Regency Christmas Revisited

My three winners, chosen by my daughter in a random drawing are Krista Raven, Linda, and Stephanie Michels! Congratulations, and thank you for participating!

A Regency Christmas

Thanks for stopping by this leg of the Regency Christmas blog hop presented by Astraea Press! For my part, I'd like to introduce you to my Christmas Regency Two Turtledoves, the story of Baldwyn Sinclair and Anastasia Trent.

Baldwyn Sinclair, the Duke of Paisley, returns to London in the dead of winter at the request of his overbearing grandmother to find she has made a betrothal contract on his behalf... without his knowledge. Now he is to be married to none other than the girl who used to throw mud at him in order to gain his attention.

He is not happy about the prospect, but he is nothing if not devoted to duty.

Anastasia Trent has been in love with the Duke of Paisley since she was seven years old and has spent her life pining for him, fantasizing about the moment they would see each other again. But when he makes it clear that her imaginings are in vain, her disappointment drives her into the arms of a dangerous man.

It is up to Baldwyn to rescue her once again, to save her from herself, and to find perhaps, along the way, exactly what his own heart was looking for.

Now for the giveaway! In order to qualify for an entry, leave me a comment about your favorite Christmas tradition. On December 10th, I'll choose three winners at random to give a free ecopy of Two Turtledoves. Already read it? Never fear! I'll let you pick any of my other titles as an alternate. Thanks again for stopping by!

Say hi to Astraea Press's New York Times bestselling author Rachel Van Dyken for me! She's next on the blog hop!

Renwick House Release Party!

Surprise!

Both the latest additions to the Renwick House series released early and are available now! To celebrate the occasion Rachel Van Dyken and I threw together a little giveaway to thank you for helping us ring in the new releases.

The Devil Duke Takes a Bride 
by Rachel Van Dyken

Benedict Devlyn, Duke of Banbury, has one thing on his mind and it isn't marriage. But things take a turn for the worse when his menacing and aunt throws a hitch in his plans to remain the most sinful and talked about man in the ton. After all, a man cannot keep the reputation of being The Devil Duke when he is leg-shackled to some simpering spinster.

But his aunt, bless her heart, thinks she's dying, and believes her nephew’s behavior is the only thing standing in the way between her entrance to heaven or hell. So she very lovingly and selflessly sets him up. With his childhood nemesis.

A young woman who, though she claims it was an accident, has nearly killed him thrice through her lack of grace and manners. It matters not that the minute he sets eyes on her at the Christmas ball, his blood boils with lust. He refuses to allow himself to fall prey to his aunt’s ministrations.

That is, until he is compromised and stuck in an engagement to a girl who claims she'd rather jump from a moving carriage than marry him. Funny thing that, for the very minute she says no, he finds his heart very much wants to say yes. When she doesn't leap at the chance to marry him, he sets about to not only prove that he's worthy of her favor, but also worthy of her heart.

BUY AMAZON      BUY B&N

Two Turtledoves

by Leah Sanders

Baldwyn Sinclair, the Duke of Paisley, returns to London in the dead of winter at the request of his overbearing grandmother to find she has made a betrothal contract on his behalf... without his knowledge. Now he is to be married to none other than the girl who used to throw mud at him in order to gain his attention.

He is not happy about the prospect, but he is nothing if not devoted to duty.

Anastasia Trent has been in love with the Duke of Paisley since she was seven years old and has spent her life pining for him, fantasizing about the moment they would see each other again. But when he makes it clear that her imaginings are in vain, her disappointment drives her into the arms of a dangerous man.

It is up to Baldwyn to rescue her once again, to save her from herself, and to find perhaps, along the way, exactly what his own heart was looking for.

BUY AMAZON      BUY B&N

Visit Rachel's blog for more chances to win.

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Sweet Saturday: Familiar Faces

He handed one to Baldwyn and raised his own in toast. “To your engagement, Paisley. May she be everything you need.” Montmouth gulped the contents of his glass and laughed once more. Baldwyn eyed the amber liquid in his glass before tossing down his whiskey drink as well then lifted his glass to request another.

His host shook his head with a smirk and took the glass from Baldwyn’s grasp. “I think not, Paisley. After all, a gentleman should be altogether alert when meeting his future wife.”

“I’d rather be foxed when the assault ensues.” Baldwyn scanned the room once more looking for some worthy place to hide.

As if reading his intent, Montmouth said, “There’s no good place to hide in here, Paisley. Your grandmother will find you if she has to bring in the dogs.” He stepped toward the door. “I have to see to my newly-arriving guests. Feel at liberty to search out a more worthy concealment… but do stay out of my whiskey.” With that, the Duke of Montmouth disappeared through the doorway, leaving Baldwyn to wallow in his apprehension.

He didn’t linger. Eventually, his grandmother would come looking for him. It would be far wiser to keep moving, throw the bloodhounds off his scent. As he entered the corridor the music from the ballroom drifted into the hall. Baldwyn cringed. He would have to dance with her. She would probably trip him.

