Sunday's Child by Rosemary Morris ♥ Book Tour, Exclusive Excerpt & GIVEAWAY ♥ (Historical Romance)
Georgianne’s problems increase when the arrogant, wealthy but elderly Earl of Pennington, proposes marriage to her for the sole purpose of being provided with an heir. At first she is tempted by his proposal, but something is not quite right about him. She rejects him not suspecting it will lead to unwelcome repercussions.
Prologue
Fourteen year old, Georgianne Whitley leaned over the banister to watch her aunt’s butler admit a handsome cavalry officer dressed in uniform. One day, her mamma frequently assured her, she would marry such a military man, a member of her dear father’s regiment. Of course, this officer was probably too old to ever be her husband. However, in future, she was sure she would meet someone equally handsome with whom she would fall in love. She giggled. ‘Love is not the main prerequisite for marriage,’ Mamma always claimed. According to her mother, rank, lands, and wealth were more important whereas, according to Papa, love was the only reason to marry.
She turned her head to look at her cousin, Sarah Tarrant. “Who is he?”
“Don’t you recognize him? He is my half brother, Rupert, Lieutenant Tarrant.”
“Of course, but he has changed so much since I last saw him five years ago. He is taller.”
Careless of whether or not he would look up and see her, Georgianne inched forward until, bent almost double, she could still gaze down at him.
Rupert removed his shako, revealing his thick, sun-kissed fair hair.
Sarah put her arms around Georgianne’s waist. “If you are not careful, you will fall.”
Georgianne gripped the rail of the highly polished oak banister while she straightened.
“Look at your gown. It’s crushed. You’re such a…a hoyden.”
She stamped her foot. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. My mamma says you are.”
“Well, she is wrong.” In spite of her denial, rueful, she looked down at her crumpled, white muslin gown. What would her aunt say if she knew Papa had taught her to shoot? Once again, she peered over the banister. A ray of June sunshine from the window illuminated the gold braid on Rupert’s scarlet uniform. Yes, one day she really would marry such an officer to please herself, and her parents.
For as long as I can remember, I enjoyed studying history, reading historical non-fiction, historical fiction and its sub-genres. I enjoy novels in which the characters’ behaviour is appropriate for the era in which they lived.
The more I read the more fascinated I become, and the more aware of the gulf between historical periods and my own. Our ancestors shared the same emotions as we do, but their attitudes and way of life were different to ours. One of the most striking examples is the position of women and children in society in bygone ages.
I don’t think it is possible for a novelist to be 100% accurate about life in former ages. However, the characters in my novels are of their time, not ones dressed in costume who behave like 21st century women. Of course, it is almost impossible to completely understand our ancestors, but through extensive research I ensure my characters observe the social etiquette of their lives and times.
My previously published novels, set in the early 18th century and in the ever popular Regency era, and my previously unpublished historical fiction will be published by Books We Love as e-book editions and paper books.
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The Angel of Soriano by Stella Marie Alden ♥ New Release Spotlight & GIVEAWAY ♥ (Historical Romance)
Tonight, Aurelia's uncle plans to steal Soriano away from Rodrigo Borgia. Although she doesn't give a fig who owns the town that nearly stoned her to death, her handsome captain is behind bars. She should never have agreed to marry him, especially not upside down and over his shoulder.
What is it about Bernardo's new wife? The beautiful angel refuses to trust him, not even after he weds her without a dowry. She wields a firearm like a pirate, disguises herself as a male doctor, and nearly drives him mad. And yet he can't go on without her.
How can a mere man convince a woman like that to come home?
Chapter 1
Late summer 1489
Bernardo Carvajal raced out of Cardinal Borgia’s chambers in the Vatican. He flew down the flagstone path and sprinted under the arches of the great ancient viaducts. To his right, the late afternoon sun caught the top of Hadrian’s tower which cast its long thin shadow over the whole of Rome.
After passing under the iron teeth of the Carvajal entrance, he darted across the marble floors, and up the wide staircase. All the while, he prayed that he’d find his father, Dideco, among the living. He stopped at the open door to the upstairs chambers and caught his breath.
Thank God.
