Hugo and the Maiden

by S. M. LaViolette

  She gave a dreamy sigh. “True, but I’d so fancied being able to call myself Martha Higgenbotham.”

  Hugo’s delighted laughter woke up Fergus, who gave them both a disgusted look, jumped down from his lap, and stalked off in high dudgeon.

  Hugo stood and held out his hands. Martha took them and he lifted her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a feather.

  “You’ll just have to settle for me, instead, darling.” He slid his arms around her and brought her close, until her round stomach pressed against his flat one. “Because I love you, Martha Jane Buckingham, and I am never, ever going to let you go.”

  And then he kissed her.

  Dear Reader:

  I hope you enjoyed Hugo and Martha’s adventure and had a fun time in northern Scotland and London.

  As I write this, it is 2021 and the entire globe has gone through a year that will likely get its own chapter in future history books. I must admit that it was a relief to escape modern troubles and live in the early nineteenth century this past year.

  I had a lot of fun researching this book and became especially fascinated with the island of Stroma.

  The island maintained a tiny population for centuries—there are stone structures in evidence that are thousands of years old—but the last residents finally abandoned Stroma in 1997. (see Wikipedia’s article on Stroma for lots of interesting tidbits) The island’s only inhabitants now are sheep, puffins, and other birds (and probably a few otters!).

  Through the miracle of Google Maps you can look at the satellite view of the island and see that Stroma’s lighthouse, church, and houses—many still filled with possessions—are all that remain of the tiny, once-vibrant community. It is a ghost town floating in the North Sea.

  As writers often do, I went down a research rabbit hole (several, actually) and had some interesting correspondence with a hard rock miner about the geology of Stroma. I learned a lot about cutting flagstone in the early nineteenth century and had a large section in the book about Hugo’s life as a flagstone cutter. Alas, it hit the cutting room floor.

  I also had fun researching otters, which can indeed be very vicious, albeit cute, little animals. Otters have made their way onto lists of animals (including humans) which can behave violently for no apparent reason.

  The Gloup (taken from the Old Norse word ‘gluppa’ meaning chasm) is an actual geological feature on Stroma. Although I’ve altered the caves to fit my purpose they really were used for distilling and storage of contraband and nicknamed “the malt barn”.

  I like to keep my books steamy and sexy and a character like Hugo would have made free use of the sexual slang at the time. Phrases like “getting your corn ground,” and “horny,” “dick,” and “pussy” were all in use in the nineteenth century, although they have a contemporary flavor. One of my most precious research sources on the internet is Jonathan Green’s Oxford Dictionary of Slang. Not only can you find the earliest use of slang words, complete with timelines, but there are also links to sources.

  Although I have a royal duke in the story, I deliberately left the character unnamed because he is a product of my imagination. Bevan Davies’s blackmail scheme would have been a serious threat at the time since homosexual behavior was still punishable by death under the Buggery Act of 1533. The last execution for sodomy wasn’t until 1835.

  If you’ve read other books by me, you might have noticed that I like to write stories about commoners. While dukes (and their modern equivalent, billionaires) are exciting and exotic, I believe love flourishes in all social strata and the “little people”—even sex workers like Hugo—deserve their place in romance, too.

  Estimates for the number of prostitutes in nineteenth century London vary greatly, but even if you believe the conservate numbers, there were still a shocking number of people, men and women, who earned their money as sex workers.

  While I strive for historical accuracy, this is first and foremost a romance novel. If you are interested in any of the places, people, or events mentioned in my books I always recommend you consult a primary or reliable secondary source if you wish to learn more.

  What am I working on next? Well, I have a full schedule ahead for the next year. In addition to writing another ACADEMY OF LOVE novel, the last book in THE MASQUERADERS, a third book in my LIGHTNER AND LAW series, I am also starting a new series for Kensington Publishing. It is called THE WILD WOMEN OF WHITECHAPEL and will feature three Regency ladies who work at Farnham’s Fantastical Female Fayre, an all-female circus.

