Spotlight: We Are Bone and Earth by Esi Edugyan

At a fort in Cabo Vermelho in 1779, Sisi, a West African girl with a gift for languages, works as a translator for her English enslavers. She was separated from her younger brother after they were kidnapped from their village by the ahosi, fierce female warriors who serve a neighboring king—and her guilt over her failure to protect him has never left her. When unexpected news reaches the fort, Sisi must find her voice, for her brother’s sake and for her own.

Esi Edugyan’s We Are Bone and Earth is part of A Point in Time, a transporting collection of stories about the pivotal moments, past and present, that change lives. Read or listen to each immersive story in a single sitting.

Excerpt

CABO VERMELHO, 1779

In the early hours, the rooms still cold from the night wind off the water, a new caravan arrives at the fort. And though I hold no hope, though I tell myself it is a foolish labor, I know I will again search among the taken for my brother. Five years have passed since I last looked into Yao’s eyes, five years since I have been made to accept his loss. And yet I cannot reconcile with it. I cannot believe I am never again to see him on these shores, the two of us cutting a path through the black trees back to the interior, going home.

Pawns. That is what the young ones brought here are called—free children given to the cheegwa as collateral. Their fathers leave them here, at the fort, in exchange for debts they cannot pay or for loans to buy slaves in the interior, and terrified, lonely, defenseless, they are given their six weeks of food, shelter, water in this foul stone house. They cross the narrow yard with their vessels and drink from the briny well. They sleep on their straw pallets; in the bleached mornings they huddle in the corners praying to the gods, clutching their meager belongings. Their dolls. Their carved wooden keepsakes. Listening all the while to the groans of the captives in the pens beyond. And the cheegwa with their raw pink skin, they do not molest them, they lay no hand upon them. These children walk among them untouchable and blessed.

Until the last day of that sixth week, when their fathers are given until midnight to claim them. And if the men do not arrive, or if they fail to pay or bring their promised quota of slaves? Then the small ones are dragged crying into the pens, or taken below into the darkness and shackled and beaten with cane rods until their legs burn with blood, and then they too are shipped across the waters, to the terrible unknown islands.

Six weeks they are bone and earth, medofu. And then they are neither.

And how do I account for myself? I who have been here five years now, housebound, spared such a fate because I speak many tongues. Days before my arrival the Welshman translator passed in a howl of dysentery and fever, and days later my gift for languages was discovered, and I was forced to replace him. I am looked at with envy by the pawns who come and who go.

They imagine I am lucky.

But I remember still how it was once, your tiny rough hand in mine, the trees as dark as iron in the resting place. I remember the smell of our mother’s skin, like earth turned in the dry season. The flash of iron in sunlight. And our father walking among the yellow lizards by the river, the shadows of leaves breaking across his face. All that, all of what was once our world.

I shall speak of all that has since happened, medofu, so that you will know, it will be as if no years have parted us.

I shall tell you what we were. 

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About the Author

Esi Edugyan is the author of the novels The Second Life of Samuel Tyne, Half-Blood Blues, and Washington Black and the nonfiction work Out of the Sun. She is the recipient of the Scotiabank Giller Prize (2011 and 2018), the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award (2012), and the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award (2013).

Spotlight: The Second First Chance by Mona Shroff

Publication Date: August 2, 2022

Publisher: HQN Books

For fans of Katherine Center's THINGS YOU SAVE IN A FIRE and Jill Santopolo's THE LIGHT WE LOST, THE SECOND FIRST CHANCE is a deeply emotional romance about two neighboring families, the Voras and the Desais, who experience a devastating fire and the fallout it creates in their lives--particularly for Dhillon Vora and Riya Desai, who struggle to admit their feelings for one another.

On one terrible night, everything changed.

Riya Desai has struggled to move beyond the devastating fire that claimed the life of her brother, Samir, and set her on a path she never anticipated. Determined to keep other families from experiencing the loss that hers did, she's become a firefighter herself, but it hasn't been an easy road. The other firefighters are her fire hall are overwhelmingly white--and entirely male. As a rookie and as the only woman at the station, she has to keep proving herself, over and over, in a way her male colleagues never have to. Oh, and her other problem? Her family thinks she's a paramedic--they have no idea she's a firefighter, and she knows they won't be happy about her running into fires instead of away from them.