How he longed for the serenity of his estate in Scotland. Of course, in that moment, he longed for the serenity the war on the Continent could provide.

Baldwyn stepped into the ballroom and glanced around the room. More guests were arriving by the minute. The dowager duchess was nowhere to be seen. His eyes fell on the balcony doors on the far side of the room. A perfect place to hide. No one would yet be there so early in the evening, not with the weather so bitterly cold.

He began his trek through the room, nodding and offering brief polite pleasantries to the few guests he encountered in his path. He could hide there, wait for Lord Marks and his daughter to be announced, and get a good look at the girl before being forced into her company… for life. If nothing else, it would give him an illusion of some control in the arrangement.

“Paisley!” A familiar voice drew his attention from his destination. Baldwyn turned to find himself face to face with an old family friend. One with whom he had spent many a night carousing about the town back in those old days past.

“Rawlings!” The sight of his old chum comforted him somewhat, making him think of simpler times. No responsibilities. No demands. No betrothals.

“You just missed a fair bit of excitement!” Rawlings appeared to be entertained still. Amusement danced behind his dark eyes.

“Oh? What did I miss?” There were hardly enough guests here for a mouse in the kitchen to cause a rumpus. At any rate, there seemed to be no evidence of anything out of the ordinary now.

“The dowager duchess discovered Banbury on the balcony with Lady Katherine. The look on his face! I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live.”

It took a moment to fully absorb the information. Surely not even his grandmother would be capable of two forced betrothals in one evening. A knot formed in his stomach. Even if he had entertained thoughts of escaping her schemes, the old woman would find a way to trap him. Just as she had apparently done to Benedict, his cousin. Perhaps he had shown signs of less than full cooperation.

Baldwyn would have to step prudently. Avoid balconies, dark corners, and above all, Lord Marks’ daughter. If Benedict Devlyn, the Devil Duke himself, could be ensnared — a man of legendary prowess, who was always rumored but never seen to be ruining some girl, could find himself caught in a woman’s trap — what hope was there for mankind?

“Where is he now?” Baldwyn scrutinized the growing crowd. If what Rawlings said was true, Benedict would need a shot of that whiskey.

“Somewhere collecting the remaining fragments of his dignity, no doubt,” Rawlings answered with laugh.

“I suppose I had better seek him out and see to his wounded pride.”

“Right. And I must dance with Lady Rawlings before she becomes entrenched in gossip with her sister. It’s good to see you, Paisley.” He bowed slightly and sauntered toward the refreshments where his wife stood conversing with the Duchess of Tempest.

Two New Releases -- Coming November 1st!

Two Turtledoves

Baldwyn Sinclair, the Duke of Paisley, returns to London in the dead of winter at the request of his overbearing grandmother to find she has made a betrothal contract on his behalf... without his knowledge. Now he is to be married to none other than the girl who used to throw mud at him in order to gain his attention.

He is not happy about the prospect, but he is nothing if not devoted to duty.

Anastasia Trent has been in love with the Duke of Paisley since she was seven years old and has spent her life pining for him, fantasizing about the moment they would see each other again. But when he makes it clear that her imaginings are in vain, her disappointment drives her into the arms of a dangerous man.

It is up to Baldwyn to rescue her once again, to save her from herself, and to find perhaps, along the way, exactly what his own heart was looking for.

~Leah Sanders

The Devil Duke Takes a Bride

Benedict Devlyn, Duke of Banbury, has one thing on his mind and it isn't marriage. But things take a turn for the worse when his menacing and aunt throws a hitch in his plans to remain the most sinful and talked about man in the ton. After all, a man cannot keep the reputation of being The Devil Duke when he is leg-shackled to some simpering spinster.

But his aunt, bless her heart, thinks she's dying, and believes her nephew’s behavior is the only thing standing in the way between her entrance to heaven or hell. So she very lovingly and selflessly sets him up. With his childhood nemesis.

A young woman who, though she claims it was an accident, has nearly killed him thrice through her lack of grace and manners. It matters not that the minute he sets eyes on her at the Christmas ball, his blood boils with lust. He refuses to allow himself to fall prey to his aunt’s ministrations.

That is, until he is compromised and stuck in an engagement to a girl who claims she'd rather jump from a moving carriage than marry him. Funny thing that, for the very minute she says no, he finds his heart very much wants to say yes. When she doesn't leap at the chance to marry him, he sets about to not only prove that he's worthy of her favor, but also worthy of her heart.

~Rachel Van Dyken

Happily Ever After

Thank you for stopping by to enter the giveaway!

The winner from this blog hop will receive a choice between an electronic copy of the newly released 

Whispered Music by Rachel Van Dyken

OR
an electronic copy of

The Whispered Kiss by Marcia Lynn McClure

Both are amazing, yet completely different, re-tellings of the fairy tale "Beauty and the Beast".

