😍 Love is in the air! If you haven’t read LOVE DENIED, you can enter to win it on BookSweeps today — plus 40+ exciting Historical Romances from a great collection of authors AND a brand new eReader!💖
Here’s the link 👉 https://bit.ly/historical-romance-apr23
When you’re done, comment to let me know you’ve entered!
The French Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, and spies—all rolled into a Regency era happy ever after. Here's a sneak peek at Sophia's story.
Prologue
Promise us the sun forever as well as the night;
Yes. Forever the night. Promise me that.
Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, Let Us Cry
1797
If Sophia had not known he was coming, she would have assumed the tapping was the wind shifting the far-too-loose latch on her window. But she'd been waiting for him for hours. Truly for years. Her heart pounded ferociously against her chest. He was here now. As he'd promised.
She leapt from the bed and pressed her ear to the hall door. There was no sound other than a repeated tap, tap, tap behind her. She flew to the window and threw back the drapes, the shadow of Gaston's willowy body all she could make out of him in the darkness. She unhooked the latch and pushed at the window. Gaston caught it before it blew too far to the side and banged the pillar. He threw one long leg over the sash and pulled the window closed as he stepped fully into the room.
She reached past him to re-hook the latch, catching a whiff of him as she did so. "You stink," she whispered, scrunching her nose.
"And you, ma chérie, smell like a garden of roses in summer." He tilted his head to kiss her and raindrops fell from his hat, chilling her bared shoulder.
She pushed him. "Well, you smell like a wet dog," she said, even though excitement raced through her veins.
"More like a wet horse," he said, but shook his entire body exactly as a dog would do, splattering Sophia even more. She laughed out loud. He stepped up to her quickly, covering her mouth with his hand. "Fais attention, Sophie. Someone will hear you."
Sophia bit his hand playfully, and she could see the flash of his teeth in the dim light. "There is a hook on the wall there. Hang your things." She strode to the window and closed the drapes again, then returned to her bedside, fumbling for the tinderbox she'd left there.
"Let me."
His breath was warm against her ear as he took the box from her, and she regretted its loss when he leaned away from her to blow on the tinder. She set the wick to it, and the candle slowly took. After she set it on the table, she turned to look at him. Mon dieu. Sophia still could not believe he had come.
"You are so beautiful, my eyes hurt." Gaston ran the back of his fingers down her cheek, along her neck, and across her shoulder. Her flesh tingled in their wake.
"Embrasse-moi." Sophia puckered her lips and closed her eyes, and Gaston obliged her request for a kiss. His lips were soft and gentle, but she wanted more. She tried to probe with her tongue, but he kept his mouth closed to her. She opened her eyes, and he grinned. Sophia slapped his arm, and his grin grew bigger.
"You have not changed." Gaston chuckled and looked around the room, then pulled her toward the chairs by the fireplace.
"Non, it is too cold to sit by an empty grate. Come." Sophia tugged him in the opposite direction, back toward the bed.
"Sophie."
He said her name like a warning, and she ignored it. She did not fear Gaston. It was Gaston who should fear her. Sophia had waited three years for him, and she was not about to sit politely in chairs across from one another. She was going to be held and, for the first time in too long, she was going to be loved. She would settle for no less.
She let go of his hand and climbed onto the bed, feeling powerful, knowing he was watching her. She leaned forward, daringly showing the rise of her breasts, and patted the bed.
Gaston shook his head.
"But we must speak quietly," she said tapping the bed again. "And I am chilled," she added, tugging at the counterpane and pulling it over her lap as proof.
Gaston sighed heavily. He perched on the edge of the bed and removed his boots before crawling in beside her. She was disappointed he stayed on top of the coverlet, but it did not defeat her. She would woo Gaston before night's end, and they would be bound together forever.
"I should not stay long," he said, taking her hand in his and running his thumb over her palm. "It would not do for me to be caught here in your bedroom."
"It would not do for you to be seen anywhere by mia zia—ma tante." Sophia caught herself and switched from Italian back to French for it was the language they shared. "Tante Giorgia despises the French even more now that they occupy our cities."
"But you are French, non? She cannot possibly detest all French." Gaston squeezed Sophia's hand.
"She does not acknowledge that part of me. It is like Papa never existed, and she sees only the daughter of her sister." Sophia shrugged. "Still, she gave me a home when I had none. But I do not wish to speak of her any further. It is you and only you I want to hear about."
