Mayhew huffed a laugh. “Very poetic.” And accurate, too; the kitten’s coat did look like a night sky speckled with stars. Except for that one golden paw.
Willie carefully rubbed between the kitten’s ears. Mayhew heard the tiny rumble of its purr. “My brigade major had a kitten that looked a bit like that,” he told her. “He found it at Badajoz, carried it around with him for months.”
“He did?” Willie said, and he heard her surprise.
“He did. His name’s Reynolds. Major Reynolds.” Mayhew smothered a yawn. “Actually, it was Reynolds who rescued Scout and Mr. Bellyrub.” Or Princess Plum Blossom and Prince Purr-a-lot, as they’d been renamed by the twins.
“Is he on furlough, too?”
“Sold out after Waterloo. Henry Wright’s our brigade major now. He’s first rate. You’ll like him.”
“I’m sure I will,” Willie said, and then, “Colonel Barraclough didn’t mind one of his officers keeping a kitten while on campaign?”
“Not at all. He was rather fond of it. Was forever bringing scraps for it to eat.”
“Was he now?” Willie said, her tone thoughtful.
Mayhew yawned again. “I think Barraclough likes cats.”
Willie was silent for a moment, and then she said, “Good,” and tickled the kitten under its chin with a fingertip.
Mayhew watched her fingertip and heard that tiny purr and made a belated realization. “We’re taking the kitten with us, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Willie said. “It’s our wedding gift from the Fates.”
Mayhew didn’t laugh at that statement because he had a feeling she might be right. “What shall we name it?”
“Stardust,” Willie said, and tickled the kitten under its chin again.
Mayhew pressed his face into his wife’s hair and inhaled her orange blossom scent, and then he laughed softly, his breath stirring her messy ringlets. “I love you,” he told her.
Willie stopped stroking the kitten. Her fingers intertwined with his again. “I love you, too.”
Mayhew inhaled another orange-blossom-scented breath and thought that he couldn’t possibly be any happier than he was at that moment, lying in a three-poster bed, holding his wife, while a kitten purred on the pillow alongside them.
Then he remembered that this was the first of many such mornings together, and he discovered that it was possible to be even happier. He gathered Willie closer, tucking her warmth and her soft, slender curves in tightly to his body. “This is going to be so good,” he whispered in her ear. “Us, together, forever.”
“It most certainly is!” Willie said.
And it was.
Author’s Note
The kittens in Lieutenant Mayhew’s Catastrophes are based on a litter of day-old kittens that I found several years ago. I raised them until they were old enough to be rehomed, and I found it fascinating how quickly they developed strong and disparate personalities. One of them was an utterly fearless and very fluffy little girl whose greatest desire was to explore. Her adventures were often quite hair-raising. She had an extremely laid-back brother who adored lying in my hand and having his belly rubbed. He would close his eyes and purr blissfully.
Scout, Mr. Bellyrub, and their siblings made their debut in Lady Isabella’s Ogre (excerpt below). Lieutenant Mayhew made his debut in that novel, too. I’ve always wanted to know what happened to him when he headed off with two kittens in a basket, and I’m delighted to finally have the chance to tell his story.
If you’d like to be notified whenever I release a new book or have deals and discounts, please sign up for my newsletter or follow me on BookBub. My latest novel is Primrose and the Dreadful Duke (excerpt below), and the next one, Octavius and the Perfect Governess, will be out in early 2020.
* * *
Happy reading!
Emily
Primrose and the Dreadful Duke — Excerpt
Primrose and the Dreadful Duke by Emily Larkin
* * *
An irrepressible duke, a bookish spinster, a devious murderer … Regency house parties have never been so hazardous!
* * *
Oliver Dasenby is the most infuriating man Primrose Garland has ever known. He may be her brother’s best friend, but he has an atrocious sense of humor. Eight years in the cavalry hasn’t taught him solemnity, nor has the unexpected inheritance of a dukedom.