Dhillon Vora is a healer. After the fire that killed his father, he becomes a vet, his faithful dog Lucky--who survived the fire at the Voras' and Desais' townhouses--behind his side. On a visit to the fire hall across from his clinic, he is dumbfounded to find the girl next door, Riya Desai. Riya has become a firefighter? Dhillon is livid. And--though he can't really admit it--kind of impressed. Even though he knows, deep down, that he's never stopped loving Riya, he isn't sure he's ready to have her in his life again. Especially if he has to worry constantly about her safety.

THE SECOND FIRST CHANCE is not only a deeply moving tale of two people learning to love each other again, but an uplifting story of two families overcoming tragedy with hope, love, and the unbreakable bonds that keep us shining together even through our darkest hours.

Excerpt

DHILLON

A dark brown Lab-pit mix puppy raised its head to look at Dhillon as he entered the exam room. Dhillon’s joy was instant, which was why he loved his job. His nurse, Shelly, was right behind him with the brief introduction.

“Dr. Vora, this is Scout. She is being brought in by today Firefighter Ian Walsh. Scout was found abandoned at one of their scenes and is currently under the care of the Howard County Fire Department.”

It was at the word firefighter that Dhillon tensed. He made eye contact with the man and extended his hand, anxiety flooding through his system, increasing his heart rate and beading sweat on his upper lip.

Shelly threw him a worried look. He ignored her.

“Good morning. I’m Dr. Vora.” Dhillon found his voice but focused on the leashed puppy as the man’s walkie-talkie emitted an irritating squeal. “Everything okay?” Dhillon nodded at the walkie-talkie. “We can reschedule if you have to go.” 

The Lab-pit puppy twitched her ears and raised her head at the squawk. Shelly made a cooing sound and went over to pet their patient. Any remaining anxiety Dhillon might have had melted away as he took in the befuddled pup. The firefighter didn’t even look at the puppy.

“Nah. It’s all good. I’m supposed to get the pup tended to, so let’s just do it.” The firefighter shook his hand.

Dhillon nodded to Shelly as she moved from the dog’s side to the computer so she could enter the information they had so far. He got down on the ground where the puppy had lain down. fallen asleep. “She looks like my Lucky.”

“You mean that older dog out front? With the scarring?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Dhillon picked up Scout and let her climb into his lap. He played with her a moment. He held a small treat out and watched her track it as he moved it from side to side. She lifted her mouth to grab it, but Dhillon made her wait another second before letting her have the treat and a scratch cuddle under her chin. Best part of being a veterinarian. He glanced at Walsh, who watched him with a scowl. “Lucky was caught in a house fire.” Dhillon tried to keep his voice neutral. It wasn’t this man’s fault that Lucky was burned. He stood, bringing Scout with him.

Her coat looked almost pure black, and her big brown eyes reminded Dhillon of Lucky’s when he’d been a puppy. For a moment, Dhillon was dragged back to the day he brought Lucky home from the SPCA. Best day of his life. Well, maybe second best.

“The vet at the time was the previous owner of this practice. He did excellent work. Shelly here used to work with him. That scarring barely reflects how bad his injuries were.”

Dhillon laid Scout on the rickety old exam table which stood in the middle of the room. Nice shiny coat, alert and playful. “How old is she?” 

“Uh…maybe ten weeks. I’m not entirely sure. We just got her. Our station’s new recruit found her on scene, no collar, nothing. She hasn’t even been chipped yet, as far as we know. We’re keeping her at the firehouse for now until we find her a home.” Ian shook his head and pursed his lips.

“Why not take her to the SPCA? They can help find her a home.”

Ian shook his head. “Our new recruit insists that’s not necessary. She thinks someone’s going to claim the little thing.” He shrugged. “My experience says not likely.”

Dhillon turned to Scout, the sight of the puppy putting a grin on his face again. “I know someone who’d say the same thing.” Or used to know, anyway. Sadness flitted through him for an instant before it was replaced with resignation. He’d given up his chance to keep knowing her long ago.

Dhillon scratched the puppy’s belly. “I can chip her today.” He held out a small treat and softly said, “Sit.” Scout flipped over and sat on the table. He rewarded her with the treat.

