willing to give it, he realized with a start, if not for his covert work in the Great Game. It wouldn’t be fair to expect a woman to accept the risks he was planning to take.

      She sipped her tea, snatching a glance at him from beneath her lowered eyelids.

      “Probably a very wise course for one such as yourself, Mr. Deveridge. I seriously doubt you’d make a faithful husband for any woman.” She looked away from him. “However, the deed has been done. Your father has declared your intentions before the entire ton and I, for one, will not allow you to make a mockery of my sister by trying to wiggle out of your obligations.”

      “If my father made the announcement, then perhaps he should be the bridegroom. The man is a bachelor, after all,” Trevelyn said.

      She skewered him with look of distaste. “And a man three times the bride’s age.”

      “As was your late husband,” he reminded her.

      “I will thank you to refrain from comment upon the duke. It is clear you know little of honorable men and even less of women.” Her lower lip trembled, and she drew a deep breath. “Anyone who could so toy with another’s affections and then fail to live up to his commitments . . .” She was unable to finish her thought for the tears she was trying to blink back.

      Trev moved quickly to her side and gathered her in his arms. “Larla, I’m so sorry.”

      “Don’t call me that.” She balled her hand into a fist and pounded his chest once, but she didn’t pull away from him. “You’ve no right. All you’ve done is lie to me from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

      “Truly, I never meant to hurt you. If you believe nothing else, I beg you to believe that,” he whispered into her neck. She smelled so tantalizing, all fresh and dewy; it was all he could do not to eat her up. “I have no name for what it is between us, but can’t seem to stay away from you.”

      He covered her mouth with his, hunger flaring white-hot inside him, burning away reason. More than anything on earth, he wanted this woman. If he wasn’t able to bury himself in her sweet flesh soon, he was sure madness would descend upon him in earnest.

      He couldn’t get enough of her.

      At first, she answered his kiss with desperation, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. His hopes soared. But when he slid a hand under her skirt, she fought free of him. Her face was flushed with longing, but she scrambled to her feet and put as much distance between them as she could.

      Wide-eyed, she looked on him with something resembling horror. “Get out of this house.”

      “Larla—” He moved to embrace her.

      “No, I mean it.” She straight-armed him. “If you come any closer, I shall cry out and Cuthbert will call the constable. I will see you hauled before the magistrate on charges of attempted rape, I promise.”

      It wasn’t her threat that stopped him. It was the terror in her eyes. Had he become such a ravening beast? No, he realized. She was afraid of herself and the way her body responded to his.

      “It would be no rape and you know it,” he said.

      She narrowed her eyes at him. “Insulting me will not save you from prison.”

      “Lying to yourself will not change the truth,” he said with as much gentleness as he could muster given his state of frustration. “Whatever else is true, this much is certain. I am not engaged to your sister. To continue that farce is to court disaster. Do you think there’s the slightest chance you and I could see each other at family gatherings and not eventually tumble into the same bed?”

      “I asked you to leave.”

      “I will go as you request, but know that I will not wed your sister.”

      “After your behavior this morning, sir, I will do all in my power to make certain of that,” she said. “I presume you still possess enough decency to allow Florinda to claim she rejected you.”

      He nodded his acquiescence. “Whatever tale you wish to circulate, I will be happy to corroborate.”

      Trevelyn turned and walked toward the door. He stopped with a hand on one of the ivory knobs. “Whatever this is between us, Your Grace, it will not go away just for the wishing. Somehow, you have marked me and I believe your heart bears a similar mark. I am at your disposal, madam. If you should require my services, however slight, inquire for me at the Golden Cockerel on Tydburn Street.”

      “That will never happen,” she said with vehemence. “I wouldn’t know which name to use.” 

___________________

Thank you again to my sharp-eyed reader. And I apologize again for the mistake. This is an author’s worst nightmare. I still remember my friend Alissa Johnson whose debut novel was published without the final chapter.  She posted the ending on her website, but how frustrating all around.

Again, please check back on May 1st for a special treat from me to YOU!

But even though I was not in peril, this event brought back memories for me. Shortly after 9-11, my DH had to travel to London for business. If you follow my blog, you know when he goes someplace interesting for work, I tag along for pleasure. The Londoners we encountered were delighted to see us because Americans had been staying home in droves immediately after the towers fell. While my DH went to meetings, I embarked on my exploration of London, that wonderful 1000 year old city.

When I travel to other countries, I make use of their mass transit and am well acquainted with the London Tube. It’s a fast and efficient way of getting around the town, especially if you can travel outside the peak hours. So I was deep underground in a station, waiting for a connection to take me to the museums I’d decided to visit that day, when an eerily calm voice came over the loud speaker announcing that the station had received a bomb threat and we were to make our way out with all speed.

