I spent over a year researching England in medieval times, reading countless academic texts, and ultimately attending a university summer school on medieval life. Those studies led me to focus on the mid-14th century, a time of pageantry, of tournaments, chivalry, and armed campaigns. It was a time when noble ladies stood as regent for their husbands and ruled their lands and people whenever those lords were absent—which was frequently, and often for years. Life in castle and town was colorful and communal, and there was, necessarily, a greater balance of shared responsibility and standing between the sexes through this time. Consequently, the mid-1300s seemed a time well-suited to a Stephanie Laurens’ romance—a time when our heroine as well as our hero could believably have been forceful, intelligent, headstrong, and willful, and proactive on the widest stage.
Most factual details described in Desire’s Prize—details of castle life, Edward’s campaign, the tournament, herb lore, the journey, even of the city of Hereford in that time—have been drawn from academic sources. All else is purely the product of my imagination, albeit informed by said sources. Two specific details might have surprised. First, the notion of a lightning bolt killing a fully armored knight is drawn from fact. During Edward III’s campaigns in France, both the English and French armies lost hundreds of knights to lightning strikes, and it was common practice not to wear full plate armor unless battle was imminent. Added to that, the country with the greatest frequency of lightning strikes per annum is, in fact, England. The use of the term “booty” might also strike readers as anachronistic, but that word, used in the sense of valuable goods seized in war, predates the historical period in which this book is set, and was the term so used in this time.
In terms of chronology of writing, this work was completed after Captain Jack’s Woman, and before Devil’s Bride. In terms of characters, therefore, Alaun and Eloise fall between Jack and Kit on the one hand, and Devil and Honoria on the other. Discerning readers will detect the echoes in that all three works are based on the emotional challenges encountered when two exceptionally strong characters fall in love.
If you enjoyed DESIRE’S PRIZE, you might enjoy Stephanie’s recent Regency-era romance novel:
THE TAMING OF RYDER CAVANAUGH
The Honorable Miss Mary Cynster always gets what she wants. As the last unwed Cynster female of her generation, she is determined to remain in charge of her life and of the man she will marry. At the very bottom of her list of potential husbands is Ryder Cavanaugh, the devastating Marquess of Raventhorne, an overwhelming and utterly unmanageable lion of the ton.
But destiny has a different plan.
Ryder needs Mary as his wife, not just because she is delightful, fiery, and tempting, but because he values all she could be. When fate and circumstance hand him the chance, he claims Mary as his marchioness…only to discover that what he truly desires is not just to take her hand in marriage, but to capture her heart.
A Regency-era historical romance in the classic style. Includes multiple, explicit love scenes.
LENGTH: Novel of 128,000 words
Short Excerpt from THE TAMING OF RYDER CAVANAUGH:
CHAPTER ONE
May 1837, London
“He’s the one you’ve set your sights on?”
Mary Alice Cynster jumped a foot into the air—or so it felt. As her jarred senses reestablished contact with terra firma, fury seared through her. Swinging around, she glared—at her irritating, infuriating, utterly irrepressible nemesis. Quite why Ryder Cavanaugh had elected himself to the role she had no idea, but since a brief encounter at her sister Henrietta’s engagement ball two nights ago, he’d been dogging her heels, assiduously transforming himself into a hideously distracting pest.
Before them, the Felsham House ballroom was awash with the creme de la creme of the ton, the silks and satins of ladies’ gowns bright splashes of color against the black of gentlemen’s evening coats. Coiffed heads gleamed, jewels glittered, and hundreds of well-modulated voices rose in polite cacophony.
She’d retreated into the shadows beneath the minstrels’ gallery the better to consider her target. She’d been so absorbed studying him, she hadn’t noticed Ryder drawing near; despite his size, he moved smoothly and silently. As usual, his impeccable, severely styled evening clothes only served to emphasize the fluid strength harnessed within his long, muscled frame. With one broad, elegantly-clad shoulder negligently propped against the wall alongside her, he regarded her with his customary, hooded, lazy lion gaze.
