Today’s “I Covet” feature,  Nancy Boy Hand Soap, isn’t specifically Regency, but it does involve Castile soap…close enough, right? Nancy Boy is based in San Francisco, with a tiny boutique on Hayes Street (a trendy, up and coming gentrified neighborhood with cute bars/shops/restaurants, for those of you who want to picture it). Their product lines are relatively small, but everything they make is to die for.

I was walking down Hayes Street one day and could smell them from several stores away - one whiff of their elusive, wonderful Signature scent hooked me forever. From their website: “Signature is our most popular scent. French lavender makes it calming and restorative, but the Washington peppermint and Tunisian rosemary give it clean, fresh, bracing notes to which both men and women are drawn.” Doesn’t that sound divine?

If you want a bit of this scent to brighten your darkest days, try the hand soap (perfect for my unacknowledged OCD-ness, since it doesn’t dry out my hands). Or, get a candle in Signature scent so your whole room can smell alluring. Best of all if you get the soap, though – for a few moments, you can live like a Regency heroine! This is a Castile soap, which means it’s oil based and quite runny (fair warning; it took me awhile to get used to runny hand soap) – but Castile soap was quite popular in Europe, and the fancy set would have used Castile soap instead of lye or other, harder soaps.

Let me know if you try them! Or, if you have other great scent recommendations, please share them in the comments…I’m always looking for new candles, scents, and other ways to brighten up my life (without spending a fortune on diamonds

The Australian War Memorial - the names of major battles fought by Australian forces are made up of smaller carvings of all the towns that the soldiers came from, and water flows endlessly across the face of the monument. Lovely, and utterly haunting.

I haven’t posted in ages, but it’s Anzac Day in Australia and New Zealand (or rather, it was yesterday for them…it’s already tomorrow there, if I’m not being too confusing). Anzac Day is April 25, and while I won’t claim any sort of expertise on the history of Australia, New Zealand, or their armed forces, I did go through a slightly obsessive phase over World War I and World War II. And I visited Australia and New Zealand for four weeks in 1999, which was totally amazing. And whenever I go to Europe I meet awesome Australian travelers, who are always the most fun to hang out with in random situations. And I loooooove that “Down Under” song by Men At Work, which I probably shouldn’t admit…

Anyway. Anzac Day. Anzac Day commemorates the veterans of all wars that Australia and New Zealand have fought in, but it initially started as a remembrance of the landing at Gallipoli in 1915, when Australians and New Zealanders (Anzacs), as part of the Allied forces, invaded that part of Turkey seeking to control the Dardanelles and the sea route to Istanbul, Russia and the Black Sea. The casualties on both sides were massive, ultimately resulting in a Turkish victory many months later. But even though Gallipoli was small in comparison to the brutal, dragging, disastrous trench warfare of the Western Front, it had a major impact on the development of the national identities of Australia, New Zealand, and Turkey, which at that point was part of the last gasp of the Ottoman Empire but eventually remade itself as a democratic, secular society.

You can read all about Anzac Day and Gallipoli on Wikipedia or any number of other resources on the web, but I’ll leave you with two quotes:

I do not order you to fight, I order you to die. In the time which passes until we die, other troops and commanders can come forward and take our places. – Lt. Col. Mustafa Kemel’s orders to the Ottoman 57th Infantry on the morning of the invasion, when the defenders had run out of ammo and only had bayonets left. All of the 57th either died or were wounded at Gallipoli, and Mustafa Kemel went on to become Ataturk and lead independent Turkey.

—–

Those heroes that shed their blood
And lost their lives.
You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore rest in peace.
There is no difference between the Johnnies
And the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side
Here in this country of ours.
You, the mothers,
Who sent their sons from far away countries
Wipe away your tears,
Your sons are now lying in our bosom
And are in peace
After having lost their lives on this land they have
Become our sons as well.
- Dedication read by Ataturk (Mustafa Kemel) in 1934, during the first commemoration by Anzac veterans at Gallipoli.

I was in London in mid-May, after both V-E Day and Anzac Day, but there were still poppy wreaths and flowers at the memorial. Nearly 100 years after WWI, and people still remember...

The pictures are from the Australian War Memorial in London, and I took these when I visited in 2008. It’s a really lovely setting – at Hyde Park Corner, opposite the southeast corner of Hyde Park (steps from Rotten Row), in the same little park as the Wellington Arch, and across Piccadilly Street from Apsley House (Wellington’s home, which is now a great little museum).

And that’s my bit of Anzac Day remembrance – not at all related to the Regency, but my love of history and deep, abiding empathy/sympathy/fascination/sadness for those who fought and died in both world wars sometimes trumps the Regency. I hope to blog more regularly, though, so look for more Regency ramblings soon!

SCOTSMEN PREFER BLONDES is the second book in the Muses of Mayfair series. It is out now on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, and paperback via Amazon – check the purchase page for buy links.

Chapter One

MacCabe Castle, the Scottish Highlands – 23 September 1812

“Are you sure you want to do this, Prue?” Amelia asked.

Miss Prudence Etchingham turned away from the window. Her frown was answer enough. “No. But you must admit the tea Lady Carnach served when we arrived was better than anything my mother’s housekeeper can produce. I would happily marry the devil for those lemon cakes.”

Amelia crossed her arms. They’d had the argument in fits and starts all the way to Scotland, but there were only a few moments left before Prudence met her would-be fiancé. “Lemon cakes are all well and good…”

“More than well and good, I should think, if you’ve lived off my mother’s housekeeper’s soda bread,” Prudence interrupted.

“You can’t sell yourself for a cake,” Amelia insisted. “Your worth is greater than that of anyone I know.”

Prudence leaned against the edge of the bed, so high that she couldn’t sit on the mattress without boosting herself up onto it. “You are the only one who thinks so. The marriage mart gave up on me ages ago.”

They were in one of the castle’s innumerable guest chambers, already dressed for dinner and waiting for the gong to summon them downstairs. Amelia did acknowledge that the castle was vastly preferable to the Etchinghams’ lodgings in London. The castle was large enough that Amelia and Prudence had their own chambers — a luxury their spinster statuses rarely allowed.

If Prudence followed through with the plan her mother had made for her, though, she would have the entire castle, not a minor guest room. Most single women at seven-and-twenty would be delighted to entertain a proposal from an earl. But Prudence was pale under the light brown hair piled on her head. Her yellow gown only enhanced her pallor — it made her look sickly, not satisfied.

“You don’t need the approval of the marriage mart,” Amelia retorted. “If you could just wait a bit longer, perhaps one of your historical treatises could raise some funds for you.”

Prudence smiled, but her brown eyes were sad. “History doesn’t sell as well as fiction. And it’s better to marry than be trapped in spinsterhood with my mother.”

