Darcy Laurent's Blog

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So, I’ve been rather quiet on my blog of late and that’s because I have exciting news! My my first ever Christmas romance – One Stolen Christmas – is about to launch and I cannot wait for it to be released from beneath the blinking cursor of my laptop onto e-readers everywhere.

This is my third fiction book, and I think I’m more excited about launching this one than I was the first. Don’t ask me why – perhaps it’s because it’s a holiday romance? Perhaps it’s because I’ve already started quaffing mulled-wine in readiness? But excitement is dripping from me like candy cane goo drips from my five year old’s chin about this time every year (until January, ho hum).

If you too love a bit of festive cheer and holiday magic, then read on…

[image error]Photo by Miesha Maiden on Pexels.com



Prologue

Christmas 1 – 1804

Annabelle

Things would get better.

Eventually, she knew things would get better.

He cannot live forever.

Annabelle repeated each phrase like a mantra to soothe her nerves as she watched the carriage pull-up outside. All she had to do was endure until he died. Which, she reasoned for the third time since waking, could surely not be too far away; her husband had already exceeded everyone’s expectations by at least ten years.

Annabelle, the young Countess of Warrington, stared out across the lawns into the distance and tried to silence her bitter thoughts; such desires would blacken her soul no less than if she killed him herself. In an effort to lift her mood, Annabelle turned her gaze to the grounds outside and sighed; it was yet another oppressively grey day. The clouds hung thick and heavy from the sky, their abundance leaking a thick mist across the horizon, wrapping everything but the closest of objects in its dreary cover. If only there could be a patch of blue sky, some sharp rays of golden sunshine, or even a single feathery flake of snow to fall from the sky, it was Christmas day after all. It was not to be however, nor was it likely to change; the weather had been dismal for weeks. All there had been, from what felt like the moment the summer had ended, was grey: wet, stony grey. Annabelle let out a sigh and allowed her shoulders to sag. It was not only the weather that was unlikely to change, her situation was not likely to improve either, for, soon she would be forced to suffer confinement until her baby was born.

At the thought of the baby, Annabelle allowed a smile to touch her lips and looked down at the roundness of her swollen belly. There, at least, she could find some joy, and she cradled its warmth with her hands as tenderly as if it were the bundle itself. It would be but a few months more and Annabelle could hold her little wonder in her arms; it needn’t matter that she despised the father – the baby would be hers, and she would love it as much as any mother could. Unable to stop them, her thoughts drifted to her own mother, to her father, and Annabelle found herself wondering, not for the first time, whether they had loved her at all; for surely no parent would force their daughter to endure what she had. Her life had been nothing short of torturous these last few months and all because her father had consented to her marrying the Earl of Warrington. Everything had happened so fast; it had all been arranged and carried-out barely a handful of weeks into her first season.

Feeling suddenly heavy on her feet, Annabelle plodded towards the ornate mahogany dresser and sat upon the chair beside it. Instinctively, she picked up the pages from the latest letter from her friend, Marianne Allen, and closed her eyes to seek solace in the delicate feel of the pages and scratches of the words upon their surface between her fingertips. Annabelle loved to read her friend’s letters; they were so full of humorous anecdotes and the recklessness of youth that she had so very recently taken for granted. Reading the letters somehow sharpened her happier memories, and reminded her that outside the confines of these walls, the world was not truly as dull, grey and cold as the seemingly perpetual dismal view outside. She could still recall the excitement of her first few weeks in London, but mostly she recalled the fateful day her father had told her his ‘wonderful news’.

Opening her eyes, Annabelle recalled the bleakness that had descended that day like a shroud and felt it envelope her memory again. They had argued, of course; she had no desire to marry a man at least fifteen years older than her own father. A man so frail and weak, that he seemed to cough more often than he spoke. Never had she dreamt that she would one day be tied to such a man, and it had never crossed her naïve young mind that her father might expect her to be. Annabelle remembered his words, uttered what felt so long ago now, when her father had told her that he had always wished she had been more ambitious. That she should have focussed on developing her feminine wiles more. ‘Perhaps they should have sent her to one of the more notorious finishing schools,’ he had wondered aloud, before advising her that despite his doubts, that she had somehow secured the attentions of a very powerful man. He’d been almost giddy at the prospect; smiling broadly as he merrily informed her that the marriage would be far more advantageous than he could ever have wished for. Annabelle vividly remembered his next words, for at the time they had struck her as odd, but her father had informed her that she ‘should see the fact that your husband would likely not live long as a distinct advantage.’