Blue and shivering, but very much alive, his father leaned against the oak headboard. Wet footprints led to the center of the room, where a chunk of ice floated in a wooden tub. The normally cluttered room seemed sparse with tables and chairs folded, leaning against the stone walls.
Dressed all in black, Doctor Nardini approached with a wide grin. “Come, come. Greet your father.”
Bernardo crossed the floor, and hugged the nearly frozen man, “It’s good to see you alive and well. I feared for what I might find.”
“Tell me, how did the audience with Borgia go?” Cold fingers dug into his shoulders and his father pushed out of the embrace.
Would that he had better news. “I gave him a full accounting of Soriano in your stead but he insisted on personally seeing to your health. He comes on my heels.”
He held his breath and waited.
His father did not disappoint. Stark naked he shouted when his towel dropped to the floor. “Don’t just stand there. God’s blood. Help me to get dressed. Quickly.”
Nardini rushed across the room, his wide black wide sleeves creating the only breeze. He grabbed the clean shirt and wool hose hanging from a hook.
Much more accustomed to his father’s mood shifts, Bernardo smirked, watched the melee, and folded arms across his chest.
“The eldest of his sons, I presume?” The doctor lifted an amused eyebrow and held open the shirt for Dideco.
He growled and inserted one arm.
Despite his best efforts to remain serious, Bernardo grinned. “How could you tell?”
Bernardo shared his father’s curly brown hair, large build, and eyes so dark that they could be considered black. Their temperaments, however, were as different as the night was from the day.
As if reading his thoughts, his father cursed when an arm got caught in the billowing folds of a sleeve. Bernardo stepped forward, helped him untangle, and then stuffed his father’s wide girth into a violet doublet. He quickly surveyed the room for the missing belt and sword.
In that moment, the sun lowered, bathing a corner of the room in yellow light. All thoughts of the weapon vanished when a dazzling, ivory-skinned angel stepped out of the shadows. Her hair was so blond, it was almost white. Thick lashes lowered to the tops of pink cheeks and demure eyes stared at the floor.
He stared, stunned into silence like the village idiot.
The palest blue eyes he’d ever seen met his, and he gasped, unable to breathe for fear the heavenly vision would disappear. A slight smile played upon her heart shaped lips below a perfectly shaped little nose.
He dared not lower his gaze, not even when his father shouted for his sword. Then, the merciless sun descended another notch leaving him bereft. She stepped back and melted into the dark shadows.
The latest style of puffy slit sleeves and multiple silk skirts indicated she was no vassal. And yet, a modest lace cap covered the top of her head. Maybe she was another of his many Carvajal cousins from Spain?
Convinced she was real and not an apparition, he shot her the smile that made ladies swoon and his bed warm at night. The light again shifted in his favor and she blushed a most delicious shade of pink.
Mio Dio. She is lovely.
“May I inquire the name of your lovely helper?” He helped his father don his sword and buckle his belt.
The doctor wrung his hands. “That is Aurelia Nardini, my daughter and most precious gem.”
She curtsied with the grace of a princess. Where in all of Christendom, had she come from?
“Aurelia? Meet Don Bernardo Carvajal, son of the steward of Soriano, cousin of the Bishop of Carvajal. This is his home.” The doctor sighed when she said nothing and stood mute. “I apologize. She is slow. Dim-witted.”
Was that his imagination, or did her lips twitch into the slightest of frowns.
His father, Dideco grumbled as he struggled with his boots, “Jesu! Just call her over, doctor. The boy is drooling.”
Bernardo moaned.
“Per favore. Please. Over here, Aurelia.” Nardini beckoned her with an impatient wave.
She approached with dainty steps, modest and pure. Then a hint of lavender laced with womanly scent assaulted his nostrils. His heart beat out of control and under his garment, his lust swelled hard.
When she curtsied again, Bernardo tucked a thumb under her chin and lifted her face to his. This is no idiot. Intelligent, stormy eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. She twisted her head away and nipped at one of his fingers.
“Devil take it.” He opened his mouth to swear up a storm, but stopped when his man-servant appeared in the doorway.