Amelia picked at a fraying thread on the edge of her glove. “I think we might escape in another year or two. Once I’m thirty, my mother will surely let me set up a cottage in the country. No one would remark upon it if you joined me. Then I could write my novels and you could study history as much as we like, without fear of discovery.”

“With what do you suppose we will pay for a cottage?”

“If neither of us marry, our dowries should maintain us. And anyway, if my books continue to attract notice…”

Prudence cut her off again. “Your dowry, perhaps. Mine won’t even buy a new pair of gloves. Mother says I should be grateful to have found any man at my advanced age and without a pound to my name. The fact that Carnach is an earl has her salivating even more.”

Amelia stopped picking at her glove with a guilty sigh and pulled it onto her hand. “Don’t you think that might be a reason not to marry Lord Carnach? You haven’t met him. Our mothers liked Lady Carnach when they shared a Season with her, but they know nothing of her son. She said he wants to go into politics — what if he is such a prig that no other woman would have him? Or what if his tastes are perverse?”

Her voice dropped on the word, but Prudence giggled. “I’ve seen all the same illustrations you have, Mellie. I can tolerate a bit of perversion for those lemon cakes.”

With a delicate blush sweeping across her cheeks, Prudence looked younger than she had in an age. Amelia sighed. “Don’t decide yet, Prue. At least wait until you meet him. He could be an utter ogre.”

“Of course I won’t have him if he’s an ogre. And I have no desire to be a political hostess, even for a hundred cakes. But I can’t turn everyone down like you have. This is likely my only chance.”

Amelia’s heart twisted. Other than her cousin Madeleine, who had recently married the Duke of Rothwell, Prudence was her best friend. And she was the sweetest girl in London, with a secret streak of humor that Amelia adored.

But sweetness and good humor were wasted on a woman who had no dowry. In London, no one paid Prudence any notice.

Would the Earl of Carnach notice Prudence? The real Prudence, the one Amelia knew? Or would he see her as a desperate woman who would be grateful for his title and his fortune, one who would do whatever he needed of her?

“Still, know that I’ll do anything you need to avoid this. If I have to write another book like The Unconquered Heiress, I will. It’s still selling like mad.”

Prudence frowned. “You shouldn’t take such a risk again.”

Amelia had written the satire in the spring, partly as penance for an argument with her cousin Madeleine, partly as revenge on the most repugnant of her would-be suitors. She preferred writing Gothic romances to social commentary, but the book had sold better than anything she’d written before.

“Perhaps it’s a risk worth taking if it saves you from Carnach,” Amelia said.

The dinner gong sounded — likely carried up the stairs by a footman and rung especially for them, since the guest wing was separated from the family wing by the vast expanse of the ancient great hall. Prudence pushed herself away from the bed and held out her hand to help Amelia stand.

“No, you can’t write another,” Prudence said firmly. “If anyone knew you authored the first one, you would have been ruined. And if you’re ruined, my mother won’t allow me to see you. So you have to stay safe, even if another book would buy you lemon cakes for life.”

Amelia grinned at that. “Very well, no satire. What about a Gothic novel in which a dastardly seducer lures a beautiful woman to his mountain castle, then forces her to throw parties for Whigs until the end of her days?”

Prudence swatted her arm. “Let me at least meet the man before you cast him as a villain.”

Amelia relented. They walked to the stairs that led down to the great hall. The castle was no longer shaped like a castle proper — as with many old estates, the original building had been added to, subtracted from, and renovated over the centuries. The great hall was intact, lined with tapestries, and the dais still held its ancient table for the lord and his family. Behind the dais, a passage had been converted into a portrait gallery, leading to the castle’s only remaining tower.

Amelia shivered as they passed through the hall to the stairs that led up to the family wing, which was more modern than all the rest. “If you do stay, make sure Carnach buys you well-soled slippers. You’ll catch your death here otherwise.”

Prudence didn’t laugh as easily as she normally did. “No more talk of death, Mellie. I need to concentrate.”

Amelia sighed. It only took a few moments to climb the stairs and walk down the hallway to the drawing room. When they reached it, Prudence paused just outside the door.

“Lemon cakes,” she muttered to herself.

Amelia laughed despite herself. “A battle cry that will live on for centuries, Prue.”

Prudence’s laugh was shaky, almost a sob. She squared her shoulders, cloaking herself in dignity like she wore the most expensive gown in England, not a plain muslin dress that was several seasons out of date. Then she stepped forward, ready to offer herself up as a sacrifice to replenish her mother’s fortunes.

Amelia followed, feigning serenity as her anger grew. Prudence didn’t want this, even if she needed it. And if Prudence wouldn’t demand something more for herself than this, Amelia would do whatever it took to find an alternative.

The MacCabes’ butler, Graves, greeted them at the door. “Lady Amelia Staunton and Miss Etchingham,” he announced, even though the gathering was small. She knew the women — her mother, Lady Salford, sat with Prudence’s mother, Lady Harcastle, and their hostess, Lady Carnach. Amelia’s brother Alex, the Earl of Salford, was there too, having grudgingly escorting them to Scotland.

The only man she didn’t know broke away from the group to stride toward them. Lady Carnach trailed in his wake, presumably to conduct introductions.

Amelia heard Prudence suck in a breath, felt her freeze beside her. If this was her would-be husband, he didn’t look like an ogre. He didn’t look like a politician, either — he looked like one of the old Celtic warriors come to life. He was tall, well over six feet, with a muscled frame that showed to complete advantage in his tailored eveningwear. His dark hair was longer than fashionable, and he had carelessly pushed it back in a sinful sweep that would make Byron foam with jealousy. His brows were thick over his eyes, and with just a quirk they would turn sardonic.

But for now, he was polite. He took Prudence’s right hand as Lady Carnach murmured the introductions.

“Miss Etchingham, I am honored that you have come to Scotland,” he said.

His voice rumbled, rough and sensual, under the cool welcome. Amelia’s eyes narrowed. It had taken less than a second to register Carnach’s appeal. With his title and his looks, why would he need to take a woman he’d never met as his bride?

Perhaps Prudence had the same doubts. She didn’t let go of Amelia’s hand, even after Carnach took her other hand into his. Instead, her grip tightened as though Amelia could save her.

If the earl noticed his would-be bride attaching herself to her friend like a barnacle — and with the sidelong glance he gave Amelia, he did notice — he didn’t remark on it. “I trust you’ve found the castle to your liking?” he asked.

The sound Prudence made was not one of delight. It sounded like a mouse realizing it was clutched in a hawk’s talons.

Just before it died of fright.

Damn. It wasn’t a ladylike thought, but Amelia didn’t feel like a lady. She felt like a general suddenly confronted with a suicide mission. She didn’t think Prudence should marry the man.

But she didn’t want Prudence to be embarrassed, either. Amelia squeezed Prudence’s hand, hard and urgent.

