Hi folks! The Portuguese translation of "The Trouble with His Lordship's Trousers" (Book One of The Ladies Most Unlikely series) is now available for pre-order from Editoria Bookmarks, under the title "As Peculiaridades da srta Georgiana (Miss Georgiana's Peculiarities!). PRE-ORDER HERE!
I love the cover!
Hi Everybody!
It's been a while, but I'm back! To celebrate the Holiday Season this year, my "Snow" trilogy will be available as e-books from Amazon at a special low price, so this is your chance to grab a copy.
Meanwhile, The Tempests of Little Doings is still on its way and will be available soon from all the usual online stores. Thank you for reading!
Coming tomorrow - a new Victorian novella featuring another branch of the Deverell tree.
* DANCE WITH A DEVERELL*
Do you dare?
The following is an exclusive excerpt to whet your appetite. Enjoy and have a great weekend!
***
Launching herself
forward, she thrust the poker at his back, between his audacious shoulder
blades. “Stop where you are, fiend! How dare you trespass on the Earl of
Beaufort’s property? I have a gun, and I shall not hesitate to use it, so don’t
move. Put up your hands!”
The man’s
shoulders flexed and then he went still. “Which is it, ma’am?” he growled. “I
don’t move or I put up my hands? Can’t do both.”
With her free hand
she fumbled in the moonlight for a knife. “Hands up, of course, where I can see
them.”
When he slowly
followed her orders, setting the candle down on a shelf and raising both arms
high over his head, she saw that his right hand was covered in blood, which
dripped down the sleeve of his shirt.
“Who are you and
what are you doing here?” she demanded, breathless.
“Friend of the
family. I was invited.”
Well, she knew
that was a lie. Of course, he could have no idea that she was a member of that
family to whom he claimed an acquaintance, and he was the sort of person she
would remember, even from behind, she thought glumly.
Lest you think her
merely appreciative of wide shoulders and a firm, well-shaped buttock, this
stranger in her butler’s pantry also possessed a very strong and unusual aura. Since
she was a child, Ainslie had suffered a peculiar sensitivity to the life force around
other people; the vigor of their spirit and the wisdom of their soul. Or sometimes
it was the power and light of those angels protecting them that caught her
attention. Whatever it was, this sensation caused her to be shy of crowded
places. Anxious never to incur the earl’s wrath, or to be seen as mentally
unstable by Society, she did her best to ignore these distractions of
otherworldly phenomena. She always tried to follow the rules as they were set
down for her; to never venture outside the limits of what was proper; to be
seen as “normal”. But certain unusual impressions could not be ignored, and his
was one that would have felt its way to her in any company.
No, she had never met him before, or she would
know it at once. “How did you get in?” she managed tightly.
After a short
pause, he drawled in a wry tone, “Through the door. I assumed that was its
function.”
“Who let you in?”
“I let myself in.”
“You mean to say
you broke into this house.”
“Didn’t want to
wake anybody by ringing the bell, did I? You should thank me for taking the
trouble and being considerate.” Oh, yes, there was a decidedly cheeky edge to the
scoundrel’s manner. As if he was accustomed to getting away with bad behavior,
but would not particularly care if he was caught. He held his hands up, as
she’d commanded, but there was no trepidation in his voice or comportment. He
sounded more amused than anything.
“Where does that
blood come from? What have you done?”
“It was an
accident.” He hiccupped. “Fell into some glass. Out there.” When he moved his
head in a nod toward the door, candlelight touched his profile, painting the
edge of an aquiline nose and high cheekbones, upon which his black lashes were
long enough to cast a shadow. The side of his mouth quirked as he swallowed
another hiccup and swayed slightly. “Don’t fret, ma’am. I didn’t cut the
night-watchman’s throat. The injury is all to myself.”
“A consequence of
traveling about in the dark, young man! Why are you here in the middle of the
night?”
“Brandon invited
me.”
“Brandon?
Do you refer to Lord Brandon Beaufort?”
“That’s the
fellow.” He turned fully around then, not waiting for her permission. “He’s a—”
A look of surprise passed over his tanned face, immediately followed by a
frown. “Who are you?”