He looked in Scout’s ears and checked her teeth and paws, dictating his assessment to Shelly as he went along. The puppy looked cared for, healthy. Maybe three months old. Obviously, the guys at the firehouse had cared for her. “Does she eat well?”

Ian shrugged. “We have her dog food, but a lot of the guys spoil her, slipping her a bit of meatball, steak, hot dog. Not me, though. You can believe that.”

“Can any of you take her home?”

Ian shook his head. “But there’s always someone at the station because we do twenty-four- and forty-eight-hour shifts. She works out with us. The new recruit is teaching her to sit, stay, come. Even to go fetch gear. Like that’s practical.” Ian shrugged, as if taking care of a dog was really not his idea of firefighter work. “You know anyone who would want her?” 

Dhillon had a thought flash through his mind. Nah. She was likely too busy, and honestly, she might even have a dog already for all he knew. Running into her occasionally outside the house didn’t really give him much information about her life. “No. But I can keep an eye out.” He continued with his examination, prepping Scout’s shots as Shelly held her.

“Are you Indian?” Ian asked.

Dhillon sighed, knowing the reason for this question. Ian knew someone who was Indian. “Yes. Well, my parents are from India, but I was born here.” Dhillon barely afforded Ian a glance. He approached Scout and administered the shot. Scout gave a small yelp.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Dhillon cooed softly. “Just one more.”

“Just asking because the new recruit—who’s all about this dog—she’s Indian.”

She? Dhillon snapped his attention back to Ian and could not refrain from raising an eyebrow. Interesting. An Indian woman firefighter? Didn’t see that every day.

“Maybe you know her?”

Dhillon did his best to not roll his eyes as he focused on administering the second shot, but a sigh escaped all the same, as did a small hmph from Shelly. Just because he and this firefighter were both Indian didn’t mean they knew each other. “I doubt it.” He ran a gentle hand over Scout’s head and body as if to soothe away her discomfort.

If someone he knew was a firefighter—male or female—he’d already know.

Scout turned a full circle, sniffing, then promptly peed on the table.

Ian scowled at the puppy and stepped back. Shelly made a move to grab the paper towels, but Dhillon was closer. He shared a look with Shelly as he cleaned up the mess. “Potty training can take some time. Helps if she has a crate, where she feels safe.”

Ian shook his head and put out his hands. “I saw a crate in the bunk area. Desai would know.”

Dhillon’s heart skipped a beat. “Desai?” It couldn’t be. Desai was a common-enough Indian last name. Could be anybody.

Right?

He stared at Ian, who continued, completely unaware of Dhillon’s rising panic, as blood pounded through his body, his heart rate increased. “The new recruit. Who wanted this dog. The Indian girl. Riya Desai.”

Of all the names Ian could have said, that was the absolute last one he wanted to hear.

It couldn’t be her. The Riya he knew would never run into a fire. As far as he knew, she had the same reaction to anything fire-related that he did: panic and anxiety.

But then again, he didn’t really know anything about her, did he? They never really talked anymore, outside of uncomfortable pleasantries when they were forced together. Riya avoided him, and he avoided Riya.

Dhillon’s heart hammered in his chest, and the blood drained from his head. He fought to maintain professional composure as he continued his examination of Scout. “It’s a common name.” Dhillon tried to sound casual, as if he really believed his own words. He needed to believe them.

“Brown skin, dark brown eyes.”

Really? That was his description? Dhillon took a breath so he wouldn’t lay into this guy. He fought fires, after all. Saved people.

Some people.

“She’s a paramedic, too. Which helps because we have to do EMT training.”

Dhillon’s stomach plummeted, and his head spun. It was his Riya. Dhillon clenched his jaw. Well, it was the Riya Desai that he knew.

She’d never been his.

He should have picked up on it when Ian said she was teaching Scout to get gear. It was exactly what she had taught Lucky to do when they were young teenagers. Go get their backpacks or books or whatever they had forgotten. Lucky would do it, too. For her. Even though Lucky was really his dog.

What the fuck was she doing going into fires? She’d never bring back what they’d lost.

Ian was still talking. “Between you and me? She’s hot. She has the sexiest mole just below her ear, and she is stacked.” Ian put his hands in front of his chest to indicate large breasts, and Dhillon saw red.

