STIRRING PASSIONS by Maggi Andersen

Anne Brear's THE GENTLE WIND'S CARESS Coming in June

2012-01-26T00:08:00.000-08:00

Video for Murder in Devon

2012-01-25T23:56:00.000-08:00

Follow my Blog Tour for The Reluctant Marquess - prizes to be won!

2012-01-21T19:56:00.000-08:00

March 12: Sugarbeat's Books
March 12: STOP #2 Reviews By Molly
March 13: As The Pages Turn
March 14: Reading Romances
March 15: From Me to You ... Video, Photography, & Book Reviews
March 16: Everyday Is An Adventure
March 19: Cocktails and Books
March 20: Queen of all She Reads
March 21:
March 22:
March 23: Kacey's Kreations

The Ideal Georgian Woman

2012-01-19T21:28:00.000-08:00

Advice to a Lady

Seek to be good, but aim not to be great,

A woman’s noblest station is retreat,

Her fairest virtues fly from public sight,

Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light.
Lord Lyttelton

The feminine ideal of Georgian womanhood may best be defined as a combination of moral perfection and intellectual deficiency. She was required to be above all things a ‘womanly woman’ meek, timid, trustful, clinging, yielding, unselfish, helpless and dependent, and robust in neither body nor mind. She was also expected to be a thoroughly practical domestic sort of person, not educated except in how to run a domestic establishment with good sense of judgment. Her tombstone might say she was born a woman and died a housekeeper. She was also a model wife and mother. The only career open to her was marriage, and she would have considered a loveless marriage infinitely more respectable than the pursuit of a profession. If a suitor presented himself it was her duty to love him, or at any rate marry him. Because masculine idealists of the time felt ‘The soul of the true woman finds its supreme satisfaction in self-sacrifice’ the woman who rejected this must renounce all claims to womanliness.
The kitchen and the nursery were her sole spheres of action. She must treat her men-folk with respectful admiration and accept their judgments in a spirit of childlike faith and obey them with unquestioning submission.

The education and training of the ideal woman was completely subordinated to the tastes and demands of men. In the words of Jean Jacques, “Woman was created to give way to man, and to suffer his injustice …. To please us, to be useful to us, to make us love and esteem them, to educate us when young and take care of us when grown up, to admire and console us, to render our lives easy and agreeable.”

Jane Austen made mention of the prejudice with sweet-tempered sarcasm in a passage in Northanger Abbey. "... in justice to men, that though to the larger and more trifling part of the sex imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their natural charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well-informed themselves to desire anything more in a woman than-ignorance."

Top: Shellwork vase 1779-81

Below: A shell-encrusted surround to a window in the Shell Gallery at A La Ronde, Devon made by the spinster cousins Jane and Mary Parminter, 1790c/

The doctrine that it was unfeminine for a ‘female’ to pursue any exact study, led in the course of time to the curious notion that it was unfeminine for her to do anything well. Unable to execute anything with professional skill, during the reigns of the third and fourth Georges, they were forced to they deliberately invented a kind of ‘mock art’. Modeling in clay was unfeminine but modeling in wax or bread a feminine occupation. Filigree and mosaic work was copied in coloured paper, medals were made of cardboard and bold-leaf, Dresden china of rice paper, cottages of paste-board, flowers of lambswool, coral of blackthorn twigs painted vermilion and ‘Grecian Tintos’ were painted –or plastered-with black lead mixed with pomatum, the lights being scratched out with a penknife. This medium was considered particularly adapted for sea and moonlight pieces.

In my novel, The Reluctant Marquess, which is to be released in March,Lord Robert expects as a Georgian member of the aristocracy that his wife will make the necessary adjustments to fit in with his way of life. He is shocked to find that his country-bred wife, Charity, the daughter of an academic, has a mind of her own. Her small rebellion against the strictures of society is sculpting in wood, which she learned from her grandfather. Thrown into a marriage of convenience, Charity wishes to be more than just decorative adjunct to her husband. Determined to live on her own terms, she fights for true intimacy with the handsome, moody and complex man she married.

Many wives to their credit were extremely efficient, running properties and businesses alongside their husbands. Some ran large estates on their own after their husband's died.

AMAZON BUY LINK:

References:

Side-Lights On The Georgian Period by George Paston

Behind Closed Doors At Home in Georgian England by Amanda Vickery

AUTHOR WEBSITE

Blending my two passions into a series: The Spies of Mayfair

2012-01-19T15:39:00.000-08:00

Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow

I loved reading adventure stories I found in the tiny bookshop beside the Pacific Ocean in Australia where we lived when I was a child. As a teenager, my library provided romance and thrilling spy novels. My reading and writing interests were divided between elegant historical romance, especially Georgette Heyer and Victoria Holt, and a fascination with murder mysteries and spy thrillers. I'm combining the two in my coming series, The Spies of Mayfair. Book one A Baron in Her Bed comes to Knox Robinson in September. I'm in the throes of writing Book Two. Working Title: Taming a Gentleman Spy.

NEW COVER for MURDER IN DEVON

2012-01-16T14:22:00.000-08:00

I'm delighted with my new cover for Murder in Devon. It is released on the 25th February. Here's the blurb:

An ex-patriot American reporter living in England, Casey Rowan wakes to find one best friend murdered and another seriously injured. Casey is determined to find the killer, despite running afoul of the detective in charge of the case—a blue-eyed Scot named Rod Carlisle, who considers her a prime suspect. As Casey gets closer to the truth, losing her heart to the sexy cop isn’t the only thing she risks. Now her life is danger, too.

Rod has no patience with civilians who interfere in police matters, even hot little numbers like Casey. Though he tries to keep things professional between, Casey’s beauty and spunk are hard to resist. Rod warns her that what she’s doing is dangerous, but she refuses to listen. Can he find the killer before Casey becomes the next victim?

The Rule of Three. Because I'm writing another mystery ...

2012-01-14T16:41:00.000-08:00

I've been reminding myself of the need for structure in a mystery. The three act structure works well for the screen as well as books.

The first third would be the set up: Introducing the characters in their setting. The conflict and the hook which keeps the reader turning the pages.

The second act, or middle - and the largest part of the story is when the complications and crises arise. First establishing the problem, the protagonist attempts to solve it, facing dangerous situations. He/she fails to resolve it. Their second attempt reveals more complications. The third attempt brings them lower as the tension rises to an unbearable level with no obvious way through. Another body might make an appearance here.

The Third act solves sub-plots. In the big scene, the protagonist eliminates theories, figures things out and confronts the villain. The crises are resolved and the villain meets his/her end.

Wrap it up with a description of what lies ahead for the protagonist and what he has learned from the experience.

Adding a romance to the mystery - as I plan to do adds more sub-plots and conflicts . The opening line of a romantic suspense has to draw the reader immediately into the story.

For example:

Why did the house feel so cold? Casey leaned her elbows back onto the narrow bed as the memory of the past few weeks ran through her mind, tightening her stomach. She’d hoped to escape the trauma of a broken relationship by returning to England, but the break-up seemed to have taken a piece of her she wasn’t sure she’d get back.

My mystery/romantic suspense novel MURDER IN DEVON is released by Black Opal Books on 28th February. Here's an excerpt:
Blurb: Casey Rowan, a women's magazine editor, finds herself racing against the clock to solve a murder investigation after her friend is murdered and his wife's life hangs by a thread.

The drum of her heels on the parquet floor echoed through the hall. Something seemed very wrong. Don had been very successful in his chosen profession, but it wouldn't have made him the millions of pounds required to buy this kind of luxury. Their previous house had been humble by comparison. At what point did they start wanting so much more?

She pushed open the door to the main bedroom with her fist and stopped. The room had been ransacked, cupboard doors hung open and drawers overturned, their contents spread across the floor. She backed up against the wall, her eyes darting across the room. When did this happen?

The scene sent her heart pounding so hard her ribs began to hurt. She ran for the front door; sliding on the Persian carpet, she grabbed the doorway to stop herself from falling. Stumbling into the back bedroom, she fell to a crouch and stared at the glass scattered across the floor. The window had been smashed from the outside.

She stayed crouched and tried to listen above the noisy pounding of her heart. Either all the noise she'd made sent someone scurrying for cover, or they'd left before she arrived. The house was so silent she could hear the heating system kick on and the distant chug of a boat on the river.

Her heart slowed to its normal rhythm. Inside the house, nothing moved except her, and she retraced her steps to the study.

Don's computer discs lay scattered over the desk. The computer was still on. She grabbed a pencil and used its rubber tip to scroll through his files. He had a backlog of information stored there. When she was just about to give up, a file simply headed Farrowham appeared in the computer's recently opened documents. The name was familiar but the file was encoded.

The front door opened, and she jumped to her feet, her eyes sliding wildly across the room for somewhere to hide. She'd only taken a few steps before, DCI Carlisle appeared at the study door, with two other police officers standing behind him.

"Ms. Rowan," he said, his words curt. "I thought I made myself perfectly clear. Do I have to put you behind bars to stop you from interfering in this investigation?"

"I just got here." Casey felt her face grow hot. "The place has been ransacked. A window broken. Why would I do that? I have a key!"

"And how did you come by a key?"

"I borrowed them."

Carlisle's expression didn't change. "And the alarm sequence?"

"Tessa wrote it in my diary when she asked me to house-sit for her." She fumbled in her bag and rifled through the pages. "See for yourself."

He looked at the page she thrust at him but he didn't seem satisfied.

"You're threatening this case, Ms. Rowan. We have a right to know why you're here."

