by Kelly Bowen
April will also see the publication of a great, big, fun anthology of novellas and short stories, Dukes by the Dozen, a baker’s dozen of your favorite historical romance authors putting on the duke, including yours truly with The Duke and the April Flowers. Order your copy of Dukes by the Dozen!
May is when my next True Gentlemen comes out, A Lady of True Distinction. Hawthorne Dorning either finds a way to turn his family’s vast botanical resources into a successful commercial venture, or the estate the Dornings have called home for centuries could be broken up. He loves the land and he’s never shied away from hard work, but he knows nothing about creating perfumes or fragrances.
Margaret Summerfield has put aside her passion for scent-making to tend to the serious business of raising her little nieces. She’s no longer the girl who wandered the countryside by the hour, lost in the pleasures of nature, nor does she want to be. Hawthorne needs her help, but what does he have that could possibly tempt to Margaret to entangle herself with his dreams? Order your copy here! (Excerpt below.)
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Thanks so much for being one of my wonderful readers!
Grace Burrowes
Read on for excerpt from When a Duchess Says I Do!
Duncan Wentworth and Matilda Wakefield are engaging in rash behavior, again…
Matilda could enjoy Duncan Wentworth as an intimate respite, a boon, an unlooked-for pleasure, but she’d have to let him go. If she cared for him at all, she’d have to let him go.
“We would suit,” Duncan said, his hand moving slowly on Matilda’s back. “I am almost certain we would suit.”
He could speak coherently, the blighter. His heartbeat was faster, some satisfaction, but he was entirely self-possessed, despite the arousal pressing against Matilda’s belly. In bed, Duncan Wentworth would be formidable. His hand on her back said he’d be tender, too, and if she was starved for anything in this life, it was tenderness.
“This is not what I had planned,” Matilda said.
“Nor I.”
How bemused he sounded. Matilda tarried in his arms for another luscious half minute before she realized that he’d left up to her even the decision of when to abandon his embrace. He’d hold her until springtime, if that was what she wanted.
And it was.
* * *
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Read on for an excerpt from A Lady of True Distinction!
Hawthorne Dorning has many skills, a gift for wooing the lady he esteems greatly is not among them.
“Do you worry that becoming my wife will mean you have less to give your nieces?” he asked. It would never have occurred to Thorne—or to his siblings—that marrying Margaret would mean he had less to give Dorning Hall or to any of its ventures.
Women were subject to a different and less rational calculus, though.
“Something like that,” she said. “Right now, the children are happy here. Any change in my circumstances, even a change for the better, and I give Bancroft a weapon to use against me. Marrying you would be a selfish choice on my part. I harbored a tendresse for you in my youth, you know.”
She was refusing Thorne’s suit, and yet, he was pleased with her admission. “I was likewise preoccupied with you. The other girls were loud, fluttery, and silly. You were mysterious and quiet. They idled in the market square, you struck off across the fields with a basket on your arm.”
And I followed you. Thorne’s dignity required him to keep that to himself—for now. Young Margaret had occasionally gone wading on hot summer days, and the sight of her ankles and calves had been the stuff of fevered adolescent dreams.
“I saw you swimming once, you know,” she said. “In the mill pond at dusk. The other boys had gone home and you stayed there, naked as Adonis, floating on your back as the stars came out.”
“Margaret Summerfield, I’m shocked.” Thorne was also—and this had not been on his agenda either—in love. Not merely smitten with the quiet, wandering girl, but overtaken by a slow, sweet rise of affection and tenderness for the sensible, calm woman at his side.
What an inconvenient time to succumb to the yearnings of the heart….
* * *
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B Is for Beautiful Secret
B is for Beautiful Secret
* * *
By Vanessa Riley
From the pen of Mr. William Carruthers…
March 8, 1819
To Mr. Augustus Sedgewick,
The honor of your presence is requested in the offices of Mr. William Carruthers, solicitor, at the date and time noted on the enclosed card. The purpose of this appointment is to discuss the transfer of a sum into your keeping, and to discuss further terms relating to an additional consideration. Time is of the essence.
Your Servant,
William Carruthers
* * *
March 22, 1819
To Mr. Augustus Sedgewick,
The honor of your presence is requested in the offices of Mr. William Carruthers. A first notification of this meeting must have been missed. Your presence is duly required to discuss the transfer of a large sum into your keeping. Time is of the essence.
Your Servant,
William Carruthers
Prologue
March 29, 1819, London, England
* * *
A letter arrived at Augustus Sedgewick’s home off of Barebinder Lane. It had come from Town and at such an early hour, six in the morn. Dread swirled in his gut. Pulling his dressing gown tighter, he took the note, found the smallest coin in his purse and handed it to the messenger.
Doors closed, August wheezed a breath. The cold house was quiet. He refused to awaken his youngest sisters with more bad news. They’d been through too much these past two years.
He tiptoed to the parlor. After stoking the hearth to a high blaze, he moved to his favorite chair, the one best for viewing his watercolors hanging above the mantel.
Hmmm, another bill from Mr. Carruthers?