  The first book in the series is THE BOXING BARONESS, a book with—you guessed it—a heroine who is a professional boxer. You can look out for that in 2022.

  I love hearing from readers. Is there a character you’d like to know more about? Questions about this story? Upcoming stories? Stories you think need to be written? If so, you can drop me an email or leave a comment on my website. Or just pop in to say ‘hello’.

  As always, I ask that you take a moment to write a quick review—even just a few words—if you liked my work. I don’t pay for reviews, so I rely on my lovely readers to share their genuine opinions and help browsing readers decide to give my books a try.

  Until my next book, I wish you all the best and lots of great reading!

  S.M. LaViolette

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at THE FOOTMAN …

  Chapter One

  London

  1802

  Iain Vale was examining a marble statue of some poor armless bloke when the door beside it flew open and a whirlwind in skirts burst into the hall.

  “I will not!” the whirlwind yelled before slamming the door, spinning around, and careening into Iain. “Ooof.” She bounced off him and stumbled backward, catching her foot in the hem of her dress in the process.

  Iain sprang forward, reached out one long arm, and caught her slim waist, halting her fall. He looked down at his armful of warm female and found surprised gray eyes glaring back at him. Her mouth, which had been open in shock, snapped shut. Iain hastily righted his bundle and took a step back.

  “Who the devil are you?” the girl demanded, brushing at her dress as though his gloved hands might have soiled it.

  “I’m the new footman, Miss.”

  The gray eyes turned steely. “Are you stupid?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m not a Miss. I am Lady Elinor, your employer’s daughter.”

  Iain’s face heated under her contemptuous eyes. He’d been spoken down to many times, but never quite so . . . effectively.

  “You are welcome, Lady Elinor.”

  “What?” she demanded. “What did you say?” Her eyes were so wide they looked to be in danger of popping out of their sockets.

  “I said, ‘you are welcome, my lady.’”

  She planted her fists on her slim hips. “I’m welcome for what?”

  “For saving you from a very nasty fall,” he retorted, unable to keep his tongue behind his teeth even though he was breaking every rule in the footman’s handbook. If such a thing existed.

  The unladylike noise that slipped from her mouth told Iain she was thinking the same thing. “You are an intolerably insolent boy. Not to mention the most ignorant footman I’ve ever known.”

  Iain couldn’t argue with her on that second point.

  “Besides,” she added, looking him up and down, “I wouldn’t have needed your clumsy rescuing if you’d not been listening at keyholes.”

  Listening at keyholes? Why the obnoxious little—

  Iain had just opened his mouth to say something foolish and most likely job-ending when the door Lady Elinor had exited so violently opened and Lady Yarmouth stood on the threshold. Her gray eyes, much like her daughter’s, moved from Lady Elinor to her newest footman and back again.

  “What is going out here, Elinor?”

  The girl scowled. “I have just asked our new footman to run away with me, Mama.”

  Iain’s jaw dropped.

  Lady Yarmouth’s lips thinned until the
y were pale pink lines. She raked the younger woman with a look designed to leave her quaking in her slippers. Her daughter glared back, un-quaked.

  “Come back inside this instant, Elinor.” The older woman turned and retreated into the room without waiting to see if her daughter obeyed.

  Lady Elinor gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes at her mother’s back before limping toward the open doorway. She stopped and turned back to Iain before entering the room.

  “You’ll catch flies if you don’t close your mouth.” She slammed the door in his face.

  Bloody hell.

  ◆◆◆

  Iain yawned. It was almost three in the morning and the festivities showed no sign of abating. Other than his encounter with Lady Elinor earlier, the evening had been quiet. Disappointingly quiet not only for his first ball, but also his first day as footman.

  The only other entertainment had been watching an overdressed dandy cast up his accounts on his dancing slippers while trying, and failing, to make it to the men’s necessary.