"Looking for anything unusual. I know Don. If something's out of place, I'd know it. I can help." She searched his face. He wasn't buying it.

He walked over to the computer. "That's debatable. So far, you've done nothing but mess up a potential crime scene. What have you touched?"

"I checked the computer files. I used the end of a pencil."

Furious, he motioned to the other two police officers. They left the room, and she listened to them move about the house. "We're going to need to take a trip to the station. You don't seem to realize you're a suspect in a murder enquiry, and now I find you at a crime scene. The Devon police took your fingerprints, didn't they?"

She nodded. "I didn't know it was a crime scene. And I was careful. You won't find my fingerprints here. When did this happen?"

His brows rose slightly. "Friday morning."

"Friday! You might have mentioned it when we spoke earlier."

Carlisle looked tired. He rubbed his hand over the beginnings of a four o'clock shadow, and a muscle worked in his cheek. His tie was loosened at the neck, the top button undone. "I guess I just didn't realize I was supposed to keep you informed. Maybe a night in the cells will cool you down."

"On what charge?" She went to brush past him, but he placed his hand against the wall, blocking her exit.

"Oh, I can come up with a great deal on you, Ms. Rowan. Tampering with a crime scene, for one."

They studied each other. She drew breath, unsettled by his proximity, so close she caught the scent of leather and soap.

A heavy frown lodged between Carlisle's eyebrows, his blue eyes frosty. "I'm still waiting for you to tell me what you're doing here."

Author Website: http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com

Beginning the New Year at a run!

2012-01-13T15:06:00.000-08:00

My lovable seven year old grandson has gone home and I'm left to vacuum up crumbs in a quiet house, so naturally my mind returns to writing. I have synopses and blurbs to write - which I hate. The final edit for Murder in Devon, which comes out on 28th Feb, and a final read through of A Baron in Her Bed which is released in September. I've been asked for suggestions for the cover of my Regency and browsed through those on Amazon. I prefer a pretty cover, although there's always an element of danger in my novels. And there's always a grand house. Some that I like.

Promotion is due to start for The Reluctant Marquess released on March 8th I've organized a blog tour the details of which will be forthcoming.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2011-12-31T14:38:00.000-08:00

Anyone catch the Sydney fireworks? They just keep getting better. How was New Years celebrated in your town?
Here are some pics of Sydney fireworks 2011.

Excerpt: Middle-Reader -Teen adventure novella DOG HEAD CODE

2011-12-21T14:28:00.000-08:00

DOG HEAD CODE

http://www.amazon.com/Dog-Head-Code-ebook/dp/B004GB0JIC/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_6
Blurb:
After inheriting an old book containing a map from his Great Uncle Jake, Joe Jones travels to Dog Head Island, keen to find buried treasure. But in this isolated, inhospitable place, nothing is as it seems. Nothing, but the snakes that inhabited it. And Jake has a strong aversion to snakes!
Excerpt:
Joe’s Inheritance
A green blob wobbled from the end of Mr. Grant‟s nose. He waved his hands
about as he explained the results of his scientific experiment, and the blob fell
to join the puddle of algae soup on his desk.
This experiment failed to grab me. I looked around at the sterile gray walls,
microscopes, Bunsen burners and test tubes of the science lab. It all seemed like
a giant waste of time. I‟d never need this stuff to make a living.
The tension built in the room. Feet shuffled and pens tapped out a rock beat
on the desks. It was two minutes to bell time during the last period on Friday,
and all but a few of the class planned to go to a rock concert that evening to see
Take No Prisoners. They were the hottest band around.
A paper plane circled and landed on top of my book. It slid off onto Fatty
Graham‟s desk. He snapped it up with a look of glee and crumpled it, throwing
it under the desk in front. I slid down in my seat and herded it towards me with
my shoe. Leaning down, I batted it with my ruler and picked it up.
Fatty Graham sniggered. Nobody liked him much, not because he was fat,
but because he threw his weight around. And no one was convinced it had been
an accident when he sat on Tabitha Hewitt‟s pet lizard.
I smoothed out the note in my lap: Bus stop 7-30. 2 nite. Be there. Unsigned.
Mr. Grant‟s voice droned on and I scanned the room. I immediately dismissed a
group of girls who stuck together like Superglue. At this moment, they were
ogling the teacher, whom they thought was hot. “Looks a bit like that actor,
Brad Grant,” I‟d heard one say in the canteen.
Colin Bowls sat alone in a corner. Everyone called him “Bowels” behind his
back. What can I say? The guy had some pretty unattractive habits. In front of
Bowels sat Sam Chen, head down writing furiously. Beside him, Ben turned
with a grin and I gave him the thumbs up.
My gaze came to rest on Annie Larson, her hair swinging over her book
as she copied Mr. Grant‟s notes from the blackboard. Annie hadn't been at
Northumber High for long, but long enough for her to have made some friends.
For some reason she wasn't having it.
Small and neat with shiny red hair, Annie had this cute habit of pushing it
back behind her ears. We lived close, in the same part of town. I often rode past
her as she cycled home on her bike and we‟d just say hi or wave. I would've liked
to stop and talk, but I sensed that for some reason it wouldn't be welcome.
At last, the final bell rang and the class moved in a noisy mass towards the
door. The fire alarm wouldn't have cleared the room any faster. Within minutes,
the teacher and I were alone. I pulled the book from my backpack and cleared
my throat.
“Can I have a minute, Mr. Grant?”
“Of course, Joe.” He looked surprised and pleased. “Questions about the
experiment?”
“Er, no.” I laid the heavy, leather-bound book on his desk. “This is a book my
Great-Uncle Jake left me in his will. It‟s written in a weird language. I wondered
if you could tell me what it is.”
Mr. Grant polished his glasses again with a handkerchief stained green from
an experiment, which had smelt like rotten eggs. A nasty memory that still
floated in the air. He shoved it back in his pocket without a glance. “What‟s
this?” He turned the pages with care. “Extraordinary. Some sort of
hieroglyphics. Not an ancient language of note.”
“Are you sure, sir?” I asked, my heart sinking. I‟d been hoping for a mystery
from the past.
“It‟s not Arabic or Hebrew, nor Aramaic or Ancient Greek, and not Latin. It‟s
not Etruscan or Middle Persian. In fact, it‟s nothing I've ever come across.” He
looked at me over the top of his glasses and smiled. “Of course, there are other
famous writing systems from the past that are yet to be solved. This is made up
of a lot of strange symbols–possibly some kind of cipher.”
“What‟s a cipher, sir?”
“Well, it's just a form of secret writing really. Codes and ciphers have been
around since ancient times. They were of vital importance in the American civil
war and the two world wars. Governments used machines to decode them.”
“Oh, you mean like the decoder machine James Bond stole in From Russia
with Love? I have the video game at home.”
“Ah, yes. Taken from the movie and the book by Ian Fleming. But I digress,
any group who needed to keep their messages secret used some kind of code.
Have you heard of the Enigma code?”
“Mom watched a movie about it. It was in World War II. They cracked it,
didn't they?”
“Not until quite recently.”
I took this in with a jolt of disappointment, and Mr. Grant turned again to
the book. My pulse quickened when he found the last page. “Look at this,” he
said. “It appears to be the map of an island. See?” His finger traced the outlines
of the coast and the island. “It‟s much like a pirate‟s map, showing where the
treasure‟s buried. “X” marks the spot, or in this case, two of them.”
My voice came out in a squeak. “Uncle Jake lived on Dog Head Island.”
“Dog Head Island? Curious name. Where is it?”
“I've never been there. It‟s off the west coast about one thousand miles from
here.”
Mr. Grant closed the book. He studied the cover with its faint engravings and
inlaid red and blue-green gemstones. “They‟d have to be glass, I guess.” He
shook his head and handed the book back to me. “I wish I could help you, Joe.
I find it astonishing, but as to what it is, I‟m afraid I have no idea.”
* * * *
Fatty Graham bailed me up on my way out the door. “What‟s that you got,
Jones?” He reached for the book. Fatty was strong, but slow on his feet.
“Nothing you‟d be interested in.” I danced around him, ducking and
weaving, just out of reach of his sausage-like, groping fingers.
“Charlton? Hurry up. We‟re late for your orthodontist appointment.”
I breathed a sigh of relief to see Fatty‟s mother at the gate with her hands on
her hips.
“I‟ll get you, Jones,” Fatty called. He lumbered off across the playground.
Annie walked in while I unchained my bike in the bike shed. I decided to
throw caution to the winds. “Annie! You riding home? I‟ll ride part of the way
with you.” To my relief, she smiled and nodded.
We set off, needing all our breath to get to the top of Chromer Hill, then
coasted down, coming to a screeching halt at the bottom, laughing and gasping.
Annie‟s big brown eyes shone. “What was that strange book I saw you put in
your bag?”
My face grew hot. I hauled the book from my backpack then dropped it, just
missing a muddy puddle. Bending to pick it up, my face flamed like a beacon. I
dusted the book off and handed it to her. While she looked through it, I
explained how I came by it.
Annie stroked the gemstones with awe. “It‟s amazing,” she said in a hushed
voice. She handed it back to me. I replaced it in my bag.
Piles of dead leaves had gathered in the gutters beneath the trees. We took
off again and I rode through the drifts, scattering them about with Annie right
behind me.
“Uncle Jake lived to be one hundred and ten.” I told her when we‟d pulled to
a stop at the corner.
“Wow! Did he live on the island until he died?”
I felt ashamed not to know. “I‟ll have to ask my mom.”
Annie looked at her watch, an urgent note creeping into her voice. “I must
get home.”
“Would it matter if you‟re a few minutes late?”
“I have to do my chores before my step-dad gets home.”
I swallowed. “Do you think you could give me your phone number? I‟ll ring
you if I find out anything more,” I tucked my gum into my cheek and smiled,
but she looked away down the street. “You know, about the book?” I added
hurriedly.
She hesitated. “I suppose that‟d be all right. Give me yours too.”
“See you Monday, then,” I called, placing her phone number in the secret
compartment of my wallet, as if it was a hundred-dollar note. Annie waved and
took off, cycling fast. I watched until she disappeared around the corner then
headed for the local newsagents.
When I arrived home, I grabbed a slab of carrot cake and pulled the book
from my bag. Taking a large bite of cake, I held my new magnifying glass up to
its cover, coughing and spluttering when the engraving of a large snake
emerged, its mouth open baring its fangs, its red stone eyes glittering. The
snake curled around the central milky blue-green stone, as if protecting it.
Feathered patterning had been engraved into the leather, thicker around the
snake's tail, making it difficult to decipher the snake from the background.
A creeping sensation crawled up my spine and the hairs stood to attention on
the back of my neck. I‟d once believed a snake bit me when I was a little kid. It
had turned out to be a lizard, but I've never lost my fear of snakes.