Prudence finally remembered what she was supposed to do. She dropped into a curtsey. “You have a lovely home, Lord Carnach.”

The curtsey was awkward, with Carnach holding one hand and Amelia the other, but Prudence successfully executed it. When she came up again, Carnach brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Thank you, Miss Etchingham. I hope you find much happiness here.”

His tone was gentler than before.

Prudence made another strangled sound.

Amelia smiled, pretending this was like any other house party she’d attended. “You are so fortunate to live here, my lord. We could not stop marveling at the scenery, could we, Miss Etchingham?”

It was an uninteresting observation, the sort of statement that made men preen and think themselves clever by comparison. But Prudence stopped choking. If they both stayed vapid and boring, as the ton had trained them to, perhaps Prudence could overcome her panic. The tactic had successfully hidden Amelia’s writing and Prudence’s academic leanings for so long — surely it would work now.

Carnach’s gaze shifted to Amelia. His eyes were grey, but grey was such a lusterless word for what they really were — the moody grey of clouds about to break, turning into quicksilver as he looked at her. His mouth turned up, just enough to show amusement without baring his teeth.

“The poets appreciate the scenery, I’m sure,” he said. “Will you regale me with a discussion of the weather next?”

Amelia would have laughed. Carnach knew the way the conversation was supposed to progress, and apparently had as little use for it as she did. But she couldn’t be at ease with him — not when his plans for Prudence still bothered her.

She eyed him coolly, holding her ground when he raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer to discuss the chance of sun tomorrow? Or the chance of rain? I am prepared for either topic, my lord.”

“If it’s weather you care about, my lady, you’ll find the conversation here much to your liking,” he said, suppressing a grin. “But what of you, Miss Etchingham? Shall we discuss the weather as well? I don’t have any gossip to share that would interest you, I’m afraid.”

Prudence was looking beyond him to where Alex and their mothers sat. She didn’t answer, and the pause turned awkward. Amelia finally recalled her with another squeeze of the hand.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Prudence said, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “I was woolgathering.”

Carnach smiled at her, but the quicksilver in his eyes had turned back into storm clouds. “We have wool as well, of course, if you’d like to discuss that instead.”

Prudence didn’t laugh at the jest. “Whatever you wish, Lord Carnach.”

His smile faded. Amelia had never heard that note of resignation in Prudence’s voice before. To Carnach’s credit, he didn’t seem to relish it either.

His brothers came into the drawing room then, and the relief on Carnach’s face was obvious. When he turned to greet them, Amelia leaned in to whisper in Prudence’s ear. “Don’t let him think you’ll be his chattel.”

“That’s what I’ll be though, isn’t it?” Prudence snapped. “No sense pretending otherwise. And no sense regretting what I might have had instead.”

There wasn’t time to try to convince her — Lady Carnach was already introducing them to the other MacCabes. The second son, Alastair, was the local vicar, and his angelic blond hair matched his role. Duncan and Douglas were twins, almost identical, with the same dark hair as Malcolm. But where Malcolm’s eyes seemed capable of brooding, she saw nothing but amusement on his brothers’ faces.

They were everything that was pleasant. Even a few minutes in their company made Amelia feel that she would enjoy her time in Scotland, regardless of the outcome.

And if any of them noticed Prudence’s distraction, when she should have tried harder to be amiable with her potential new family, they were too polite to mention it.

When it was time to go in to dinner, one of the twins claimed Amelia’s arm. “How do you find our weather, Lady Amelia?” Douglas asked.

She snorted, then tried to smooth it over with a cough when she realized he hadn’t meant it as a joke. “Do you think we will have rain or sun tomorrow?” she replied.

Douglas started regaling her with an old wives’ tale of how to predict such things. He turned her toward the door, and she looked up to find Carnach grinning at her.

The earl didn’t say anything about her choice of conversation, though. He turned back to Prudence and spoke to her with the soft voice of a horse tamer. If Prudence responded, her voice was too soft for Amelia to hear.

Amelia followed on Douglas’s arm, listening with half an ear to his stories. She’d been angry when she had walked into the drawing room, but she left it confused. She still found it suspicious that Carnach had fixed his attentions on Prudence — she loved her friend, but even Amelia knew Carnach could have looked far higher for a bride.

But why wasn’t Prudence responding to his charm? Perhaps this was like one of the Gothic novels Amelia wrote, and Prudence had recognized some dark omen, some latent evil, that Carnach hid from everyone else.

If this were one of Amelia’s stories, Prudence would try to escape. But Fate would have other plans.

Amelia shivered. This wasn’t a novel. Prudence could certainly do worse than Carnach. He wasn’t the villain Amelia had guessed him to be, even if he was entirely too smooth for her liking. She wouldn’t scheme to end the match, as she had originally planned — perhaps it was for the best if Prudence married him.

But if Prudence wanted to escape him, Amelia would be more than happy to help her.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

Chapter Two

In his study with his brothers three hours later, after a remarkably wretched dinner, Malcolm slammed his empty whisky glass down on his desk. “Do not say another word, Duncan. I’ve made my decision.”

Duncan and Douglas exchanged glances. Douglas gestured with both hands, an elaborate, sweeping movement ending with a suggestive curl, and Duncan laughed into his glass. The twins had developed their own language at a young age, and they still used it when they didn’t want to share their thoughts with others.

Malcolm scowled at them. “I know what that one means. Buying myself a whore won’t help matters.”

Alastair rolled his eyes in sympathy. “Don’t mind the twins, Malcolm. They’re still more boy than man.” Then he cleared his throat. “Of course, wisdom does occasionally come from the mouths of babes.”

Malcolm and his brothers had adjourned to his study after dinner. The Earl of Salford had declined, instead choosing to work on his correspondence, which is what Malcolm would have done if his brothers hadn’t forced him into retreating to the study and having a drink with them. “Retreat” felt like the right word for it. In the war to secure his clan’s future, the search for a bride was his prime objective. Tonight’s opening salvo had not gone as intended.

At least he had his brothers to commiserate with — although their commiseration usually made him feel better only because it redirected his annoyance to them rather than his other woes. At thirty-four, Malcolm was the oldest and had been responsible for all of them since their father’s death the previous year. Alastair was three years younger than Malcolm, and was the village’s vicar — not that he always behaved so piously. But the twins had just turned twenty-five, and with no wives, no incomes, and no houses of their own, they were a unified thorn in Malcolm’s side.

“I should buy you both commissions and be done with you,” he said, removing the stopper from the heavy crystal decanter to pour himself another drink. “Perhaps one of the India regiments so you can’t come home on leave.”

Douglas grinned. “You’ve threatened that since we were in leading strings. Send Duncan. He sports a uniform better than I do.”

