Max offered Antonia the sweetest smile. “Nagle will be unable to sire more children.”
“Believe him,” Miss Betty said. “The Earl of Bellefonte is the grandest specimen of English manhood ever to make a grown woman sigh.”
“Sister does not exaggerate,” Miss Dottie added.
“You went to your brother?” Antonia asked.
“I’ll tell you everything,” Max replied. “Soon.”
Antonia waved a hand toward the door. “Peter, away with you. You have another apology to plan and it had better be more impressive than the paltry effort you put forth here. I will look after your sisters, but your fate is in your own hands. Do not call on me, do not write, do not so much as inquire after my health if we meet by chance. Take very good care of your wife, or I will offer her the services of my solicitors and permanent refuge in a suitably comfortable dwelling.”
“And I will offer Miss Huntly the use of my fists applied to your person,” Max added.Peter scuttled for the door, trying for a dignified exit and failing.
“Sister,” Miss Betty said, “we must be going. Too much excitement gives me the wind.” They were off to gossip, doubtless, or to pay a call on Lord Hamblin. They paused long enough to pet both cats, then bustled out the door.
Leaving Antonia alone with the man who’d haunted her dreams for the past three weeks.
“Peter and I weren’t engaged,” she said. “We had no understanding, but I should never have—”
Max put a finger to her lips. “If you express the slightest regret about the time you and I spent together, my heart will break. In the scientific sense, a heart does not break, but mine surely will. Perhaps we could have this conversation on the sofa?”
“It’s the middle of the day, Mr. Haddonfield.”
“So take a break for your nooning, my lady. We have much to resolve, and it’s better discussed behind a locked door.”
“A fine notion,” Antonia said, scooting around the desk and going to the door. “A very fine notion indeed.”
“This is yours.” Max passed over Antonia’s handkerchief, slightly the worse for time spent in his pocket. “I am yours, if you want me. I warn you though, I come with various attachments.”
Antonia sat beside him on the couch, not touching him, alas. “You make yourself sound like a scientific instrument.”
“Science is one of my attachments. I am passionate about my research and I will continue to pursue it no matter how pointless my objective might seem to others. I will not part with Dagger either, and I am about to acquire another assistant in the form of a small person named Nan. I have two cats of my own and Dagger has a personal feline as well. My means are humble so you should probably send me packing with a flea in my ear.”
He had to tell her that part—he was poor, compared to her. Not destitute, but he couldn’t drape her in diamonds either. “I lack ambition,” he said, lest she mistake him, “in the sense most people use the word.”
Antonia smoothed a hand over her skirts. “I have ambitions. I would like a life that has more to it than dancing at Almack’s, driving out in Hyde Park when the weather’s fine, and shopping. I hate shopping. Loathe it beyond all telling.”
“Clerks,” Max said, “buzzing about like flies. You wave them away and two minutes later, they’re back, practically offering to count out your money for you.”
“Precisely. How humble are your means?”
Max told her his annual income and named the principal sum from which it derived. “If I had more, I’d spend it on more experiments, or on helping out a fellow whose good ideas will never see the light of day unless somebody provides some funds. Expeditions are all very glamorous, but they carry with them the taint of—”
“Privateering,” Antonia said, “of disguising the hope of personal gain in the glamour of exploration and adventure.”
“Exactly.” She understood Max’s perspective, while many of his colleagues found his quibbling laughable.
“I have attachments too, Max. I like books.”
And books cost money. An unfortunate truth for a poor fourth son lacking commercial ambition. “I like them too, particularly the well written ones.”
“You like science, I like books.” Antonia spoke slowly, as if she were inching up to a difficult point or a new theorem. “You haven’t much money, I have more than I need or want. What if we used that money to make a scientific library?”
We? That had to be reason to hope. “A scientific library?”
“A library of practical science, of the treatises nobody will pay to publish, of the major works few can afford to buy. Some of the volumes would never leave the premises, some of the more important references. Others could circulate.” She rose to pace between the sofa and the hearth. “I would want this library to be cozy, to be well heated and well lit, not some draughty old church made over from the last century.”
“A scientific library?”
“Not only science, Max. Books that explain science to children, books that recount the adventures of the explorers. Books that tell of the stars and the people who charted them.”
Max rose, for Antonia—who had a few cat hairs on her bodice—had never looked more beautiful to him. “I have a confession, my lady.”
She came to a halt immediately before him and took his hands. “Tell me.”
“The mouse droppings.”
Antonia’s brows twitched down. “Go on.”
“They were cardamom seeds. You have no mouse problem here, but Lucifer needed a home, and Dagger once remarked that cardamom seeds bore a resemblance to evidence of mice. I perpetrated a subterfuge, not for the first time. I am sorry for it, and I am not sorry for it at all.”
“Cardamom seeds.”
“They are quite dear, but the alternative—”
“Money spent for a good cause,” Antonia said. “Have you any other confessions, Max? Theorems you’d like to air? Postulations? Corollaries? Hypotheses?”