Gaston had suddenly appeared at the market that morning. She'd been examining a basket when she sensed someone beside her. She'd turned and blinked over and over. She could not accept what her eyes told her was true. He spoke quickly and quietly, and she'd given her address and specific directions to her bedroom before he disappeared into the crowd. It had felt like a dream, but it was not. For there was nothing imaginary about the warmth of his hand or his thigh pressed against hers, exuding a heat no blanket could block.
"Have you come with the army?" Sophia hoped not, for she had come to detest the bold soldiers who considered her there for their taking. She had learned quickly not to leave the house without a chaperone and a male servant for protection.
"The only army I fight with is Régiment de Bourbon. For my father. And for yours."
"Papa?" She sat straighter, all thoughts of seduction flown from her mind. She'd heard nothing from her father in months. " Have you word of him?"
"Non, ma douce, I have heard nothing directly. But the Directory was annulled and the fair election overturned. In September. Many were shipped to Guiana. I am trying to find out if your father was among them or if he is still in Paris. Perhaps, he is in hiding?"
There had been news of Napoleon's Coup d’état, but she didn't see how it could affect her father. "But Papa, he is not in the government. He is writing for the paper."
Gaston turned to face her, cupping her cheek. "The royalist newspapers were shut down. Many journalists were shipped with the deputies."
"Non." Sophia shook her head, fighting the tears stinging her eyes.
"I am sorry, mon amour. You must face the possibility. It is why I came."
"I don't understand…"
"The last time I saw your father, he made me promise to come to you should something ever happen to him."
"But why?" Sophia swallowed her agony. Surely, Gaston was assuming the worst. Her father was a clever man. He had managed all the atrocities that had come before. An overturn in government could not be harder to navigate than the slaughter they had escaped.
"Because he knows nobody can love you more than he does…except me." Gaston pressed his forehead against hers. "And he's right."
Gaston held Sophia for few minutes while she grappled with the concept of her father sent somewhere far away. She did not cry easily, and she would not cry now. Not for a maybe. A possibility. It was equally likely he was not amongst those banished. He might still be somewhere in France or gone somewhere else for safety. She knew for certain he would not come to Venezia. Her aunt might report him.
When her thoughts were composed and her emotions reined in, she pulled away from Gaston. He watched her, his brow furrowed in concern.
"I am not glass. I will not shatter." She flicked a strand of hair back over her shoulder. "And what does Papa think you might do for me?"
"Take you away with me."
"Where?" She asked it calmly, but her insides quivered with excitement. Her aunt had become intolerable. Other than trips to the market, Sophia's life had become one lonely dull day followed by another. And to be with Gaston? It was a dream come true.
"He would see you in England, if I can manage it."
"England! But it is so far. And I speak the language like a bébé."
Gaston ran his hand over her cheek and lifted her chin. "Then you must learn it, ma chérie. For you will live there until it is safe to return to France."
It was all so much to grasp. Her father gone. Her leaving Venezia. Gaston. "With you?" she asked.
"For a time. But I must do my part. I will return to the régiment."
Gaston was going to take her to England and leave her there. Alone. The past three years had taught her everything could change in a moment. She knew what she must do to ensure his commitment to her remained constant. She loved him too much to risk losing him.
"You will marry me." It was a statement, not a question, and it got a slow smile from Gaston.
"Oui, ma beauté, I will marry you at the first opportunity. Your father has given me his permission." He leaned in and kissed her, and this time the kiss was not chaste. She was panting when he pulled away.
"I don't remember you kissing like that," Gaston said.
"I was a child. I am a woman now." She smiled at his scowl, a sense of triumph easing the sorrow of his news about her father.
"You have practiced?"
Sophia laughed at his fierce expression and the growl in his voice. Oh, yes, she had power now she did not have before. Although, in truth, she'd not tried to use it until this moment. But she was not going to tell him.
She daintily shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps, un peu." She pinched her thumb and forefinger together to show him the little bit, and he growled again. She fell onto her back, pulling him with her, and demonstrated again she was more than ready to take on the task of being his partner. When she clawed at his shirt, he pulled back.
"Sophie, non."
"Oui." She boldly ran her finger down his shirt and teased the band of his trousers. "We are to be married. Besides, I have always been yours. And you, mine."
She tugged him to her again, confident he would surrender. And she was right. Later, lying in the afterglow of their first lovemaking, he shared his plan.