He wasn’t looking for a savior…

Scarred at a young age, Dominique Maksylov, Royal Prince of Russia, has lived a reclusive life. As a musical prodigy, his music has wide reach into the world, but few ever see his face. He never ventures into polite society, but when he dis-covers he is the only heir to the Earldom of Harriss, he goes to one ball. And that one ball, was enough to change the direction of his life forever.

But how could he possibly have known that other person— the other half of his whole—would not only need his help but threaten his very existence?

She didn’t know how hard it would be to love the broken.

Isabelle Hartwell’s mother just sold her to the Beast of Russia. He’s mean, tem-peramental, and the most virile, handsome man she has ever encountered. But he has a secret, one he’s willing to die for and he refuses to let anyone in. Will she be able to reach his heart before it’s too late?

With the sea at its side, the beautiful township of Bostchelan was home to man—including the lovely Coquette de Bellamont, her three sisters, and her beloved father. In Bostchelan, Coquette knew happiness and as much contentment as a young woman whose heart had been broken years before could know. Thus, Coquette dwelt in gladness until the day her father returned from his travels with an astonishing tale to tell.

Antoine de Bellamont returned from his travels by way of Roanan bearing a tale of such great adventure to hardly be believed. Further, at the center of Antoine's story loomed a man—the dark Lord of Roanan.Known for his cruel nature, heartlessness, and tendency to violence, the Lord of Roanan had accused Antoine de Bellamont of wrongdoing and demanded recompense. Antoine had promised recompense would be paid—with the hand of his youngest daughter in marriage.

Thus, Coquette found herself lost, thrust onto a dark journey of her own. This journey would find her carried away to Roanan Manor—delivered into the hands of the dark and mysterious Lord of Roanan who dominated it.

What is your favorite "happily ever after" story of all time?

To qualify for the drawing in this giveaway, leave your comment with your name and email below.

Thanks again for stopping by!

Sweet Saturday: Unwanted Attention

Senor Tenorio

Lord Marks made lively conversation during the short trip to Holly Hall. No doubt an effort to bolster Anastasia’s spirits. She tried to humor him, to laugh along with his jests, but inside she was in turmoil.

She would know her fate in a matter of minutes, but in the mean time there was nothing she could do but hope.

As the footman announced them, Anastasia scrutinized every face in the ballroom one by one.

Her heart sank when her search returned empty.

Her father offered his arm, whispering in her ear, “It’s early yet, my sweet. Chin up. He’ll come.”

Anastasia braved a weak smile. “Of course, Papa. He’ll come.” Her throat clenched around the words she desperately wished were true.

Safely deposited among the ladies on the side of the great hall, Anastasia continued her search for Baldwyn’s auburn hair and clear blue eyes.

When Lord and Lady Kringle were announced, the music began. There was still no sign of Baldwyn. Anastasia clung to her father’s words. It’s early yet. Her gaze made its fourth desperate sweep of the ballroom.

Behind her, a familiar masculine voice drifted to her ears, sending waves of chill dancing down her spine all the way to her toes.

“So lovely to see you again, señorita.”

Mr. Tenorio. Anastasia cringed as though with his words and his smooth exotic accent he had touched her. And then he stepped even with her, standing far too close. She retreated a step, but found herself against Tristan Markham on the other side, who had closed in without her notice.

“Mr. Markham. Mr. Tenorio.” Anastasia offered a shallow curtsy.

“Please.” Mr. Tenorio grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips, pulling her toward him in the same motion. “Allow me to be the first to offer my sympathy, my dear.”

“Sympathy, sir?” she asked, regarding him with contempt.

“On the dissolution of your engagement, of course. It must have been a frightful experience, your entanglement with the Scottish duke. I hear he has a terrifying temper,” Tenorio crooned.

Had it not been for his possessive grip on her hand and the unsettling words about her betrothal, Anastasia would have laughed out loud then, for the proof of Baldwyn’s terrifying temper was still fading from Tenorio’s cheekbone, though he had apparently tried to cover it with powder.

“Pardon me?” Anastasia stared at him. On her other side, Tristan bumped her elbow, pushing her into Tenorio’s chest.

“Yes, yes, señorita. There is no need to pretend all is well. We are friends, no?  ” His grasp slid to her elbow and he held her firmly to him, as his other hand reached to caress her cheek. He smoothed her lips with his thumb.

“No,” she countered and closed her lips into a stern line, glaring into his soul-less black eyes.

“Aww, you wound me, my lady… and after all we’ve shared together.” He clicked his tongue as if to shame her.

“Let go of me.”

~ from Two Turtledoves (coming in November)

Sweet Saturday: Daddy's Little Girl

The Duke of Montmouth’s Winter Ball was the first the duke had had since his marriage last winter. As such, it promised to be a memorable event. Anastasia Trent, the only daughter of the Earl of Marks, had been looking forward to it for weeks. Ever since her father informed her of the betrothal to Baldwyn Sinclair.