Others were often fooled by Ryder’s amiable, gentle giant, lackadaisical air; she never had been. Behind those brilliant hazel eyes lurked a mind as incisive, decisive, and ruthlessly capable as her own.
Yet despite the deflective glamour of his normally impenetrable languid sophistication, from his tone and the fact his lids had briefly risen, his eyes momentarily widening, identifying the object of her interest—by surreptitiously looking over her shoulder—had genuinely surprised him.
Uttering a mental damn!—he was the very last person she would have chosen to share that information with—she fixed her gaze basilisk-like on his green and gold eyes. “Go. Away.”
Predictably, the order had no effect; she might as well have saved her breath. Ryder—correctly styled the fifth Marquess of Raventhorne, a title he’d inherited on his father’s death six years before—was widely acknowledged as a law unto himself. There were few gentlemen society’s grandes dames recognized as such—noblemen with sufficient personal power that it was deemed wiser to allow them to stalk through the ton’s ballrooms, drawing rooms, and dining rooms without let or hindrance, as long as they abided by society’s rules, at least well enough to pass. It was one of those unvoiced social accommodations.
Even as she held her ground—and her glare—Mary was well aware of all the aspects of Ryder’s personal power.
At such close quarters, it was impossible not to be.
As if contemplating a curious, potentially succulent morsel, he looked down at her; as she was not only the youngest of the current generation of Cynster girls but also the shortest, and he stood well over six feet tall, that degree of down should have been intimidating, yet she’d never felt intimidated by him. Distracted, thrown off-balance, even mentally tripped to the point of feeling she was somehow falling, yes, but threatened in even the smallest way, no. Then again, she’d known him in passing for as long as she could remember; their families were among the oldest in the ton, and so knew each other in the way such families did.
His lushly lashed hazel eyes had remained unwaveringly fixed on her face, on her eyes. “You can’t seriously imagine Rand will be a suitable husband for you.”
She tipped up her chin, but looking down her nose at him was beyond even her. “I should think it patently obvious that that is a determination I will make for myself.”
“Don’t bother. You won’t suit.”
“Indeed?” She hesitated, but if anyone would know his half-brother’s aspirations, Ryder would. She arched her brows and infused sufficient disbelieving hauteur into her tone to, she hoped, tempt him to share. “And why is that?”
While he considered obliging, and she waited, she wondered if perhaps denying having any particular interest in Randolph—Lord Randolph Cavanaugh, one of Ryder’s half-brothers and the nearest to him in age—might have been the wiser course…but when at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball she’d summarily dismissed Ryder—declining an invitation most ladies of the ton, young, middle-aged, or ancient, would kill to receive—she’d unintentionally piqued his curiosity, and just like any feline he’d been, albeit it apparently idly, stalking her ever since.
Even though tonight was only the second evening since the engagement ball, Ryder was more than intelligent enough to have divined her purpose. So no, there really was no point attempting to mislead him on that score—he would only grow more diabolical.
As his lips gently curved and he drew breath to speak, she fully expected him to be diabolical anyway.
“Permit me to list the ways.” His voice was so deep it was a rumbling purr. “First, allow me to point out that, as the last unmarried Cynster female of your generation, you are regarded as a matrimonial prize.”
She frowned. “That’s the last thing I need, but”—she searched his eyes—“I don’t see why I should be considered so. I’m the youngest, and while admittedly my dowry is nothing to be sneezed at, I’m certainly not a diamond-of-the-first-water or a major heiress.” As, apparently, she had to put up with him, she saw no reason not to pick his well-connected and well-informed brain.
