Oh My Laird!: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  Dev rolled his eyes. “Lucius…sod off.”

  “That’s my lad. Where’s Charles?”

  Dev nodded to one side of the room where Charles was trying to explain that he wasn’t really a direct descendant of Vikings. But since Aunt Bertie had decided that he definitely was, it was a rather one-sided argument.

  “God, I love you lot.” Ian was filled with the joy of the moment and several tankards of the very good Chillendale ale that Charles had brought with him to assist in the celebrations.

  “What a lairdly thing to say, Ian. Just right for the moment.” Julia giggled.

  Lucius eyed her. “Not at that ale, are you?”

  Her hand went to her swollen belly. “Absolutely not. Besides one tankard of that and I’d have to excuse myself every five minutes.”

  “Well an’ I am a Laird. Or I will be at some point. Not soon of course, I hope…”

  “You’re going to complicate that sentence and lose track of the point, old lad. Give it up and get going with the honeymoon.” Dev grinned.

  “Ian? Are we ready?” Amelia moved to his side, a vision in deepest burgundy red and a fur-trimmed cape. “I’m looking forward to the journey this time around. Much better than last time.”

  “Indeed, lass. I agree on that.” He beamed. “You’re well then?”

  “Of course.” She beamed back. “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.”

  Dev and Lucius exchanged glances, but remained mum, and at the end of a long and wonderfully happy day, Ian and Amelia, Mr. and Mrs. McPherson, were sent on their way to their first stop—a lovely little inn just north of London, courtesy of the Earl and Countess of Penvale.

  After they’d gone, three couples sprawled around the remains of the wedding feast and Aunt Bertie joined them, removing her boots without even an apology.

  Well, six of them sprawled. Julia relaxed in a way that eased her growing belly. She sat on the floor with her legs folded up and crossed in front of her.

  “That went off very well, I think.” Bertie nodded.

  “Yes indeed,” Léonie yawned.

  “Just perfect. Everything was perfect.” Julia sighed.

  “It couldn’t have been a lovelier day,” smiled Hannah. “Do you think they’ll let us know when the baby comes?”

  Seven faces smiled.

  “And they thought they could keep it a secret from us?“ laughed Lucius. “That’ll be the day…”

  A couple of miles away at the same moment…

  “Do you think we should have told them, Ian?” Amelia was tucked into his arms in the carriage.

  “I dinna think we needed to, lass. Happiness shows and ours is like a fire on a dark night…”

  She sighed with delight at that, and replied with the only words she could manage at that moment.

  “Oh, my Laird…”

  THE END

  Final Thoughts

  Yes, this might be the end for Ian and Amelia’s romance – although it’s the beginning of a new and happy life for them – but you can be sure that one or two folks might show up in future stories from Sahara Kelly. She likes to play with old friends as well as new ones.

  If you’ve enjoyed this trip back in time, but missed the earlier tales, here’s a quick peek at how this whole storyline developed.

  JULIA AND THE DEVIL

  (How Julia married Sir Lucius Gordon)

  EXCERPT:

  “’Needs must when the devil drives’, eh?” The man sprawled in the large chair ran a hand through his already untidy hair. “Who the hell said such a stupid thing anyway?”

  “I believe it was Rabelais, sir. Or possibly Shakespeare. I’m not quite certain.”

  “You astound me, Sidney. I had thought your knowledge boundless. And you seem damned sure this is the only course of action available to me?”

  The other occupant of the room rolled his eyes and let a sigh escape. “It is. Of that fact, I am quite convinced.”

  “I’m not. Convince me again.” Sir Lucius Gordon struggled to focus on his valet. The man seemed to be developing a second head and the rest of him was getting a bit blurry.

  Fuck. That’ll teach me to drink cheap brandy.

  A dull ache was signaling the onset of one hell of a hangover. Lucius knew he stank worse than a three-day-old fish, and that he was caught between the proverbial rock and the equally proverbial hard place—a fact that had sent him out on his ill-advised drinking spree to begin with.

  His patient companion leaned forward. “As you wish, sir. Pay attention.” Sidney Wadsworth was, without question, the only man in the world who could issue such a command to “Mad Devil” Gordon and get away with it.

  Lucius nodded, and then wished he hadn’t. He waved a hand instead. “Go on, man. Keep your voice low, though. Have pity on this poor head of mine.”

  “You are flat broke, sir. This house is mortgaged to the hilt, as they say, and every single stick of furniture that could have been sold has been. What’s left wouldn’t fetch a penny.”

  Lucius’s finger found a familiar hole in the leather of his chair. He poked at it absently. “Your point would be…”

  “I have no intention of permitting you to end up in the Fleet, sir. No Wadsworth has ever allowed his master to sink so low.” Sidney drew his spine up into a ramrod-straight position. “You still have outstanding gaming debts, your mistresses, when you had them, cost you more than you could afford, and your tailor…well, I understand the man is already spreading rumors that you’re done up.”

  “Damn him.” Lucius’s upper lip curled. “He did an appalling job of fitting my last jacket too. Of all the nerve.”