His impertinence
left her devoid of words and breath for a moment. Still brandishing the poker in
one hand, and a carving knife in the other, she finally exclaimed, “Even if
that is true, I very much doubt Lord Brandon invited you at midnight, and
without warning anybody to expect you. Explain yourself to me, sir, before I
call out the dogs and let you confess your deviant motives instead to the
Justice of the Peace!”
He put his head on
one side and his gaze took her in slowly, thoroughly, inch by inch. “No need to
get your petticoats all twisted up. I suppose you might say that Brandon didn’t
actually invite me. Not in so many words. But he owes me five guineas and
I’ve let the debt stand long enough. I need that money now. So he should be
expecting me. Not my fault if he isn’t.”
His voice had a
certain melodious quality— deep, smooth and unhurried. It brought to mind a cup
of hot chocolate with something stronger secretly stirred into it, to be
enjoyed on a snowy evening beside the fire.
Ainslie belatedly
remembered that she wore only her nightgown with a day wrapper thrown hastily
over it. But her hands were full and the best she could do was shrink back a
step, retreating from that silver patch of moonlight and dressing herself in
shadow. “If you had business with Lord Brandon Beaufort, you should have waited
until a respectable hour and called at the front entrance. Like any proper and
decorous visitor.”
“I would have.”
When he smiled in a drowsy, drunken way, it softened his face. He moved
forward, apparently not put off by her weapons. “But I stepped on some glass
and fell into a pit. Cut my damn hand climbing out again, as you see.” Hiccup.
“I came in here to find some brandy or whiskey.”
“Drink? If you ask
me, you’ve imbibed enough of that already, young man.” Since the iron poker
seemed not to have the required effect, she set it down on the kitchen table and
used that free hand to clasp the sides of her wrapper together. But she
retained the knife.
“It’s not for
drinking. It’s for my hand,” he explained. “To seal against infection.” His
eyes turned sad, eyelids drooping. “It hurts, ma’am.”
He looked like a boy then, as his eyes pleaded for her sympathy. Impudent villain! An associate of Brandon’s? Yes, he could be, she supposed, for he was younger than she had thought originally when she first saw the back of him.
But… wait a
minute…what had he just said?
“My pineapples!”
she cried. “You smashed the glass in my pineapple pit?”
He shrugged. “If
that’s what you call that big bastard hole with a glass lid out there.”
“You ass! My
precious tropical plants should be cosseted and cherished!”
He pouted and
lifted his wounded hand again. “What about me?”
“You? What about
my pineapples in the cold night air?”
“It’s July.”
“And England. Not
the Bermudas!”
“Damn silly place
to dig a hole.”
“I’ll dig a hole
wherever I like.”
“You might have
put a fence round it then.”
“I don’t expect
people to be stumbling about in the dark out there, uninvited.”
“I only came to
see Brandon, as I said.”
“And as I said,
you should have waited until daylight. Who goes visiting in the dark of night?”
Only a scoundrel up to no good, she thought.
“I need my five
guineas, don’t I?” he hissed.
“It couldn’t
wait?”
“No, it can’t.
It’s my money and I want it. I earn my living, unlike your precious Lord
Brandon Beaufort.”
“Don’t you take
that tone with me, young man. Who do you think you are?”
“The name’s Ramses
Deverell,” he replied, jaw jutting out, feet apart and hands on hips. “Who the bloody
hell are you?”
As if he had any right to ask, when he was the intruder and apparently there for money. She had absolutely no obligation to tell him anything. In fact, she should have shrieked at the top of her lungs to summon help by now.
But…
“My name is Ainslie,”
she heard herself saying.
“Ainslie?”
he tested the name on his tongue. Through narrowed eyes, he studied her again.
“You’re not the kitchen maid, are you? And you’re not the cook either. Or the
gardener.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh. I can tell.” A
decidedly wicked smirk curled across his lips and, even when it was gone from
there, it lingered in his eyes, like smoke from a recently extinguished flame. One
snuffed by a gasp of breath. She almost heard a wanton sigh, floating through
the air. “Your skin is too fine and clean. Soft too, no doubt, and sweetly
tasting.”