But when Oliver inherited his dukedom, it appears that he also inherited a murderer.
Oliver might be dreadfully annoying, but Primrose doesn’t want him dead. She’s going to make certain he survives his inheritance—and the only way to do that is to help him catch the murderer!
Oliver’s next partner was Lady Primrose Garland, the sister of his oldest friend, Rhodes Garland—and the only unmarried young lady in the room whom he knew didn’t want to marry him.
“Lady Prim,” he said, bowing over her hand with a flourish. “You’re a jewel that outshines all others.”
Primrose was too well-bred to roll her eyes in public, but her eyelids twitched ever so slightly, which told him she wanted to. “Still afflicted by hyperbole, I see.”
“You use such long words, Prim,” he said admiringly.
“And you use such foolish ones.”
Oliver tutted at her. “That’s not very polite, Prim.”
Primrose ignored this comment. She placed her hand on his sleeve. Together they walked onto the dance floor and took their places.
“Did I ever tell you about my uniform, Prim? The coat was dark blue, and the facing—”
“I don’t wish to hear about your uniform.”
“Manners, Prim. Manners.”
Primrose came very close to smiling. She caught herself just in time. “Shall we discuss books while we dance? Have you read Wolf’s Prolegomena ad Homerum?”
“Of course I haven’t,” Oliver said. “Dash it, Prim, I’m not an intellectual.”
The musicians played the opening bars. Primrose curtsied, Oliver bowed. “I really must tell you about my uniform. The coat was dark blue—”
Primrose ignored him. “Wolf proposes that The Iliad—”
“With a red sash at the waist—”
“And The Odyssey were in fact—”
“And silver lace at the cuffs—”
“The work of more than one poet.”
“And a crested Tarleton helmet,” Oliver finished triumphantly.
They eyed each other as they went through the steps of the dance. Oliver could tell from the glint in her eyes and the way her lips were tucked in at the corners that Primrose was trying not to laugh. He was trying not to laugh, too.
“You’re a fiddle-faddle fellow,” Primrose told him severely.
“Alliteration,” Oliver said. “Well done, Prim.”
Primrose’s lips tucked in even more tightly at the corners. If they’d been anywhere but a ballroom he was certain she’d have stamped her foot, something she’d done frequently when they were children.
“Heaven only knows why I agreed to dance with you,” she told him tartly.
“Because it increases your consequence to be seen with me. I am a duke, you know.” He puffed out his chest and danced the next few steps with a strut.
“Stop that,” she hissed under her breath.
“Stop what?” Oliver said innocently, still strutting his steps.
“Honestly, Daisy, you’re impossible.”
Oliver stopped strutting. “No one’s called me that in years.”
“Impossible? I find that hard to believe.” Her voice was dry.
“Daisy.” It had been Primrose’s childhood nickname for him, in retaliation for him calling her Lady Prim-and-Proper.
Oliver had been back in England for nearly a month now, and that month had been filled with moments of recognition, some tiny flickers—his brain acknowledging something as familiar and then moving on—others strong visceral reactions. He experienced one of those latter moments now. It took him by the throat and wouldn’t let
him speak for several seconds.
Because Primrose had called him Daisy.
Oliver cleared his throat. “Tell me about that book, Prim. What’s it called? Prolapse ad nauseam?”
“Prolegomena ad Homerum.”
Oliver pulled a face. “Sounds very dull. Me, I much prefer a good novel. Especially if there’s a ghost in it, or a headless horseman.”
And they were off again, arguing amiably about books, the moment of emotion safely in the past. Primrose knew a lot about books. In fact, Oliver suspected that she preferred books to people—which would be why she was still unmarried at twenty-seven. Primrose was a duke’s daughter and she was pretty—that ash-blonde hair, those cool blue eyes. If she wanted to be married, she would be.
Therefore, he deduced that she didn’t want to marry. Which made her unique in a ballroom filled with young ladies on the hunt for husbands.