Anastasia had been in love with him for ages, though he had never shown much interest in her. Truth be told, she hadn’t seen him in several years, but that last meeting still made her cringe with abject shame. How she could have ever been so purely disgraceful and immature was beyond her own understanding.

She only hoped he had forgotten the incident.

There was a sort of hope in that he had agreed to the betrothal. At any rate, tonight they would announce their engagement, and he would be hers forever, just as she had always dreamt.

Last year, her eighteenth year, she had begged her father to allow her to sit out another Season and debut at nineteen. She realized it would be strange to be presented so late, but there was only one man she had ever wished to marry, and as he was in Scotland, there was no use in coming out.

Her father had always indulged her every whim, and though Anastasia had never told him her reasons for hesitation, she knew he had a suspicion. When he brought her into his study one day a few weeks ago and asked her how she felt about a marriage to the duke, she could hardly contain her enthusiasm.

Finally, the evening of the ball had arrived. Anastasia had spent the entire day preparing herself—two baths, four hairstyles, and seven gowns later, she was ready to meet her groom-to-be. A bit of the old schoolgirl giddiness bubbled in the pit of her stomach, and she prayed she wouldn’t have to make another trip to the necessary.

Her father awaited her at the foot of the staircase. Her heart soared as she descended, and her feet hardly touched the floor. If the look on her father’s face was any indication, the pale gold gown she had finally settled on was the perfect choice.

“You are a vision, my sweet,” her father crooned, offering his arm gallantly. His broad grin and sparkling blue eyes warmed her heart. He still cut a dashing figure with the brush of silver at his temples, highlighting his chestnut hair. It was a shame he refused to marry again after her mother had passed away.

He often told her she looked like her mother, but Anastasia knew it wasn’t true. She had his hair and his eyes, while her mother was a blonde beauty with marvelous hazel eyes. If she inherited any of her mother’s traits, it would have to be her spirit…her sense of adventure. Though Anastasia hardly remembered, her father told her many stories of Lady Marks’ escapades. Each new story inspired her more than the last.

Her favorite, of course, was the tale of how her mother captured her father’s heart.

It was that story—that fairy tale—that burned in her soul since childhood.

She wanted a story like that.

Meet & Greet: Katherine Bourne

Lady Katherine Bourne

Daughter of the Earl and Countess of Banbury

Lady Katherine, the beautiful but rather accident-prone daughter of the Earl of Banbury, has been infatuated with the Duke of Paisley ever since their first meeting, when she was nothing more than a child. His noble and chivalrous nature has always captured her girlish fantasies.

On the other hand, she has always had a strong aversion to the incorrigible and rakish tendencies of Benedict Devlyn, the Devil Duke. No matter how sinfully handsome he is.

When she hears the news that the Duke of Paisley will be returning from Scotland for a short time to choose a wife, she plans to make certain she is in the forefront of that race. Even better, his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin, seems to be on her side in the matter.

Imagine her disappointment when she arrives at the Montmouth Winter Ball to discover her one-time ally has already finagled a betrothal between Paisley and some other girl, and had in mind instead that Lady Katherine be a match for none other than the Devil Duke... the last man on Earth she would ever choose.

Sweet Saturday: Deal or No Deal?

“In that case, Anastasia Trent, if you wish to travel in my carriage, you shall have to buy a seat.”

“Is that so? And what is the going rate for passage in such a broken down third-rate conveyance?”

“It is quite expensive, my dear. I fear you cannot afford it.”

“Then you have grossly misjudged me, Your Grace, for I am a lady of some means.” The sparkle in her eyes spelled mischief and mirth. How he loved her. What had taken him so long to realize it? “Name your price, good man. For I am in desperate need to arrive in London today.”

“Desperate need?” Baldwyn put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “Very well. The cost for passage to London this day is one kiss… Payable in advance.” He lowered his head to hers, but she slipped one finger in front of his lips, stopping his forward motion inches from her mouth.

“I have not yet consented to your terms, sir.” A wry smile played on her lips. “I wish to offer a counter.”

“Anastasia,” Baldwyn whispered against her finger. “One does not say she is desperate and then expect to have bargaining power.”

She giggled. “No. No, I suppose not. But will you not hear me out?”

“What is your offer, Princess?” He placed a lingering kiss on the finger that blocked his path to her lips.

She brought her hand down to rest on his chest. “Two. One now…” she rose onto her tiptoes, meeting his lips with her own in a slow, warm caress that he could feel all the way through him. Baldwyn was breathless when she pulled away. “…And the second payable on safe delivery.”

He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “Sweet Anastasia,” he whispered hoarsely. “You have much to learn about bargaining.”

~Two Turtledoves (work in progress)

Meet & Greet: Benedict Devlyn, the Duke of Creighton

Benedict Devlyn

Duke of Creighton

"The Devil Duke"

After the death of his parents, Benedict Devlyn was taken in and raised by his Aunt Agatha, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin. She was strict and insisted on things being done her way. Benedict, however, was a strong-willed child who never liked to do things by the book. And so he came by his nickname, "the Devil Duke" quite honestly by doing exactly whatever pleased him.