“You know, I actually do know her.” He stared Ian down. “She grew up next door to me. So you’ll want to shut up now.” He didn’t usually talk to patients this way, but this guy was asking for it, and technically Scout was his patient. And she seemed fine with it.

“Oh, dude, sorry. I didn’t know she’d be like a sister to you.”

“She’s not a sister to me. Just a neighbor.” Dhillon had spent too much time imagining kissing that mole to look at Riya like a sister. “Either way, isn’t she your colleague? Maybe show a little respect?”

Ian waved him off. “Whatever, she won’t last long. Doubt if she can do the job.”

Oh, she could do the job. Riya and Dhillon may not be best friends anymore, but one thing he did know was that Riya Desai was fantastic at whatever she put her mind to. If she was the rookie in the department, that meant she’d made it through the academy. Since she made it through the academy, Dhillon knew she had put her mind to becoming a firefighter a long time ago.

Dhillon finished up with little Scout and—reluctantly—handed her back to Ian. “Scout will need another set of shots in one month.” His mouth moved as if by rote as he doled out instructions, but his mind was spinning.

What the fuck had Riya gotten herself into now?

Excerpted from The Second First Chance by Mona Shroff. Copyright © 2022 by Mona Shroff. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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About the Author

Mona is obsessed with everything romantic, so she writes romantic stories by night, even though she's an optometrist by day. If she's not writing, she's making chocolate truffles, riding her bike, or reading, and is just as likely to be drinking wine or gin & tonic with friends and family. She's blessed with an amazing daughter and loving son who have both gone to college. Mona lives in Maryland with her romance-loving husband.

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Spotlight: Blackmail by Amelia Wilde

Publication date: August 2nd 2022
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Bristol Anderson will do anything to protect her younger siblings. Even if it means embezzling from the company where she’s a temp. No one will find out. And the wealthy owner of the investment firm will never notice.

Except Will LeBlanc doesn’t miss a thing.

He could call the police, but he has more interesting plans for her. In the copy room. On the conference table. Under his desk.

The coldhearted venture capitalist will make her pay back every last cent.

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About the Author

Amelia Wilde is a USA TODAY bestselling author of steamy contemporary romance and loves it a little too much. She lives in Michigan with her husband and daughters. She spends most of her time typing furiously on an iPad and appreciating the natural splendor of her home state from where she likes it best: inside.

Amelia is a USA Today best selling author from northern Michigan. Be her friend!

Connect:
https://awilderomance.com/
https://twitter.com/awilderomance
https://www.facebook.com/awilderomance
https://www.instagram.com/awilderomance/
https://www.amazon.com/Amelia-Wilde/e/B01C38CNJ2
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/amelia-wilde
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14671616.Amelia_Wilde

Spotlight: A Wild Rose by Fiona Davis

World-renowned pianist Gloria Banderas is at the height of her career when a curious ailment forces her to cancel a sold-out performance at Carnegie Hall. The same day, she befriends one of the many free-spirited artists inhabiting the warren of apartments above the theater. With her career and marriage at a standstill, Gloria moves into an empty studio and convalesces among the poets, photographers, and dancers who eke out a living with total dedication to their art. As a return to her old routine beckons, Gloria must decide which parts of her life are worth fighting for.

Fiona Davis’s A Wild Rose is part of A Point in Time, a transporting collection of stories about the pivotal moments, past and present, that change lives. Read or listen to each immersive story in a single sitting.

Excerpt

The first time she’d touched a piano was at the age of five, when a teacher had played “To a Wild Rose”—a spare, romantic piece—on the school’s battered upright piano. Gloria had been drawn to the instrument’s gleaming white keys, like oversize teeth, and repeated the melody perfectly, with an innate understanding of the intervals between the notes. After hearing of the feat from her teacher, Gloria’s parents had rushed out and bought a piano for their house in Westchester. Her father had lifted the lid and shown her the instrument’s insides, how you pressed on a key, which through a Rube Goldberg–type contraption activated a lever that caused a hammer to hit a metal string that sounded out a note.

As an adult, she could bring an audience to tears with quiet restraint, or shock them into silence with her octaves as she sliced up the keyboard. Critics became delirious when they tried to describe her playing: “ravishing,” “bursting with grace and power.” One gushed that she put the men to shame with her muscular approach. She owned her talent fully, like the best of the men, but that meant that many in the industry considered her conceited, unladylike. If her career took a nosedive, she’d find little sympathy. She’d be exposed to the elements, and the change in circumstances would only add more stress to her marriage.