"Count Tessaro has arranged a rendezvous tomorrow night with a local fisherman. You must go about your day, act as you normally do, and pack only a few things. Dress plainly."
His chest warm beneath her cheek, he stroked her arm as he talked. She snuggled closer, drifting in contented happiness. The bed dipped and Sophia opened her eyes. Gaston was fully dressed and pulling on his boots. She sat up, pulling the cover to her chest. How could she have fallen asleep?
"My sleeping beauty awakes." He tugged on the second boot and shifted to face her. "Midnight. Be ready. There will be no time to spare."
Excitement and fear coursed through her. She did not want him to leave but knew he must. Tears stung, and he lifted her chin so she looked him in the eyes.
"I will return. I promise."
He kissed her one last time, and she watched as he opened the window and disappeared. The wind rattled the pane and she got out of bed, the marble floor cold against her feet. She opened it and peered outside, but she could see no one. "Je t'aime," she whispered into the darkness before latching the window and crawling back into bed. She held the pillow against her as though it were Gaston. His scent still lingered, and the pungent smell of the stable he had slept in was now a comfort.
A few more hours, and there would be no more goodbyes.
 |
| Pre-order now! |
Life is more than a little angsty for the Thornwoods,
especially for Elizabeth. But don’t let her fool you. She might be small in
stature, but she’s mighty with determination. Join her on her journey from the
country to the city—all the way back into her husband’s heart.
If you enjoy historical romance set in Regency-era England, I hope you'll check out Love Abandoned. It's the second novel in the series Honorable Intentions for Dragonblade Publishing. Release is scheduled for June 1, 2022. In the meantime, please enjoy an excerpt.
Prologue
Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there
resides,
To make me a slave to it;
~Shakespeare (The Tempest)
1808
Three
years, and Elizabeth was as bewitching as the day he’d married her. As
beguiling as the first day they met. Richard would ravish her where she stood
were it not for the room full of guests. And it would be hours before they
could retire, so he might as well rein in his lustful aspirations and turn his
attention elsewhere. What a rubbish idea this anniversary gathering turned out
to be. Even worse, it was his rubbish idea.
Richard
had been in town for far too long, chasing down business investments, when he’d
rather be chasing down Elizabeth. But the estate could not sustain itself
indefinitely, and it was time to expand his fortunes. One day an heir would be
grateful for his forethought. Hopefully, the manor would be full of children to
support. Children. He’d far prefer slipping away and trying to create one than this
standing around talking about inconsequential trivia. Unfortunately, he’d
thought an anniversary celebration would be cheering for Elizabeth. The lack of
children had been wearing on them both.
“Still
gawking at your wife after all these years?” Bentley slapped Richard on the
back jovially. “You almost make me consider marriage.”
Richard
cast his glance sideways at his old school chum and raised an eyebrow. “Is
there something…or someone…I should know about?”
“I
said, almost, my friend. You know me better than that. Too many skirts in the
wilderness, waiting to be tamed, for me to put myself in a cage.”
“Once
a rake, always a rake? Don’t be so certain. Someday you’ll find your Lady
Bentley, and she’ll cast her spell over you as mine has done to me. And you’ll
be glad of it.”
Bentley
guffawed, drawing the attention of some of the guests, and of Elizabeth.
Richard smiled at her and held her stare. Her pale cheeks flushed a soft pink,
but she did not look away. “If you’ll excuse me, Bentley?” he said and walked
toward her.
Lovely gathering. Such a wonderful
evening. Good to see you, Lord Thornwood. The voices swirled around him, but
he had eyes only for Elizabeth. “Lady Thornwood,” he said, interrupting old
Mrs. Farnsworth who was wearing far more ribbons and bows than a fresh
debutante. “May I see you in private for a moment?” Her cheeks deepened to
scarlet, but she nodded and set her hand on his arm. “If you’ll excuse us, Mrs.
Farnsworth,” he said, not waiting for her response. More platitudes followed
them out of the room.
“Is
there something I can do for you, my lord?” Hastings asked, two footmen in tow
behind him, each carrying several decanters of wine.
“No,
Hastings, we’re fine.” Richard tilted his head back toward the room. “Make sure
glasses are full and no one is need of anything. And set the food out a little
early.”
“Yes,
my lord.”