Fulvio cleared his throat. “Cardinal Borgia has arrived”
The red-robed man pushed Fulvio aside and entered the small room. He outstretched a hand so that Dideco could kiss his ring. After wiping his ring with a grand gesture, Borgia tucked his lace handkerchief into a sleeve.
He turned to Doctor Nardini. “I understood Dideco was all but dead just this morning?”
Moving with bird-like movements, the doctor picked up a small book and read his notes aloud. “Ice is necessary. But that alone is no cure.”
When all in the room stared blankly, the healer continued as if instructing a classroom. “Some are able to fight the disease. Signore Carvajal has had Roman Fever three times now. I believe that some men have an extra organ that can cure this disease.”
Borgia held out his hand for the notes and studied in silence for a moment. “Bring all your research to The Vatican tomorrow. His holiness wishes a book on the subject immediately.”
Biting back a retort on the tip of his tongue, Bernardo fumed. So that’s why Borgia kept them waiting for over two weeks. To make time for his father to get sick and then miraculously get well. To study Roman Fever. A favor for Pope Innocent?
He sighed and waited for his temper to dwindle. His father was none the worse for another bout of the fetid city’s disease. Their lord, Cardinal Borgia, seemed happy enough with their services. Their position and wealth in Soriano, at least for the time being, was secure.
But something was off with the angel. She inched toward the door, head lowered. Borgia caught the movement and eyed her like a wolf, about to pounce on a motherless lamb. The doctor saw all and quickly pushed her through the arched opening and slammed the door shut.
Damnation. Bernardo had hoped for a few more words with the sweet, young thing.
He wasn’t the only one. Borgia pointed out the door and commanded one of the young robed men to his right, “Find her and bring her to my chambers.”
Nardini’s eyebrows shot up, his face pale. “B-b-but, your eminence, she has but the mind of a child, certainly of no interest to a learned man such as yourself.”
Bernardo stepped up with hand to his sword and bowed to Borgia. “Per favore. Please. Allow me.”
The cardinal nodded, deep frown indicating he was not at all pleased with his offer.
“Fulvio. Anon.” Bernardo tried to allay Doctor Nardini’s fears by shooting a confident look over his shoulder before rushing out of the room.
Where is she? He jumped down the steps two at a time, sword bouncing at his side.
On the bottom floor, he called out to an old woman pounding bread dough in the kitchen. “Which way did the Donna Aurelia run off?”
Suspicious dark eyes narrowed under gray brows and she shrugged.
Grasping her arm, he hissed, “Quickly. I mean her no harm. I save her from the Borgia devil’s cock.”
A thin finger pointed out an ancient lintel at the back of the room. “There.”
He had to bend in half to duck under the musty smelling stones. Fulvio’s footsteps indicated he followed closely behind.
There. A long strand of golden hair flew out from under an oversized cowl. A nun raced down a narrow alley as if chased by the hounds of hell with skirts gathered up to her knees.
Bernardo increased his speed to keep pace, feet pounding upon the flagstones, breathing hard.
Fulvio rasped, falling behind, “Get her.”
“By God, I’m trying.”
Ahead, she turned the corner. By the time he arrived in the small dark piazza, it was empty.
He turned about. A bakery. A shoe maker. A hanging sign on a chain with a colorful picture of wine and pasta.
All empty.
Then, he spied a narrow archway nested between the shops. That was the only logical choice.
Without making a sound, he approached the ancient door and pushed it open ever-so-slowly. To the left and several feet away, she stood under a painting of a weeping Virgin Mary. Under that, a white marble statue of Saint Stephen, crouched with an arm over his face, as if eternally blocking the stones that would be his death.
Bernardo inched forward while Aurelia, holding onto a votive candle, kept her back to him.
Now that he’d caught her, what to do next?
Convinced she was real and not an apparition, he shot her the smile that made ladies swoon and his bed warm at night. The light again shifted in his favor and she blushed a most delicious shade of pink.
Mio Dio. She is lovely.
“May I inquire the name of your lovely helper?” He helped his father don his sword and buckle his belt.
The doctor wrung his hands. “That is Aurelia Nardini, my daughter and most precious gem.”
She curtsied with the grace of a princess. Where in all of Christendom, had she come from?