As Max had walked the distance from his brother’s house to Antonia’s library, he’d tried to fashion a lofty, ringing declaration, something about two hearts of a sympathetic nature, minds in synchrony, and values that presaged enduring compatibility through all vicissitudes. A treasure trove of big words suitable for Dagger’s collection, and far too much trouble for such an important moment.
“I love you,” Max said. “I cannot see the love, touch it, measure it, weigh it, or tell you what scent it bears, though my love for you is the most important reality in my life. I have only humble means, but my love is limitless, and I promise you it always will be. When I thought you were engaged to Nagle, I didn’t measure my day-olds for three straight days. Dagger despaired of me.”
“Peter told you we were engaged?”
Someday when Peter bided a safe distance from Antonia, Max might tell her all Peter had said. “He lied. I didn’t know that when I came here today, but I did know he’d served Miss Huntly a bad turn. You were entitled to the truth if you planned on marrying him.”
Antonia slid her arms around Max’s neck. “You came here thinking only to warn me?”
“I would have had a word with Nagle, but he obliged me by spouting off for all to hear. Truly, you were never engaged to him?” Max shouldn’t need to ask, but then, he shouldn’t be thinking so fondly of the sofa sitting three feet away either.
“Not ever. Peter pushed, he wheedled, he assumed.” Antonia gave Max her weight. “I have a confession too.”
“Confess quickly. I predict that in less than two minutes, I will be kissing you madly, and thanking the Almighty for the foresight that had you locking the doors.”
“I love you too. I’ve loved you from the day you walked in here, looking half-dangerous and half-dear. I love you for your brilliant mind, your great heart, and your occasional deception in the name of homeless cats. I love how you kiss, how you—Max!”
“How I scoop you into my arms and lay you gently down on the sofa?”
“Well, that
is a fine quality.”
He arranged himself over her on the cushions. “We should deal with our clothing, but I must kiss you first.”
She laughed and ruffled his hair. “How fortunate, for I must kiss you too.”
The library was closed for a good two hours that day, and it closed again on the occasion of Max and Antonia’s nuptials. The reading tables were pushed back, and the ceremony was held before the hearth, with Dagger, Nan, the Barclay sisters, a sizable crowd of Haddonfields, and five cats in attendance.
The science library came to be a surprisingly short time after the nuptials, complete with the excellent lighting and comfortable chairs Antonia had insisted on, three library cats in deference to the size of the establishment, and in the director’s office, one very well upholstered sofa.
To my dear readers
So there I was, authoring along, and referring occasionally to my Regency characters having a fresh, warm scone with breakfast or at tea… Is there ever a bad time to have a fresh, warm scone? My readers, who are quite savvy, pointed out to me that yes, Grace, there are scone recipes dating from the 1500s, but until the 1830s, the primary means of leavening any baked good was yeast. Those early unleavened scones were more like oat cakes.
Or hardtack. Even when slathered with butter.
Oops. Wouldja believe my dad was a tenured professor of food science? The things I learn from my readers…
I started digging into the history of baking soda and came across several stories. One claims that baking soda as a leavening agent was developed in the 1830s by a man of scientific bent who was married to a woman with a yeast allergy. Other sources make the whole business much more a matter of systematic experimentation, with baking soda one of many additives tested for its leavening qualities.
All quite interesting. By the time Max is on his quest, soda bicarbonate (baking soda) had been around for at least a decade in England, and I am very confident that he and Antonia will come across it just as soon as they get back from their first annual honeymoon balloon ride, and finish the first round of acquisitions for their science library, and, and, and. . .
If you’d like to read the rest of the Haddonfield tribe’s stories, I’ve listed them below the excerpts. In terms of upcoming full-length novels, my next publication will be Forever and a Duke (excerpt below), and my next novella will be a holiday duet with Christi Caldwell, Yuletide Wishes, coming out Oct. 22, 2019 (excerpt below). You can stay up to date with all my various release dates, deals, and discounts by following me on Bookbub or signing up for my newsletter. I also have a Deals page on my website that I update every month or so.
Happy reading!
Grace Burrowes
* * *
Read on for an excerpt from Lady Mistletoe’s Holiday Helper!
Lady Mistletoe’s Holiday Helper—Excerpt
From Lady Mistletoe’s Holiday Helper by Grace Burrowes, in the Regency novella duet, Yuletide Wishes
* * *
Lord Marcus Bannerfield has hired Lady Margaret Entwhistle to decorate his home for the upcoming holidays. He has little patience with Yuletide folderol, but wants the house to feel welcoming when his orphaned nieces arrive. The hour has grown late while Lady Margaret has toiled away on her plans and schedules, and Marcus’s mind has become fixed on one particular aspect of Christmas tradition…
* * *
Marcus fetched a pillow and lowered himself to sit on the raised hearth behind the desk where her ladyship toiled. Very unlordly of him, but the night had reached an unlordly hour, and his day had been long.
“We never did decide where the infernal kissing bough should go, my lady.”
She capped the ink and put aside her pen. “You need not have a kissing bough if you don’t want one.”
Marcus abruptly and quite passionately wanted at least three, all hanging in close proximity to wherever Lady Margaret tarried. The impulse took him halfway by surprise, but also halfway as confirmation of a looming suspicion.