August had burnt a prior one and used the excuse of a cough to delay a requested meeting with the last. What could be so urgent? Fumbling with the wax seal, he prepared to see another family debt.
The words on the page stumbled him. His heart raced. Twenty thousand pounds? Twenty thousand to win a benefactor’s challenge? The challenge had conditions. He’d have to sell his art to win the money. Twenty thousand pounds could provide so much for the sisters he had to protect, but sacrifice his art?
Never.
No.
Maybe.
For Louisa and Eliza, yes.
A few more jots of Carruthers’ formal hand revealed the worst provision. August would have to sell his treasures and invest the proceeds in trade, a warehouse owned by Mary-Anne Nettles, the one person in London who refused to speak with him.
1
April 5, 1819, London, England
In the tiny bishop’s office of St. George’s, Mary-Anne Nettles couldn’t stop snipping away at her client’s bodice. It was tight, cinched corset tight.
The young woman held still, except for her stuttered breaths.
The duchess, the bride’s mother, hovered and tugged a slipping robe onto her daughter’s shoulders. “Much longer?”
“I’m halfway done.” Mary-Anne hoped her voice sounded strong, confident, not fragile or shrill like a goblet shattering on the floor. “I’ll make it perfect.”
A bride’s gown had to be perfect—light and airy, wafting like
rose petals in the wind. A lady was supposed to glide down the aisle, turn heads from her beauty, her style—not for carrying a bastard child.
The duke, the bride’s father, sat in the corner with a rolled cigar in his mouth. His wrinkled face had deep crevices, gathers like pleating, places for his smoke to collect along with concern and impatience and disappointment.
Mary-Anne’s commitment to each of her clients was to keep every bustline, every waistline, and every bulge, sculpted and timeless. So here she stood in the bishop’s office hiding a bulging secret beneath yards of satin and lace.
“My daughter’s wedding starts at ten o’clock sharp,” Her Grace said. The duchess had moved to the small window. Her face—ashy and long, turned toward the grandfather clock. “That’s forty minutes from now.”
Mary-Anne knew time intimately, how it crawled when no one cared, how it exploded when someone criticized, how it froze when bad choices won. She nodded and kept working—a pin here, a tuck there, cutting, cutting, cutting.
A swipe to her forehead dampened her glove. The bishop’s hot office. It was too hot for calf-skinned gloves, but she’d not remove them. Her scars would show, but she had bigger problems. The dress didn’t fit.
Tick-tock.
“Can it be fixed, Miss Nettles?” The duchess had a squished-up smile, with lips pulled tight. Was she thinking of excuses about the pregnancy? Preparing for the gossip that would ruin their family name. Wayward Daughter. Immoral Daughter.
“I can fix it, Your Grace.” The words sounded muffled, vibrating the pins in Mary-Anne’s mouth. Big, taut knots, knots stronger than the ones she used to bind coarse fabric had settled in her stomach.
Tick-tock.
A vision for the best way to fix the bridal gown usually came by now.
Tick-tock.
Thirty minutes left.
Her hands sweated more.
She snipped the final threads holding the lacy bodice to skirt. “Now, I can remake this, ma’am. Hold…hold still.”
The bride’s reddened gaze met hers, and for a moment, a feeling mirrored between them. A feeling that couldn’t be described in a single word or emotion. It was desperation and sorrow and loneliness all rolled up into a ball and tossed about like a discarded rag.
“Miss Nettles,” the bride said, “I can’t wed like this.” She pointed to her protruding stomach, one that looked as if a barrel hoop had been shoved beneath the cream satin. Her sleek elbow length satin gloves formed a nest about her babe. “Everyone will know, Miss Nettles.”
Mary-Anne adjusted her brass spectacles and stole a breath, a short, low one, sweeping it across her parched lips. “They won’t know your secret. I promise.”
Tick-tock.
Stalling even more, she snapped the fine satin bodice. It puckered. No slack, no room to wiggle, no hope.
Why couldn’t she do this?
Where was her miracle idea?
The bride fidgeted and pawed again at the gaping hole Mary-Anne’s shears had made. “I’m ru-ruin-ed, ruined.”
Those words, the world’s worst words cast their dark magic about the room.
The duchess stopped fanning.
The brooding father quit puffing his cigar.
Tick-tock.
Twenty minutes.
Standing and stretching as if he’d borne enough, the duke tossed his cigar into the hearth flames. “Then stitch up the dress as best you can and be done, Miss Nettles.” The tone was harsh, a heavy-handed voice. “Let’s get on with it.”
Tick-tock.
The bride sobbed, harder.
Mary-Anne couldn’t give up. She grabbed more pins from her reticule, her bag of wonders-and-what-ifs. “Sir, if you give me a few more minutes, I’ll make the lines of the dress float. I’ll give her a silhouette which will draw every eye… to her face.”
“You can do that?” The duke leaned against the mantel, his brows raising with his tone. “Then get to it, woman.”
Tick-tock.
Forcing her voice to sound calm and assured, she said, “It’s a miracle bodice, you see. I believe…I know there’s enough extra fabric tucked in the pleats to make all this work.”