As one, the Londoners turned and moved in silence toward the exits. There was no shoving. No pushing. No frantic scramble to be first up the long escalators (and if you’ve been there, you know those escalators go on forever.) The power had been cut to the escalators so we trudged up the frozen stairs, wondering with each dogged step if we’d hear a detonation behind (or worse) ahead of us.

I was so proud to have English blood in my veins that day. People helped each other with quiet expediency. By the time we reached street level, bobbies with bomb sniffing dogs were headed down. Having had enough of an adventure for one day, I hailed a cab and scurried back to our hotel.

But I didn’t stay there long. The next day I was back out exploring the city and soaking up the treasures in its museums. Life is too precious, too wondrous, to live in fear. I was determined not to allow a momentary panic to keep me from experiencing it.

So today, for those who are wondering how they can ever take part in a large public event again, how they can ever trust the strangers around them, I say, there are only two choices. Either we hide in a hole, or we live our lives.

I don’t intend to hide.

Lord of Devil Isle is a historical romance in a unique setting–Bermuda just before the American Revolution when the island was caught between Britain and the Colonies. Our hero, Lord Nick, is a smuggler who has to choose where his loyalties will lie. There’s even an actual historical event–the infamous Powder Steal when Americans emptied a British powder magazine on Bermuda.

Prison, Shipwreck, Shark Attack…

Is Eve Upshall jumping from the frying pan into the fire when she lets a half-naked stranger pull her from the stormy sea? Captain Nicholas Scott is a rogue who takes advantage of every situation, whether it’s salvaging priceless loot or seducing a proper lady. And he makes it very clear he plans to take advantage of his new find in the most delicious way possible.

Eve’s whole future depends on everyone believing she’s the soul of propriety. But with Nick refusing to transport her to her prospective bridegroom, and the balmy Bermuda nights whispering of wicked pleasure, how can any woman resist the lure of the … Lord of Devil Isle.   

Here’s the download link: Lord of Devil Isle for Kindle

If you don’t have a Kindle, please don’t despair! You can download a FREE Kindle app for your PC,  phone, tablet, etc. I’ve done it with my phone and I love having my library in my pocket! Check it out here: Free Kindle Apps  

This free offer is only good for April 18th-20th, so please hurry. Thanks so much for  helping me getting out the word by clicking the links below to share this with your friends on Facebook, Twitter, Google+ and Pinterest. I really appreciate it!

Happy Reading,
Mia

PS. Just heard from a reader across the Pond. Lord of Devil Isle is available FREE for Amazon UK too!

Contemporary romance writer, Wanda Fittro has a blog which she updates every Friday. It’s cleverly titled A Writer Called Wanda. She won the Readers’ Choice Award at the 2011 Missouri Literary Festival. She’s on Twitter  and Facebook but confesses that it’s a bit of a mystery to her. She mostly retweets her friends tweets and announces when she has a new blog post.  How much time does she spend online?

“Not enough probably,” Wanda confesses. “Maybe 30 minutes a day re-posting things on Facebook and Twitter and then about an hour a week on my blog post.”

What Wanda’s doing right: Having a regular blog post each week. Every Friday her readers can look forward to something fresh! That’s a good way to build readership.

What she can improve: Give her Twitter and FB friends fresh material too. Retweets will only make you a blip on someone’s timeline.

Recent Red Pencil Thursday volunteer Lynn Holt has just established her online presence. She’s new enough not to have garnered any  writing awards, but she’s off and running with a Blogger blog and has connected Twitter and Facebook to it.

“I chose Blogger,” she says, “because I could create static pages that simulate a real website. I’ve posted the first chapter of my WIP, an AboutMe page, a Contact page and a fun one called Green Apple Grill where I share some recipes from the story I’m working on.”

What Lynn is doing right: Her Work in Progress gives readers a taste of her voice and the Green Apple Grill page is an engaging bonus.  She’s pushed the Blogger platform to the limits and it does have the feel of a website. And she has an all important Contact page.

What she can improve: Her Twitter and FB skins are similar to her blog but not identical. The standard Blogger template does seem to work with her brand of humorous mystery/romance, but it’s not unique to her. When she gets ready to spend some money on it, Lynn should consider ways to make the connection between her social networks more visually seamless.    

Award winning author Angela Drake has multiple blogs because she wears many different hats. Angela says, “On-line presence is the RESUME today. Blogs, websites and social media are where potential editors turn to see if you have what they are looking for. An art editor doesn’t want to wade through music stuff and vice versa… so I’ve created separate blogs (resumes) to target each area of my freelance.” 