  Iain adjusted the lacy cuffs of his fancy new shirt and examined the stranger who looked back at him in the ornate mirror. The black livery made him appear taller than his six feet and the well-tailored coat spanned his shoulders in a way that made him look lean and dangerous rather than scrawny and puppyish. His wiry red hair had been cropped to barely a stubble and was now concealed by a white powdered wig that gave him dignity. Of course his freckles were still there, but there was nothing he could do to hide them—unlike his age.

  “You don’t look five-and-ten, Iain,” his Uncle Lonnie had said upon seeing Iain in his new clothes earlier today. He’d then grinned and squeezed Iain’s shoulder. “Go ahead and give us yer story one last time, lad.”

  The story was one his uncle had concocted when Iain first came to work in Viscount Yarmouth’s household three months ago: Iain was nineteen and had spent six years in Mr. Ewan Kennedy’s household, two as a scrub boy, two as a boot boy, and two as a footman, even though he was unusually young for that last position. Uncle Lonnie also told Lord Yarmouth that Iain had come to London seeking employment after Mr. Kennedy died and there weren’t any other suitable positions in the tiny town of Dannen, Scotland.

  That last part was the only true part of the whole story. Dannen was more a collection of shacks than a real village and there’d never been any Mr. Kennedy, nor any work as scrub boy or footman. Iain had written the letter from “Mr. Kennedy” himself, under his uncle’s direction.

  “Admiring your pretty face?”

  Iain yelped and jumped a good six inches. Female laughter echoed down the mahogany-paneled corridor. He turned to find Lady Elinor behind him, her small, almost boyish, frame propped against the wall in a very unladylike manner. Her white gown looked limp and tired, as if it were ready to go to bed. Her hair, a nondescript brown, had come loose from its moorings and fine tendrils wafted about her thin, pale face. Only her large gray eyes held any animation.

  Iain drew himself up to his full height and glared over her shoulder at nothing. “How may I be of service, my lady?”

  “Oh, stuff! You’re angry with me, aren’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m sorry for being beastly earlier. I was wrong. Pax?” She held out her hand and limped forward. Iain stared, not because of her limp—he already knew she was lame—but because of the gesture. Surely a footman wasn’t permitted to shake a lady’s hand?

  Besides, he hadn’t forgiven her. His mother and uncle both accused him of being too grudging and slow to forgive. He looked down at her little hand and chewed his lip. Maybe they were right; perhaps it might be advisable to appear to forgive her. He’d just decided to say ‘pax’ when Lady Elinor grabbed his hand.

  “Don’t be angry with me. I apologized.”

  “I’m not angry,” he lied, tugging not so subtly on his hand to free it from her grasp. He suspected it would not do to get caught holding the hand of the daughter of the house at three in the morning, or at any other time of the day or night, for that matter.

  “Why aren’t you in there,” he gestured with his chin toward the ballroom, “dancing? Er, my lady,” he added a trifle belatedly.

  She snorted and hiked up her dress, exhibiting a shocking amount of leg. “With this?”

  Iain gawked. He’d seen girl’s legs, of course, but never a lady’s leg. Her stockings were embroidered with flowers—daisies, perhaps. His groin gave an appreciative thump as he studied the gentle swell of her calf. She had shapely legs for such a tiny thing.

  She dropped her skirts. “Are you ogling my limb?”

  “What do you expect if you go around hiking up your skirt like that?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Iain squeezed his eyes shut and waited for her to start screeching. But the sound of giggling made him open them again.

  She eyed him skeptically. “You’re not like the other footmen.”

  What was Iain supposed to say to that?

  “You look very young. How long have you been a footman?”

  “Today is my first day.”

  “You shan’t keep your job very long if you argue with any other members of my family. Or ogle their limbs.”

  His face heated and he pursed his lips.

  She looked delighted by whatever she saw on his face. “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen, my lady.”

  “What a bouncer!”

  “How old are you?” Iain bit out, and then wanted to howl. At this rate, he would be jobless before breakfast.