No
one would complain with an overflowing glass in hand and a full stomach. They
would not be missed. He’d been delayed and had arrived along with guests, and
he couldn’t wait another minute to hold her in his arms.
“Richard?”
“Shh,”
he said. “Let me whisk you away.”
Her
smile lit the hallway, and she leaned into him as they walked silently along
the corridor. Although it would afford them definitive privacy, as no one would
dare enter it, he chose not to stop at his study. The saloon next door to it had
been opened to the large drawing room, which put the revelers far too close for
comfort.
He
released an audible sigh of relief when they made it to the library without
encountering any strays. Richard pulled Elizabeth inside, begrudgingly letting
her go to firmly close the doors. He turned around and leaned back on them,
drinking her in. She stood there, looking shy and confident at the same time.
Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head, but she’d left wisps caressing
her long slender neck. Only two gilt lamps had been lit, and they were behind
her. Her lovely shape was well illuminated with the backlighting, but he could
not see her eyes. It didn’t matter. He knew them by heart and was confident
they mirrored the love she would see in his.
Richard
opened his arms in invitation. She smiled and stepped into them, and he
embraced her. Her heart beat against his own. This was home. “I missed you,” he
whispered.
“I
missed you too,” she said and tilted her face to look at him.
He
could resist no longer. He took possession of her mouth, hoping his kiss would
tell her more adequately than words the truth of his longing for her. They
parted, both panting breathlessly.
“Richard,”
she finally managed, touching her lips as she spoke his name. “The guests will
see…”
He
glanced out the windows at the night. It was a miserable one, windy and rainy.
No one would be strolling the gardens. He told her so.
She
smiled tentatively and touched her lips again. “No, that’s not what I meant.
They will see the evidence. You know how easily I bruise.”
“Did
I hurt you, my love?” He cursed himself for being an uncontrolled lecher, tugged
her close, and kissed her forehead. “I would never willingly do so. You know
that, don’t you?” He pulled back so he could see her face.
“Of
course, I do.” This time her smile was mischievous. “Hurt me again.”
And
wolfishly, he did. This time, when he finally let her go, he wondered how
either of them were going to be able to return to the soiree. They would be
fodder for endless gossip. He could hear them now disdaining a married couple who
were actually in love.
“Come
sit with me, and we’ll give ourselves some time to recompose.” He touched her
swollen lips, and she kissed his fingers. “Elizabeth,” he growled in warning.
His blood would never cool if she continued to look at him like that. He led
her to the sofa and pulled her down beside him. “It is good to see the rose in
your cheeks. You were exceptionally pale when I arrived, and I worried this
gathering had put too much of a strain on you. I do apologize. It was a
thick-witted idea.”
“Not
at all, my dearest. A husband who remembers an anniversary is special. One who
wishes to celebrate it is a rare find.”
He
kissed her cheek, feeling as young and in love as when they’d first met five
years ago. He’d been able to claim her as his own now for three years, and the
glow that warmed him at the mere thought of her did not dull. She entwined her
fingers in his.
“And
we have much to celebrate,” she said quietly. She shifted their hands to her
midriff and clasped them with her other hand, holding them tightly to her
stomach. “Much to celebrate.”
Richard’s
heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Dare he hope? “You are..? We are...?”
She
nodded, her eyes shimmering in the dull light. “We are, Lord Thornwood.
Finally.”
He
pulled her close, biting back the emotion clogging his throat, making it
impossible to speak. It was all he’d dreamed of in his young years. To hear the
voices of other children ringing off these old walls. And now it was going to
happen. His children. Her children. Their
children. “Thank you,” he finally managed to whisper into her hair.
“Oh,
Richard,” she whispered back. “This is only the beginning.”
 |
| Available for pre-order! |
Check out this interview on Dragonblade Authors Unplugged. Meet the host, the lovely Evelyn Adams, and two other Dragonblade authors, then hook up with me around the 12-minute mark. (I'm the bobblehead in the bottom right corner. J)
I've talked about how I choose a setting and about how I track a setting. Today, I'm going to discuss how a setting isn't simply a place to drop your characters and let them run loose. For me, it's about much more than that. It provides an opportunity to enhance character development, to give insight into why a character is who they are without explicitly telling the reader. I think of it as backup information to help explain a character's behaviour.
Nicholas Sinclair
is the second son to a wealthy nobleman, an earl. While he was never meant to
inherit the title, he did grow up in comfort with the advantages that come with
money. Independent and sure of himself, he sought to become his own man and
joined the army.