Adrienne and William were still waiting for an answer.

She had told only the doctor and the psychiatrist about the problem, thinking that if she confided in anyone else, it would make it real. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Go on, you can tell us,” said William.

Gloria had already drained her glass of whiskey. Adrienne rose and poured her another, and it seemed right, somehow, to be sitting in this room with a woman in a tutu and a skinny man in a windbreaker. A majority of the creative types she’d encountered were competitive and judgmental—not surprising considering how difficult it was to win a seat in a symphony or land a show at an art gallery—but these two were simply curious. It was like she was Alice in Wonderland, but instead of going down a hole, she’d risen up an elevator and found herself in a strange land.

She held out her right hand. “My fingers won’t behave. They bend in, these two.”

Adrienne and William exchanged a look. “You play tomorrow, right?” William said. He checked his watch. “Today, I mean.” Even though she’d told him only her first name, he knew exactly who she was, what this meant.

Unfortunately, there were no pieces written for an eight-fingered pianist.

“What do the doctors say?” asked Adrienne, taking the seat next to her and patting her on the knee.

“That it’s all in my head.”

At this, William brightened. “Ah, the yips! That’s what you have.”

“You’re not supposed to say that out loud,” said Adrienne sternly. She looked back at Gloria. “Poor Sam Snead. Golfer. Got the yips and was never the same again.”

A barrel of thunder made Gloria jump. A rainstorm had kicked up, the lightning illuminating the buildings outside the windows like a black-and-white movie. “I should go.” It would be a wet, dark walk to her hotel, but it didn’t really matter anymore.

Adrienne and William exchanged another look. “You can stay next door.”

“I have to get back.” But the booze was making her head spin, and she was so exhausted. “Where next door, exactly?” The studio was smaller than Adrienne’s, but with the same high ceiling and loft, and a grand piano placed in the very center of the room. The air smelled of metal and must, a far cry from the rose-scented suite at the Plaza, where Gloria’s luggage sat, unopened. Even the fanciest hotels failed to interest Gloria these days. Why bother getting excited by the view of a city skyline, or luxuriating in a claw-foot bathtub, knowing they were transient pleasures? There was no point in getting attached to places or people, not in her line of work. The lethargy from traversing multiple time zones, compressing days into hours like an accordion, was her only constant. “There’s a bed up the stairs,” said Adrienne. “The bathroom’s outside, down the hall.”

After they left, she tossed her coat on the floor, climbed up to the loft, and fell asleep dreaming of Tchaikovsky holding his head and weeping as he conducted an orchestra of swans. 

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About the Author

Fiona Davis is the New York Times bestselling author of six historical novels, including The Magnolia Palace and The Lions of Fifth Avenue. Her books have been chosen as One Book, One Community reads, and her articles have been published in the Wall Street Journal and O, the Oprah Magazine.

Spotlight: Alison's Conviction by Thomas Keneally

When Alison Strange receives a debt claim she can’t afford to pay from the Australian government’s unemployment office, she’s caught completely off-balance. As she wrestles with a slippery bureaucracy, her history-loving grandfather bolsters her resolve with the story of their ancestor John Strange, an English cobbler who was banished to Australia for his part in a political movement. Drawing inspiration from John’s life, Alison finds her own unique way to demand a future that’s fair for all.

Thomas Keneally’s Alison’s Conviction is part of A Point in Time, a transporting collection of stories about the pivotal moments, past and present, that change lives. Read or listen to each immersive story in a single sitting.

Excerpt

Alison Strange was a clever girl of whom it was known by her mother, her grandfather, and her teachers that she could not face tests of knowledge. Her mother had been told by psychologists that she would never go to university because the business of analyzing what lecturers and tutors meant by their instructions would utterly panic and exhaust her, and basically send her into fits of Tourette’s, into writhings and repeated meaningless sounds like begging. Tourette’s was frequently found in autism cases, a doctor had said. Alison could learn anything if she was interested, but not under any demand that she should know it. She was self-taught, therefore, and her own motivation to know things was the only but powerful machine for her learning. She had, on her own terms, been to the university of Google, just for a start. She had an account that enabled her to read journal articles of all kinds and randomly.