Inclining his head, Ryder bit his tongue against the impulse to inform her that while she was correct in stating that she did not qualify as a diamond-of-the-first-water, that failure stemmed more from an excess of personality than any lack of beauty; she was more than attractive enough—vibrantly and vividly attractive enough—to turn male heads and engage male imaginations, something he’d grown exceedingly aware of over the few days during which he’d been shadowing her, driven by curiosity, pricked pride, and some less identifiable fascination. “You have, however, missed the critical point. You are the last chance for any of the major families to ally themselves with the Cynsters in this generation. It’ll be a decade or more before your cousins’ children, the next generation, come on the marriage mart. Consequently, no matter what you might wish, you are, indeed, a prize in that regard. And, of course, Rand will inherit neither title nor estate.” Unlike him. His eyes locked on hers, he dismissively arched his brows. “Ask any of the grandes dames and they’ll tell you the same. Everyone expects you to marry well.”
She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. A smile tugged at his lips; he understood the sentiment.
But then she shook her head. “No. If that were the case, I would have been besieged.”
“Not yet.” He saw no reason not to share the news. “But next Season you will be. You’re only twenty-two, and this year there’s Henrietta’s engagement and her upcoming wedding—major distractions for your family. Matrimonially speaking, no one is looking at you at the moment.” Only him. And he was now intent on stealing a march on all his potential competitors.
Her lips—rosebud pink and unexpectedly lush in such a youthful face—firmed. “Be that as it may, that’s all about what others think, while in the matter of whom I wed, it’s what I think that counts.” Her expression grew even more belligerent. “And in all other respects—”
“Rand will not suit. He’s six years younger than I am, only two years older than you.” As he stated those facts, he realized what one of the reasons she’d chosen Rand as her potential husband was. “And in case it’s escaped your notice—although I’d wager a significant sum it hasn’t—while at twenty-four a gentleman might be mature in body, he’s rarely mature in mind.” The smile he allowed to curve his lips was entirely genuine. “Give Rand time and, trust me, he’ll be just like me.”
Which was precisely the transformation Mary intended to ensure did not occur. Turning away, she resumed her scrutiny of the gentleman in question; he was standing in a group toward the middle of the long ballroom. “In my estimation, Randolph will be the perfect husband for me.”
Aside from all else, Randolph was a significantly milder version of Ryder; if she married Randolph, she was perfectly certain she would be able to influence him to the point of ensuring that he did not evolve into a nobleman anywhere near as lethally dangerous to the entire female sex as Ryder was. Indeed, marrying Randolph could be viewed as doing her gender a signal service; the female half of the population definitely did not need another Ryder. In addition to his physical impact, he was utterly unmanageable.
Fixing her gaze on Randolph, she reviewed his attractions. Unlike Ryder’s golden-brown mane, Randolph’s hair was dark brown, more like his mother Lavinia’s brown locks. While Ryder wore his hair slightly longer so that it fell in intriguingly tousled, windswept locks—a potent inducement to women to run their fingers through the unruly mass—Randolph’s hair was cut in a fashionable crop, neither long nor short, similar to many men present.
Randolph’s shoulders were broad, although not as strikingly broad as Ryder’s, and his frame was long and tended more to the lean than Ryder’s did, but then Ryder was taller by several inches so the impressive breadth of his chest was in proportion. Randolph was entirely in proportion, too—just on a more mundane, less godlike scale.
That, Mary inwardly admitted, more or less summed up the difference between the half-brothers. Not just between Ryder and Randolph, but also Randolph’s younger brothers, Christopher—Kit—and Godfrey. Ryder was the only child from his father’s first marriage; Randolph, Kit, and Godfrey were the sons of the late marquess’s second wife, Lavinia. There was a sister, too—Eustacia, known as Stacie. Mary knew them all socially, but not well; she had yet to learn all she wished given she intended to marry into the family.