* * *
Order your copy of Primrose and the Dreadful Duke, and read on for an excerpt from Lady Isabella’s Ogre.
Lady Isabella’s Ogre — Excerpt
Lady Isabella’s Ogre by Emily Larkin
* * *
Lady Isabella Knox enjoys her independence. She collects strays—dogs, kittens, runaway brides—but she has no intention of collecting a husband.
* * *
Major Nicholas Reynolds returns from the Battle of Waterloo a hero. He’s had enough of soldiering; all he wants now is a bride . . . but his scarred face sends young ladies fleeing—literally.
* * *
When a slip of her tongue brands the major an ogre—and his chances of marriage disintegrate—Isabella sets out to undo the harm she inadvertently caused. How better to revive the major’s marriage prospects than for the two of them to indulge in a make-believe flirtation? They both know it’s not real, so where’s the danger?
* * *
But Isabella is soon in over her head—and so is Major Reynolds.
* * *
“If you’ll forgive my impertinence, Major Reynolds . . . what is it you’re looking for in a bride?”
“I want peace and quiet,” Nicholas said. “I want a marriage with no arguments.”
“Quiet,” Lady Isabella said. She glanced around the ballroom, a thoughtful crease on her brow. “Have you considered Miss Thornton? She’s—”
“Too old.”
“Too old?” Her eyes flew to his, startled. “But she’s barely twenty-two!”
“I want a young bride.” Too late, Nicholas realized that Lady Isabella was well past the age of twenty-two.
But Lady Isabella appeared not to have noticed the unintended insult. “Why?” she asked, frankly.
Nicholas concentrated on his steps for a moment. He chose his words judiciously, careful not to give offense. “While I was in the army, I observed that the more youthful a recruit was, the more easily he could be molded into a soldier one wanted to serve with.”
Lady Isabella surveyed him, the thoughtful crease still on her brow. “You wish to mold your bride into a wife who suits you.”
Stated so baldly, it sounded . . . arrogant. “Yes,” Nicholas said firmly. I have nothing to be ashamed of, he told himself, and yet his cheeks felt faintly hot, as if he flushed.
“And would you expect your wife to mold you into the husband she would like to have?”
“Mold me?” he said, affronted. “Of course not!”
Lady Isabella’s lips tucked in at the corners, as if she suppressed a smile.
“My wife would have no need to mold me,” Nicholas said stiffly.
Her lips tucked more deeply in at the corners. “You have no flaws, Major?”
Nicholas eyed her with suspicion. Was she laughing at him? “None that a wife should care about,” he said, even more stiffly. “Apart from the scar.”
Lady Isabella’s mouth lost its tucked-in look. Her gaze touched his left cheek. “The scar is unimportant,” she said. “A woman who didn’t see that would be a poor wife.”
Nicholas found himself without any words to utter.
“Quiet and malleable,” she said, glancing around the ballroom again. “And young. Are those your only criteria?”
He nodded.
Her eyes lighted on someone to his left. “How about Miss Bourne? Have you considered her?”
He didn’t turn his head to follow her gaze. He knew precisely what Miss Bourne looked like: hazel eyes, light brown hair, shy smile. She had been on his list of suitable brides. “Unfortunately Miss Bourne’s mother seems to believe I am an ogre.”
Lady Isabella’s gaze jerked back to his face.
“No smoke without a fire, as they say.” His tone was light and wry, but it didn’t elicit a smile. Instead, Lady Isabella frowned and said tartly, “Mrs. Bourne is a very foolish woman!”
“She merely conforms to public opinion. And she’s not the only mother in this room to do so.”
Lady Isabella’s frown deepened. “But surely—”
“Would you wish your daughter to marry a man rumored to be an ogre?”
Lady Isabella bit her lip.
“No,” Nicholas agreed. “Neither would I.”