The duchess moved from peeking out the window. “The dress was fine two weeks ago.”
The duke snorted. “Yes, two weeks, several cakes and pheasants ago.”
His admonishment was loud, heartless, hopefully not discernible by the crowds gathering in the pews. As if he knew he’d said too much, he bowed his head and fled.
Tick-tock.
The duchess went back to pacing and poking at the window curtains. She didn’t need to look to see who’d come for the ceremony. Everyone who was anyone would come to witness the duchess’ eldest marry. Mary-Anne’s work would be on display again, again not acknowledged, but this was part of her service, anonymity.
Each whip of the duchess’ fan lifted silver threads, hovering and floating them like hot air balloons. In a blink, Mary-Anne saw a columnar dress with lace sweeping up the sides like ropes mooring the balloons—that would solve everything. “I’ll make the focus up, up to your bosom. It’s a fine one miss, enhanced by your condi—blushing.”
Mary-Anne took pins and reformed the overdress drawing material upward, sculpting the fabric as if it were clay, forming the drape of Greek goddess’ robes. She removed her spectacles for the close work, the tiny stitches holding in place the former box pleats. Adding slight pin-tucks, she molded the satin about the breasts.
Tick-tock.
Sliding her glasses back into place from the vaulted position atop her tight chignon, Mary-Anne finished her sewing, double knotted her thread, and clipped the loose ends.
Tick-tock. Done. Ten minutes to spare.
A sigh, a full-bodied sigh, a sigh with ribbons and lace and embroidery released which Mary-Anne strung together in a cough. Her vision stood boldly in front of her. The overlay looked as if it had always been designed to bunch at the bosom and cascaded down to the sweep of the daughter’s hips.
“There, my dear.” Mary-Anne stood tall and dug into her reticule for the small mirror that always sank to the bottom of her oversized bag. “The styling is perfect again, better.”
“Mama?” The girl wouldn’t take the mirror, lifting her hands high as if Mary-Anne had offered her flames and kerosene. “I can’t look. Mama, what do you think?”
The duchess came away from the window. Her skin was a little bluer, a little more ashen as if she’d held her breath. “Lovely, and your stomach is hidden.”
Both ladies began to cry loud, ugly tears.
Mary-Anne wanted to go away, to give them privacy, to retreat to the pews or even further—her horse and gig at the mews.
Blinking to rid her own eyes of moisture, she pulled out lacy handkerchiefs and offered them. “You two must calm. The ceremony will start soon. Two minutes.”
“You did well, Miss Nettles,” the mother said.
The bride smoothed wrinkles from the duchess’ salmon pink gown which had winged epaulettes at the shoulders—a style that was the rage with some of the fashionable modistes of Bond Street. Those designers catered to the needs of the Ton in the open, not like Mary-Anne who worked from the shadows.
The victory of saving the day started to sting a little as it always did, but the tense knot in her gut released. This moment wasn’t about Mary-Anne. It was about a bride, one who would not be shamed today. That meant the world to Mary-Anne, and it honored the memory of her sister, the one bride she couldn’t help.
“Is there anything more required, ma’am?”
The duchess took her daughter’s palm and spun her. “I see why you were recommended, Miss Nettles.”
What? She stilled the quivers claiming her fingers and again offered the small mirror to the daughter. “Recommended, ma’am?”
“Yes,” the duchess said, “A friend of my son, Mr. Sedgewick. He said you’d prove helpful. He was right. You’ve earned your fee.” She leaned closer, sort of squinting, her proud thin
nose lifting. “Did you help at his sister’s wedding?”
Mr. Sedgewick recommended her?
The man who quibbled over the price of her services? That Mr. Sedgewick? He offered a good word on her behalf? She chewed on the inside of her gum to keep a smile or frown or any confused expression from showing. “It’s my policy, ma’am, to never comment upon or confirm any person as a patron or potential patron.”
The duchess fingered her heavy pearl necklace and stepped closer. “Silence is good. I like your integrity.”
The door opened, and the duke came back inside. “Are we ready to begin? If we wait any longer, the groom will up his demands.”
His Grace came near and seemed to give his daughter a quick look with his monocle. “Good job. We might be able to get away with this and not affect your sisters.”
He pulled coins from his mournful ebony waistcoat. “For you. Something extra to help you remember your duty.”
His sneer and bribe were unnecessary. Her duty—silence and remembering her place—those words were branded like invisible tattoos to Mary-Anne’s soul. Never could she brag about her skills or her long list of influential clients. Her shop would remain the ton’s dirty little secret.
She took the money. “Always, Your Grace.”
“Good, Miss Nettles. You understand.”
His prideful tone almost made Mary-Anne refuse the shiny coins. Almost. Her papa didn’t raise a fool. She put the money into her reticule and allowed her hand to fist about it. The coldness of the metal penetrated her thin gloves before she released them to the recesses of the purple satin bag. Someday, somehow, her designs would be known. Her sacrifices and hard work would be rewarded out in the open. It only took one buyer to request her services, one who wasn’t ashamed of being her customer.