At the time, she had wondered why anyone would wish for anything but a long life for her husband, but then she had endured her wedding night. Annabelle had laid ‘still and calm’ as her mother had told her all good wives should, and before long had found herself understanding her father’s words. They had been wed only a few weeks before Annabelle had found herself all but begging that his advanced age would end her suffering. For each evening, she became less convinced that she could survive another night of his foul panting breath and creaking bones, as he did all he could to fill her with a son. Thankfully, it was only a few months after their wedding that his efforts miraculously succeeded. Now, upon her first Christmas as a married woman, Annabelle already found herself heavy with child and while she stared into the bleak grounds and wished, that despite the dreariness, that she could walk outside. She longed for fresh air and a break from the stale atmosphere inside the house. But there would be no such respite, it was impossible, for ‘in her condition’, she was permitted only to walk indoors.

Tensing, Annabelle heard a soft knock against the door and called out ‘enter’, readying herself for the visit she had been dreading since going to bed the night before. Annabelle straightened her back and heard the shuffle of her husband’s unsteady feet towards her. It took all of her self-control, but Annabelle remained seated and prepared herself to tolerate his words and presence; her husband was not only achingly old, but pompous and arrogant as well. What could one expect of a man prepared to wed and bed a lady almost fifty years his junior?

“Good morning, my dear,” he began, his voice coming out in barely more than a whisper as he took her smooth, supple hand in his and brought it to his blue-tinged lips. “May I be the first to wish you a merry Christmas?”

“Merry Christmas, your grace,” Annabelle heard herself respond as she forced herself to keep her hand placid in his.

“Come now, my fruitful little mare, we are celebrating the birth of Jesus – we must have a smile upon that pretty little face of yours.”

Annabelle forced a smile, the edges of her upturned mouth feeling uncomfortable as they reached her cheeks.

“There now, that wasn’t so hard,” he began, grinning in that irritating way of his. “I have brought you a gift, and women like nothing more than an expensive gift,” he told her, assured that he knew what she liked better than she. “We must have you looking your best and heaven knows that pregnancy does not suit you.”

His words sliced her like a knife, but still she remained seated and tolerated his gaze. It mattered not to him how she felt, she knew that to him she was no more than a vessel for his child, ‘the great future of the Warrington estate’. There was utterly no point in revealing her true feelings to him, for he simply did not care.

Suddenly he breathed in, sucking in the air in a great wheeze that all but hissed as he dragged it into his failing lungs. Annabelle readied herself for the racking coughs that usually followed, but after a pause, his breathing returned to normal and Annabelle desperately buried her disappointment. She hated it of herself, but she simply could not control it; she longed for him to die. Although, what would happen to her then? Annabelle had no idea, but at least she would be free of him.

Not bothering to ask her permission, her husband, the ailing Earl of Warrington, shakily scooped her shiny blonde locks away from her neck and wrapped a string of exquisite opals around her neck. Reluctantly, she acknowledged their beauty, for they really were quite stunning and rendered her little choice but to admire the way they appeared to glisten like newly fallen snow in the sun. Annabelle tried to find some joy in their splendour, but somehow she could not quite muster it as she waited patiently for him to fit the clasp and felt his unsteady breath return behind her ear.

How had she found herself here? Annabelle had made her debut only that spring, and she had utterly believed she would spend at least a year or two enjoying the charms of society before she would wed, but it had not been meant to be. Even her mother had been shocked when the earl had asked for her hand; she had quite reassured Annabelle before her debut that ‘really, it was all just a little practice, for you are only ten and six. Enjoy yourself and learn from the other ladies’. Everyone, not least of all herself, had been astonished when she had apparently captured the heart of the earl a mere six weeks after her arrival in town.

“Thank you for the beautiful gift,” she managed to whisper, trying her best to keep the emotion from her voice and her tone even, “you are very generous, sir.”

“As I hope you will be.” The earl hobbled around so that he could face her and place his pale, wrinkled hands against the roundness of her belly. “I know,” he paused to clear his throat, as he was often to do of late, “…that this one will be a boy. He will keep the earldom where it belongs…”

Annabelle smiled weakly, knowing full well that every bone in her body told her that the baby she was carrying was to be a girl. She had dreamt it; bright green eyes and fiery red hair – just like her grandmother’s.

“Come, my dear, I must show you off to our guests.”