A man of rapidly changing tastes, he has had eight different mistresses in the last year, whom he hires as his housekeeper for as long as they can hold his interest.

It should come as no surprise, that he has no intention to marry any time soon. No woman can capture his heart. But his aunt is growing impatient. She will see him married before her time comes, no matter what methods she must employ to see it done. Poor fellow, he won't even know what hit him!

Sweet Saturday: Lost

The darkness fell around her like a blanket of coal black ink, muddied only by the flurries which steadily increased in intensity. She glanced about her but could see nothing. No landmarks of note.

In her despair Anastasia had wandered haphazardly, not sure which direction she had taken from the house. Not a single star lit the darkness, the clouds where black and thick, concealing the moon and all the stars.

Fear gripped her chest, stealing her breath. She twirled wildly, eyes widened in search for something…some indication of where she might be.

Her foot caught on an unmoving obstruction in the path, sending her flailing to the cold, hard ground. She landed with a crunch on her hands and knees. Her hand caught a sharp rock, and she felt the tear of flesh through her glove. A cry wrenched from her throat, piercing the silence of the dark.

On hands and knees, Anastasia felt the ground all around her until her gloved hand found the rough solid root of an oak tree. Her oak tree. Tracing the root to the trunk, she eased herself into the crook at its base.

She had been there a thousand times. More times than she could count. Huddling tightly against the trunk, she was able to block the cold wind somewhat. Her thin evening shawl offered little protection, and though she hadn’t felt it when she fled the manor house, the ice was beginning to settle in her veins now, cutting right through the fabric of her bodice and undergarments.

Perhaps not such a blind stumble after all. Something deep inside her guided her to the one place she had always felt free and safe.

The throbbing pain in her left hand drew her attention. Her glove was drenched with warm moisture out of place in the dead of winter. She lifted her hand to the space right in front of her eyes, but the darkness made it impossible to make out any more than a silhouette.

She peeled off her glove and wrapped it tightly around the cut, then clutched the wounded hand to her chest. Anastasia could find her way back to the house blindfolded, but she wasn’t ready. Not ready to face him yet.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the memory of that afternoon so many years ago. Perhaps she had been far too absorbed in her fantasy. Perhaps she had looked at the man through rose-colored glasses for too long. He might never be to her everything she imagined him to be.

But she simply wasn’t ready to give up on him.

Anastasia huddled closer to the ground and shivered. She should be heading back.

~ Two Turtledoves (work in progress)

Meet & Greet: Agatha Kingsley

Agatha Kingsley

Dowager Duchess of Durbin

A stern and demanding woman, the dowager duchess raised her grandson (Baldwyn Sinclair, the Duke of Paisley) and her nephew (Benedict Devlyn, the Duke of Creighton).

Her first husband was a cruel, abusive, and philandering man who died without producing an heir. Her second husband, the former Duke of Durbin already had two grown sons of his own, but he allowed Agatha one daughter, who married a Scottish duke when she was seventeen and moved far away from her mother.

Agatha has a fiercely strong will. She survived two husbands, her younger brother, her son-in-law, and her daughter. Now her dearest wish before she will allow herself the repose of death is to see her only surviving kin, the two dukes, married happily in love matches.

Because no matter how cold and unfeeling she appears, she loves them both more than life itself.

Sweet Saturday: Ice Skating

“Your Grace, I—” she began, but in that moment Lord Banbury and Lady Katherine skated up beside them.

“Paisley, you skate like a woman,” he baited his cousin with a wicked grin. “I am certain I could make it twice around the pond before you made it halfway to the other side.”

A tiny smirk played on the corner of Baldwyn’s lips, and he turned to Anastasia. “My dear, I fear a challenge has been made. Shall I accept it?”

The special attention sent a tingle of joy through her heart.

“Most sincerely, Your Grace. You must defend your family honor.”

“Very well. Banbury, I accept.” They swung a wide graceful arc and made their way back to the bank. Anastasia fairly floated on his arm as they went.

Katherine and Anastasia settled onto the bench to watch the race.

“May I wear your colors, my lady?” Baldwyn asked with a gallant bow and a wink at her.

“Paisley, you’re stalling,” Lord Banbury taunted.

Anastasia slipped her handkerchief out of her muff and tied it around his wrist and suppressed a giggle when he kissed her hand and spun around to the starting mark.

This was the Baldwyn she remembered from long ago. The playful knight. Rescuing her from her distress, fighting for her honor, chivalrous to a fault.

Beside her on the bench, Katherine sighed faintly in disappointment. Lord Banbury hadn’t asked for her favor.

Baldwyn regarded him a moment, but when he made no move toward Lady Katherine, Baldwyn took it upon himself.