Catherine Baring is
the only daughter of a baron who lives on the neighbouring property. She is comfortable
with men, having grown up with only her brother and father in her home, and, of
course, the neighbouring Sinclair boys. Yet, she is not rough and tumble. She
is graceful, refined, and exudes a caring and warmth.
What does setting
have to do with their character descriptions? Everything.
Both Nicholas and
Catherine grew up without a mother's love. While Nicholas and his brother were
left in the care of servants, Catherine's father took an active role in her
upbringing. Nicholas can be cold and standoffish and easy to anger, whereas
Catherine is patient and all-loving. Nicholas' home, Woodfield Park, is a
massive building with clean impersonal aesthetic lines. Its rooms are big, its
pillars intimidating, and it is cold.
Catherine's home,
Stratton Hall, is a medium-sized manse, with smaller rooms, and the warmth of wood
panelling of years gone by. In stark contrast to the austere marble décor that
greets you in the entrance hall of Woodfield Park, Stratton Hall has a huge
fireplace, a well-used table and a wall of taxidermy that adds personality to
the room. (I know, yuck, but it was a thing. I decided to think of it as
bringing nature indoors.)
Nicholas's father
is often found in his private set of rooms away from the rest of the house. Catherine's
father is usually in his library which is just off the main entrance hall. Can
you guess who of the two is the more accessible emotionally?
Nothing reflects
the differences in their childhood homes more than the entrances. I'll use the
pictures of two very real estates and quotes from Love Denied to demonstrate
it.
 |
| Entrance at Willey Hall |
The vastness of the atrium mirrored his sense of
hollow, his heels clicking on the floor as he moved to the marble stairs
dominating the hall. ~Love Denied
 |
| The Hall Browsholme |
The hall was not a grand entrance but a serviceable room, its high-beamed ceiling echoing voices of days long ago. She laid her hat on the weathered table, its etched surface testimony to the many meals that had been eaten on it once upon a time. ~Love Denied
So, the next time you read a novel, consider the
setting. Maybe it will fill in some valuable information.
One of the difficulties for me as a writer is keeping track of the minutiae, the small things that should remain unnoticed but, if inconsistent, will throw a reader out of the story. Is it a desk or a table in the library? Is the settee facing the fireplace or perpendicular to it? Are the servants' quarters downstairs or in the west wing? Is the dining room to the left or the right down the hallway?
Over time,
as I write, this knowledge becomes ingrained. But, when I begin, I am too
focussed on character development and plot lines to hold onto all of those
miniscule details. So, in advance, I draw a plan of the house. I sketch it out,
designate rooms, and add necessary details to them as I go along. It helps me
maintain continuity and, as an added bonus, it makes the world I am creating
even more real.
If you enjoy historical romance set in Regency-era England, I hope you'll check out Love Denied. It's the first novel in the series Honorable Intentions for Dragonblade Publishing. Release is scheduled for January 28, 2022. In the meantime, please enjoy an excerpt.
1
This life, which
had been the tomb of his virtue and of his honour, is but a walking shadow; a
poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard
no more.
~ Shakespeare (Macbeth)
Nicholas tugged the bridle, pulling Taurus to a stop,
and then slid from the stallion. Relief coursed through his cramped legs. He
let the reins drop and brushed at his jacket and trousers, the rising dust
tickling his nose, its chalky residue lingering on his tongue. He straightened,
rolling his shoulders, and tension rippled down his spine until the muscles in
his lower back contracted and released.
The domed roof of the addition to the manse rose above
the tree line, the pearl marble gleaming in the sun. It reminded him of the
folly, once his pride and joy. His dream of architecture long gone, he wondered
if the sight of the folly would still bring pleasure. He glanced in its
direction, but it was well-hidden by the forest, cloistered from the world as
he’d hoped when he first envisioned it.
Taurus, nostrils flaring, snorted, blowing a warm
stream of air across his face. He’d ridden him too hard. He patted the stallion’s
neck, the hair moist beneath his hand. “You’re a good man.” A few feet off the
main drive, the bridge beckoned. He left the horse knowing it would wait where
it stood. Stubborn but loyal. Like Catherine. He scanned the ground for a small
rock. Scrub grass and a few pebbles, but nothing worthy of a wish.
His boots clicked against the wood. He stopped midway.