“Only because I bathe regularly,” Duncan retorted. Then he turned back to Malcolm, ready to press his point again. “You cannot seriously intend to marry that chit, brother. It would be like legshackling yourself to a sheep.”

“Or a dishrag,” Douglas supplied.

“She’s not a dishrag,” Alastair said. “Miss Etchingham is just…a tad quiet for you, isn’t she?”

Malcolm glared at his turncoat brother. Alastair usually sided with him, not the twins. “Why should I not marry a quiet woman? It would be a welcome relief from hearing the lot of you criticize me at every turn.”

“Douglas and I are usually silent in our criticisms,” Duncan said. He emphasized it with another gesture to Douglas that had them both laughing again.

Malcolm had had enough. “Miss Etchingham is a very nice young lady.”

“‘Young’ is charitable,” Douglas muttered.

“A very nice young lady,” Malcolm repeated, raising his voice. “She was no doubt tired from her journey. As for conversation, I can’t blame her for not wanting to talk to any of you.”

“Did she talk to you?” Alastair asked.

They all knew the answer to that. Malcolm had escorted her in to dinner, made sure she had the choicest morsels on her plate, led her into discussions of the weather, the society pages, and everything else he could think of — but to no avail. Her answers were monosyllabic. Her countenance was almost bored. She kept glancing down the table as though hoping for a rescue. He coaxed one or two giggles out of her, but nothing that could be deemed joy.

He never failed to engage a lady in conversation. Even her mother, Lady Harcastle, who looked to be every bit the sour bitch his friend Ferguson had warned him about, had warmed to him.

Malcolm rolled his tumbler between his fingers. “You know why I have to marry. If I am to achieve enough influence in the House of Lords to save our clan’s livelihood, I need a hostess who can give the right sort of parties. Ferguson has vouched for her. He claims she can speak quite nicely. She has never caused a scandal. And she needs a husband.”

Alastair sipped his whisky. “Ferguson has only known her a few months. And why do you trust Ferguson’s judgment on society issues?”

Ferguson was Malcolm’s closest friend, but had left Scotland after unexpectedly becoming the Duke of Rothwell several months earlier. He was now married to Lady Amelia’s cousin Madeleine, which was how he knew both Amelia and Miss Etchingham. When Malcolm had decided to find a suitable wife quickly so that the wedding plans didn’t take valuable time away from his political aspirations, Ferguson was perfectly placed to recommend a possible bride.

“Ferguson understands society,” Malcolm said. “He just doesn’t care for it.”

“But if you want a hostess, shouldn’t you look for someone who can, say, host? And talk to people?” Alastair asked.

Douglas looked up from his silent side conversation with Duncan. “What about the blonde girl? She was quite talkative, if you didn’t notice in your efforts to sustain speech on your side of the table.”

The blonde girl. Such simple words for such a beautiful woman. When he had first seen her in the drawing room, it was all he could do to keep his attention focused on the woman he was supposed to marry. Amelia Staunton was lovely — taller than his would-be bride, with humor and intelligence shimmering in her sapphire eyes. She was also loyal, if her attempt to prop up her friend was any indication.

But she was not for him. “Ferguson said he doesn’t know anything about her past, other than that many men have tried to win her and failed. He said Prudence is the safer bet. If one of you wants to tie yourself to Lady Amelia, you’re welcome to. At least she would take you out of my hair.”

“She would be better than India,” Duncan mused.

Alastair eyed him as the twins returned to their conversation. “Lady Amelia does not seem unsuitable. She was all that was charming and witty at dinner.”

Malcolm hadn’t heard any of it. The formal dining table was simply too big, particularly when his mother seated him and Prudence slightly away from the rest of the guests to give them a chance to talk. But Amelia’s low, seductive laugh had cut through him during the awkward silences with Prudence. He would have happily traded places with any of his brothers if it had put him within range of her words.

“If Miss Etchingham does not wish to continue our acquaintance,” he started to say. Then he caught himself. “Miss Etchingham, given enough time, is far more suited for my needs. I want someone who is utterly beyond reproach, who will not bring any embarrassment or scandal, who will serve as my hostess and give me heirs. Her lineage is impeccable, and her financial position poor enough that she will be grateful for what I can give her. I am confident that we can manage each other quite tolerably. Lady Amelia can go to the devil.”

Alastair stared at him, his jaw uncharacteristically slack. “So you do want a dishrag — a dishrag who is grateful for you.”

Malcolm threw back the dregs of his second whisky. He thought about pouring a third, but it would only increase the censure in his saintly brother’s eyes. “What else would you have me do, Alastair? I am destined to marry for duty, not love. It’s the way of the world. And Miss Etchingham is good enough.”

“There are surely other women better suited to this duty than Miss Etchingham.”

“Perhaps. But I cannot spend months or years chasing after silly misses on the marriage mart. I must take up my seat in the Lords in November, and I’ll have this marriage business done before then.”

“I don’t think such haste…” Alastair said.

Malcolm cut him off. “I want to be noticed for my speeches, not my search for a bride. Why not marry the first woman who fits my requirements? Really, you should thank me for it — the faster I gather influence, the sooner I may put a stop to the landlords who are evicting their Scottish tenants to make way for sheep.”

Alastair shook his head. “Do you only see marriage as a duty? If I have learned anything from the church, it is that duty does not have to be joyless.”

“I don’t think that,” Malcolm protested.

“When was the last time you went to Edinburgh for pleasure?” Alastair asked.

“Or gotten properly foxed?” Douglas interjected. “And this drink doesn’t count — I mean well and truly soused, in the pub instead of alone in your study?”

“Or taken a mistress?” Duncan asked. “A female mistress, not an estate ledger.”

They all knew the answers. He’d devoted himself to entertainments like those when he was younger, not seeking marriage because there would be time enough for duty when he inherited. But he hadn’t done anything but estate business since his father’s wake.

Malcolm scowled at them. “You can do as you please. But I won’t have our clan forced to emigrate to America while I pursue some mindless pleasures.”

He was overstating it. The look Alastair threw him said they all knew it. No one could evict the MacCabes except Malcolm himself. But his tenants were starting to trickle away on their own, driven by economic policies that ruined the small crofters’ livelihoods.

And if none of the other Scottish landlords would stand for their tenants, Malcolm would try to stand for all of them.

Alastair rose, leaving his unfinished whisky on the table beside him. Duncan beat Douglas to the abandoned glass, draining it with a careless laugh. Alastair sighed, then looked back at Malcolm. “I will marry you to whomever you choose. But at least take care to make it a choice, and not just a business transaction.”

He left after that pronouncement, taking his cursed wisdom with him. Malcolm didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear it from the twins, either. He left them to the decanter and slipped out onto the terrace. In the dark, in the chill of early autumn, he could be alone with his thoughts.