Forcing herself to avoid rolling her eyes at the prospect, Annabelle began the task of pushing herself forward in her seat; “Yes, of course, my lord, your daughters and their families will be waiting for us.” Annabelle gripped her resolve ever more tightly, and willed her body not to slump. As if she wasn’t already feeling awful enough, waddling about as she was, but now she was to endure, what was supposed to be the merriest day of the year, with her three spiteful step-daughters. All older than she, Annabelle could understand their dislike of her, but none of this had been her choice. She could only hope, as she embarked on what would no doubt be her worst Christmas ever, that this baby would bring her the love and joy she so desperately needed.

He cannot live forever… She repeated the mantra.

Chapter 1

Christmas 2 – 1825

Annabelle

Despite being inside the confines of the carriage, Annabelle watched her breath mist into the air before her. Good Lord, it was cold she thought and hugged her velveteen shawl around her shoulders before pulling the hood over her head. She would have been better-off crammed tightly inside the post, instead of rattling around a hired carriage with only her lady’s maid for company or warmth. At least then, there would have been an abundance of body heat to share. As it was, they were woefully unprepared for the sudden briskness of the weather. Only that morning, the late December sky had been crystalline blue as she had bid her dear friend Marianne a tearful goodbye at Gatsby Hall. Although it had very obviously been a winter’s day, the sight of the bright sunshine had more than created the illusion of warmth.

Now, only several hours in the hired carriage later, the clouds hung grey and heavy across the sky, bringing an odd stillness with them. Almost subconsciously, Annabelle recognised the strange quality of the air – it was far too still. She became aware of the an unnerving absence of birdsong, and the branches in the trees were oddly motionless, appearing as if they were no more than statues as they rode passed. It was the calm that always settles before a storm, and judging from the heavily bruised appearance of the clouds hanging low to the ground, this storm would be one of snow. Even from within the dark belly of their conveyance, the obviousness of their unfortunately timed journey was inescapable…

More sneak peaks to come soon…

As you can probably tell, I love a festive romance. Nothing gets me in the mood for Christmas, and mountains of gift wrapping, more than a cosy Christmas novel full of snow, romance and roaring fireplaces. I’d love some recommendations, so please, drop me a line below if you know of a holiday romance I should try.

But for now, I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my new book. To read more click here to download on Amazon now.

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Merry reading everyone!

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So, I’ve been rather quiet on my blog of late and that’s because I have exciting news! My my first ever Christmas romance – One Stolen Christmas – is about to launch and I cannot wait for it to be released from beneath the blinking cursor of my laptop onto e-readers everywhere.

This is my third fiction book, and I think I’m more excited about launching this one than I was the first. Don’t ask me why – perhaps it’s because it’s a holiday romance? Perhaps it’s because I’ve already started quaffing mulled-wine in readiness? But excitement is dripping from me like candy cane goo drips from my five year old’s chin about this time every year (until January, ho hum).

If you too love a bit of festive cheer and holiday magic, then read on…

[image error]Photo by Miesha Maiden on Pexels.com



Chapter 1

Christmas 1 – 1804

Annabelle

Things would get better.

Eventually, she knew things would get better.

He cannot live forever.

Annabelle repeated each phrase like a mantra to soothe her nerves as she watched the carriage pull-up outside. All she had to do was endure until he died. Which, she reasoned for the third time since waking, could surely not be too far away; her husband had already exceeded everyone’s expectations by at least ten years.

Annabelle, the young Countess of Warrington, stared out across the lawns into the distance and tried to silence her bitter thoughts; such desires would blacken her soul no less than if she killed him herself. In an effort to lift her mood, Annabelle turned her gaze to the grounds outside and sighed; it was yet another oppressively grey day. The clouds hung thick and heavy from the sky, their abundance leaking a thick mist across the horizon, wrapping everything but the closest of objects in its dreary cover. If only there could be a patch of blue sky, some sharp rays of golden sunshine, or even a single feathery flake of snow to fall from the sky, it was Christmas day after all. It was not to be however, nor was it likely to change; the weather had been dismal for weeks. All there had been, from what felt like the moment the summer had ended, was grey: wet, stony grey. Annabelle let out a sigh and allowed her shoulders to sag. It was not only the weather that was unlikely to change, her situation was not likely to improve either, for, soon she would be forced to suffer confinement until her baby was born.