It was impossible to tell if the fish were well stocked. There was no sign of
movement beneath the surface, but it was a deep lake. He couldn’t remember the
last time he held a rod. Such indulgences were probably now and forever
relegated to the past. There would be no hours to waste, no idle time to fill.
Not that there’d been for years, but he’d always thought leisurely activities
would enrich his life once again. And Catherine’s. All dreams included
Catherine.
Reaching up, Nicholas ripped the epaulet from his
shoulder, clutching it in his fist. He raised it to his mouth and kissed his
curled fingers, the rough metallic threads coarse against his lips. “To simple
pleasures.” The gold braid plopped ungracefully into the water, tilting
awkwardly as it absorbed water. He watched the epaulet sink, wishing it took
his shame with it, wanting to bury the last four years under the silt and
sludge at the bottom. If only it were that easy.
The special license tucked inside his jacket brought
some comfort. He traced its stiff outline, his heart lightening at the promise
it held. The far end of the bridge beckoned. It would be so easy to cross it
and follow the path to Stratton Hall. To see Catherine. To hold her in his arms
again. He drew his shoulders back and pivoted. He knew too well how to stiffen
his resolve as well as his back. Pleasure must be delayed for duty. Catherine
would have to wait.
The rising specter of Woodfield Park summoned. It was
time to face Daniel.
I've been
getting a lot of questions lately about my writing process. Do I know my story
when I begin to write? (Somewhat) Are
the characters based on real people? (Sometimes) How do you know all that
"stuff?" (Research)
Those are
the easy answers. Of course, writing, like life, is far more complex and so
much more interesting and fun than those one-word answers. So, I thought I'd
share a few insights to my approach to historical romance over the next little
while.
LOVE DENIED
is set in rural England during the Regency era—1812 to be more precise. I love
looking at old houses near and far, so it was no hardship to root around in
books and the internet looking for inspiration for my setting. When I came
across Willey Park in an old book, I knew instantly that I had found the
perfect place to land my story.
It has the
majestic structural opulence of the new architecture of the times married with
the sweeping grandeur of old-world bucolic land holdings. The story is founded
on old-world values clashing with new-world ideals, so this combination was
exactly what I needed.
Now, I
write fiction, so of course I could not use Willey Park, but its inspiration
breathed life into my own world. My characters roam Woodfield Park, an imposing
manse and property that was built long before Willey Park, which only began
construction in 1813. However, Woodfield Park does include an addition that
happens to be designed and built by the same master architect who built Willey
Park, the talented Lewis Wyatt. In my far-too-fertile imagination, I like to think
that Wyatt practiced the Neo-classical style on Woodfield Park before moving on
to Shropshire to build Willey Park.
I started this writing journey many moons ago, mostly for myself. I've always had a brain that was more restless than my body, and creating has been the only way to effectively slow down that gerbil on a wheel that lives in my head.
Theatre was
a major outlet for years, and along with performing, rewriting lyrics for our
annual three-act cabarets was one of my favourite things to do. In the later
years, we had reduced the content of our shows, and I turned to writing novels
as an additional outlet. That was 2008. So, when our troupe wound up in 2010, after
twenty-two wonderful years, it was a natural transition to focus more on my
writing.
It was
during these years that I began to write Regency era romance. It was during
this time that Love Denied was fertilized, warmed and hatched. The final draft
is date stamped 2013. The publishing industry was new to me and I fumbled a few
times with submissions, but then gave up and filed it under Nice Try. I Hope You Learned Something From
It.
After I
left my career and life in Ontario behind to move to the west coast of Canada,
I threw myself into writing. No surprise, after a career in education, teen
voices began to whisper to me. So, I captured their stories. And, I have been
incredibly fortunate to have three of those novels published. I have another
one that needs to be spit-shined, and I hope it sees the world some day too.
Still, Love
Denied pecked at me insistently. History has always been my thing. And romance?
Well, what is life without love? So, I pulled Love Denied out, dusted it off,
spruced it up a bit, and sent it out into the world. And, I guess, this was my
time.
I couldn't
be happier that my journey has led me to this moment, this publisher, and these
strange times where we could all do with a little happy ever after.
Love Denied
enters the world in 2022.
One of the joys of writing historical romance is the research. I’ve been knee-deep in it lately, and I’m loving every minute. Here’s a peek at my Regency-era collection.