And if his duty felt distinctly joyless in that moment, he ignored it.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

Want to read more? SCOTSMEN PREFER BLONDES is out now! You can buy it on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, or in paperback from Amazon. You can also add it to your Goodreads shelf.

Excerpt from SCOTSMEN PREFER BLONDES by Sara Ramsey. Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.

In many ways, it’s like a graduation — the culmination of a lot of work over several years, ending in one lovely day full of celebrating and laughter and merriment. Some of my friends are taking me out tonight, which will be a great way to end the day, and I’ve gotten some wonderful emails and tweets and comments from all over the world. So today is truly a day to celebrate and reflect on everything that’s happened over the last few years (preferably with some champagne and possibly a mani/pedi).

But in other ways, it’s more like the first day of school. Will the other kids (readers) like me? Am I wearing the right clothes? Am I smart enough to handle the work? What’s that smell in the cafeteria? (I’ve been shamefully neglecting my kitchen this weekend…). While all the work of getting my book out in the world has culminated in this, the next phase of work — connecting with readers, writing to deadlines, mastering the art of juggling writing and promo — is just beginning.

Still, it’s an exciting day, and I’m going to enjoy it. Thank you for celebrating with me, and I’m so glad you’re here as I kick off the next phase. If you want to stay updated when the book launches everywhere, or if you want to be invited to signings/events/launch parties, please sign up for my mailing list.

And really, if my outfit is a wreck, promise you’ll tell me?

I won’t post the entire review yet since I’m not sure what’s fair use to post, but I will give you this tantalizing quote: “Book one of the Muses of Mayfair begins a promising new series with tales of artistic women who must perform their vocations as males.”

And I’ll show you the stars, which is more exciting: RT Rating

• stays: Regency-era corset.
• French pox: before the French were known as surrender monkeys, they had a reputation for syphilis. Really, the British and French should be nicer to each other.
• protector: a high-class mistress has a dedicated ‘protector’ who pays her upkeep in exchange for sex (or ‘conversation’, if you prefer to believe that). So, Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, if he had just bought Julia Roberts a house rather than marrying her.
• ton: a French word, short for haut ton, which is basically the English aristocracy. You can only be part of the ton through birth. If you are a dude who makes an insane amount of money, you could marry your daughter to an impoverished baron who needs the funds – you still wouldn’t be accepted in the ton, and she would be smirked at all her life, but her son would be accepted. Awesome plan, right?
• foxed: drunk (see: end result of my launch party).
• Gretna Green: a town on the Scottish border famed for its quickie marriages, since it was easier to marry in Scotland than in England. Like eloping to Vegas, only with less gambling/neon lights/Elvis and more haggis.
• your grace: a duke or a duchess is called ‘your grace’; all other nobles (marquesses/earls/viscounts/barons, in that order) are called ‘my lord’. Oh, and an earl’s wife is called a countess, and a marquess’s wife is called a marchioness. Aren’t you sad that the US got its independence?
• bluestocking: a woman who likes studying, reading, and learning things. Clearly she must be shunned.
• ape-leader: a spinster, usually over the age of thirty (shut your mouth about my age) – at that point, a woman was ‘on the shelf‘ and likely wouldn’t marry. Supposedly called an ape-leader because the afterlife punishment for failing to marry and procreate is to lead apes in hell. Awesome!
• rake: sort of a cross between a manwhore and a metrosexual.
• gentleman’s club: a place where men could go to eat/play cards/discuss politics. Men visiting London could live at their club rather than renting a house. So, it’s a cross between the YMCA (sans swimming pools and Village People) and a hot nightclub (sans strippers or women of any kind). White’s and Brooks’s are two of the most famous.
• demimonde: another French word, describing the world inhabited by high-class mistresses and courtesans. They were some of the most famous women of their day, and everyone knew who they were – but well-bred ladies pretended they didn’t exist. It’s like if we all knew who the Kardashians were, but we weren’t allowed to talk about them incessantly.
• manroot: I’m confident you’ll figure this out in context.
• Newgate: a freaking awful prison in London (although all prisons were probably freaking awful then). It housed everyone from debtors to murderers, and sometimes their families too. Jailers extorted prisoners, demanding money for everything from food to fresh air.
• toilette: the general act of getting ready (clothing, hair, etc.). The most famous courtesans/actresses, particularly in the years preceding the Regency, would invite men to watch their toilette – not in the dirty pornographic way that isn’t appropriate for this blog, but rather in a sort of reverse striptease.
• reticule: a handbag. In the era before my beloved Marc by Marc Jacobs, when people had nothing better to do, a lot of women made their own bags.
• set-down: a blistering insult meant to trim someone’s sails/cut them down to size. My fave!
• cut/cut direct: worse than a set-down. A cut involved pretending not to see someone you knew. A cut direct was done by staring at someone, then refusing to acknowledge them. Pretty much considered the most humiliating thing ever, although clearly these people had never seen Carrie.
• fast: daring. A woman was ‘fast’ if she dampened her chemise so that her gown clung to her body, or if she wore drawers (which were still scandalous during the Regency; it was more appropriate to go commando back then).
• Mayfair: the most fashionable neighborhood in London during the Regency (and still one of the most expensive today).
• rustication: if someone was out of money, or in disgrace, they usually went to their estate in the country to ‘rusticate’ (like a rustic).
• toad-eating: sucking up or trying to curry favor.
• marriage mart: all the events of a London social season added up to a marriage mart, in which mothers were hell-bent on ensuring their daughters didn’t become ape-leaders, and men were either looking for brides or trying to avoid it all by chilling at their clubs.
• on dit: a French word for a bit of gossip. The English sure did like their French words, even when they were at war with France off and on for centuries.

Like I said above, I’ll keep updating this list as I get questions, so leave a comment if anything isn’t clear. And anyone who comments on any blog post between now and Sunday, 1/22/12, at 11:59pm PST is entered to win one of three free copies of Heiress Without a Cause!

Anyway, he mentioned that he’d had to look up more words with this book than anything he’s read in a long time. “Ton” was the hardest, since a Google search for “ton” won’t easily turn up an explanation on English upperclass society, but there were all sorts of words that flummoxed him (“flummoxed” included, although I don’t think I used it in HEIRESS). And that led me to wonder…how do readers approaching their first Regency romance understand what the heck is going on? I read my first Regency almost twenty years ago, so I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know the difference between a curricle and a phaeton, or that a marquess is ranked higher than a viscount.

What words or social customs did you find confusing when you first started reading Regencies? Anyone who comments on my blog between now and Sunday, January 22nd, at 11:59pm PST will have a chance to win one of three Nook copies of HEIRESS WITHOUT A CAUSE – so have at it! Tell me what words I should define for new Regency readers, and I’ll enter you in the drawing. I’ll also post my definitions on Sunday, and hilarity shall ensue.