“Lady Katherine, might I wear yours as well?”

The lady’s eyes lit up. Anastasia’s heart fell to her feet.

Chivalrous to a fault. Of course he wouldn’t let Lady Katherine be disappointed. Part of Anastasia told her it was thoughtful, but another part wanted to pounce on the lady and tear out her hair in great handfuls. Still another part was fully occupied with restraining the second part from taking over the whole of her.

Lady Katherine tied her own handkerchief around Baldwyn’s other wrist, and he kissed her hand and smiled broadly into her eyes.

Lord Banbury’s face reddened as he watched the scene unfold, a mirror’s reflection of Anastasia’s own concealed rage.

At least Lady Katherine had the decency to blush when Baldwyn kissed her hand.

“Lady Katherine,” the Duke of Banbury said, his voice was a low growl. “On your word.”

She clapped her hands and stood. “Ready. Go!” she shouted.

The ice sprayed back onto Anastasia’s skirts as the two launched forward, skating furiously for the other side of the pond. The few other guests clapped and cheered as the race went on. Some called out for Paisley. Others cheered for Banbury.

Anastasia herself said nothing, but sat holding her breath, awaiting the outcome with her hands clenched together inside her warm muff.

When the two reached the far side of the pond, they were dead even. The turn was bumpy, but Baldwyn appeared to have the better move and turned on a pin. Banbury stumbled on his turn and lost several strides as he struggled to keep his feet under him.

“Trouble, Ben?” she heard Baldwyn shout back at his cousin.

Lord Banbury answered with an unrepeatable curse, but Baldwyn just laughed and slid to a stop in front of the bench a full five count before his challenger’s arrival at the finish line.

A light danced in his blue eyes as he glanced her way. His smile took her breath away, and she imagined it was for her alone.

He bent into a deep mocking bow toward Banbury. “A pleasure, as always, Your Grace-less.”

~Two Turtledoves (work in progress)

Meet & Greet: Baldwyn Sinclair

Baldwyn Sinclair

the Duke of Paisley

Baldwyn Sinclair is a Scottish duke, the only son of a Scottish father and an English mother. As a young boy, he was sent to live with his maternal grandmother in London, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin. Between his father's influence and his grandmother's strict regulations, he grew up to believe that duty outweighed all other  aspects of life.

Up until now, he has been content to remain in Scotland to fulfill his duty. Truth be told, if he were given his choice, he would be there still, making certain his land, holdings and tenants are cared for.

When the dowager informs him that it falls on him to marry Lady Anastasia and produce an heir, his memory of the little girl throwing mud at him causes him to balk at duty for the first time in his life. But when he meets her and sees the woman she has become, his sense of duty becomes even more of a hindrance.

Sweet Saturday: Two Turtledoves

Tiptoeing forward, he made his way through the field to stand directly under the giant oak. He slung his musket over his shoulder, crossed his arms, and gazed up into the branches at the offending apparition.

“Young Miss Trent, I presume?”

Her only response was a pitiful whimper. She gazed down on him with wide brown eyes which glistened with fresh tears.

“Are you stuck?” he asked.

After a moment of hesitation, she answered with a loud sniffle. “Yes.”

“Then I shall rescue you, fair damsel,” he announced, sweeping low into a grand bow. He removed his musket sling and game satchel and leaned them against the base of a nearby elm. Without further ado, he reached for the lowest branch and hoisted himself up, crawling higher and higher until he reached her side.

“Alas, fair lady, your knight has arrived.” His most dazzling smile comforted the frightened girl. “However did you come to be imprisoned here in this tower, Princess?”

“My foot is stuck.”

“I see. This is a grave situation indeed. May I?” He gestured to her slipper. Her mousy brown pigtails bounced when she nodded her assent.

With a gentle twist, the boy freed her foot from its confinement. He lifted her into his arms and started back down the tree.

Once safe on the ground, he set the little girl on her feet and knelt on one knee to examine her face-to-face.

“Are you well, Princess?”

She bobbed her head again and threw her arms around his neck.

“There now, Princess,” he said, patting her gently on the back. “All is well.”

As if she remembered her part in the farce, she released him and stepped back with a coy smile and a sweet curtsy. “Thank you, Sir Knight, for rescuing me.”

“At your service, my lady,” he said, rising to his feet and bowing at the waist. “‘Tis my sworn duty to protect a lady of the realm.”

She giggled. Her eyes shone bright with joy in their little game.

“Are you hungry, Princess?” He picked up his hunting satchel and reached inside it, fishing out a shiny red apple and a hard biscuit.

The little girl smiled wide, showing a gap where her two front teeth used to be.

“Oh, dear. I suppose the apple is out of the question then,” the boy said with a wink. “Unless…” he paused thoughtfully, then reached a hand into his bag once more, retrieving a small hunting knife with triumphant flair. “Ta-da!”

She clapped and shrieked with laughter.

“Apple, Princess?”