She was impatient to get on, to move forward with her campaign to convince Randolph to offer for her hand. She’d spent the earlier months of this Season determinedly examining all the potential gentlemen; once she’d realized Randolph matched her requirements perfectly, she’d turned her attention to poking and prodding her older sister Henrietta into wearing the necklace a Scottish deity known as The Lady had gifted to the Cynster sisters. The Lady was connected to the family via Mary’s cousin Richard’s wife, Catriona, who was a principal, and apparently well-favored, priestess of the deity. Through Catriona, The Lady had decreed that successive Cynster female cousins should wear the necklace to assist them in finding their true heroes. As a group, they’d long ago defined their “one true hero” as the man who would sweep them off their feet into love and wedded bliss. Although initially all had been skeptical of the necklace’s power, it had wrought its magic, first for Heather, then Eliza, then Angelica, and even though she’d persisted in not believing in it at all, most recently for Henrietta.
The necklace of amethyst beads and gold links from which a tapered rose quartz pendant hung had been passed on to Mary; it now circled her neck, the crystal pendant warm between her breasts.
And she believed—with all her heart and considerable will believed—that it would work for her.
But to help matters along, she’d already done her homework, studied the field, and identified Randolph Cavanaugh as her one—the perfect husband for her. All she really needed the necklace to do was to confirm her choice.
She’d received the necklace two nights ago, just before Henrietta’s engagement ball; Henrietta had clasped it about her throat and she’d been wearing it ever since. The previous evening had been the first opportunity she’d had to speak with Randolph while wearing the necklace; they’d both attended Lady Cornwallis’s soiree, but while she’d spent more than half an hour in the same circle as Randolph, chatting and conversing, she, at least, had sensed…nothing specific.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but from all she’d absorbed from her cousins and Henrietta the necklace didn’t actively do anything. It was more in the nature of a catalyst; wearing it would ensure her true hero appeared before her, but she couldn’t count on more help than that. Couldn’t count on any definite sign.
So she was going to have to spend more time with Randolph. If he was indeed her true hero, her undisputed one, then…something should happen. Something should ignite.
She shifted, casting her gaze wider, evaluating the ways of approaching him. “How best to do it?” she whispered.
Instantly, she was aware of Ryder leaning closer, trying to catch her words. She ruthlessly stifled the impulse—the nearly overwhelming urge—to glance his way; he was now so close, if she did she would almost certainly find herself staring into his mesmerizing green and gold eyes, with his wicked lips and sinful smile only inches away….
She could feel him as a warmth, a temptingly seductive sensation, all down her right side. Alluring, sensual, wickedly so, his presence held an indefinable promise that effortlessly attracted the fe
male of the species; she’d long been of the opinion he’d been born with that particular brand of sensual charm oozing from his pores.
It wasn’t that she didn’t feel the effect, didn’t recognize the tug for what it was—didn’t react—but rather that she’d realized long ago that permitting her reaction to any male to show—whatever that reaction was—left them in charge, not her.
She’d long ago decided to forever remain in charge, most especially of herself.
With all the handsome and innately domineering males in her family, she’d had a lifetime of lessons into how such men behaved, how they reacted to signs of susceptibility on a lady’s part, and what those telltale signs were.
She’d worked to eradicate them from her repertoire of instinctive reactions.
So while she felt Ryder’s attraction as intensely as any lady, she gave him no reason to think he’d made any impression on her at all.
It wasn’t his attention she wanted, but Randolph’s, and tonight she was determined to get it. She’d donned a new cornflower-blue silk gown which matched her eyes and also brought out the deep purple-blue of the amethyst beads.
Randolph. She focused on him. But while she could fix her gaze on him easily enough, the rest of her senses were slow to follow suit.
Damn Ryder. With him so close, no matter how she hid it, her wayward senses remained much more interested in him than in Randolph. Sensually-speaking, while handsome, well-built, and in all physical respects highly attractive, Randolph nevertheless paled into insignificance when compared to his older half-brother. There was not a woman in the ton—or out of it—who would not cede Ryder his own pedestal in the Hall of Superbly Handsome, Outrageously Attractive Men.
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