“How dare you!?”
“Is it a crime to
compliment a woman?”
Why did she not tell
him who she was and that she was the lady of the house? Perhaps, if he knew she
was the Countess of Beaufort, he might carry her off over his shoulder and hold
her for ransom. He was, after all, an irreverent Deverell— and just like all
the others, he had turned up where he should not be. He had barged in, defying
locks, gates and barriers. Who knew what he might do next?
“You are
beautiful,” he said. “Was I supposed not to notice? I’m a man with two eyes and
all other parts complete. Even if I am slightly soused.”
“Only slightly?”
she muttered, bemused.
“Falling into your
trap has sobered me up considerably.”
“It’s a pineapple
pit, not a trap.”
“Well…” He grinned
again, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight. “It caught me for you, didn’t
it?”
She wouldn’t want Brandon to be in trouble with his father and the earl would most certainly not approve of a Deverell acquaintance, nor would he condone his sons gambling, or being in debt. Better, therefore, if she dealt with the matter herself and kept this strange event from becoming known to her husband. She understood now, of course, why she was the only soul disturbed by the trespasser, for that pineapple pit was just below her bedchamber’s open window. It was not, after all, a supernatural force that woke her from a deep sleep and drew her downstairs, even if she had, at first sight of him, been tempted to think so.
Ainslie squared
her shoulders. “How do I know you speak the truth about your purpose here, Mr.
Deverell?”
“Look in my coat
pocket.” He jerked his head to where the muddied garment was slung over a
Windsor chair beside the table. “Inside pocket.”
“So you see,
whatever else I am, I’m not a liar. In fact, I’m honest to a fault, so I’ve been
told.” He yawned and scratched his head with his bloodied hand, thereby making
more mess. “You may now apologize to me.”
“I beg your
pardon?”
“For doubting my
motives, holding me at knife point, and threatening to set the dogs on me, when
all I wanted was my five guineas. An amount I am owed and entirely justified in
collecting. But you suspected me of villainy at first sight, just because I do
not look the same as all Lord Brandon’s other friends. I am not like all the
other nobs, toffs and son-ofs, so you leapt to conclusions. Consequently, I
declare myself offended.”
“I leapt to—you’re
offended? You broke into this property in the dead of night, young
man. You’re very lucky I didn’t seize a hunting rifle and shoot first before
asking questions.”
He lowered his
arms and gave an amiable shrug. “Fair enough. We’ll call it even then.”
She stared at him,
trying to catch her breath. “You are in possession of considerable gall, Master
Deverell.”
“So I’ve been
told. With my wits and your beauty we’d make quite a formidable pair.” He grinned.
“You ought to run away with me. Tell you what—” He rubbed his chin with the
uninjured hand. “I’ll forfeit those five guineas his lordship owes me and take
you instead to clear his debt. I reckon I could carry you over my shoulder easy
enough.”
“I should like to
see you try.”
“Is that a
challenge?”
Copyright Jayne Fresina 2022.
DANCE WITH A DEVERELL is available now for pre-order and you can read it tomorrow, January 28th.
(Images: Candlelight Study by Ozias Leduc 1893, and The Glory of Womanhood by Thomas Benjamin Kennington 1856-1916)
He is the eldest son of Commodore Justify Deverell and Anshula “Sunny”. As a young boy he joined the navy, following in his father’s footsteps and eager to make something of his life. He is ambitious and driven, but when home on leave, he always finds time for play. And he takes his role as the eldest child very seriously. While his father is away at sea, Ram sees it as his duty to take care of the family and make sure that his mother has everything she needs.
One day, he decides that Sunny is looking tired. What
she requires— he determines— is a new frock. Something fashionable, pretty, and
a little frivolous. Something she would not spend money on for herself. So, he
sets about arranging it for her. Firstly, he must collect a debt of five
guineas, owed to him by his friend, Lord Brandon Beaufort.