And by the way, “the ton” is short for “haut ton”, a French phrase that the English used to describe their aristocratic class — the dukes, earls, barons, and other titled people and their families who were part of the “upper ten thousand”. It’s sort of like a cross between the 1% and being a Hollywood A-lister, except you are born into it and can’t rise into it (unless you were extremely, absurdly wealthy, and even then it would take a couple of generations and some great marriages before your family would be accepted). So Suri Cruise would be haut ton, but that upstart Snooki would never be invited to anything.

My friend and fellow San Francisco RWA chapter member Isobel Carr interviewed me for the History Hoydens blog today. I talk all about my favorite bits of Regency history, my hatred of the word ‘pantaloons’, and how Ferguson’s hair used to be red until I was told that people were picturing Carrot Top instead of a hottie mchotterson as I intended. Check it out here – and a random commenter will get a free copy of HEIRESS!

HEIRESS will be available exclusively on the Nook for one month after its release. If you have a Nook, you can read HEIRESS as soon as it launches, on January 23, 2012 (cue champagne and fireworks). If you don’t have a Nook and can’t wait for some fun, lovely drama between a spinster-slash-actress and the duke who loves her, you can download the free Nook app for iPhone, iPad, Android, or PC/Mac. HEIRESS will release everywhere else, including in paperback, on February 23, 2012.

Happy reading! I can’t wait to share Madeleine and Ferguson with you.

London – 6 April 1812

She stood outside her aunt’s ballroom and breathed as deeply as her stays allowed. She had walked into innumerable ballrooms in the past decade, but she still felt that old excitement — that moment of speculation, wondering if tonight would miraculously distinguish itself from all the other nights that stretched behind and before her in a dull grey line. Her life had all the color of a debutante’s closet. Since she would never wear the rich colors of a matron (or, better, a widow), that grey line was unlikely to change.

Chilton, her aunt’s butler, ushered her through the great double doors to the ballroom. “Lady Madeleine Vaillant,” he announced to the horde mingling below.

None of them turned.

They wouldn’t, after all. She lived with her aunt and had been a fixture at Salford House since her parents died eighteen years earlier. Still, the contrast between tonight, at this proper ball, and the previous night, in a very different milieu, was sharp enough to hurt.

Here, in a white muslin ball gown, with her brown hair tucked into a spinster’s cap, no one spared her a first glance, let alone a second.

Last night, wearing breeches and a wild, unkempt wig, everyone cheered at her feet.

She kept a vague half-smile on her face as she descended the steps into the ballroom. Aunt Augusta had trained her well, and she never displayed her disappointment when each night became just like every other. There were a few guests ahead of her on the landing, waiting to greet her aunt and her cousin Alexander Staunton, the earl of Salford. The delay ensured that her mask was firmly in place before Aunt Augusta saw her.

“Are you feeling well, dear?” her aunt asked when she finally reached them.

“Well enough, Aunt Augusta,” Madeleine said, making her voice sound the tiniest bit tired. She had feigned illness for the past two weeks and planned a final relapse the following night, but she couldn’t miss her aunt’s opening ball of the season. She should have come down almost an hour earlier, but she used her illness as an excuse to cut the night short.

Augusta frowned. “You should retire early. No one will miss you, I’m sure.”

She knew her aunt didn’t mean for the words to cut like a blade, but she still winced.

Then she sternly told herself to stop being dramatic. It was just one night, like any other night. Her aunt and cousins loved her, even if the ton didn’t. And her inconspicuous nature gave her the freedom to behave as she had the past two weeks — she should be grateful that she could take such a risk.

So she smiled and said in her sunniest voice, “I’m sure a ball is just what I need to recover. I feel better than I have in an age.”

“Don’t dress it up too much, cousin,” Alex said. “When have these affairs ever improved our health?”

He grinned, a fellow prisoner to Aunt Augusta’s expectations. He escaped more frequently than Madeleine, since he often chose his club over the events of the marriage mart. But if he hadn’t inherited the earldom when his father died, he probably would have left London entirely.

She grinned back. “There is always a first time. Perhaps Aunt Augusta’s ball will magically cure us all.”

Her aunt sighed. “Do try to behave, both of you. Not that I usually have to request good behavior from you, Madeleine, but your illness seems to have addled your senses.”

“Why do you say that?” Madeleine asked.

“You can’t fool me forever, dear. According to the doctors, there is nothing physically wrong with you. You just seem preoccupied — like my sister before she married her French marquis.”

Augusta pressed her lips shut after she spoke, the severe gesture marring a face that was still beautiful even in her early fifties. With her fading blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, she was an older version of her daughter Amelia, but her age had made her more circumspect. It was an unusual slip — she rarely mentioned Madeleine’s mother.

Madeleine didn’t respond. More guests arrived and she seized the opportunity to flee, with a stricken look from Augusta and another sympathetic smile from Alex. As much as she loved the adventure she had created for herself, and as much as she would cherish the precious memory of these past two weeks, she still hated lying to Alex and Augusta. At least Sebastian, Alex’s younger brother, was on his Bermuda plantation this year. She couldn’t have kept her secret from the cousin who understood her desire for rebellion.

But even he wouldn’t support her decision to risk everything and act on a public stage. And since she was too careful to be caught, no one beyond Amelia needed to know.

She took a seat at the edge of the ballroom. The chairs were new, upholstered in green velvet to match the lush new drapes. Aunt Augusta’s redecoration made the ballroom feel like a fairy forest, filled with the bright sounds of the hidden orchestra and illuminated by hundreds of candles in the chandeliers. Madeleine was just grateful that Augusta had replaced the chairs along the walls; the last batch had hit her just wrong, making her feet fall asleep at every ball.

As she settled in, her friend Prudence emerged from the crush. The woman sank into the chair beside Madeleine as though the effort of escaping the crowd had left her mortally wounded.

“Do you think Aunt Augusta bought these chairs because she knows we shall always sit in them?” Madeleine asked, too familiar with her friend to waste breath on greetings.

Prudence ignored her question. “Madeleine, you will never guess who is standing in your aunt’s foyer.”

Madeleine laughed. Prudence Etchingham was the academic bluestocking in their little circle, but she had a sense of adventure that she kept well hidden from her formidable mother. “Napoleon?”

“Even better.”

Madeleine would have liked for it to be Napoleon, if only so she could join the queue of people who wished to skewer him. Aunt Augusta would like it too — Napoleon’s death in her receiving line could only enhance her position as one of the top hostesses in the ton.

But killing Napoleon wouldn’t revive her parents or buy back her life in France. Before she could press Prudence about who was in the foyer, a disturbance at the top of ballroom steps caught her attention. It wasn’t a disturbance, precisely — more like an unexpected silence, which spread in a slow wave across the ballroom as people turned to the entrance.

Chilton cleared his throat with unusual vigor. “Her grace the duchess of Harwich. His grace the duke of Rothwell.”