Her fiction author blog is The Writer’s Studio. She put everything together on her own. ”When I first wanted to start a blog I asked my techy daughter,” Angela says. “Knowing her mom’s limitations she sent me to Blogger and I’ve never looked back. I do want to explore the multi-page function with blogger but for now what I have is working. I TRY to limit myself to 2 hrs in the morning for promos and catching up with who is where. Keep in mind I am doing this for multiple blogs… not just one so everything takes longer than the average single-blog/website author.”

What Angela is doing right: She’s smart to separate her different interests into different blogs. She’s posted her goals, both professional and personal, which I can totally support.

What she can improve:  Looking at her blog, I get no sense what sort of romance she writes. Your cyber-home is your brand. Make sure everything communicates who you are and what you offer.

Doren Cassale has just staring started tweeting and is researching websites for what to build.  “I have bought dorencassale.com, which I haven’t built anything on,” she says.  “I have an engineering and a design background, so I am building my own site.  Right now, I spend an average of 20 minutes/day on social media and building my site, but that means basically a few hours here and there on some weekends…it’s not really a daily thing.  I tweet maybe every two days or so.”

What Doren is doing right: She bought her domain name. That’s huge. What if you get “the call” and someone else owns the rights to yourname.com?  Researching other sites before building your own is a good idea. You discover what works, what doesn’t and refine your own brand.   

What she can improve: Her Twitter site is a cipher. She needs to upload a profile pic of herself or some icon to represent her. She can also change the background and the black space to something more visually interesting.  Twitter gives users 160 characters to identify themselves. She should definitely tout the fact that her manuscript finaled in the Winter Rose contest from Yellow Rose RWA right up front. The Prime Directive of Promo is “Blow thine own horn. Toot thine own bugle, for verily no on else shall toot it for thee!”

Everyone who tweets should take a look at TweetDeck or Hootsuite. You can set posts to go ahead of time and schedule your tweets for the entire week in one session. Then just pop in daily to respond to others’ tweets.

SDKeeling writes middle grade fantasy and has won a few local competitions. She says, “I haven’t spent any money putting together an online presence–just time. I began building my online presence in December, 2012 by learning my way around Twitter and starting to build followers, starting a WordPress blog and setting up an author Facebook page. I spend maybe half an hour a day? Most days it’s less than that, but when I write a blog post or go actively seeking Twitter followers I might put in several hours.”

What SD is doing right: I’d love for SD to share how she built her Twitter followers to an impressive 3500+. Something I notice she does is quote from other books and makes good use of hashtags.

What she can improve: Her blog mimics a website with static pages, but there is no excerpt from her manuscript. Also, just looking at the blog, I don’t get that the book is geared toward middle graders. Don’t get me wrong. The site is beautiful and intriguing, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at in her reading audience. Take a look at some of your favorite middle grade authors’ websites and see how they tailor their presentation to their readers. 

Red Pencil Thursday alum Lisa Medley is on the cusp of publication. Her Reap ‘Em and Weep will soon be published by Harlequin Digital First. She’s gone full out with social networking.

Here are all her links:

    Author Blog: http://lisamedley.wordpress.com/
    Author Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/lisamedleyauthor
    Twitter: @lisamedley or https://twitter.com/lisamedley
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/medley3/boards/
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/7100819-lisa-medley

Lisa says, “I set everything up on my own. I’ve had a family blog for years on Blogger but migrated everything to WordPress and started a new Author Blog, Facebook, Twitter account, Goodreads & Pinterest. I have the most active presence on Facebook and Twitter.”

She spends maybe fifteen or twenty minutes a day on Twitter and Facebook. She only blogs when she has something to blog about.

What Lisa is doing right: She’s covering all her bases and I notice she’s the only one of our volunteers to be on Goodreads. Now that Amazon has acquired that site, it’ll be even more important to an author’s “discoverability.”  (While we’re on the subject, if you’re on Goodreads, I’d love to connect with YOU! Here’s my profile page: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1047085.Mia_Marlowe )

What she can improve: Her website is dark and atmospheric, which really suits the tone of her stories. However, from a readability standpoint, white lettering on a black background is hard on the eyes. When I researched for my own site, I found a huge pushback from readers about dark backgrounds and light lettering. If there’s a way to lighten the background of your blog to a soft gray, it would make your blog more accessibile.

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Thank you to all of my volunteers today. I appreciate you allowing us to “go to school” on your efforts. As a reward, I hope you’ll all pop over to all the links and click to “Like,” “Follow” and “Subscribe” to them.

Please share your thoughts and if you are a pre-published author with a web presence, feel free to share your own links in the comments!