At the thought of the baby, Annabelle allowed a smile to touch her lips and looked down at the roundness of her swollen belly. There, at least, she could find some joy, and she cradled its warmth with her hands as tenderly as if it were the bundle itself. It would be but a few months more and Annabelle could hold her little wonder in her arms; it needn’t matter that she despised the father – the baby would be hers, and she would love it as much as any mother could. Unable to stop them, her thoughts drifted to her own mother, to her father, and Annabelle found herself wondering, not for the first time, whether they had loved her at all; for surely no parent would force their daughter to endure what she had. Her life had been nothing short of torturous these last few months and all because her father had consented to her marrying the Earl of Warrington. Everything had happened so fast; it had all been arranged and carried-out barely a handful of weeks into her first season.

Feeling suddenly heavy on her feet, Annabelle plodded towards the ornate mahogany dresser and sat upon the chair beside it. Instinctively, she picked up the pages from the latest letter from her friend, Marianne Allen, and closed her eyes to seek solace in the delicate feel of the pages and scratches of the words upon their surface between her fingertips. Annabelle loved to read her friend’s letters; they were so full of humorous anecdotes and the recklessness of youth that she had so very recently taken for granted. Reading the letters somehow sharpened her happier memories, and reminded her that outside the confines of these walls, the world was not truly as dull, grey and cold as the seemingly perpetual dismal view outside. She could still recall the excitement of her first few weeks in London, but mostly she recalled the fateful day her father had told her his ‘wonderful news’.

Opening her eyes, Annabelle recalled the bleakness that had descended that day like a shroud and felt it envelope her memory again. They had argued, of course; she had no desire to marry a man at least fifteen years older than her own father. A man so frail and weak, that he seemed to cough more often than he spoke. Never had she dreamt that she would one day be tied to such a man, and it had never crossed her naïve young mind that her father might expect her to be. Annabelle remembered his words, uttered what felt so long ago now, when her father had told her that he had always wished she had been more ambitious. That she should have focussed on developing her feminine wiles more. ‘Perhaps they should have sent her to one of the more notorious finishing schools,’ he had wondered aloud, before advising her that despite his doubts, that she had somehow secured the attentions of a very powerful man. He’d been almost giddy at the prospect; smiling broadly as he merrily informed her that the marriage would be far more advantageous than he could ever have wished for. Annabelle vividly remembered his next words, for at the time they had struck her as odd, but her father had informed her that she ‘should see the fact that your husband would likely not live long as a distinct advantage.’

At the time, she had wondered why anyone would wish for anything but a long life for her husband, but then she had endured her wedding night. Annabelle had laid ‘still and calm’ as her mother had told her all good wives should, and before long had found herself understanding her father’s words. They had been wed only a few weeks before Annabelle had found herself all but begging that his advanced age would end her suffering. For each evening, she became less convinced that she could survive another night of his foul panting breath and creaking bones, as he did all he could to fill her with a son. Thankfully, it was only a few months after their wedding that his efforts miraculously succeeded. Now, upon her first Christmas as a married woman, Annabelle already found herself heavy with child and while she stared into the bleak grounds and wished, that despite the dreariness, that she could walk outside. She longed for fresh air and a break from the stale atmosphere inside the house. But there would be no such respite, it was impossible, for ‘in her condition’, she was permitted only to walk indoors.

Tensing, Annabelle heard a soft knock against the door and called out ‘enter’, readying herself for the visit she had been dreading since going to bed the night before. Annabelle straightened her back and heard the shuffle of her husband’s unsteady feet towards her. It took all of her self-control, but Annabelle remained seated and prepared herself to tolerate his words and presence; her husband was not only achingly old, but pompous and arrogant as well. What could one expect of a man prepared to wed and bed a lady almost fifty years his junior?

“Good morning, my dear,” he began, his voice coming out in barely more than a whisper as he took her smooth, supple hand in his and brought it to his blue-tinged lips. “May I be the first to wish you a merry Christmas?”

“Merry Christmas, your grace,” Annabelle heard herself respond as she forced herself to keep her hand placid in his.

“Come now, my fruitful little mare, we are celebrating the birth of Jesus – we must have a smile upon that pretty little face of yours.”

Annabelle forced a smile, the edges of her upturned mouth feeling uncomfortable as they reached her cheeks.

“There now, that wasn’t so hard,” he began, grinning in that irritating way of his. “I have brought you a gift, and women like nothing more than an expensive gift,” he told her, assured that he knew what she liked better than she. “We must have you looking your best and heaven knows that pregnancy does not suit you.”

His words sliced her like a knife, but still she remained seated and tolerated his gaze. It mattered not to him how she felt, she knew that to him she was no more than a vessel for his child, ‘the great future of the Warrington estate’. There was utterly no point in revealing her true feelings to him, for he simply did not care.