“Aurelia? Meet Don Bernardo Carvajal, son of the steward of Soriano, cousin of the Bishop of Carvajal. This is his home.” The doctor sighed when she said nothing and stood mute. “I apologize. She is slow. Dim-witted.”
Was that his imagination, or did her lips twitch into the slightest of frowns.
His father, Dideco grumbled as he struggled with his boots, “Jesu! Just call her over, doctor. The boy is drooling.”
Late summer 1489
Bernardo Carvajal raced out of Cardinal Borgia’s chambers in the Vatican. He flew down the flagstone path and sprinted under the arches of the great ancient viaducts. To his right, the late afternoon sun caught the top of Hadrian’s tower which cast its long thin shadow over the whole of Rome.
After passing under the iron teeth of the Carvajal entrance, he darted across the marble floors, and up the wide staircase. All the while, he prayed that he’d find his father, Dideco, among the living. He stopped at the open door to the upstairs chambers and caught his breath.
Thank God.
Blue and shivering, but very much alive, his father leaned against the oak headboard. Wet footprints led to the center of the room, where a chunk of ice floated in a wooden tub. The normally cluttered room seemed sparse with tables and chairs folded, leaning against the stone walls.
Dressed all in black, Doctor Nardini approached with a wide grin. “Come, come. Greet your father.”
Bernardo crossed the floor, and hugged the nearly frozen man, “It’s good to see you alive and well. I feared for what I might find.”
“Tell me, how did the audience with Borgia go?” Cold fingers dug into his shoulders and his father pushed out of the embrace.
Would that he had better news. “I gave him a full accounting of Soriano in your stead but he insisted on personally seeing to your health. He comes on my heels.”
He held his breath and waited.
His father did not disappoint. Stark naked he shouted when his towel dropped to the floor. “Don’t just stand there. God’s blood. Help me to get dressed. Quickly.”
Nardini rushed across the room, his wide black wide sleeves creating the only breeze. He grabbed the clean shirt and wool hose hanging from a hook.
Much more accustomed to his father’s mood shifts, Bernardo smirked, watched the melee, and folded arms across his chest.
“The eldest of his sons, I presume?” The doctor lifted an amused eyebrow and held open the shirt for Dideco.
He growled and inserted one arm.
Despite his best efforts to remain serious, Bernardo grinned. “How could you tell?”
Bernardo shared his father’s curly brown hair, large build, and eyes so dark that they could be considered black. Their temperaments, however, were as different as the night was from the day.
As if reading his thoughts, his father cursed when an arm got caught in the billowing folds of a sleeve. Bernardo stepped forward, helped him untangle, and then stuffed his father’s wide girth into a violet doublet. He quickly surveyed the room for the missing belt and sword.
In that moment, the sun lowered, bathing a corner of the room in yellow light. All thoughts of the weapon vanished when a dazzling, ivory-skinned angel stepped out of the shadows. Her hair was so blond, it was almost white. Thick lashes lowered to the tops of pink cheeks and demure eyes stared at the floor.
He stared, stunned into silence like the village idiot.
The palest blue eyes he’d ever seen met his, and he gasped, unable to breathe for fear the heavenly vision would disappear. A slight smile played upon her heart shaped lips below a perfectly shaped little nose.
He dared not lower his gaze, not even when his father shouted for his sword. Then, the merciless sun descended another notch leaving him bereft. She stepped back and melted into the dark shadows.
The latest style of puffy slit sleeves and multiple silk skirts indicated she was no vassal. And yet, a modest lace cap covered the top of her head. Maybe she was another of his many Carvajal cousins from Spain?
Convinced she was real and not an apparition, he shot her the smile that made ladies swoon and his bed warm at night. The light again shifted in his favor and she blushed a most delicious shade of pink.
Mio Dio. She is lovely.
“May I inquire the name of your lovely helper?” He helped his father don his sword and buckle his belt.
The doctor wrung his hands. “That is Aurelia Nardini, my daughter and most precious gem.”
She curtsied with the grace of a princess. Where in all of Christendom, had she come from?