Excerpt from my young adult novel: WAVING AT THE MOON

2011-12-21T14:09:00.000-08:00

WAVING AT THE MOON

Author: Maggi Andersen

Buy Link: http://www.amazon.com/Waving-At-Moon-Maggi-Andersen/dp/1615721967/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1324504726&sr=1-1

Genre: Teen, Sci-Fi / Fantasy, Post-Apocalyptic

Reviewed by: ReaderGirl - Night Owl Reviews

Evie French and her cousin Marcus Peters, live together at her parents' bed-and breakfast in Australia after most of the country has been destroyed. No one knows for sure what has really happened. Joel and his dog find their way to the bed and breakfast the three of them head towards a spot of green in a sea of gray. It’s a long way down the coast. They find their way to Paradise, a city made up of survivors, led by Abe. Evie, Marcus, and Joel don't agree with all of his rules, but they must abide by them for the moment. But as time goes on, the three start to feel worse about what is going on in Paradise. Escape plans are made, but after Marcus falls for Evie's roommate Jasmine, who becomes pregnant, the plans must be moved up. Will they be able to escape Paradise and make it back home?

I couldn't stop reading "Waving at the Moon" by Maggi Andersen until I had finished it all. I enjoyed reading about their journey, their struggles in Paradise, and their dilemma about what to do. This would easily be the first book in a great series. I will be anxiously awaiting Maggi Andersen's book. Those who enjoy post-apocalyptic fiction, and those who just enjoy a good action book will want to pick up "Waving at the Moon."

Book Blurb

In a post-apocalyptic world, Evie French has just turned seventeen. She and her cousin, Marcus Peters, sixteen, struggle to survive after being left alone in their parent’s bed and breakfast hotel in outback Australia. An endless drought has killed Evie’s father’s avocado trees and all the surrounding habitation. Nothing grows in the fetid soil. Hope comes in the form of a nineteen year old boy, Joel Pitt. He arrives on his motorbike with his dog, Rasputin, bringing supplies. He climbs the tallest tree on the crest of the hill, and locates an area of green down along the coast, hundreds of miles away. The three pile onto the bike, with Marcus and Rasputin in the sidecar, and embark on a trip that will take them over mountainous terrain with a limited supply of food and water. What might they find if they reach the coast? Will other people have survived the devastation? And who bombed their country? No one seems to know.

PG Excerpt
When Evie and the boys crawled sleepily out from their blanket, the sky was a hazy duck-egg blue and the sun a glowing egg yolk, rising over the horizon. Seagulls swooped to gather, in noisy conversation, around the bones of last night’s meal.
She yawned and thought about the day ahead. The end of their journey was in sight.
“Let’s have a swim,” she called to the boys. “It will freshen us up.”
“No sense in arriving at our new home all smelly.” Marcus pulled off his shirt as he ran down the beach. He dived into the ocean with a whoop.
Evie waded in, wearing her T-shirt and shorts. The water was cold and soupy with seaweed. It caught up in her hair as she floated about.
“You look just like a mermaid,” Joel said, swimming around her.
She splashed out at him as he dived down, coming up close.
Grabbing her by her waist, he pulled her under. She emerged spluttering.
“Beast!” she cried as he laughingly swam out of reach. The briny water had gone up her nose and she was mad as a hornet. She swam after him, not quite sure what she would do if she reached him. But he avoided her easily with a few strokes of his long arms, and trod water, grinning. It made her even madder.
They didn’t see the wave that hit them from behind and tossed them both into shallower water. When he stood up to wipe his eyes, she waded up behind him and shoved him hard, pushing him over. He came up spitting out water. “Oh, I’ll get you,” he said, moving towards her.
“No, you won’t,” she said, thrilled and a little afraid at the prospect.
Losing her nerve, she raced out of the water before he could reach her.
He shook his head at her and swam away.
Evie watched the boys while picking bits of leathery weed out of her hair. Marcus caught a wave and it deposited him in a heap of legs and arms on the sand at her feet.
“Damn it,” he said, standing up and peering into his shorts.
“Now I’ve got sand in embarrassing places.”
“That could be nasty if it chafes.” Joel ran from the water, sweeping his dark hair out of his eyes with a careless hand.
Evie thought how graceful and deft he was. He never seemed to make an awkward movement.
Marcus ran back and dived under a wave.
They ate their last can of beans for breakfast, then stripped the bike down to essentials.
“Darn beans. Almost glad we’ve finished them.” Marcus grabbed the toilet roll and disappeared over a sand dune.
They had pared the bike down to essentials. Evie knelt to examine the pile of discarded stuff they planned to leave behind.
She glanced at Joel. “What do you think we’ll find over there?”
His lips thinned. “People.”
“Isn’t that good? Don’t you like people?”
He shrugged. “I like you, and Marcus…when he isn’t being a pest.”
“I’ve always found them to be good.”
“You’re lucky.” He looked in the direction of the white buildings.
“I’ll get you and Marcus to that place, but I don’t know if I’ll stay there, Evie.”
Evie swallowed, feeling stricken. “Maybe you’ll like it there.”
“Maybe.” Joel began fiddling with the bike engine, which seemed a waste of time seeing as there wasn’t any gas. The tense set of his shoulders warned her not to ask any more questions. He was not going to tell her what happened before they met. But one day she hoped he would.

http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com

HAVE YOURSELF A MISTLETOE CHRISTMAS!

2011-12-18T19:35:00.000-08:00

The Plant :

The mistletoe that is commonly used as a Christmas decoration (Phoradendron flavescens) is native to North America and grows as a parasite on trees from New Jersey to Florida. The other type of mistletoe, Viscum album, is of European origin. The European mistletoe is a green shrub with small, yellow flowers and white, sticky berries which are considered poisonous. It commonly seen on apple but only rarely on oak trees. The rarer oak mistletoe was greatly venerated by the ancient Celts and Germans and used as a ceremonial plant by early Europeans. The Greeks and earlier peoples thought that it had mystical powers and down through the centuries it became associated with many folklore customs.

The Mistletoe Magic :

From the earliest times mistletoe has been one of the most magical, mysterious, and sacred plants of European folklore. It was considered to bestow life and fertility; a protection against poison; and an aphrodisiac. The mistletoe of the sacred oak was especially sacred to the ancient Celtic Druids. On the sixth night of the moon white-robed Druid priests would cut the oak mistletoe with a golden sickle. Two white bulls would be sacrificed amid prayers that the recipients of the mistletoe would prosper. Later, the ritual of cutting the mistletoe from the oak came to symbolize the emasculation of the old King by his successor. Mistletoe was long regarded as both a sexual symbol and the "soul" of the oak. It was gathered at both mid-summer and winter solstices, and the custom of using mistletoe to decorate houses at Christmas is a survival of the Druid and other pre-Christian traditions. The Greeks also thought that it had mystical powers and down through the centuries it became associated with many folklore customs. In the Middle Ages and later, branches of mistletoe were hung from ceilings to ward off evil spirits. In Europe they were placed over house and stable doors to prevent the entrance of witches. It was also believed that the oak mistletoe could extinguish fire. This was associated with an earlier belief that the mistletoe itself could come to the tree during a flash of lightning. The traditions which began with the European mistletoe were transferred to the similar American plant with the process of immigration and settlement.

Kissing under the mistletoe :

Kissing under the mistletoe is first found associated with the Greek festival of Saturnalia and later with primitive marriage rites. They probably originated from two beliefs. One belief was that it has power to bestow fertility. It was also believed that the dung from which the mistletoe would also possess "life-giving" power. In Scandinavia, mistletoe was considered a plant of peace, under which enemies could declare a truce or warring spouses kiss and make-up. Later, the eighteenth-century English credited with a certain magical appeal called a kissing ball. At Christmas time a young lady standing under a ball of mistletoe, brightly trimmed with evergreens, ribbons, and ornaments, cannot refuse to be kissed. Such a kiss could mean deep romance or lasting friendship and goodwill. If the girl remained unkissed, she cannot expect not to marry the following year. In some parts of England the Christmas mistletoe is burned on the twelfth night lest all the boys and girls who have kissed under it never marry. Whether we believe it or not, it always makes for fun and frolic at Christmas celebrations. Even if the pagan significance has been long forgotten, the custom of exchanging a kiss under the mistletoe can still be found in many European countries as well as in Canada. Thus if a couple in love exchanges a kiss under the mistletoe, it is interpreted as a promise to marry, as well as a prediction of happiness and long life. In France, the custom linked to mistletoe was reserved for New Year's Day: "Au gui l'An neuf" (Mistletoe for the New Year). Today, kisses can be exchanged under the mistletoe any time during the holiday season.