When she was in early high school and the question of convicts arose, she raised her hand and told a teacher, Miss Lambros, that she had a convict ancestor, and she had a date for him too. His ship had arrived in 1821—it was the sort of thing she retained—and his crime was, according to Granrob, stealing shoes. The first Mr. Strange, a convict and shoe thief, settled in Bathurst and opened a shop and a tannery like any settler, and became a constable.

Alison’s chief enemy, Blair Taranto, a beefy child capable of marshaling the laughter of an entire class, had intruded into this conversation, as Alison knew he very likely would.

When Miss Lambros first asked what Alison’s forebear had been transported for, Alison heard Taranto say, breathy with self-amusement, “For being a dead set dropkick.” Taranto is not the main issue of this tale, but when she had given a book report at assembly on Norton Juster’s The Phantom Tollbooth, he had tried to put her off by contorting his face and jerking in imitation of one of her “attacks,” as people called them.

Because of that boy and his easily set-off admirers, she accepted that the world would choose to be as unkind to her as Taranto was. She had in her keeping, though, and held close by her, the essential elements and people. Particularly her mother, Sally Strange, and her grandfather Granrob, as she had eccentrically named him when she was a babe. “Typical of you as a baby, Aly,” he had once said when drinking wine, when he would often tell stories of her infancy, and how different she was from what he called “plain kids.”

“Only you could have come up with that combination of sounds and made a poor sod like me get a special name. I mean, it’s not two easy sounds for a little kid to put together.”

He seemed very proud of her for having managed that, and his warm opinion of her made her think that the Blair Tarantos of her life, as much as they would always be with her, were always somehow wrong, and in a strange sort of way she was willing to endure them. 

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About the Author

Thomas Keneally is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty novels, including The Daughters of Mars, The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith, and Schindler’s List, which was made into an Academy Award–winning film. Among his many awards are the Booker Prize, Los Angeles Times Book Prize, Mondello International Prize, Trebbia Award, and more. He lives in Australia with his family.

Spotlight: The Reluctant Bridegroom by Arabella Sheraton

Publisher: Bublish

Pages: 208

Genre: Regency Historical Romance

A traditional Regency romance about the vagaries of the heart in a delightful romantic comedy! The handsome Earl of Wenham has no intention of marrying any time soon. His sister Almeria points out to Hugo that he owes it to the title and the estates to marry and produce an heir. Failure to do so means the entire lot devolves upon his second cousin, the Honourable Felix Barstowe. She also reminds him that their father had promised an old friend, Lord Lavenham, that his son should marry Lord Lavenham's daughter, Miranda. Out of respect for his father's dying promise (which he had never taken seriously), the earl sets off for Lavenham House. He is stranded by snow a few miles away from his destination and takes refuge in a local inn. He meets up with a heavily veiled, mysterious young woman, who, by her confidences to him, he realises is the elusive Miranda. To his shocking surprise, the feisty Miranda declares she will not have anything to do with someone whom she declares, "is possibly so fat and gouty, that he needs to have a wife found for him." In fact, she would rather run away with a childhood friend. Intrigued, the earl makes it his business to get to know Miranda better by inviting her to stay in London with his sister. Unfortunately, this strategy annoys his dandyish cousin Felix Barstowe who is determined that the young and healthy earl should not marry and cheat him out of his birthright. Will Felix succeed in a dastardly plan to murder his cousin? A must-read for fans of Regency romance!

Book Excerpt:

“You have the most incredible gall, your lordship,” said the termagant, folding her arms and tapping one foot impatiently.

“Aren’t you going to show me the Dutch miniatures,” he asked, pasting his most charming and humble smile onto his face. “In case your aunt asks me how I liked them.”

The boyish grin that usually melted the stoniest of female hearts had no effect at all on his hostess. Miranda made an angry sound and strode into the gallery. She flung both arms outwards in a dramatic gesture.

“There!” she snapped. “Take your pick and make up whatever opinion you like since you’re not only an accomplished liar but a fraud as well.”

Hugo recoiled from the little spitfire in front of him.

And Father and Almeria thought she would be the perfect wife for me? I think not.