The butler’s announcement, designed to carry out over the room, dropped like a cannonball into the crowd below. Heads snapped up from their conversations, dancers missed their steps, and Madeleine heard the shattering of at least one champagne glass. They hadn’t noticed Madeleine, but they couldn’t ignore the latest arrival.

Rothwell had finally returned to London to claim his title. He had last been seen nearly a decade earlier, when everyone knew him as Ferguson — a third son with no prospects and a scandalous reputation. Now, inheriting a dukedom in circumstances that the ton had speculated about for over a month, he was a sensation.

“I thought he went mad,” Madeleine whispered.

Prudence shook her head. “I heard it was the French pox that kept him out of London, but he looked healthy enough when I saw him in the foyer.”

“He could look quite healthy and still be mad, Prue. His brothers were always pleasant enough. But why did he choose to make his first appearance at Aunt Augusta’s ball?” Madeleine asked, watching him bow over her aunt’s hand. “I heard he arrived in town days ago. And Aunt Augusta is powerful, but not powerful enough to wait for.”

“Perhaps he had to wait for the moon to turn so that he could appear sane,” Prudence said with a giggle.

Madeleine stifled a snort. Even at this distance, Rothwell’s dark auburn hair gleamed in the light of the massive chandeliers. Sophronia, the duchess of Harwich and his father’s sister, stood beside him, more ramrod straight than usual. She looked ready to battle anyone who might have an opinion about her nephew — not that anyone would dare to cross one of the highest-ranking women in Britain.

“Rothwell hardly seems cut up over his father’s death, does he?” Prudence observed.

She was right. The new duke wore a tightly fitted dark blue jacket and buff breeches, without even a black armband to indicate mourning. Madeleine had heard that he skipped the funeral, and his attire suggested that he intended to forget his father entirely.

Lady Amelia Staunton, Aunt Augusta’s only daughter, joined them then, taking the chair on Madeleine’s left. “Isn’t this a shock! I would dearly love to ask him for the real story of the old duke’s demise, if only I thought he would share it.”

Prudence laughed. “You would care more about the story than anything.”

“Better a story than some dry treatise on ancient Babylon,” Amelia said. It was their usual argument. Prudence wrote academic papers — under a male name — that were well received by other scholars, but Amelia secretly wrote novels. If Madeleine could pursue her artistic passions as easily as they did, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so restless.

She tried to redirect them to the topic — or rather, the man — at hand. “You can’t ask him what happened to his father, Amelia. The Times said it was a carriage accident, and we must leave it at that.”

“Of course the Times would say that if they were paid enough. I like the rumors better.”

“Your Gothic sensibility has addled you, dear,” Prudence said primly. Then she grinned. “Of course, patricide in powerful families is a common historical theme.”

Amelia smiled victoriously. Madeleine rolled her eyes before turning back to watch the new duke. He finished with Aunt Augusta and strode down the steps like he owned them, already so in command of his title that he took others’ deference for granted. A half-smile played on his lips, as though he expected such toad-eating and was amused by it.

If that were all Madeleine saw, she would have hated him on sight. Arrogance was not a trait she found attractive. He had gone into exile in Scotland a year before her debut, but she had heard enough to know that even as a third son, he was never humble. Still, the amusement lurking on his face intrigued her. It was almost like he was playing a role — and laughing at those who could not see through his deception.

She knew how that felt.

The old urge to dance flared up again. This time, it was the partner she desired more than the movement. She bit down on her desire before it fully formed. The most notorious rake, now duke, in London would never notice the spinster she appeared to be.

Near the base of the steps, where he could still survey the room, he turned to his aunt. She made a gesture toward the back of the room — more precisely, toward Madeleine’s circle. Rothwell raised his quizzing glass to examine them, the amused look never leaving his face. Then he set off again, lost in the crowd.

Unless Sophronia warned him away from their corner, there was little doubt that he would soon appear in front of them.

“Prepare yourself, Amelia. You may get to ask your question when he dances with you,” Prudence said.

Neither Amelia nor Madeleine disagreed with Prudence’s assessment of the duke’s intentions. Of the three of them, only Amelia still attracted suitors. Madeleine could have landed a husband if she wasn’t so shy in her first years and bored in the later ones — while her dark hair and green eyes were unfashionable, her uncle Edward had given her a dowry equal to Amelia’s, and it was large enough to cover any number of flaws. Prudence had light brown hair and serious brown eyes, but worse, she had no dowry and no hope of attaining one.

But Amelia, with her blonde hair, blue eyes, silver tongue, willowy figure, and substantial fortune, was always in demand. She had also developed a reputation as “the Unconquered,” which led each year’s crop of bachelors to worship at her altar in hopes of being the one to win her.

Amelia didn’t like the attention. She would rather be at the family estate in Lancashire, writing novels. But she didn’t deny her popularity either. It was easier for all of them to evade suspicion if they appeared in the ton as they should, and so Amelia attended these parties as though she lived for them. There were times — like when she wanted to dance — that Madeleine almost hated her for her popularity, even though she would never admit it.

Unfortunately, this was one of those times. Madeleine steeled herself for the moment when she would watch Rothwell lead Amelia away. She tried to relax, to remember that she was in the midst of a different adventure — to tell herself he was just an arrogant rake and forget that she had spied something else lurking beneath his façade. She might never dance with Rothwell, but withering away from boredom did not have to be her fate.

The crowd thinned in front of them. Rothwell emerged like a predator stalking out of the forest. His clothing civilized him, and he still looked amused, but there was a primal intensity in his eyes that Madeleine had not seen when he entered the ballroom. He seemed to be on a mission, determined to make quick work of whatever he had come to accomplish.

Sophronia stepped forward and conducted the necessary introductions. Rothwell bowed to all of them — a spare, elegant move that had not suffered from his rustication.

Then Sophronia made a heart-stopping gesture toward Madeleine. “She’s the one you need, Rothwell. Do get on with it.”

His deep blue eyes hadn’t left her since they were introduced, but until Sophronia’s comment, Madeleine had pretended otherwise. She finally stopped staring at his cravat and dragged her gaze up to his face.

That insufferable smile was back. “Will you do me the honor of this dance, Lady Madeleine?”

He was already reaching for her, not waiting to hear her acceptance. The waltz reached for her too, and she longed to twirl around the dance floor…

…but not with someone who took her obedience for granted. She was tired of being a dull, well-behaved spinster. She had vowed that this season would be different — and so far, it was, even if Amelia and Prudence were the only ones who knew of her rebellion.

So despite her desire to dance, and the deeper desire to know the secrets hiding behind his smile, she looked coolly at his hand before meeting his gaze with a direct one of her own. “I do not dance with rakes, your grace.”