The Legend :

For its supposedly mystical power mistletoe has long been at the center of many folklore. One is associated with the Goddess Frigga. The story goes that Mistletoe was the sacred plant of Frigga, goddess of love and the mother of Balder, the god of the summer sun. Balder had a dream of death which greatly alarmed his mother, for should he die, all life on earth would end. In an attempt to keep this from happening, Frigga went at once to air, fire, water, earth, and every animal and plant seeking a promise that no harm would come to her son. Balder now could not be hurt by anything on earth or under the earth. But Balder had one enemy, Loki, god of evil and he knew of one plant that Frigga had overlooked in her quest to keep her son safe. It grew neither on the earth nor under the earth, but on apple and oak trees. It was lowly mistletoe. So Loki made an arrow tip of the mistletoe, gave to the blind god of winter, Hoder, who shot it , striking Balder dead. The sky paled and all things in earth and heaven wept for the sun god. For three days each element tried to bring Balder back to life. He was finally restored by Frigga, the goddess and his mother. It is said the tears she shed for her son turned into the pearly white berries on the mistletoe plant and in her joy Frigga kissed everyone who passed beneath the tree on which it grew. The story ends with a decree that who should ever stand under the humble mistletoe, no harm should befall them, only a kiss, a token of love. What could be more natural than to translate the spirit of this old myth into a Christian way of thinking and accept the mistletoe as the emblem of that Love which conquers Death? Its medicinal properties, whether real or imaginary, make it a just emblematic of that Tree of Life, the leaves of which are for the healing of the nations thus paralleling it to the Virgin Birth of Christ.

The Holiday Spot.

New Video for Surrender to Destiny

2011-12-14T21:30:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDpI3sGeUmo&list=UUVmRWlYNKYs7rLM8jCS8uPw&feature=plcp

COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON

2011-12-12T23:16:00.001-08:00

Make your own slideshow with music at Animoto.

A bit more on the history of fans

2011-12-12T17:28:00.000-08:00

When parties and balls became fashionable in England in the Elizabethan period, the fan became de rigueur. The heavy, hot atmosphere of unwashed overdressed people jammed into a candlelit room made them a necessity to keep one's makeup from running. At first paddle-shaped or made from feathers, they were fairly uninspiring until the arrival of the Huguenots.

The French excelled at the creation of beautiful fans. A Watteau style painted fan.

When Jacob Chassereau settled in London fans became a work of art, enlivened by the Chinese export market.
Fans were then constructed uniformly, and no bigger than twelve and a half inches long. The decoration was chosen by the lady. The sticks were made of wood, ivory, mother-of-pearl, gold and the leaves made either paper or lamb's/kid's skin.
Painters specialized in decorating fans. In England the shepherds and nymphs of Watteau and later Boucher were popular. (Watteau himself painted fans, including the bridal fan of Adelaide of Savoy in 1709.)
In 1711, the craze for expensive fans reached such proportions that Joseph Addison felt the need to mock it roundly in his coffee house publication, The Spectator. His excellent article, 'advertising' his Academy for the Instruction of the Use of the Fan explains how he drills young ladies in fan etiquette in a military fashion.
The Fluttering of the Fan is the last, and indeed the master-piece of the whole Exercise; but if a lady does not misspend her time, she may make herself mistress of it in three months...There is the angry flutter, the modest flutter, the timorous flutter, the confused flutter, the merry fluttter, and the amorous flutter...I have seen a fan so very angry, that it would have been dangerous for the absent lover who provoked it to have come within the wind of it...I need not add, that a fan is either a prude of coquet according to the nature of the person who bears it.
p.s. I teach young gentlemen the whole art of gallanting a fan.

Spectator, no. 102

He mocked the 'Language of the Fan'. The Rotari portrait of circa 1750 of the girl with the butcher's hands seems to indicate there was some kind of message to be imparted by particular postures. Whether such a language was ever used by young ladies at fashionable parties was possibly only a romantic notion: Common themes:

Fan closed, tip to lips: we are overheard

Ditto, tip to right cheek: yes

Ditto, tip to left cheek: no

Ditto, tip to forehead: you are out of your mind

Chin on tip: you annoy me

Ditto, tip to heart: I love you

Lower open fan until pointing at the ground: I hate you

The fan disappeared from fashion until 1829 The Duchesse de Bern's ball began the renaissance of the fan at the Tuileries in Paris. Madame la Duchesse de Berri had undertaken to get up a Louis XV quadrille, and was seeking everywhere for fans of that period. Some old fans were found at a perfumer named Vanier, who lived in the Rue Caumartin. Vanier collected them. His fans were taken to the palace; in the quadrille they created a furor, and were all purchased.

Victorian lady with fan

Source: Georgian London by Lucy Inglis Georgian London the book will be available in hardback in the summer of 2012, published by Penguin Books. http://www.georgianlondon.com
Images: The Alice T. Miner Museum
Victoriana.com

A Victorian Christmas

2011-12-12T00:31:00.000-08:00

Santa Claus first made an appearance in British society during Queen Victoria’s reign when the wealthy middle class generated by the industrial revolution changed the face of Christmas forever.

Father Christmas was originally part of an old English midwinter festival, normally dressed in green, a sign of the returning spring. The stories of St. Nicholas (Sinter Klaas in Holland) came via Dutch settlers to America in the 17th Century. From the 1870's Sinter Klass became known in Britain as Santa Claus with his bag full of gifts and toys distributed by reindeer and sleigh.

Inspired by Charles Dickens Christmas Carol published in 1843, the wealthy gave money and gifts to the poor at Christmas. Christmas Day and Boxing Day became holidays. Boxing Day was so named because the poor opened the boxes containing gifts and money from their wealthy benefactors. The railways allowed those now living and working in the cities to return to the country for Christmas.

With factories came mass production, which produced less expensive games, dolls, books and clockwork toys than the handmade variety. Children of poorer families might have found an apple, orange and a few nuts in their Christmas stocking, which became popular from around 1870.

Turkeys originated from America and had been in Britain for hundreds of years before the Victorian era but along with chicken, they were too expensive at the beginning of Queen Victoria’s reign. Roast beef was traditional fare in northern England and in the south goose was eaten. Queen Victoria and family in 1840 enjoyed both beef and a royal roast swan or two. By the end of the century most people feasted on turkey for their Christmas dinner.

The "Penny Post" was first introduced in Britain in 1840 by Rowland Hill. The idea was simple, a penny stamp paid for the postage of a letter or card to anywhere in Britain. This simple idea paved the way for the sending of the first Christmas cards. Sir Henry Cole tested the water in 1843 by printing a thousand cards for sale in his art shop in London at one shilling each.

Queen Victoria's German husband Prince Albert helped to make the Christmas tree as popular in Britain as they were in his native Germany, when he brought one to Windsor Castle in the 1840's.

Tom Smith, a London sweet maker in 1846 invented crackers. The original idea was to wrap his sweets in a twist of fancy colored paper, but this developed and sold much better when he added love notes (motto's), paper hats, small toys and made them go BANG!

Carol Singers and Musicians "The Waits" visited houses singing and playing the new popular carols;

1843 - O Come all ye Faithful

1848 - Once in Royal David's City

1851 - See Amid the Winters Snow

1868 - O Little Town of Bethlehem

1883 - Away in a Manger

http://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/England-History/VictorianChristmas.htm

Images from Wikipedia

SURRENDER TO DESTINY is set in the late 19th Century

Buy link: http://www.amazon.com/Surrender-Destiny-Maggi-Andersen/dp/146362641X/ref=tag_stp_s2f_edpp_victor17ce

Blurb:

In Victorian London, Giovanna Russo finds herself penniless on the streets, fighting for independence in a city where a woman's choices are few. London with its smoggy, dark alleyways is a dangerous place for a girl to be, but now it's got more personal, someone wants her dead.

When Blair Dunleavy, a wealthy, Irish gentleman sees Gina Russo in her stepfather's painting, he includes her in his plans for the perfect life. A wife in Ireland and a mistress in London. But the best laid plans …

PG Excerpt: LONDON 1890

Gina Russo looked up at the attic window where driving rain had caused a leak to form. It dripped down onto the floorboards, forming a pool at her stepfather's feet. He seemed completely unaware of it, but then, when he was painting, the building could burn down around him.

"You must move your easel, Milo," she ordered him, placing her hands on her hips. "Your trousers will get wet and in this miserable, moldy climate, you'll catch your death."

He looked up blankly, paintbrush poised above the canvas where he painted a still life. "But, the light, Gina!"

"I do not intend to be orphaned in this cold-hearted city. What would I do without you?"

He laughed and wiped his brush on a cloth, then threw it down onto a table piled with brushes and half-squeezed tubes of paint. "You have made a good point. You're not just pretty, my girl, you've got something up here," he tapped his forehead.

She helped him move his things away then ran to place a bowl under the drip.

"When will you pose for me again, Gina? I have great hopes for the last painting I did."

"When you have sold another painting and we can afford some coal," she said firmly. "I am not stripping off in this cold. And we need decent food."

"Aah. I can taste a tender turkey breast stuffed with sweet Italian sausage and chestnuts. That would be most welcome."

"We shall be eating your Still Life with Apples, Milo, long before that." Gina watched as he settled at his easel once more, and pick up his brush. There would be no more conversation for the afternoon.