Thus, he finds himself on the Beaufort country estate
one night, rather worse for wear after a few ales at the local hostelry. And
while trampling around in the dark, he manages to fall through the glass of a
pineapple pit belonging to the countess.
It is a moment that will not only change his world forever,
but hers too.
At the beginning of their story, he is seventeen— a
young man with strong views and a rebel’s heart. He knows what he wants out of
life, and he means to get it. He is bold, brazen and fearless.
But by the end of their story, he is thirty— an
ill-tempered, scarred fellow, soured by the misfortunes of fate, made bitter by
disappointment and tragedy. He has closed himself off from society and the
pleasures he once enjoyed. Where once he thought he had his world by the
unmentionables, he now feels as if it’s the other way about. The world has
turned on him. He focuses all his attention on work, which now provides his
only satisfaction.
Between them, they will push, prod and poke him into a
bath and then a clean suit of clothes. He can make all the beastly grunts he
feels necessary, but they will lure him out of his dark cave tonight. One way or
another.
Because maybe the woman he once lost will be there too
tonight. She’s a part of his story that is left undone, and despite his
fiercest efforts, he’s never been able to forget her.
Maybe— just maybe— it isn’t yet the end of their
story, after all.
**
Find out what happens this Friday, the 28th
of January, and pre-order your copy here.
He was a widower,
many years her senior, who already had two sons by his first marriage— the
eldest of whom is only two years younger than Ainslie. The earl was a strict,
cruel man, who believed that his wife was just another of his possessions— part
of his estate. And he decided that she had much to learn. She was young and
unsophisticated, having never been out in society and living all her life in
the country with her inattentive father. But for the Earl of Beaufort this was
useful— or so he thought in the beginning— since she was an empty vessel to be
filled with his ideas and opinions; to be molded into the sort of wife she
should be; the sort of wife he expected. When she dared object or question, his
young wife received a stern correction, dealt by the sting of his cane. Just
like his sons, or any servant who met with his displeasure.
So when
the earl dies, Ainslie’s first emotion is relief. By then she has a daughter of
her own, and she intends to raise this girl with all the love, guidance and
kindness that she herself never knew. Ainslie also makes it her mission to help
her stepsons find their own happiness in life too, and to improve, as much as
possible, the lives of those who live and work on the Beaufort estate. As a
widow she has a fresh start. For the first time in her life, she is not under
the thumb of any man—be it a father, or a husband. And she’s very much enjoying
her autonomy. She’s learning to live; learning about her true self. She’s even
begun to read, in secret, about something they call “Rights for Women.”
The only
problem is, a certain Ramses Deverell— seven years her junior and far too wild for his own good— has
taken it into his head to pursue Ainslie. She’s not sure why, or what he hopes
to achieve by trying to get under her skin. Or her petticoats. She’s heard about
the wagers he and his friends make in regard to seductions, so perhaps she’s
just another bet. Whatever he’s up to, it must be mischief and nothing but
trouble for her. He’s already trampled her pineapples. What next?
Ainslie wants to lead a respectable life without the slightest rumor to
endanger her daughter’s future. She’s always done what she’s told is the right
thing. She knows what her place is in the world and what is expected of her.
Ainslie’s revolution will not happen overnight. Besides, it’s her daughter’s
turn now and her place is in the background.
Apparently,
that wicked, scandalous Deverell is slightly insane. Or, perhaps, he simply
doesn’t care about rumor and gossip. He has always shown a complete disregard
for the rules and a hearty irreverence for the class system. He’s a rebel and
incredibly arrogant. It’s easy for him, of course. He’s never been put in a
cage. He's always done— and had— whatever he wants.
Yes, he’s amusing, playful, handsome and clever, but
he’s too young for her, too reckless and too tempting. And even worse than all
that, he’s a Deverell. Need anything more be said?
They should never have met; it would be better for
both of them, if they never meet again.
Ainslie has never been in love before. Would she know
it, if she felt it? And by the time she does— by the time she’s ready for her
own revolution— will it all be too late?