Hugo felt a strong desire to shake Miss Miranda Lavenham until her teeth rattled for her infernal impudence, but that was not the way a gentleman, and definitely not how the Earl of Wenham behaved. Miss Lavenham was clearly unschooled in the niceties of correct social behaviour, given her unseemly display of emotion upon setting eyes on him earlier. No society lady in London would ever reveal by a shred of discomposure that things were not as she had expected them to be.

Serves her right. She deserves to have her nose put out of joint.

Hugo put on a haughty expression, enjoying his triumph even before he had spoken. If anyone was a liar, it was Miranda.

“I can assure you, Miss Lavenham, or should I say Miss Clarice Smith, that unlike you I am no fabricator of stories. The names I gave you—Charles St. John—are just two of my given names whereas I wonder if Clarice or Smith feature anywhere on your birth certificate.”

She looked away from him, her guilt staining her cheeks.

“Oh, all right,” she conceded in a grudging tone. “But you lied to me when I first met you.”

He shook his head. “No, I did not lie.”

“Yes, you did. You could have said last night that you were the Earl of Wenham. You could have saved me the mortification and shock I felt when I discovered just a short while ago that the man I met last night was, in fact, the Earl of Wenham.”

“And if I had said so, how would you have reacted?” he demanded. “You had made an elaborate plan with Fred that collapsed because he got drunk on brandy mixed with laudanum for his toothache. You came all the way to the inn in the freezing cold, late at night. You were so set on your chosen path that to say I was the earl at that moment would have been a terrible shock for you. More than the shock you received just now.”

Then the insult to his identity, courtesy of Miss Lavenham’s vivid and wildly selective imagination, sprang to mind.

He pointed an accusing finger at her. “Oh yes! How could I forget? You seriously misrepresented me. You told Fred I was old and gouty and had to have a wife found for me because I was incapable of getting one on my own. Fred called me an old nincompoop.”

She glared at him again. “He only called you that because he didn’t know who the Earl of Wenham really was, and besides, I told Fred you were old and gouty.”

He gave a scornful snort. “You should make sure of your facts, Miss Lavenham, before you go about insulting people behind their backs. I am none of those unflattering terms, and I am quite capable of choosing my own wife, thank you very much.”

She said nothing, just continued to look daggers at him.

“You should apologise to me, Miss Lavenham. I have not insulted you to your face, but you have insulted me to mine.”

She tossed her head in a particularly contemptuous way, as if nothing he had just said mattered a jot to her. Apologies were not part of Miss Miranda Lavenham’s vocabulary. For two pins, Hugo could have stalked out of the house and back to the inn, packed his things and his sick valet into his curricle, and driven back to London, never to see this annoying female ever again. In fact, never again would be far too soon.

However, he had promised Almeria he would try his best to be polite. He held onto his temper with an iron grip, suppressing the renewed urge to shake Miranda very hard. It was not surprising she was still single. Any man in his right mind would run a mile after five minutes in her company. Spoiled and selfish were understatements.

He was not sorry for her after all. She deserved to be immured in the countryside to protect any hapless soul, ignorant of her true nature, from proposing and thereby condemning himself to a life of matrimonial misery.

Then she gave another pert toss of her head, this time accompanied by a sniff of disdain. “Then why are you here if you are so capable of choosing your own wife?”

He stared at her. “Don’t you know? I am here because your father sent me numerous invitations which I ignored, and then he wrote to my sister and dredged up this stupid pact between our parents.”

Miranda put her hands on her hips. Her expression challenged him.

“You’re not much of your own man if you allowed your sister and my father to bully you into coming here to make me an offer I will refuse.”

Hugo almost exploded with annoyance. There were no limits to this woman’s impudence.

“Out of respect for your father, and mine, and to please my sister and, no, I would not offer for you if you were the last female on earth because you are a complete shrew!”

Her affronted expression indicated that his words, instantly regretted, had struck home. However, she shrugged off the insult.

“You humiliated me in front of my father and my aunt.”

He raised his shoulders in a questioning gesture. “Did I? I wonder if you are capable of embarrassment after your provoking display when I met you in the drawing room. You acted like an overindulged little brat who couldn’t get her own way.”