Her enthusiastic nod sent him straight to work peeling and slicing the fruit into crisp slivers.

They sat under the tree together. He handed the juicy slices to her one at a time, and she munched on them happily. “Thank you, Sir Knight!”

“You, my dear princess, may call me Baldwyn.”

“Baldwyn,” she tried it out, chasing it with a short burst of bubbly little girl laughter.

“There now. Isn’t this much better than being stuck up in that old tree?”

“Yes!”

“Whatever were you doing up there anyway?”

“I was looking for the nest.”

“The nest?”

“The turtle doves. Daddy says they make their nests out here in the spring and fly away in the fall.”

“That’s true. They do like it out here in the fields.”

“I heard them crying. I thought maybe they needed help.”

“Ah, yes. They do sound terribly sad, don’t they?”

“Yes. Like they’ve lost their true love.”

The boy chuckled. “I suppose that’s exactly how they sound.” He handed her another sliver of apple. “That sad cry is the sound they make when they call to their mates. Turtle dove pairs don’t like to be apart. So they call to each other, reminding each other where they truly belong.”

She sat silent for a moment, staring at the piece of apple in her hand. “Sometimes I awake at night and hear that sound.” Her voice lowered to a confidential whisper. “Once I followed it to my father’s chamber door.” Her big brown eyes lifted to meet his sparkling blue gaze. “Do you think he cries like that because Mama was his turtle dove?”

The boy’s eyes glistened as he blinked back at her. “That might be,” he whispered finally. They held their peace for a moment, listening to the mournful cry of the turtle doves dodging through the canopy of branches overhead.

Meet & Greet: Anastasia Trent

Anastasia Trent

the daughter of the Earl of Marks

Lady Anastasia was raised by her father from the age of seven, when her mother fell ill and died. The young girl was her father's pride and joy, the last remaining thing he had of her mother, and so he indulged her, gave her everything her heart desired that he could provide.

A great dreamer, the girl built an elaborate fantasy in her mind of the knight in shining armor, who would one day come to her aid and sweep her off her feet. And who is the hero of this fairy tale but Baldwyn Sinclair, the Duke of Paisley? Returned from Scotland to do just what she'd always dreamed.

Too bad he sees her only as the troublesome little girl in pigtails who flings mud at him in order to gain his attention.

But she is no longer that little girl, and she fully intends to use all the tools at her disposal to turn his head now. Even mud...if it suits her.

Sweet Saturday: Playing Nursemaid

Anastasia sank into his warm embrace, wishing the moment would never end. His kiss grew more intense, more demanding, drawing her deeper into the haze of longing for him. His hands felt their way to her arms, as if he would lift her again into his embrace. When his fingers tightened around them, a stabbing pain shot straight through her and she flinched against it.

Instantly Baldwyn released her and stumbled backwards, searching her face for signs of injury. Before her very eyes, the cloud of desire dissipated from his, retreating in the face of raw fear, and on the heels of that fear, sparked to life a blaze of hot fury. So sudden was the transformation, she had no time to react before he had drawn an index finger up in front of her face.

“What were you thinking! Have you not been told never to roam the gardens unchaperoned with any man? Were you not concerned for your reputation? For your virtue? Is this the type of daughter Lord Marks has raised?” Baldwyn dropped his hand to his side, clenching it into a fist with evident rage. He began pacing back and forth before her. Anastasia shrank back as he lashed out again. “You, who so brazenly go gallivanting about in the dark with a suave foreigner? What did you expect him to do, pray tell? Out there in the dark! In solitude!”

“Truly, Your Grace, I wasn’t—” she began, but he cut her off with his continued tirade.

“What if I had not happened by? What if I had been inside searching the ballroom for my betrothed and never once thought to look out of doors?”

A lump rose in Anastasia’s throat, and she didn’t dare risk her voice, lest it give away the tears threatening to break through the floodgates. Confusion and fear reigned.

Only a moment ago, he held her in his embrace. Comforting and shielding her from the waking nightmare she had endured. And now—now he derided her for her glaring stupidity. Her naïveté. Scolding her as if she was a mere child.

A mere child in mousy brown pigtails.

“Were you?”

“What?” He stopped in his tracks and swung around to face her.

“Were you?” she repeated.

“Was I what?” he demanded.

“Were you searching for me?” Her heart dared to hope for it.

His reply was an exasperated grunt. Then he pivoted on his heel and stormed from the room bellowing, “It’s not enough that you tear me from my true duty in the dead of winter, but now I must play nursemaid to the infants as well!”

Sweet Saturday: Mud-Slinging Campaign

Portrait of Lady Caroline Howard (1771-1848)
by Sir Joshua Reynolds

“Lord Marks’ daughter is a child, Grandmother. A child with mousy brown hair and braids. And straight as an—” He stopped mid-sentence. This was humiliating enough without divulging his preferences to his grandmother.

She arched a malevolent eyebrow.