“Aurelia? Meet Don Bernardo Carvajal, son of the steward of Soriano, cousin of the Bishop of Carvajal. This is his home.” The doctor sighed when she said nothing and stood mute. “I apologize. She is slow. Dim-witted.”
Was that his imagination, or did her lips twitch into the slightest of frowns.
His father, Dideco grumbled as he struggled with his boots, “Jesu! Just call her over, doctor. The boy is drooling.”
Bernardo moaned.
“Per favore. Please. Over here, Aurelia.” Nardini beckoned her with an impatient wave.
She approached with dainty steps, modest and pure. Then a hint of lavender laced with womanly scent assaulted his nostrils. His heart beat out of control and under his garment, his lust swelled hard.
When she curtsied again, Bernardo tucked a thumb under her chin and lifted her face to his. This is no idiot. Intelligent, stormy eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. She twisted her head away and nipped at one of his fingers.
“Devil take it.” He opened his mouth to swear up a storm, but stopped when his man-servant appeared in the doorway.
Fulvio cleared his throat. “Cardinal Borgia has arrived”
The red-robed man pushed Fulvio aside and entered the small room. He outstretched a hand so that Dideco could kiss his ring. After wiping his ring with a grand gesture, Borgia tucked his lace handkerchief into a sleeve.
He turned to Doctor Nardini. “I understood Dideco was all but dead just this morning?”
Moving with bird-like movements, the doctor picked up a small book and read his notes aloud. “Ice is necessary. But that alone is no cure.”
When all in the room stared blankly, the healer continued as if instructing a classroom. “Some are able to fight the disease. Signore Carvajal has had Roman Fever three times now. I believe that some men have an extra organ that can cure this disease.”
Borgia held out his hand for the notes and studied in silence for a moment. “Bring all your research to The Vatican tomorrow. His holiness wishes a book on the subject immediately.”
Biting back a retort on the tip of his tongue, Bernardo fumed. So that’s why Borgia kept them waiting for over two weeks. To make time for his father to get sick and then miraculously get well. To study Roman Fever. A favor for Pope Innocent?
He sighed and waited for his temper to dwindle. His father was none the worse for another bout of the fetid city’s disease. Their lord, Cardinal Borgia, seemed happy enough with their services. Their position and wealth in Soriano, at least for the time being, was secure.
But something was off with the angel. She inched toward the door, head lowered. Borgia caught the movement and eyed her like a wolf, about to pounce on a motherless lamb. The doctor saw all and quickly pushed her through the arched opening and slammed the door shut.
Damnation. Bernardo had hoped for a few more words with the sweet, young thing.
He wasn’t the only one. Borgia pointed out the door and commanded one of the young robed men to his right, “Find her and bring her to my chambers.”
Nardini’s eyebrows shot up, his face pale. “B-b-but, your eminence, she has but the mind of a child, certainly of no interest to a learned man such as yourself.”
Bernardo stepped up with hand to his sword and bowed to Borgia. “Per favore. Please. Allow me.”
The cardinal nodded, deep frown indicating he was not at all pleased with his offer.
“Fulvio. Anon.” Bernardo tried to allay Doctor Nardini’s fears by shooting a confident look over his shoulder before rushing out of the room.
Where is she? He jumped down the steps two at a time, sword bouncing at his side.
On the bottom floor, he called out to an old woman pounding bread dough in the kitchen. “Which way did the Donna Aurelia run off?”
Suspicious dark eyes narrowed under gray brows and she shrugged.
Grasping her arm, he hissed, “Quickly. I mean her no harm. I save her from the Borgia devil’s cock.”
A thin finger pointed out an ancient lintel at the back of the room. “There.”
He had to bend in half to duck under the musty smelling stones. Fulvio’s footsteps indicated he followed closely behind.
There. A long strand of golden hair flew out from under an oversized cowl. A nun raced down a narrow alley as if chased by the hounds of hell with skirts gathered up to her knees.
Bernardo increased his speed to keep pace, feet pounding upon the flagstones, breathing hard.
Fulvio rasped, falling behind, “Get her.”
“By God, I’m trying.”
Ahead, she turned the corner. By the time he arrived in the small dark piazza, it was empty.