  Sidney was not amused. “It’s no joking matter, sir. In a matter of weeks, foreclosure notices are going to start appearing along with the debt collectors. You are unable to pay. To put the matter in a nutshell, you haven’t sixpence to scratch with, and that’s the truth. You’re rolled up. Foot and guns.”

  Lucius blinked. “That bad?”

  “Yes, sir.” A firm stare pinned him to his chair and penetrated his drunken stupor. “That bad.”

  “So I have to wed? Some cit with money? There are no other options?”

  “None at all sir. Few other women would even consider you marriageable at this point. Your reputation…well, it hasn’t exactly stood you in good stead when it comes to the Marriage Mart, now, has it?”

  “I have a title, Wadsworth.” The words came out with more of a whining tone than Lucius intended.

  “And a damn good thing you do. Otherwise, I doubt even Mrs. Willoughby could be induced to marry you.”

  Lucius swore with fluidity. “Since when do women have to be induced to marry me?”

  “Since you let matters degenerate into their current state, that’s when.” Sidney lost some of his composure. “Since you kept gambling, losing hand after hand. Since your remaining friends gave up trying to help you. Since your consumption of brandy surpassed your ability to handle it. Since you started to come home to this almost empty mausoleum every night stinking of cheap wine and even cheaper whores…” His angry voice tailed off.

  “I take exception to that remark, Sidney.” He peered beneath his eyelashes at his valet. “They were very expensive whores.”

  His valet pulled himself together with an effort. “There is no other alternative and you know it.” He paused. “Look, lad, I’ve been with your family for more years than I can remember, and my father before me. I won’t serve you ill by letting matters get any worse. It’s Mrs. Willoughby or the Fleet. And the Fleet isn’t an option.”

  Lucius sighed. “Ah, fuck it, Sidney. Then Mrs. Willoughby it is.”

  To find out how Lucius avoided the Fleet and astonished himself with his adventures, click HERE to buy the story from Amazon.com.

  *~~*~~*

  As soon as Lucius was settled, his friend Charles got himself into a bit of a pickle through no fault of his own. Wills and inheritances are devilish things at the best of times…

  THE F
IFTH WIFE

  (How Charles Fontaine gained a title and a wife at the same time, over Hannah’s objections.)

  EXCERPT:

  “There’s been a terrible mistake.”

  Charles Fontaine stared aghast at the sheet of paper in his hand. “There has to be. It’s impossible. Can’t happen. Not to me. No. No no no.” He shook his head in denial.

  “I’m afraid there is no mistake, sir.”

  “But I’ve barely heard of these people, let alone met them. How can I be related?”

  Stanley Tothill, who looked every inch the lawyer he was, maintained an impartial gaze on the man in front of his desk. “Sir, you know that there is a Lord Penvale, Baldur Asmund, in your family tree.”

  “I believe I’ve heard the name, but I’ve never met him. Don’t even know where the blasted man lives. Lived.” His response was grudging, and he knew it. But at this moment, it was the best he could do because he really couldn’t recall anything about the Penvales or anyone named Asmund.

  Tothill leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his ample belly. “Lord Penvale’s mama was your grandmother’s sister.”

  “So she was my great aunt.” He frowned. “That makes Lord Penvale my…what, exactly?”

  “Second cousin, I believe. Perhaps once removed? ” The lawyer frowned as well. “I’m not one hundred percent positive about that, but I can assure you the rest of these documents are clear and accurate. You are the next male in line to inherit the Penvale title. No doubt about it.”

  “I don’t want it. There must be someone else.”

  “There isn’t. Which is why you are here.”

  Charles sighed. “I gave up a trip to spend the week with friends I haven’t seen in quite some time to meet with you, Mr. Tothill. And now you tell me that I’m going to be a Lord? I don’t want to be Lord of anything.”

  “Well I’m sorry about that, Lord Penvale, but as of today, you are indeed the holder of that title.”

  “So the original passed away.” He returned his gaze to the last will and testament of a relative he’d never met. “And without sons, obviously.”

  “Indeed. There was no male issue, or any other male in the direct line. An unfortunate situation. Lord Penvale lost his first wife in childbirth, and also his second. His third succumbed to the ague, and the fourth met her end in a riding accident.”

  “Good God.” Charles blinked at that piece of information. “Marriage to him was a death sentence.”

  Tothill repressed a grin. “Not an inaccurate description, I suppose, although I prefer to think of it as a run of bad luck. However, his fifth wife seems to be quite well.”

  “Five?” Charles sagged against the desk. “Well, I have to hand it to him. I don’t suppose the family motto was ‘Never Give Up’ in Latin or something?”

  “I have no idea. Although if it was, I would assume it would have been in Norse.”

  “Of course. The Viking inheritance.” Once again, Charles sighed. He was well over six feet tall with dirty blond hair, so there was no denying the ancestry that linked him to that line. He also had the obligatory blue eyes and a broad set of shoulders to go with them. It had not been easy at Eton and Cambridge, but once he’d achieved his full height, few dared bully him beyond what was acceptable.