  “Sixteen.” She stopped smiling and her eyes went dull, like a vivid sunset losing its color. “But I might as well be forty. I shan’t even have a Season.”

  “I thought all young ladies had at least one Season.” What drivel. What the devil did he know about aristocrats, Seasons, or any of it? It was as if some evil imp had taken over his body: some pixie or spirit determined to get him sacked. Or jailed. He clamped his mouth shut, vowing not to open it again until it was time to put food in it.

  Luckily his employer’s daughter was too distracted to find his behavior odd.

  “Tonight was my betrothal ball.” Her shapely, shell-pink lips turned down at the corners. “Why should my father go to the expense of a Season when he can dispose of me so cheaply without one?”

  It seemed like an odd way to talk about a betrothal but Iain kept that observation behind his teeth.

  “The Earl of Trentham is my betrothed,” she added, not in need of any responses from him to hold a conversation. “He is madly in love.”

  The silence became uncomfortable. Iain cleared his throat. “You must be very happy, then,” he said when he could bear it no longer.

  Her eyes, which had been vague and distant, sharpened and narrowed. “He’s not in love with me, you dunce. He is in love with a property that is part of my dowry. Some piece of land that is critical to a business venture he and my father have planned.”

  Iain’s flare of anger at being called dunce quickly died when he saw the misery and self-loathing on her face.

  “Lord Trentham will have his land, my father will get to take part in the earl’s investment, and I? Well, I will have—” She stopped, as if suddenly aware of what she was saying and to whom she was saying it. She glared up at him, her gray eyes suddenly molten silver. “Why am I telling you any of this? How could you ever know what it is like to be an ugly cripple? You will never be forced to marry someone who is twice your age. A man who views you with less pleasure than he does a piece of dirt.” Her mouth twisted. “I am no more than a broodmare to him.”

  Her expression shifted from agonized into a sneering mask. Iain hadn’t thought her ugly before—plain, perhaps—but, at that moment, she became ugly. Fury boiled off her person like steam from a kettle and Iain recoiled, not wanting to get burned.

  She noticed his reaction and laughed, the sound as nasty as the gleam in her eyes. “What? Do I scare you, boy?”

  Iain felt as if she’d prodded him with a red-
hot iron and he took two strides and closed the distance between them, seething at the undeserved insults and bile. He stared down at her, no idea as to what he planned to do. Not that it mattered. The second he came within reach, her hands slid up the lapels of his jacket like two pale snakes. He froze at her touch but she pushed closer. Small, firm mounds pressed hard against his chest.

  Breasts! Breasts! a distant, but euphoric, part of his mind shrieked.

  His breeding organ had already figured that out.

  Iain looked down into eyes that had become soft and imploring.

  “What is your name?” she asked, her voice husky.

  “I—” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Iain, my lady.”

  “Would you like to kiss me, Iain?” It was barely a whisper and Iain wondered if he’d heard her correctly. He cocked his head and was about to ask her to repeat herself, when she stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his.

  Iain had kissed girls before. Just last week he’d done a whole lot more than kiss with one of the housemaids in the stables. But this kiss was different. It was a gentle, tentative offering, rather than a taking. To refuse it was somehow unthinkable. He leaned lower and slid his hands around her waist, pulling her closer. She was so slim his hands almost spanned her body. She made a small noise in her throat and touched the side of his face with caressing fingers, her pliant body melting against his.

  “You bloody bastard!”

  The girl jumped back and screamed just as Iain’s head exploded. He staggered, his vision clouding with multi-colored spangles and roaring agony. When he reached out to steady himself on the wall, he encountered air. A foot kicked his legs out from under him and he slammed onto his back, his skull cracking against the wood floor.

  “Lord Trentham, no!” Lady Elinor’s voice was barely audible above the agonizing pounding filling Iain’s head.

  A body—Lord Trentham’s?—dropped onto Iain’s chest with crushing force. Soft but powerful hands circled his neck and squeezed.