She grabbed the broom and began to sweep the floor at the far end of the room. She worked to warm herself. She'd swept the floor that morning, but no matter how many times she cleaned it, it always looked dirty. Work also helped to clear her head. She was constantly thinking up schemes to leave horrid, foggy London. She had been thirteen years old when her mother brought her to England, old enough to remember the sunny days and green hills of Tuscany.

She turned to study the bowl of wizened fruit and vase of wilting flowers she had purchased from the market that morning for Milo to paint. Surely, the sun-ripened fruit of her homeland was sweeter. Her mother had been like a delicate flower, she had not thrived in an English winter. She hated the cold and fog. She was fond of saying that Italians knew how to live and the men knew how to love.

It was certainly true that the Englishmen who pursued Gina had money where their hearts should be. They knew nothing of a love that took hold of you, mind, body, and soul. To them she would be an acquisition, someone they could flaunt in front of their friends and boast about in their clubs. She would have none of it. She had promised her mother.

When her mother had married Milo and came to England, she had become a much sought after artist's model. Even after her death, Gina and Milo remained loyal to their friends of the demi-world, the shadow world of fellow artists, models, writers, thespians, courtesans and musicians, through which the upper classes wandered, paying for anything they desired. It could be an exciting world, but had a dark side of despair, poverty, ruin and untimely death.

Her mother had died of inflammation of the lungs at thirty-six. She was already ailing when she married Milo, fifteen years her elder. She knew he would take care of Gina after she was gone. Even when her health was failing, she would drag Gina to church every Sunday. Her final words still echoed in Gina's ears. "We have a saying in Italy, sweet child. You never forget your first love. I loved your father and if only he'd lived.... No matter how hard life gets, don't ever be tempted to sell your body, for that will destroy your soul. Remember you are a good Christian girl. Promise me!"

Gina touched the hair-bracelet on her wrist, made with her mother's lovely golden hair. When she had asked her mother about her father, she would always turn away. "Better that you don't know." Her standard reply left Gina wondering what made her so sad and reluctant to reveal the past. Had her mother and father been married?

"Bah," Gina said, swatting at some imaginary speck of dirt. She was sick of being grindingly poor. The struggle to live tore the heart out of you and dragged you down. She hated London, its miles of rat infested, filthy cobblestone alleys and shabby brick and stucco houses, the noise and the smells and the dirt. She hated feeling desperately sad for the tatty, barefoot children. She hated her cheap dresses, and longed to have something store-bought and pretty. She hated their ugly, leaky attic rooms that no amount of cleaning could turn into a home, most of all.

A block away, the street prostitutes trolled between the gin shop and the pawnshop, younger than she, some of them. Green from the country, they quickly become addicted to the drink and their gentle eyes turned hard. Lying in bed at night, she'd listen to them out there under the gaslights. Dancing, drinking, and singing into the small hours. The sounds of their hollow laughter made her want to weep and pull a pillow over her head.

As she put away the broom, Gina's thoughts turned to Milo. How did he produce such beauty in his paintings, in a place like this? She put her hand to her mouth. How could she be so ungrateful?

"Did you say something, mio caro?" Milo asked, adding a highlight to a painted apple. The apple had become his signature and appeared in most of his paintings. His painted apple was so much fresher and redder than the one in the bowl. Perhaps that was his secret, he saw life through rose-colored glasses.

"No, Milo," she said, going to stir the minestrone soup that with bread and cheese, would have to do them until the end of the week.

"You're a good daughter, Gina," he said absently.

Maggi

2011-12-11T20:10:00.001-08:00

Bringing Sexy Back ~ Historical men

2011-12-11T20:05:00.001-08:00

A Christmas Treat

2011-12-11T19:54:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Q9TQTmUGQA&feature=youtu.be_

New Contracts

2011-12-08T19:00:00.000-08:00

I've just signed two new contracts with Knox Robinson Publishing. A Baron in Her Bed (Regency-set historical) and The Folly At Falconbridge Hall (late Victorian mystery) Coming next year!

Review: THE ACCIDENT by Linwood Barclay

2011-12-04T19:42:00.000-08:00

In Connecticut, building contractor Glen is suffering a downturn in the building trade by the housing crisis, and his wife, Sheila, is taking a business course at night to increase her chances of landing a good-paying job.

When she doesn't return home from her course, Glen's life is changed forever. While their eight-year-old daughter sleeps soundly, Glen discovers the horrible truth, Sheila has been killed in a horrible car accident, which has killed two other people. Fingers are pointed when it's found she was driving drunk, and blame aimed at Glen for allowing her to do it.

Glen knows it’s impossible. Sheila wasn't an alcoholic. She was a law abiding citizen. Wasn't she? Glen begins to uncover layers of disturbing criminal activity beneath the placid surface of their suburb. Was Sheila involved?

I like Linwood Barclay's style. He describes it as a suburban suspense and it essentially is, because he paints society warts and all, fractured by desperate people suffering the effects of the global financial crisis. I'd place more emphasis on thriller. He keeps it moving along at a breathless pace and I truly didn't know who the killer was until very close to the end. I'm usually good at picking whodunnits too. There's social comment, which could be a warning to the unwary, and a moral to this book as well, that I liked.

Goddess Fish Party Pavilion: A Victorian Christmas by Maggi Andersen

2011-12-04T17:21:00.000-08:00

Goddess Fish Party Pavilion: A Victorian Christmas by Maggi Andersen: Santa Claus first made an appearance in British society during Queen Victoria’s reign when the wealthy middle class generated by the ind...

Review: A touch of the Gothic in the Victorian Era. Gwenan Haines RESCUED BY A RAKE

2011-12-02T22:46:00.000-08:00

I enjoyed this very much, it seemed a longer story than it actually was. Gwenan Haines packs a lot into it, keeping the tension high until the end. She paints a great picture of a Gothic setting which never degenerates into the too dark or too grim. What leaps out at you in this story are the characters: a strong heroine, no simpering virgin this, well able to take care of herself and sure of what she wants, and a darkly handsome hero suffering from a sad past and hiding away from the world immersed in his painting. The air fairly crackles between them and the high octane sex scenes are deftly drawn.
BUY LINK: http://www.amazon.com/Rescued-Rake-Rakes-Rogues-ebook/dp/B005WAVO62/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1322894845&sr=1-1

How to Tame a Rake is a featured book for $2.63!

2011-12-01T14:01:00.000-08:00

HOW TO TAME A RAKE
Blake, Viscount Dangerfield must marry Wilhelmina Corbet or lose his inheritance. It has been decreed in his despised father’s will. That he must marry at eight and twenty when life is just as he likes it comes as a shock, but to marry a drab hoyden just out of the schoolroom, a hayseed from Northumberland, is deplorable. The last time he saw her she wore her hair in braids and climbed a tree to rescue a kitten.

Hostage to Fortune is now on Amazon kindle!

2011-12-01T13:38:00.000-08:00

HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE
Viscount Beaumont has buried himself in the country since his wife died. As the French Revolution rages, French actress Verity Garnier is ordered to England to seduce him back to France. She despises men, but she must not fail.

Enjoy a taste.

Verity took her final curtsy to applause which equaled that of Mrs. Siddens, and the curtain banged down. It had gone well tonight. She entered her dressing room, where her dresser waited.

“I heard the ovation, mademoiselle,” Madame Tornet said, taking Verity’s cape.

“Yes, but I’m not sure Mrs. Siddens was pleased. She would prefer to be playing Ophelia herself, although I prefer Gertrude’s part. It is much larger.” Verity stepped behind a screen to remove the filmy white gown. She pulled on a silk wrap and sat down in front of the mirror to remove her stage makeup.

A knock sounded at the door, and Madame Tornet went to answer it. Lord Beaumont stood in the doorway, hat in hand, dressed in understated evening clothes, his unpowdered dark brown hair tied at his nape with a thin black velvet ribbon.

Verity’s breathing turned rapid and shallow. “Where is your pretty daughter, Lord Beaumont?”

He bowed over her hand. “Henrietta sends her apologies. She is attending Almack’s tonight. It is her debut.”

“Perhaps you should have accompanied her.”

“She has her aunt, and once the young swains discover her, she won’t notice I’m not there. I enjoyed the play immensely. Although all the cast were excellent, you, mademoiselle, were superb.”

“Praise indeed, considering Sarah Siddens is in the play,” she said dryly. “I thank you, kind sir.” Verity laughed and motioned to a chair. “Could you please wait? I have not yet dressed.” She gazed provocatively into his appreciative brown eyes and fingered the thin silk barely concealing her chemise and stays. “I am thrilled that you came.”

“I am delighted I assure you.” His gaze rested for a moment on her hand where she held it at her bosom. When he met her eyes, his were hot and dark, making her shiver with anticipation.

She stepped behind the painted screen, and with Madame Tornet’s assistance, slipped into a lilac-colored Italian silk gown.

When she emerged, Lord Beaumont had declined to sit and leaned against the wall, one long leg crossed over the other, imposing in his tall black hat and silk evening cape. He straightened. “I shall not keep you above a minute, mademoiselle. I wished only to pay my respects.”

Verity made a moue with her lips. “Oh, but you must accompany me to supper. I insist on it.”

He nodded towards the door. “There are many awaiting that privilege. I hardly feel I can claim that honor for myself.”

“It is I who choose the man to escort me, Lord Beaumont. And I choose you.”

He smiled. “I’m flattered.”

“They all go to the Gun Tavern, so we shall go to the Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly. Do you agree?” She laughed. “If you will please wait outside, I shan’t be but a moment.”