Find out on January 28th. Order your copy of DANCE WITH A DEVERELL here
(Image: Portrait of a woman by Sir Frances Dicksee 1887)
He’s the younger son of the Earl of Beaufort and
therefore “the spare”. As a boy, he was destined for the church. That was his
stern father’s plan, which nobody dared question. But Brandon has other dreams, and when he befriends Ramses Deverell he learns how to use his own voice and is
encouraged to stand up for what he wants. Through Deverell's support, he finds the necessary courage
and confidence in himself to become an artist.
Their friendship is forged at boarding school, when the
boys are eleven. Ramses is not much of a scholar, so Brandon attempts to help
him learn. But after only a year, Ramses decides to save his family the cost of
that education and follows his own father’s footsteps into the Royal Navy. The
two boys might have gone their separate ways then, but instead they stay in
contact and whenever Ramses is in England on leave, he meets up with Brandon.
After nineteen years, their bond is as strong as ever, and each time they are in
company together, it’s as if they’ve never been apart. They know everything about each other— even
the things they think they’ve kept secret from the world.
Many people warned him never to trust a Deverell, but Brandon
knows how lucky he is to count Ram as his oldest, most loyal friend. There is
nobody else in his life so outspoken, fearless and driven; nobody else who
could have opened his eyes to another world and new possibilities. Oh, Ram can
be trouble at times, certainly— and likes to raise eyebrows. But Brandon knows
how to handle the fellow’s moods and eccentricities, and he would stand up for
Ram, no matter what, just as his friend has always done for him.
Even so, don’t be fooled by that angelic face and his kindly, generous nature,
because when pushed he can be just as mulish and tough-skinned as his notorious
comrade.
Especially when he’s needed to pull his friend back
from the darkest abyss.
“Do-gooder,”
Ram calls him.
But like any knight in shining armor, Lord Brandon
Beaufort believes in fighting for love.
And since his best friend once helped him find the way
to happiness, he plans to repay the favour.
Happy Reading!
(Image: Portrait of a Young Gentleman by George Dawe, 1819)
In DANCE WITH A DEVERELL, the hero’s little sister, Hatshepsut, is about to attend her first proper ball. She’s eighteen and has just completed her schooling at a modern, progressive ladies’ seminary, where she met Lady Emilia Beaufort, who has this to say about her:
“She’s the
cleverest girl I ever knew. She speaks several languages, can identify all the
parts of the human body and knows fifteen different ways to incapacitate a man.
I suppose you’ll turn your nose up at her now though, just because she’s a
Deverell and her father bought her mother at a bride sale for six pounds.
But I’m not going
to stop being her friend just because of that name. She can’t help the family
she’s born into, can she? Some of the other girls put their noses in the air
and look down on Hattie. She says that Deverells don’t care what people say
about them, although, I think sometimes it does make her sad and she tries not
to show it. I shared my marshmallows with her and she showed me how to knee an
offensive gentleman in the groin. That’s how we became friends.”
All her brothers call her “Little Hat”, which she now finds exceedingly annoying. At her age she thinks they ought to drop the “little”, but as her protective, eldest brother says, “Hatshepsut, even when you are fifty, you will still by my little sister.”
Well, he might think her still too young and
silly to know anything, but tonight Hattie has a surprise in store for her
brother.
Hatshepsut is the only daughter of Commodore Justify Deverell
and his wife Anshula (“Sunny”). With four older brothers, she’s grown up having
to shout to be heard and fight to be noticed, but her large, loud family is one
full of love— even if it’s often shown in peculiar ways. She has been raised in
an unconventional home, where she is encouraged to speak her mind; to be
confident and fearless. She might lack a little feminine grace and polish, but
she doesn’t particularly care about the rules that society tries to impose upon
her in any case. She’s a woman with her own ideas and plans, and a few stuffy
old men are not about to stand in her way.
*
Lady Emilia Beaufort’s upbringing has been very
different to that of “Little Hat”. Her father, the Earl of Beaufort, was already
an old man when she was born. He was very strict, cold and often cruel: a man who believed there was no place for laughter or warm emotion in a “decent house and family”. He
preferred his children to fear, rather than love him, and he believed in
corporal punishment for anybody who dared question or displease him in any way.