He stared at her, stunned, and dropped his hand to his side. Some part of her screamed, demanded her to take back the insult and beg for a dance. It was a lie anyway — or rather, she would happily dance with rakes if they ever thought to ask her.

She waited for him to become a glowering version of a man scorned — but a genuine smile replaced his affected grin.

“You are correct, Aunt Sophronia. Lady Madeleine will do well enough.”

Sophronia humphed. “I did not bring my nephew over here so he could ruin you, young lady. But he has a proposition for you that I strongly desire you to accept.”

The dowager duchess was one of Madeleine’s favorite older matrons, even though she was a known battle-axe. Madeleine unbent just enough to look at Rothwell again. “What proposition would you like me to consider, your grace?”

“Please, call me Ferguson,” he said. “Are you sure you would not like to discuss this while dancing? I shan’t bite, I assure you.”

Prudence nudged her. The duchess fixed her with a glare. Only Amelia left her alone, too shocked to know what to recommend.

Madeleine sighed and took his hand, letting him lead her to the floor. The guests they passed examined them with undisguised curiosity. With her hand firmly in Rothwell’s grasp, she was attracting more notice in these five minutes than she had in the last five years.

She wanted to curse, but she held her tongue. Her secret activities over the past two weeks depended on maintaining her usual anonymity. The duke’s unexpected notice of her would not help her cause.

He pulled her into the waltz and they settled into the rhythm of the dance. The caricatures of him that were so popular a decade earlier often mentioned his “hellfire” hair, but it was darker than she had expected, almost brown, with just enough warmth in it to look like a dying ember. With her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, she could feel the firm muscle beneath his jacket — as though he was used to manual labor, not endless games of whist. And her right hand, clasped by his left, was sensitive enough that she could feel his calluses even through her glove. She knew a few men whose pursuit of the hunt left them well muscled, but she had never met a duke who had the body of a… laborer? Warrior?

Whatever he was, he was too elemental for a ballroom, despite his perfectly tailored clothes.

He turned his attention to her with a brilliant smile that was equal parts alluring and dangerous. It was a smile designed to melt, to seduce, to turn a woman’s legs to jelly.

Even though she knew his flattery for what it was, it still worked.

“So will you call me Ferguson, or shall I languish in despair without your favor?”

“I’ve no doubt you will find any number of women who will call you Ferguson.”

He expertly navigated her around a slower couple. She began to feel that intoxicating, breathless wonder that only happened when dancing with a perfect match. “And is that a comment on the morals of your fellow debutantes, or an aspersion on my character?”

She laughed despite herself. “Both, your grace.”

He smiled again, but this time it looked natural — almost like he was enjoying himself with her. “I confess that I’ve little use for propriety, Lady Madeleine. Perhaps I can call you Lady Mad? You could drive me mad if I gave you the chance.”

It was the same harmless flirtation that couples participated in all over the ballrooms of the ton. But it rarely happened to her. So it was with just the slightest hint of suspicion that she said, “I trust you will think otherwise when you have been out in society for a few weeks.”

The duke rolled his eyes. “I could have been in London for years, but I chose to remain in Scotland. Do you think I am unaware of London’s dubious charms?”

From the path he cut the last time he was in town, she suspected he knew all of London’s charms quite well. The reminder of the rake he was — and the duke he had become — pulled her out of their banter. “What is it you want from me, your grace?”

“Sophronia said you wouldn’t suffer fools. It is why she recommended that I approach you with my delicate request.”

He couldn’t want to marry her, but she couldn’t think of anything else a man might ask a proper young woman, particularly not in public. She nodded at him to continue, holding her breath…

“Would you be willing to chaperone my sisters?”

She missed a step. A marriage proposal might have actually been preferable, even from a man she had never met.

He steadied her without losing the tempo of the waltz. “My twin sisters are already one and twenty, and they should have come out years ago. Unfortunately, our family tends to lose someone every season, and they’ve been in mourning for ages. Sophronia said they could benefit from someone younger than her to shepherd them, and Ellie…”

He broke off abruptly. Ellie was his sister, the widowed marchioness of Folkestone — and her reputation was not what one would desire in a chaperone.

“Why me, though? Surely you have other connections.”

“Yes, but none I can stand above an hour. Too much moralizing. And you’ve surely heard the rumors — according to Sophronia, half the ton thinks we’re mad.”

She colored slightly, but he didn’t notice her guilty look. “You, on the other hand — my aunt says you’ve a perfect reputation and impeccable intuition, which would do much to help the twins debut successfully despite the family’s current reputation. But she also said you have felt poorly for the past few weeks, so if you prefer not to chaperone my sisters, I understand.”

The duchess’s concern was misplaced. If she knew why Madeleine was “sick,” she would cut her without a second thought.

Then Madeleine realized the full implication of what she was being asked to do. She suddenly, quite unexpectedly, felt like crying. If the dowager duchess of Harwich, one of the foremost etiquette experts in the ton, thought Madeleine could chaperone two unmarried girls, it meant Madeleine was so firmly on the shelf that no one expected her to ever come off it.

Even though it was true, it still hurt.

She wanted to say no, if only to deny the implication that she was unmarriageable. But if her less than perfect behavior ever came to light, she would need powerful allies to see her through the storm. There was no stronger ally than Sophronia — and if Madeleine chaperoned the duke’s sisters, he would have a vested interest in making sure her reputation stayed secure.

“Very well,” she said. “I would be honored to chaperone your sisters.”

Their waltz ended shortly thereafter. She was desperate to leave the man who thought her only value was as a chaperone, but she still felt a pang of regret. Rothwell was an excellent partner, even if he was a rake. She tried to remind herself that he had learned those steps and that heart-melting smile with a whole regiment of other ladies before her, but that didn’t make him any less entertaining.

When he left her with the other spinsters, she sank into her chair. She looked around, half unseeing, resisting the desire to bury her face in her hands. Everything in the room, from the wallpaper to the door handles, had been added in the last few months. She wiped her hands on her skirt, even though she couldn’t do anything about the clammy feeling under her gloves. Her dress, her cap, her slippers, even her undergarments were all new. But she felt like something old and broken accidentally left in the remade room, waiting for a chambermaid to notice and sweep her away.

Twenty-eight shouldn’t have felt old, but now she knew for certain that it was.

How perfectly depressing. At least she had one final night of adventure ahead of her, even though no one could ever know about her daring. One last night to enjoy who she might have been — before she resumed the life she had neither chosen nor found a way to escape.

—————————

Want to keep reading? HEIRESS WITHOUT A CAUSE is a Nook First pick and is available exclusively on Nook until late February. It will be released February 23, 2012, on all other major formats. You can buy the Nook version here, or sign up for the mailing list to be notified as soon as it releases and get access to future bonus content.

Excerpt from HEIRESS WITHOUT A CAUSE by Sara Ramsey. Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.