He was attracted to his houseguest. Of all the peculiar turns to be served by masculine humors that had mostly learned to leave him in peace.
“I will hang my kissing boughs,” he said, “so Aunt Penny can ambush the unsuspecting. She has a powerful sense of humor, which the footmen apparently share.”
“I love that about her,” Lady Margaret replied, sprinkling sand over her jottings. “I have not laughed in ages as I laughed at dinner.”
And Marcus had loved seeing Lady Margaret overcome with mirth, but that had been hours ago. “Aunt Penny will assume command of the decorating tomorrow should you oversleep, and my household will never recover from the results. Won’t you please allow me to light you to your room?”
Because Marcus sat on the hearth, and Lady Margaret had turned the chair behind the desk toward the flames, they were nearly at eye level. Another question came to Marcus’s mind: Won’t you please share a kiss with me?
He sat back and consulted his pocket watch. “You will never last through tomorrow’s great busyness if you go short of sleep again tonight. I can have a maid wake you early, but let’s to bed, shall we?”
The question should have been a brisk conclusion, not an occasion for the lady to smile—to smile mischievously—at his wording.
“Your effusions of charm have convinced me, my lord, as has my aching back. If I remain here much longer, I will fall asleep over my papers anyway. An early waking would be appreciated. You are well advised to go out tomorrow immediately after breaking your fast. You will think a thousand devils have invaded your house at first light.”
A few imps had apparently invaded Marcus’s imagination, for Lady Margaret was looking more kissable by the moment. He rose and offered her his hand.
“The arms of Morpheus await, as do warmed sheets, snug quilts, and soft pillows. I will call upon family tomorrow, and your invading army can plunder the peace of my home unopposed. Expect Aunt Penny to appoint herself your second-in-command.”
Lady Margaret took his hand—her fingers were frigid—and rose. “I have never had a second-in-command. We will either come to blows or conquer the known world together.” She leaned closer, close enough to drop her forehead against Marcu’s chest. “Thank you for your many kindnesses, my lord. For the first time in ages, as the holiday season approaches, I wish somebody very specific well-earned, sincere joy.”
She straightened quickly, before Marcus could turn the moment into an embrace. Where the hell had his reflexes gone, the ones that had saved him so often in battle? He inquired politely about Charlotte’s knee on the way up the steps, he asked what time her ladyship would like to be awakened—roused had almost come out of his mouth—and he made sure the candles in her sitting room were lit before offering her a good-night bow.
“And good night to you, too, my lord. I did not think it possible, but I am enjoying the hospitality you have extended.”
Marcus set aside his candle and possibly the last of his wits too. “Is that an early farewell? If so, might I ask for a farewell kiss?”
He kept his hands to himself when he made that query, for this woman had been ill-used, and the consequences to her had been grave. Still, he did not withdraw the question. Lady Margaret was no defeated wretch to be cozened into reluctant folly. She was a very self-possessed female and the first woman to attract his masculine notice since he’d sold his commission several years ago.
“I ask for only a kiss,” he clarified, “one freely shared. Or I can bid you good night and make no mention of this request ever again.”
Oh splendid. She was smiling at him again as if he’d bungled the words to Good King Wenceslaus. “You have stolen other kisses?”
“On rare occasion.” Very rare. Vanishingly rare.
“You aren’t much good at it, asking permission first, then offering assurances of discretion and disclaimers of honorable conduct. If you were a thief, you’d summon the watch to observe your crime before you committed it.”
“I am not a thief, a
nd a shared kiss should be the furthest thing from a crime. Sending a fellow off to mind his own business is certainly a lady’s prerogative as well.”
He wanted to kiss her—and more—but he also liked standing close to her and debating the philosophy of flirtation.
Lady Margaret gathered her shawls, and Marcus resigned himself to a night spent in self-recrimination—after he’d indulged in self-gratification. Instead, she opened her shawls like angel wings and stepped near enough to envelop him in their warmth.
“My holiday token,” she said. “It’s time I bestowed one out of joy, rather than duty. Past time.”
And then she pressed upon him the sweetest, boldest, most luscious kiss imaginable.
* * *
Order your copy of Yuletide Wishes, and read on for an excerpt from Forever and a Duke, book four in the Rogues to Riches series…
Forever and a Duke—Excerpt
Forever and a Duke by Grace Burrowes
* * *
Wrexham, Duke of Elsmore, has a problem—somebody very clever is stealing from his ducal coffers. He takes the extraordinary step of appealing to Eleanora Hatfield, a ferociously talented bank auditor, to help him quietly resolve his difficulties. Much to Rex’s consternation, the woman he’s hired to catch a thief is making off with his heart…
* * *
Mrs. Hatfield unbuttoned her cloak, and without thinking, Rex drew it from her shoulders, gave it a shake, and hung it on the drying pegs above her hearth. A small silver teapot sat in the middle of the mantel, a sketch on either side in plain wooden frames. He wanted to study those drawings—wanted to snoop about her entire abode—but not when Eleanora could see him doing it.
He braced himself for a scold as he passed her a shawl that had been draped over the back of a reading chair. “Shall I light the fire?” he asked, for want of anything else to say.
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