* * *
Order your copy of Lady Isabella’s Ogre!
Catnip and Kisses
By Grace Burrowes
Chapter One
“You have mice.” Three words, laden with judgment. The sentence wasn’t spoken so much as intoned, a Dies Irae rumbling in masculine tones across the library’s quiet.
Because the speaker held a cat, and because that cat peered at Lady Antonia Mainwaring from her eye level, it seemed to Antonia as if the cat had spoken. Antonia had a ferociously firm grip of the English language and a firmer grasp of common sense. To shake free from fanciful notions of talking cats, she nonetheless needed the moment it took to remove her spectacles and fold the earpieces.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” She remained seated, as was a lady’s prerogative.
The cat—a large, long-haired gray tom with a grumpy green gaze—switched its tail. The beast reposed in the arms of a tall man with light brown hair. The fragrance of a bakery clung to him, and his clothing suggested he worked for whatever daily bread he consumed. His coat was heavy wool, rumpled, and none too new. He wore no hat and the red plaid scarf about his neck was missing half of its tassels.
“Mice,” he said, in the same inflection a preacher used when referring to original sin. “They delight in books. They chew the bindings to feast on the glue, shred the pages to make their nests, destroy wisdom itself for their furry little comfort.”
This big, unkempt man and his disgruntled cat tempted Antonia to get to her feet, the better to run from any stray thunderbolts.
“I have seen no evidence of mice on the premises. Are you a library patron, sir?”
Winter was bearing down in all its unrelenting bitterness, and the library was a refuge for the homeless. Antonia’s emotions on that point were mixed. In a city that considered itself the jewel of civilization, nobody ought to die of exposure to the elements, but she was at a loss for what one said to a person in such straits. “May I help you find a book?” seemed unforgivably insensitive, and yet, who deserved the comfort of great prose more than those tempted to despair?
And must London’s unfortunates be so formidable?
“I am a patron,” he said. “Lucifer cannot say the same.”
The cat commenced purring, as if the beast enjoyed mention of his name. His expression made clear that the library was poorer for not extending to felines the privileges of membership.
“Where do you see evidence of mice?” Antonia asked.
“Come,” the fellow replied, supporting the cat with one arm and striding off in the direction of the biographies. The only patrons at the library today were the Barclay sisters, a pair of white-haired spinsters who pretended to read Fordyce’s sermons by the hour. Antonia suspected they were conserving coal while hiding from their neighbors, for they never took Reverend Fordyce home with them.
> The gentleman with the cat disappeared between two rows of shelves and then took the spiral steps up to the mezzanine. Antonia rose and followed him. His pace was deliberate, and for a big man, he moved quietly.
The sisters exchanged a glance as he passed them. Miss Dorothy wrinkled her nose. He seemed impervious to this rudeness, though the cat sent a glare in Miss Dorothy’s direction.
“Here.” Still holding the cat, he knelt at the back of the H through T row of biographies. “Mice.”
He pointed to what could only be mouse droppings.
His fingernails were clean, which struck Antonia as odd.
“Lucifer can solve your problem, madam. He’ll expect the occasional saucer of milk and a bit of fish for his wages. If you crack a window for most of the day he’ll come and go as nature demands. Feed him on the premises, and he’ll defend the books all night from any and all rodents.”
The man passed Antonia the cat before she could step back. In the narrow space between the bookshelves, that left her and Lucifer’s owner exactly one cat-width apart.
One surprisingly light cat-width. “You are nothing but skin and bones, you poor fellow,” Antonia cradled the beast to her chest, enjoying the feel of his purring. “You look formidable, and you make a prodigious noise, but you’ve missed a few meals.”
The shameless creature licked her chin. The sensation was odd, halfway between a scrape and a tickle. The cat was too light, a ball of fluff where a muscular predator should be.
“He’ll do the job God intended him to do,” the man said, “your books will be safe, and the mice will decamp for less perilous surrounds.”
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