The last time he had seen the child had been five years ago upon a visit to Lord Marks’ country estate to discuss a business venture. She had loitered about underfoot the entire afternoon, vying for his attention. Her father had indulged her every whim and seemed to view everything she said or did as an enchantment of sorts. Baldwyn had simply rolled his eyes, concluded his business, and took his leave at the first opportunity.

Photo by Heinz Hackman

But the girl was not content to be pleasantly tolerated by a gentleman nine years her senior. She preceded him out of doors and lay in wait behind a hedge, and as he rode past she ambushed him, hurling crudely formed mud balls dangerously close to his head. Fortunately, her aim left something to be desired, though by pure dumb luck, one of the misfired projectiles struck square in his horse’s eye. The animal reared, taking Baldwyn by surprise and sending him flailing all the way to the ground. The few strategically placed bruises would have been humiliating enough, but by some horrifying twist of fate, his horse had recently dropped a steaming pile of dung in the precise location he found himself sitting.

Naturally, no doubt to the delight of the devilish pixie, he had to immediately return to the house to clean up and change before he could leave again. But it was already late, so he was forced to remain for the night, enduring an evening of unending prattle as the girl begged for his particular attention.

Even now as he thought on the tragic memory, his head ached and his backside throbbed.

Baldwyn massaged his temples in slow deliberate circles, hoping to erase the reminiscence from his mind forever.

“Lady Anastasia is no longer a child, Baldwyn. And you have responsibilities.” His grandmother’s voice broke through his anguish.

“Regardless, Grandmother. It would have been nice to have a choice in the matter.”

Sweet Saturday: Old Acquaintances

Why his grandmother had insisted they make an appearance promptly at the start of the evening was beyond Baldwyn’s understanding. No one of any consequence had yet arrived, which left him with nothing to do but seek out the best hiding places in the house in case they were needed later.

And that is what he was doing when the Duke of Montmouth happened to come across his path.

“Paisley, I didn’t know you had returned to the city.” Montmouth greeted him with a hearty pound on the back.

“Aye, ‘tis my misfortune that beckons me,” Baldwyn answered, grimacing under the duke’s painful salutation.

“The dowager?” his friend asked, arching a single eyebrow.

Baldwyn nodded. “She insists I marry.”

“Sounds familiar,” Montmouth said. He shook his head and chuckled knowingly. “So tell me, has she yet selected the perfect target for your matrimonial bliss?”

“Worse.” Baldwyn’s stomach turned even as he said it. Certainly Montmouth would note the displeasure undoubtedly etched across his face. “She has already spoken to the girl’s father on my behalf.” Both of Montmouth’s eyebrows shot up in blatant shock. “Yes, indeed. It is true. Without my knowledge or consent, I have become betrothed to a girl I hardly know and haven’t seen in years. In fact, the last time I had the pleasure, she hurled mud balls at me.”

Montmouth’s delight broke out in a loud, bellowing laugh.

Baldwyn was not entertained in the least. He leveled his gaze on his host.

“You’ll pardon me, Montmouth, if I do not share your amusement.”

The larger man tried in vain to stifle his mirth. “Ahh! I’m sorry, Paisley.” He burst into another round of raucous laughter. When it wound down, he shook his head and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I am sorry, Paisley. I do hope she has outgrown that phase by now. The duchess would be terribly put out if the girl began flinging mud in her ballroom.”

Baldwyn glanced around the room. The very thought of the wretched child taking aim at him this evening made his throat go dry. “Have you anything stronger than champagne in the house?”

Montmouth pounded him on the back again. “Yes, of course. I can see that you need it, and if it wasn’t already necessary, it shall be very soon!” He chuckled again as he stepped to the liquor cabinet, drew a bottle of good English whiskey from its place there, and filled two glasses.

He handed one to Baldwyn and raised his own in toast. “To your engagement, Paisley. May she be everything you need.” Montmouth gulped the contents of his glass and laughed once more. Baldwyn eyed the amber liquid in his glass before tossing down his whiskey as well, then lifted his glass to request another.

His host shook his head with a smirk and took the glass from Baldwyn’s grasp. “I think not, Paisley. After all, a gentleman should be altogether alert when meeting his future wife.”

“I’d rather be foxed when the assault ensues.” Baldwyn scanned the room once more looking for some worthy place to hide.

As if reading his intent, Montmouth said, “There’s no good place to hide in here, Paisley. Your grandmother will find you if she has to bring in the dogs.” He stepped towards the door. “I have to see to my newly-arriving guests. Feel at liberty to search out a more worthy concealment…but do stay out of my whiskey.” With that the Duke of Montmouth disappeared through the doorway, leaving Baldwyn to wallow in his apprehension.

He didn’t linger. Eventually, his grandmother would come looking for him. It would be far wiser to keep moving, throw the bloodhounds off his scent. As he entered the corridor the music from the ballroom drifted into the hall. Baldwyn cringed. He would have to dance with her. She would probably trip him.