Verity rushed through her toilet, adding a touch of lip rouge and powder with her haresfoot. She placed a tiny black patch high on her cheekbone and another at the corner of her mouth. Madame Tornet brushed her long hair, left au-naturel for the performance, and fashioned it into a high roll with a ringlet resting upon Verity’s shoulder. She tucked fake violets into the creation. Verity added diamonds to her décolleté and ears, paste, but such an excellent imitation. She donned her swan’s-down trimmed cape, preparing to play the part of her life, as the seductress. Mohammed had come to the mountain, and she felt a rush of excitement mixed with the ever present sense of desperation. She must not fail.

Out in the corridor, Lord Beaumont stood alone. “Your devotees have gone on ahead to the Gun Tavern.”

“Then we have fooled them, have we not?” she said with a light laugh. She met his honeyed gaze. “My apartments are at the Pulteney.” Her luxurious suite at the Pulteney Hotel was the perfect setting for a seduction. Better than Grenier’s Hotel where the rest of the troupe mingled with French émigrés, who wouldn’t give them a moment’s privacy.

His gaze travelled over her hair and then into her eyes. “Your eyes are the same color as those flowers in your hair, mademoiselle.”

“A remarkable coincidence, my lord,” Verity said.

He laughed and offered her his arm.

They dined in the hotel dining room. Soft candlelight played across his features as they talked, his eyes filled with frank admiration.

“Do you miss your home?” he asked.

She frowned. “I no longer have a real home to miss.”

He reached across and took her hand. “Tell me?”

She swallowed. “I’d rather not.” She didn’t want his sympathy; it distracted her from her purpose. And yet, his warm brown eyes invited her to reveal all, and she found it surprisingly difficult to resist.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He still held her hand, his thumb smoothing the skin at her wrist. She could feel her pulse beating fast and was sure he could too.

Verity smiled and gently withdrew her hand. “You haven’t. I’m delighted to be here in London, in such exemplary company.”

With an answering smile, he raised his glass in a silent toast.

She raised her champagne flute with a smile. This was business she reminded herself. But couldn’t business be combined with pleasure?

“Have an oyster, mademoiselle?”

She screwed up her nose. “I have never eaten them, they look unattractive.”

He popped one in his mouth and chewed. “They taste of the sea, delicious.” He laughed at her expression. “Go on, be brave, try one.” He squeezed lemon over the shell and held the oyster out to her on a tiny silver spoon.

Verity held his wrist, feeling the strength of him the dark hair there tickling her skin. She put the slippery grey oyster into her mouth. It smelt of the sea too. “An odd taste, but not unpleasant.”

“They are known to be an aphrodisiac.” He smiled. “Like silky flesh upon the tongue.”

Great prizes and books to be won at The Romance Reviews!

2011-11-29T12:27:00.001-08:00

Win a copy of Hostage to Fortune and other goodies.

http://www.theromancereviews.com/event.php

A taste of the Regency Era

2011-11-25T20:13:00.000-08:00

As my Regency intrigue novella, LOVE AND WAR is now priced at 0.99c on Amazon.com, I thought I’d share some of the romance of the Regency.

The Fashions

Regency gowns were influenced by the Napoleonic era, and were Classical in style. By 1816 waists were at their highest under the bust, gradually dropping until the 1830s, when they took on the style of the Victorian era, as sleeves and skirts became fuller.

Neo-Classical Houses

Classical Greek and Roman architecture

Stourhead, Wiltshire

The Renaissance

Deepdene, Surrey rebuilt in 1769-75 for Charles Howard 10th Duke of Norfolk. drew inspiration from the Palladian style of Classical architecture in the Renaissance era.

During the 16^th Century, Venetian architect, Andrea Palladio was most influenced by the Ancient Greek and Roman’s classical temple architecture. In 17th Century Europe, Palladio's interpretation of this classical architecture was adapted as the style known as Palladianism. It continued to develop until the end of the 18th century. The style influenced many of the great houses of Britain. Its Doric columns, pediments, symmetry and proportions are clearly evident in the design of many modern buildings today.

Inigo Jones was the designer of the Queen’s House, Greenwich, begun in 1616, the first English Palladian house.

The Mirror of Graces (1811) By A Lady of Distinction

A Wash to give Lustre to the Face

Infuse wheat-bran well-sifted, for three or four hours in white wine vinegar; add to it five yolks of eggs and a grain or two of ambergris, and distil the whole. When the bottle is carefully corked, keep it for 12 or 15 days before you make use of it.

On Deportment

‘The awkward, reserved air of the early part of the last century has given way, not to grace and frankness, but to an unblushing impudence, which is the very assassin of female virtue and connubial behavior.’

Carriage and Demeanour

'Many of the naturally most pleasing parts of the female shape have I seen assume an appearance absolutely disgusting; and all from an outre air, vulgar manners, or hoydenish postures. The bosom, which should be prominent, by a lounging attitude sinks into slovenly flatness, rounding the back and projection the shoulders!'

The Waltz.

'But with regard to the lately-introduced German waltz, I cannot speak so favourably. I must agree with Goethe, when writing of the national dance of his country, "that none but husbands and wives can with any propriety be partners in the waltz.'

Maggi Andersen
http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com

LOVE AND WAR

Selena couldn't accuse him of paying her Spanish coin! Gyles Devereux made it clear he had no wish to marry at all but was constrained by his circumstances. She could not be expected to keep refusing Lord Devereux, she thought crossly. She was only flesh and blood after all. What woman on earth could resist the pleas of a man such as Devereux?

http://www.amazon.com/Love-and-War-ebook/dp/B003XYETZM/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321822317&sr=1-3

Excerpt:

At her sister, Anne's, insistence Selena found herself at the
Upper Assembly rooms in Bath again the first Monday of the
following month. It was crowded and she danced every
dance, but when she settled among the potted palms with a
glass of detestable Madeira that a young man had brought
her, she admitted to herself she was bored to distraction.
Her friend and companion on these occasions, Elsbeth, was
away nursing a sick relative and Selena had never been very
good at small talk with bare acquaintances. She loved to
plunge into a brisk, political debate with someone of an
opposite view, or discuss the latest news of the Duke of
Wellington's exploits in Spain, when news finally reached
them. She liked to be busy, washing the dogs or riding in the
park, and was also quite content to spend an afternoon
reading a book that pushed the boundaries of her knowledge.
But to sit here and simper and curtsy and dance one
interminable dance after another was a bore. She was
pondering the possibilities of declaring a headache and
retiring early, when a voice above her said, "Well, if it isn't
Miss Selena Wakefield."
She knew that deep, amused voice before she looked up.
She could scarcely raise her head as her heart began to beat
unnaturally fast.
"Lord Devereux," he said unnecessarily, as he bowed over
her hand.
"I may not be in the first flush of youth, Lord Devereux,
but there's nothing wrong with my eyes or my memory."
"Indeed. You are remarkably well preserved. Not a gray
hair to be seen, for what, three and twenty?"
"Last Tuesday."
"Then please accept belated birthday wishes. May I join
you?"
"Certainly."
He sat next to her on the small settee, his proximity
making her heart beat faster. "I didn't know you liked
Madeira."
"I don't."
"Allow me to get you a glass of wine." He gestured to a
waiter.
"I would be grateful, thank you."
He fixed her with a blue-eyed stare. "You are looking well."
"Thank you. And so do you." She wished her heart would
slow a little from its relentless pounding. He wore his golden
hair long, tied with a black, velvet ribbon, while other men
wore theirs short and carefully windswept. It was like him to
defy the popular mode of dress. His black coat of superfine
needed no padding at the shoulder, fitting tightly around his
slim waist. His waistcoat was also black, as were his satin
breeches. His cravat pin was his only adornment. He stood
out in a crowd of glittering jaybirds, a blond devil, no doubt
secure in the knowledge that women would fall under his
spell. Realizing she was also on dangerous ground, Selena
steeled herself to remain indifferent to his charms, but her
heart didn't seem to be listening.
"I don't like that pasty color on you, though," he said. "It's
quite the wrong green for you."
She drew a sharp breath as she smoothed the skirt of her
white muslin gown, woven and trimmed with pale green.
"Oh?"
"I'm sorry, but you know I'm inclined to blunt speaking,"
he confessed, not looking the slightest bit sorry. "You should
wear a green that matches your eyes." He touched the
emerald pin glowing among the folds of his white cravat.
"This green would be perfect."
"I am as yet unmarried, Lord Devereux," she managed to
splutter.
"Oh right. Insipid colors for the virginal," he said. A wicked
gleam came into his eyes. "I have an excellent plan that will
take care of both these problems."
She gasped and looked around. "I refuse to listen to it,
Lord Devereux. You are not to be encouraged. You shall ruin
my reputation. It doesn't matter about yours. It is already
lost."
"Come out onto the terrace where no one will hear us."
"I will most certainly do nothing of the kind!"
He put his hand on her arm. "Curse it, Selena. I will
behave myself. I give you my word. I need to talk to you."
Selena looked around. It wouldn't do to be seen shrugging
him off. "I shall give you five minutes, but I can't imagine
there's anything you want to say to me. We've said it all
before."
They took a turn about the terrace, passing other couples
enjoying the mild evening air. Braziers burned in their
sconces along the wall. Strains of the Sussex Waltz with flute
and violin floated through the open doorway. Lord Devereux's
features, lit by moonlight, were classically handsome, a noble
forehead, high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a mouth and
dimpled chin that made a woman weak in the knees. He
settled against the balustrade beside her with a casual grace
that never seemed to desert him. His heavy-lidded eyes
gazed down into hers. It should have been breathtakingly
romantic and for a brief moment, it was.
"Selena, I must marry for money," he said bluntly.
She turned away, feeling he'd grasped her heart and
squeezed it.
He reached out and gripped her arm, his fingers burning
into the flesh between her glove and capped sleeve. "Don't go
yet, Selena. I know I'm too direct. I can't be dishonest with
you. Don't know why."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," she said
dryly.
He gave a brief laugh. Taking her by the shoulders, he
searched her face. "I have no desire to marry. Don't doubt I
should make a very poor husband. In my defense, I'll never
consciously be cruel to you, and can offer you a title that goes
back to the Norman Conquest. And by way of consolation, I
like you."
"And desire my fortune."
He shrugged. "Halcrow Hall is falling into disrepair and its
lands lie fallow. My great, great grandfather lost a
considerable amount of money when his ships were sunk
during England's war against Spain. The family fortunes have
been dashed on the rocks ever since. I can't bear to see it
happen, Selena."
She drew breath at the fire and passion glowing in his blue
eyes. It wasn't for her, but she still found herself helplessly
caught up in it. All her resolve and her commonsense failing
her like a fortress falling in battle. "You now intend to devote
your life to restoring the mansion and its lands?"
"Yes. I must pay off my father's creditors," he said simply.
"I've sold out of the army, and am now living on borrowed
time."
"Why now?"
He shook his head and grinned. "I turned twenty-nine and
wanted to live beyond thirty."
"I must say I'm surprised they let you while the war is still
raging," she said.
His blue eyes searched hers, for a sign, no doubt, that she
wavered.
"Why me? There are other heiresses. Pretty ones."
"I'll be damned if I'll get leg-shackled to a shallow bore or
a long-nosed, humorless wench." He opened his eyes wide.
"Or a blue stocking!"
She laughed. "Not all of them, surely."
He shook his head. "I've looked them all over, believe me.
You're the only one I could consider spending any time with."
"Well at least you don't pay me Spanish coin."
He grinned. "And many men do?"
"I have had my fill of suitors. My sister Anne is determined
to have me married off before the year is out."
"Then marry me, Selena. Say you will."
She could not be expected to keep refusing him, she
thought crossly. She was only flesh and blood after all. What
woman on earth could resist the pleas of a man such as
Devereux? The last of the fortifications around her heart gave
way.
"We might arrange a marriage of convenience, of sorts, I
suppose," she said cautiously. It would certainly get the
pesky matchmakers and fortune hunters off her back and
provide her with a home of her own. She refused to consider
what her real reason might be, to see his face at breakfast
every morning. A thought struck her. Would she be leaving
her tidy, organized life for one of hellish proportions?
"Don't think I'll live with you without the pleasures of the
marriage bed," he warned, breaking into her thoughts.
"Oh! Do hush, my lord." Her face grew hot and she
glanced around. Another couple stood at the end of the
terrace engrossed in their own conversation.
"I wanted to make that plain."
She suppressed a shiver of anticipation as his strong, agile
body leaned towards her. She found herself wondering what
he looked like naked, the feel of his skin, the muscles and
bones beneath. The tautness of a male body against the
softness of hers.
She swallowed. "Then ask me properly." Had she gone
mad? This was a recipe for a broken heart if ever there was
one.
As Lord Devereux sank down on one knee before her, an
exclamation of delight came from the woman at the other end
of the terrace.
If only you knew, Selena thought.
"Miss Wakefield, will you do the honor of becoming my
wife?" he said in a throbbing accent, making her want to
giggle. "I shall cherish you for all the rest of your life. Should
dissipation not carry me off before you," he added wickedly.
"I will. Now please get up," she said, "before we become a
spectacle, and have the gossips chattering for months."
He rose and took her by the waist pulling her to him, his
musky scent enveloping her. "They will anyway. Let's seal it
with a kiss." He brought his mouth down on hers before she
could protest, probing with his tongue and rendering her
shocked and breathless.
"Oh! That's so romantic," the lady said to her companion.
Devereux drew away. When she could find her voice,
Selena said weakly. "You promised to behave."

http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com

Costume in Detail 1730-1930 Nancy Bradfield 
England's Lost Houses, Giles Worsley, Aurum

Georgian House Style Ingrid Cranfield David & Charles Ltd. 1997

Louis Hellman Architecture for Beginners 1986.

The Mirror of Graces (1811) By A Lady of Distinction

Images from Wikipedia

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

2011-11-25T19:34:00.000-08:00

Sadly we Australians don't have Thanksgiving. But we can still enjoy a turkey.

The winners of my e-book prize

2011-10-26T16:43:00.001-07:00

Congrats to Sue and Cheryl for winning an e-book copy of Hostage to Fortune. Another will be offered on the English Historical Authors blog shortly.

I'm blogging at English Historical Authors blog

2011-10-25T02:50:00.000-07:00

Feminist writers during the French Revolution.
ENGLISH HISTORICAL AUTHORS BLOG

Unfortunately true!

2011-10-19T21:36:00.000-07:00

My first review for Hostage to Fortune

2011-10-18T22:42:00.000-07:00

***** I don't normally read historical books, but this one caught my attention. I'm glad I gave it a try. The hero was tragic and sexy, which most authors seem to have a hard time pulling off.
From Leah.

How the Scarlet Pimpernel inspired Hostage to Fortune

2011-10-18T20:21:00.000-07:00

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

"They seek him here,
they seek him there,
those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in heaven or is he in hell?
That damned elusive Pimpernel."

After Baroness Emmuska Orczy wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel, it was a successful play having over 2,000 performances in London. It then became a highly successful novel throughout the world. The popularity of the novel encouraged the baroness to write a number of sequels for her "reckless daredevil" over the next 35 years. The play was performed to great acclaim in France, Italy, Germany and Spain, while the novel was translated into 16 languages. Subsequently, the story has been adapted for television, film, a musical and other media.
The Scarlet Pimpernel is an adventure novel set during the Reign of Terror following the start of the French Revolution.
The international success of The Scarlet Pimpernel allowed Orczy and her husband to live out their lives in luxury. Orczy wrote in her autobiography, Links in the Chain of Life: “I have so often been asked the question: ‘But how did you come to think of The Scarlet Pimpernel?’ And my answer has always been: It was God's will that I should. And to you moderns, who perhaps do not believe as I do, I will say, in the chain of my life, there were so many links, all of which tended towards bringing me to the fulfillment of my destiny."
Perhaps many writers can relate to that.

After falling in love with Percy in The Scarlet Pimpernel I wrote a Georgian adventure romance with my own mystery man, Christian Hartley. Christian wants to put his dangerous exhausting job behind him and retire to the country to fish. What he doesn't want is to fall in love with a boisterous young woman in her first Season.

HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE is released today in e-book form with http//www.newconceptspublishing.com. Coming to Amazon soon.

Viscount Beaumont has buried himself in the country since his wife died. As the French Revolution rages, French actress Verity Garnier is ordered to England to seduce him back to France. She despises men, but she must not fail.

Here is an excerpt:

The roan mare Henrietta’s father had chosen for her had soft brown eyes. They rode together along the London streets to Rotten Row, finding carriages lined up to travel down the South Carriage Way. The park was filled with people strolling about.

How she had missed riding. Henrietta was pleased with her new riding habit of a flattering moss green. Charlotte, as the horse was named, trotted along the track, obeying her instructions without protest and giving Henrietta plenty of time to search among the riders for Mr. Hartley, but there was no sign of him. A white horse approached them, ridden by a lady in a dainty sky-blue velvet habit with a tall hat atop her curls.

“Why, Lord Beaumont,” said Mademoiselle Garnier. “And Miss Buckleigh. What a pleasant surprise.”

Her father raised his hat. “Delighted, mademoiselle. Lovely day for a ride. Will you please join us?”

Henrietta saw how he looked at mademoiselle, and wondered if this had been prearranged. She felt excluded, and a little jealous.

Mademoiselle Garnier had far too charming a smile. “I do love your habit, Miss Buckleigh.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle. Your costume is lovely. I like the wide lapels and caped shoulders. So very stylish. I expect it has been made in Paris.”

“Oui.”

“I find it incredible that a country with so brutal a government can produce such delicate and beautiful things.”

“Henrietta!” Her father glared at her. “That was rude.”

“No, no. She is quite right, Lord Beaumont. My country suffers from a bloody revolution. Do you know, Henrietta, that there are many English who agree with what goes on there?”

“They say the guillotine chops off people’s heads. Innocent women and children too. I read about it in The Lady’s Magazine. How can they be so cruel?”

“The French people were starving and something had to be done to change that.”

Henrietta reined her horse in beside her. “What if someone you loved had his head chopped off, because he didn’t believe in the cause?” She was curious. “Would you still believe in it then?”

“Henrietta!” Her father bellowed. “Have your manners deserted you?”

Henrietta looked into the Frenchwoman’s beautiful face. She had gone white, and her violet blue eyes looked stricken. She suffered a jolt of remorse. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. It was purely rhetorical.”

“Henrietta!” Lord Beaumont brought his mount alongside hers. “You will please ride ahead. I’ll speak to you later.”

Henrietta had never seen him look so fierce or fail to call her Hetta, his pet name for her. Tears of contrition stung her eyes. What had made her act that way? But she knew the answer. It wasn’t so much that her father was enamored of Verity Garnier, but her fear that he would rush to his brother-in-law’s aid in France. A very pretty couple they made with their heads close together, walking their horses. Henrietta sniffed and rode on ahead of them. Now barred from their conversation, she became more than a little annoyed that her pleasant time in London had been tinged with disquiet.