He turned about. A bakery. A shoe maker. A hanging sign on a chain with a colorful picture of wine and pasta.
All empty.
Then, he spied a narrow archway nested between the shops. That was the only logical choice.
Without making a sound, he approached the ancient door and pushed it open ever-so-slowly. To the left and several feet away, she stood under a painting of a weeping Virgin Mary. Under that, a white marble statue of Saint Stephen, crouched with an arm over his face, as if eternally blocking the stones that would be his death.
Bernardo inched forward while Aurelia, holding onto a votive candle, kept her back to him.
Now that he’d caught her, what to do next?
Convinced she was real and not an apparition, he shot her the smile that made ladies swoon and his bed warm at night. The light again shifted in his favor and she blushed a most delicious shade of pink.
Mio Dio. She is lovely.
“May I inquire the name of your lovely helper?” He helped his father don his sword and buckle his belt.
The doctor wrung his hands. “That is Aurelia Nardini, my daughter and most precious gem.”
She curtsied with the grace of a princess. Where in all of Christendom, had she come from?
“Aurelia? Meet Don Bernardo Carvajal, son of the steward of Soriano, cousin of the Bishop of Carvajal. This is his home.” The doctor sighed when she said nothing and stood mute. “I apologize. She is slow. Dim-witted.”
Was that his imagination, or did her lips twitch into the slightest of frowns.
His father, Dideco grumbled as he struggled with his boots, “Jesu! Just call her over, doctor. The boy is drooling.”
Just like every little kid, I pretended. The only difference with me? I never stopped.
One of most fun I had with my girls when they were little, was making their stuffed animals come to life. Even now, two of the favorite bears sit on shelves, waiting for the twenty-four-year-old to come home for a visit. Don’t be sad. They have the cats to talk to and I chat with them, occasionally. I think, as they grow older, they mostly sleep in a Peter Pan heaven.
I’ve had many trades; mother, wife, writer, librarian, electronics engineer, software architect, home repairman, psychiatrist, chief tear-dryer, career counselor…
But I love to write. I jump out of bed at 5:30 AM everyday, eager to go. I can’t wait to give those lovely couples a happily-ever-after. Nothing good comes easy, so they must struggle. Life is like that
I also enjoy working out almost everyday. My favorites are zumba, yoga, and running along a warm sandy beach in bare feet.
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The Soldier's Scoundrel by Cat Sebastian ♥ Book Tour & GIVEAWAY ♥ (M/M Historical Romance)
Jack Turner grew up in the darkness of London’s slums, born into a life of crime and willing to do anything to keep his belly full and his siblings safe. Now he uses the tricks and schemes of the underworld to help those who need the kind of assistance only a scoundrel can provide. His distrust of the nobility runs deep and his services do not extend to the gorgeous high-born soldier who personifies everything Jack will never be.
A soldier untarnished by vice
After the chaos of war, Oliver Rivington craves the safe predictability of a gentleman’s life-one that doesn’t include sparring with a ne’er-do-well who flouts the law at every turn. But Jack tempts Oliver like no other man has before. Soon his yearning for the unapologetic criminal is only matched by Jack’s pleasure in watching his genteel polish crumble every time they’re together.
Two men only meant for each other
Jack absently skimmed his finger along the surface of his desk, tracing a swirl through the sand he had used to blot his notes. Another case was solved and done with, another gentleman too drunk on his own power and consequence to remember to pay servants and tradesmen, too dissipated to bother being faithful to his wife. Nearly every client’s problems were variations on that same theme. Jack might have been bored if he weren’t so angry.
A knock sounded at the door, a welcome distraction. His sister always knocked, as if she didn’t want to interrupt whatever depravities Jack was conducting on the other side of the door. She did it out of an excess of consideration, but Jack still felt like she was waiting for him to do something unspeakable at any moment.
She was right, of course, but still it grated.
“Come in, Sarah.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you,” she said, packing a world of both disapproval and deference into those few words.
Really, it was a pity she hadn’t been born a man because the world had lost a first rate butler there. The butlers Jack had served under would have been put fairly to shame.
“Tell him to bugger off.” Sarah knew perfectly well he didn’t take gentlemen as clients. He tried to keep any trace of impatience out of his voice, but didn’t think he quite managed it.