  Right now, he could have done without the height, the eyes and the hair color. But he was stuck with them, as well as this damnable will.

  He gave up, reached for a chair and lowered himself down in resignation, ignoring the sound of London outside the windows and the crackle of the fire at the far end of the room. “Very well, sir. Give me the facts. I’m not hard up, but any financial gain from the estate will always be welcome. What, other than the lordly coffers, do I inherit?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. There is no fortune, the actual estate in terms of acreage was sold a generation ago, and it appears that the only things left are the title…”

  “And?” Charles lifted an eyebrow as the man paused.

  “And…er…a wife.”

  To find out more about this intriguing inheritance, and what she does to try and avoid it, read Charles and Hannah’s story HERE from Amazon.com.

  *~~*~~*

  Of course Delany Deverell couldn’t avoid Cupid’s arrow, not after his friends have succumbed. He tried very hard, but a certain face changed his mind…

  DEVERELL’S OBSESSION

  (How Léonie Girard discovered she had a double, and that Delaney Deverell had an obsession.)

  EXCERPT:

  Her eyes spoke to him in a wordless language he understood deep within his soul.

  They told of joy and sorrow, laughter and tears. Of pain, passion and a longing for something he knew only he could give.

  Who was she? He had no idea. She had come to him as part of the estate, a long-lost memento of his family’s wanderings in the past.

  He had dated her clothing to at least fifty years earlier, but her expression was as fresh as if he’d just been introduced to her at Almack’s. Her hair was richly shaded, sunny brown in some places, shiny black silk in others, depending on the light.

  Her lips were ripe and warm, the deep pink of the soft bow gracing her blouse. They teased and tempted, and he could have sworn that they’d pouted at him a time or two.

  She was modestly garbed, as befitted a lady of her time, so she was no peasant wench posing for a young painter who had neglected to sign his work.

  No, she had an air about her, a look of composure and confidence that was bred into a woman of rank. Her skin was creamy silk and her cheeks flushed as if she’d hurried because she was late for the sitting. Were they always so rosy? Or had she dared to add a touch of rouge before posing?

  He inclined toward the former, since she didn’t seem the sort of woman to enhance her appearance. Her face seemed modest in a certain light, yet seductive in others. Did she know?

  He couldn’t tell by staring into those emerald green eyes.

  The ones that had haunted him ever since she arrived to take up residence in his house. He found it hard to believe she’d been with him for less than a year, because she seemed part of his life, part of his every waking hour. He saw her the moment he arose, and her soft glance followed him into sleep.

  In fact, that glance followed him everywhere—which had been unnerving at first—but then he’d become accustomed to her curiosity about his life. No matter where he went in his room, her eyes followed him, yet they did not judge, nor laugh, nor deride whatever he was up to. They merely showed interest…fascination perhaps?

  Delaney Deverell sighed and turned away from the portrait hanging opposite his bed on the wall of his rooms. His friend Charles Fontaine was right.

  She was his obsession.

  You can find out who Dev’s obsession turned out to be, and how he overcame his reluctance to commit his heart, by picking up his (and Léonie’s) story HERE from Amazon.com.

  And Sahara thanks you for your interest in her Regencies! There will be more to come.

  About the Author

  Sahara Kelly is always happy to explain that her spelling errors aren’t really errors, since she was born and raised in England, where an extra “u” is quite in order. She likes to think it adds colour to her writing. Sadly, it’s not a widely held belief in the United States, so she’d like you to know she still retains a lot from her English childhood even though you won’t see much of it in her spelling, which has to confirm to USA standards rather than those of the UK.

  Arriving in America with her almost-complete collection of Leslie Charteris’ Saint novels and a passion for Monty Python, Sahara’s new life eventually expanded to include a husband, offspring, citizenship, and a certain amount of acclimation to her new surroundings. (She still cherishes that extra ‘u’ though.)

  After more than two decades of writing, Sahara is now enjoying the greater freedom offered to authors by the rapidly expanding self-publishing scene and looking forward to many more such experiences. Being freed of
restraints has opened doors—for Sahara and many other writers. There are now no impediments; no obstructions barring the path from writer to reader. Which is, in many ways, exactly as originally intended when that first storyteller sat on a rock outside her cave, tugged her bearskin around her shoulders and smiled at her kids across the open fire with the words “Once upon a time...” (or however it sounded several million years ago.)

  To find out more about Sahara Kelly and her writing, please drop by her website and visit her at:

  The Website of Sahara Kelly

  This is where Sahara shares none of the intimate details of her life, but will present you with a list of books she’d like you to buy so that she can go do research on a beach in Aruba and be pampered with massages accompanied by drinks with umbrellas in them. She’ll send you a postcard. Thank you.

  When not dreaming of lazing on tropical beaches, Sahara has a relatively active social presence on the Internet. Take a look:

  Follow Sahara on Twitter: http://twitter.com/writersaharak

  Friend her on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/sahara.kelly

  See what she’s blogging about: http://writersaharakelly.blogspot.com

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