“Miss Buckleigh.”

Henrietta looked up from her study of her horse’s mane, where she’d been deep in thought, straight into the smiling eyes of Mr. Hartley. He sat on his tall chestnut, wearing a navy-blue coat, fawn breeches and glossy black riding boots.

“Mr. Hartley,” she said faintly. She no longer felt up to dealing with him.

“Surely you do not ride alone?” He replaced his hat and gazed about, but her father and Mademoiselle Verity had been left behind.

“No. My father is here.”

“Would you object if I rode alongside you?”

“I think my horse might,” Henrietta said, as Charlotte tried to nip Mr. Hartley’s horse.

“She is not very friendly.”

“She is extremely friendly, but quite choosy.”

“Surely she can find nothing wrong with Titan. His pedigree is as long as my arm.”

“Lineage does not always vouch for good behavior,” Henrietta said, meeting his gaze with a raised brow.

A corner of his mouth quirked. “Does it not?”

“On the contrary, there are those that are very poorly behaved right here today.”

“There are?” His lip curled farther into a grin.

She flicked her crop. “Look at that man over there for example. He is a gentleman, is he not?”

“That’s the Marquis of Tavenstock.”

“Have you seen how he whips his horse?”

“Can’t say I have. But I do not approve of such things.”

Henrietta flicked her crop again. “And another, there.”

“Lord Crompton. He holds no whip.”

“He left his companion far behind. She is a trifle unsure of herself on a horse, I grant you. And her horse is also rather fat, but her companion should wait for her, don’t you agree?”

“That’s his new wife,” Mr. Hartley said, in a strangled voice. “She is the daughter of a wealthy nabob who made his fortune in India.”

Henrietta glanced back at the woman dressed in a clash of crimson and puce. “Oh, I see. They were merely examples, of course.”

Mr. Hartley chuckled. “Miss Buckleigh, you are outrageous.”

Henrietta cocked her head at him. “I am?”

He steadied his mount, which disliked coming too close to Charlotte’s bared teeth. “But delightfully so.”

“Henrietta!”

Henrietta turned to see her father approach as Mademoiselle Verity rode away. “Good day to you, Hartley.”

“Beaumont.”

“You must excuse us. We return home immediately.”

Mr. Hartley bowed. “It’s been a pleasure and an education, Miss Buckleigh.”

They left Mr. Hartley behind to canter through the park. “Was I so very terrible, Father?”

“You behaved abominably,” he said, “Your mother was a Frenchwoman or had you forgotten?”

“No. I would never forget,” she said fiercely. “It is only the government I detest, not the people.” Henrietta could never forget that French blood ran in her veins.

“However, that’s not the reason for my haste. Your aunt sent me a message. She has heard from Philippe.”

Henrietta gasped with relief. “Is he alright?”

“That’s what I wish to find out.” Her father’s expression offered little reassurance.

Author Website: http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com

SURRENDER TO DESTINY

2011-10-16T20:00:00.001-07:00

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE BOOK TRAILER

2011-10-15T00:47:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_JCTHqqIHg

HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE IS NOW AVAILABLE!

2011-10-14T15:10:00.000-07:00

Buy it here: http://newconceptspublishing.com/maggi-andersen/hostage-to-fortune/
Soon on Amazon!

Hostage to Fortune a Georgian romance available now!

2011-10-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

Dancers gathered for the Roger de Coverley, and Henrietta had time to study Mr. Hartley at closer quarters as they advanced and retreated, performing the intricate steps. When they held hands for a brief moment, his gaze found hers. “Why, your eyes are green, Miss Buckleigh.”

Henrietta flushed, forgetting she’d been covertly noting the blue-grey color of his. “As you see, Mr. Hartley.”

“I am delighted,” he continued, when they next came together, “for I thought them blue.”

Henrietta twirled away.

When they met again, he said, “And blue is a most common found in England, don’t you think?”

“Yours are blue, Mr. Hartley.” Henrietta didn’t feel inclined to admit they were more grey than blue, not like the sky, but shadows over a deep lake. For some reason, she wanted to get the upper hand with this man.

He grinned. “So you noticed.”

“One could hardly fail to. This dance is so long-winded.” Unable to sustain a fiery gaze when his was so pleasantly warm, she fixed on his satin waistcoat, admiring the silver buttons.

“Your hair is as fair as a Greek goddess,” he said when the next opportunity arose. “I like the way you wear it, with the ribbon.”

“Yours is as black as a devil’s,” she responded.

A man dancing next to them coughed.

Mr. Hartley chuckled. “I prefer yours flowing free. As you wore it when I first spied you on your balcony. Like Juliet in Shakespeare’s play, I felt tempted to play Romeo and climb up to you.”

“A good thing you didn’t, Mr. Hartley, for I would have thrown a pitcher of water over you.”

The neighboring man’s cough turned into a guffaw which made his partner frown and inquire what ailed him.

The dance ended, and they left the floor. “Why someone has trod on your shoe, Miss Buckleigh. I do hope it wasn’t I.” He bent at her feet to dust her shoe with his handkerchief. Her cheeks grew hot as she stared down at his dark head. Her fingers itched to touch his unpowdered black locks, and she hurriedly looked away.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that it was you, Mr. Hartley,” she said to control her disturbing urges. “But please don’t concern yourself.”

“Then I apologize profusely.” Mr. Hartley returned his handkerchief to his pocket, his eyes brimming with laughter. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Buckleigh.”

Henrietta swept him a deep curtsy. “And mine, Mr. Hartley.”

“I trust we will meet again.” He offered her his arm and escorted her back to where her aunt sat among the dowagers.

“London is a big town. I doubt that’s likely.” Henrietta’s heart fluttered with the hope of meeting him again, but she dismissed the thought as quickly as it arose.

“Oh, we will, for the ton tends to flock together, in ballrooms or on horseback.”

Henrietta watched him walk away. She didn’t know his first name. What would it be? His handkerchief bore the monogram ‘C. H.’. Cornelius? Christopher? Charles? Cuthbert? She giggled. She dared not ask her aunt, for that lady was far too observant.

Hours later, everyone prepared to leave, retrieving coats, cloaks, reticules and shawls.

Her father placed her cape around her shoulders. “Did you enjoy your first dance, Hetta?”

“It was lovely, especially the play.” She turned to look at him. “Did you enjoy the evening?” Ordinarily his thoughts would be on his cattle, and he would have suffered through this for her, but now she doubted it. He looked far too delighted to be here.

“I found it most entertaining,” he said, as a smile lit his eyes.

“You looked as though you really did enjoy it, Anthony.” Aunt Gabrielle had come to join them.

“Father has planned to stay a little longer in London, Aunt.”

“I must say I’m gratified,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “I wonder what attraction has made you so enamored of London society, when it never tempted you before.”

“Yes, Father, do tell.”

He laughed and guided them towards the door. “One might ask you, Hetta, how much you enjoyed that last dance with Christian Hartley.”

Henrietta’s cheeks grew warm. So his name was Christian. She repeated it under her breath.
Order from New Concepts Publishing
Soon on Amazon

You can preorder The Reluctant Marquess from Knox Robinson Publishing

2011-10-12T23:28:00.001-07:00

http://www.knoxrobinsonpublishing.com/product_info.php?products_id=112

Interesting Stills from the 1944 Jane Eyre movie

2011-10-11T13:06:00.000-07:00

http://tiny.cc/om76s

The Reluctant Marquess released in March 2012

2011-10-10T14:28:00.000-07:00

Charity Barlow wished to marry for love. The rakishLord Robert wishes only to tuck her away in the country once an heir isproduced.

Acountry-bred girl, Charity Barlow suddenly finds herself married to a marquess,an aloof stranger determined to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. Sheand Lord Robert have been forced by circumstances to marry, and she feels sureshe is not the woman he would have selected given a choice.

The Marquessof St. Malin makes it plain to her that their marriage is merely for theprocreation of an heir, and once that is achieved, he intends to continue livingthe life he enjoyed before he met her.

While hetakes up his life in London once more, Charity is left to wander the echoingcorridors of St. Malin House, when she isn’t thrown into the midst of themocking Haute Ton. Charity is not at all sure she likes her new social equals,as they live by their own rules, which seem rather shocking. She’s not at allsure she likes her new husband either, except for his striking appearance andthe dark desire in his eyes when he looks at her, which sends her pulsesracing.

LordRobert is a rake and does not deserve her love, but neither does she wish tolive alone. Might he be suffering from a sad past? Seeking to uncover it, Charityattempts to heal the wound to his heart, only to make things worse betweenthem. Will he ever love her?

A mother's love has no bounds!

2011-10-03T00:16:00.000-07:00

Grand Opening of a new blog: English History Authors.

2011-09-22T17:13:00.001-07:00

Grand Opening Of An Exciting New Blog For English Period Readers, Authors and Anglophiles Everywhere!

http://www.englishhistoryauthors.blogspot.com/

Please join us September 23rd through 25th, 2011. We will be launching this new blog, perfect for Anglophiles everywhere. The festivities will include games and drawings for a Kindle, Nook or Amazon Gift Certificate. Other prizes in the drawing will include copies of over a dozen books. You will have the opportunity to get acquainted with numerous authors of British History and Historical Fiction, learn about our books and meet some of our readers.

Following the launch weekend, there will be fascinating daily posts about the history and culture of Britain and the Empire. There will also be a weekly book giveaway. You will be able to follow updates by the authors as they publish their work. Please follow this blog, or subscribe, to receive the information in a timely way.