He wagged a reprimanding finger at her. “Your father seems to tolerate your eccentricities rather well, as does your aunt. Perhaps you are able to get your way more often than you led me to believe. You certainly misled Fred Hodges into almost tarnishing his good name and perhaps that of his parents by forcing him to embark on a stupid scheme to elope. What would your own family have thought? But I suppose you never considered those consequences.”

Miranda clenched her fists and glared at him even more fiercely. “Fred has always loved me, from the time we were children. He said he’d do anything for me. He promised and a promise is sacred. He is the kind of friend who keeps his promises.”

“Love you?” Hugo burst out laughing. “I hate to contradict you, but I fear I must. Miss Lavenham, you live in a world of fantasy, and perhaps your mindset comes from reading too much of Lord Byron’s overly lyrical and sentimental poetry.”

She stared at him with stony eyes. “Who told you that?”

He stared back at her, his expression equally cold.

“Fred, who very definitely does not love you, does not want to marry you, and who thinks you are a nag, which is exactly what I think you are.”

Miranda’s lips trembled as his barbs hit home again. “Fred would never say that. He loves me.”

Hugo gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head. “No, he told me most plainly that he likes you very well and loves you as a sister but would not want to be forced into a life with you because he wants to do things a squire’s son does, and you would make him read poetry books instead.”

“But he agreed to run away with me!”

“He agreed out of loyalty to you as a friend, not out of love. You bullied him into submission, and he is such a faithful fellow that even though he had a terrible toothache, he went along with your elaborate plans.”

She walked away from him, further into the picture gallery.

“Anyway, Miss Lavenham, you told me last night you don’t love Fred, and you were willing to marry a perfect stranger—me—in order to escape the evil Earl of Wenham, also me.”

She made an indifferent gesture with one hand, as if the subject bored her. “What does it matter, your lordship? You are not interested in me and I am not interested in you. You do not want to propose to me and I do not want to hear one anyway. But my father sincerely believes you will make me an offer. We are at an impasse.”

Hugo followed her. “In that respect you are right. Five minutes of conversation with Lord Lavenham has convinced me that nothing will dislodge the ridiculous notion he has of the two of us fulfilling this old promise.”

She swung round to face him. “All that nonsense about being nice to you and letting my father and aunt think something would happen, and then things just drifting into nothing…”

She gave a small angry sob. Hugo was positive she was not crying out of sadness, but more from anger and chagrin at having her plans to elope overturned.

“Now you’re here, and Father will get his hopes up, and I will be a monstrous daughter to let him down because I will not accept your hand in marriage.”

Hugo fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She took it silently and blew her nose in a very unladylike fashion. Then she slipped it into her sleeve with a muttered promise to launder it for him. Hugo began to feel guilty at what appeared to be signs of true distress. Perhaps he had hurt her by saying Fred did not love her. His remark about not marrying her if she were the last female on earth was also beneath him. Females always wanted to hear proposals, no matter how often they said not. An apology seemed in order.

“Forgive me, Miss Lavenham. I apologise for putting you into such a predicament. I promise you I will not make you an offer of marriage. I am also sorry about what I said…you being the last female…and all that.”

She looked up at him, with tears glistening on the ends of the longest, darkest lashes he had ever seen. In fact, despite her blotchy complexion from crying and nose reddened with blowing it, she was not entirely unattractive.

He gazed at her. Almeria would be the perfect person to take her in hand. He cocked his head to one side, inspecting her properly for the first time.

Get rid of the dowdy clothing, cut her hair in one of those new smart crops just come into fashion, dress her properly, and Miss Lavenham and her fortune might well find a willing suitor. A touch of town bronze and she would be perfect to launch into the Marriage Mart.

“Really?” A smile peeped out and transformed her face. “Do you promise?”

He laughed. “Not now and not ever!”

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About the Author

Arabella Sheraton grew up on a diet of Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, and many other writers of that period. From Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer, Arabella has found both enjoyment and inspiration in sparkling, witty Regency novels. She also loves history and generally finds the past more fascinating than the future. Arabella wrote her first Regency romance to entertain her aged mom who loved the genre. Arabella is honoured to share the adventures of her heroes and heroines with readers.

You can visit her website at https://regencyromances.webs.com or connect with her on Twitter and Facebook.

Her latest book is the regency historical fiction, The Reluctant Bridegroom.