“I have customers downstairs and I don’t want a scene.” She had pins jammed into the sleeve of her gown, a sign that she had been interrupted in the middle of a fitting. No wonder her lips were pursed.
“And I don’t want any gentlemen.” Too late, he realized he had set her up for a smart-mouthed response. Now she was going to press her advantage because that’s what older sisters did. But Sarah must have been developing some restraint, or maybe she was only in a hurry, because all she did was raise a single eyebrow as if to say, like hell you don’t.
“I’m not your gatekeeper,” she said a moment later, her tone deceptively mild. But on her last word Jack could hear a trace of that old accent they had both worked so hard to shed. Sarah had to be driven to distraction if she was letting her accent slip.
“Send him up, then,” he conceded. This arrangement of theirs depended on a certain amount of compromise on both sides.
She vanished, her shoes scarcely making any sound on the stairs. A moment later he heard the heavier tread of a man not at all concerned about disturbing the clients below.
This man didn’t bother knocking. He simply sailed through the door Sarah had left ajar as if he had every right in the world to enter whatever place he pleased, at whatever time he wanted.
To hell with that. Jack took his time stacking his cards, pausing a moment to examine one with feigned and hopefully infuriating interest. The gentleman coughed impatiently; Jack mentally awarded himself the first point.
“Yes?” Jack looked up for the first time, as if only now noticing the stranger’s presence. He could see why Sarah had pegged him straight away as a gentleman. Everything about him, from his mahogany walking stick to his snowy white linen, proclaimed his status.
“You’re Jack Turner?”
There was something about his voice—the absurd level of polish, perhaps—that made Jack look more carefully at his visitor’s face.
Could it—it couldn’t be. But it was.
A knock sounded at the door, a welcome distraction. His sister always knocked, as if she didn’t want to interrupt whatever depravities Jack was conducting on the other side of the door. She did it out of an excess of consideration, but Jack still felt like she was waiting for him to do something unspeakable at any moment.
She was right, of course, but still it grated.
“Come in, Sarah.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you,” she said, packing a world of both disapproval and deference into those few words.
Really, it was a pity she hadn’t been born a man because the world had lost a first rate butler there. The butlers Jack had served under would have been put fairly to shame.
“Tell him to bugger off.” Sarah knew perfectly well he didn’t take gentlemen as clients. He tried to keep any trace of impatience out of his voice, but didn’t think he quite managed it.
“I have customers downstairs and I don’t want a scene.” She had pins jammed into the sleeve of her gown, a sign that she had been interrupted in the middle of a fitting. No wonder her lips were pursed.
“And I don’t want any gentlemen.” Too late, he realized he had set her up for a smart-mouthed response. Now she was going to press her advantage because that’s what older sisters did. But Sarah must have been developing some restraint, or maybe she was only in a hurry, because all she did was raise a single eyebrow as if to say, like hell you don’t.
“I’m not your gatekeeper,” she said a moment later, her tone deceptively mild. But on her last word Jack could hear a trace of that old accent they had both worked so hard to shed. Sarah had to be driven to distraction if she was letting her accent slip.
“Send him up, then,” he conceded. This arrangement of theirs depended on a certain amount of compromise on both sides.
She vanished, her shoes scarcely making any sound on the stairs. A moment later he heard the heavier tread of a man not at all concerned about disturbing the clients below.
This man didn’t bother knocking. He simply sailed through the door Sarah had left ajar as if he had every right in the world to enter whatever place he pleased, at whatever time he wanted.
To hell with that. Jack took his time stacking his cards, pausing a moment to examine one with feigned and hopefully infuriating interest. The gentleman coughed impatiently; Jack mentally awarded himself the first point.
“Yes?” Jack looked up for the first time, as if only now noticing the stranger’s presence. He could see why Sarah had pegged him straight away as a gentleman. Everything about him, from his mahogany walking stick to his snowy white linen, proclaimed his status.
“You’re Jack Turner?”
There was something about his voice—the absurd level of polish, perhaps—that made Jack look more carefully at his visitor’s face.
Could it—it couldn’t be. But it was.
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