Suddenly he breathed in, sucking in the air in a great wheeze that all but hissed as he dragged it into his failing lungs. Annabelle readied herself for the racking coughs that usually followed, but after a pause, his breathing returned to normal and Annabelle desperately buried her disappointment. She hated it of herself, but she simply could not control it; she longed for him to die. Although, what would happen to her then? Annabelle had no idea, but at least she would be free of him.

Not bothering to ask her permission, her husband, the ailing Earl of Warrington, shakily scooped her shiny blonde locks away from her neck and wrapped a string of exquisite opals around her neck. Reluctantly, she acknowledged their beauty, for they really were quite stunning and rendered her little choice but to admire the way they appeared to glisten like newly fallen snow in the sun. Annabelle tried to find some joy in their splendour, but somehow she could not quite muster it as she waited patiently for him to fit the clasp and felt his unsteady breath return behind her ear.

How had she found herself here? Annabelle had made her debut only that spring, and she had utterly believed she would spend at least a year or two enjoying the charms of society before she would wed, but it had not been meant to be. Even her mother had been shocked when the earl had asked for her hand; she had quite reassured Annabelle before her debut that ‘really, it was all just a little practice, for you are only ten and six. Enjoy yourself and learn from the other ladies’. Everyone, not least of all herself, had been astonished when she had apparently captured the heart of the earl a mere six weeks after her arrival in town.

“Thank you for the beautiful gift,” she managed to whisper, trying her best to keep the emotion from her voice and her tone even, “you are very generous, sir.”

“As I hope you will be.” The earl hobbled around so that he could face her and place his pale, wrinkled hands against the roundness of her belly. “I know,” he paused to clear his throat, as he was often to do of late, “…that this one will be a boy. He will keep the earldom where it belongs…”

Annabelle smiled weakly, knowing full well that every bone in her body told her that the baby she was carrying was to be a girl. She had dreamt it; bright green eyes and fiery red hair – just like her grandmother’s.

“Come, my dear, I must show you off to our guests.”

Forcing herself to avoid rolling her eyes at the prospect, Annabelle began the task of pushing herself forward in her seat; “Yes, of course, my lord, your daughters and their families will be waiting for us.” Annabelle gripped her resolve ever more tightly, and willed her body not to slump. As if she wasn’t already feeling awful enough, waddling about as she was, but now she was to endure, what was supposed to be the merriest day of the year, with her three spiteful step-daughters. All older than she, Annabelle could understand their dislike of her, but none of this had been her choice. She could only hope, as she embarked on what would no doubt be her worst Christmas ever, that this baby would bring her the love and joy she so desperately needed.

He cannot live forever… She repeated the mantra.

Chapter 2

Christmas 2 – 1825

Annabelle

Despite being inside the confines of the carriage, Annabelle watched her breath mist into the air before her. Good Lord, it was cold she thought and hugged her velveteen shawl around her shoulders before pulling the hood over her head. She would have been better-off crammed tightly inside the post, instead of rattling around a hired carriage with only her lady’s maid for company or warmth. At least then, there would have been an abundance of body heat to share. As it was, they were woefully unprepared for the sudden briskness of the weather. Only that morning, the late December sky had been crystalline blue as she had bid her dear friend Marianne a tearful goodbye at Gatsby Hall. Although it had very obviously been a winter’s day, the sight of the bright sunshine had more than created the illusion of warmth.

Now, only several hours in the hired carriage later, the clouds hung grey and heavy across the sky, bringing an odd stillness with them. Almost subconsciously, Annabelle recognised the strange quality of the air – it was far too still. She became aware of the an unnerving absence of birdsong, and the branches in the trees were oddly motionless, appearing as if they were no more than statues as they rode passed. It was the calm that always settles before a storm, and judging from the heavily bruised appearance of the clouds hanging low to the ground, this storm would be one of snow. Even from within the dark belly of their conveyance, the obviousness of their unfortunately timed journey was inescapable…

More sneak peaks to come soon…

As you can probably tell, I love a festive romance. Nothing gets me in the mood for Christmas, and mountains of gift wrapping, more than a cosy Christmas novel full of snow, romance and roaring fireplaces. I’d love some recommendations, so please, drop me a line below if you know of a holiday romance I should try.

But for now, I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my new book launching 20.11.20. To celebrate its launch, for a short time only, it’s available for 99p. Click here to pre-order or download now.

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Merry reading everyone!

[image error]As a romance author, it stands to reason that I too love to read romance. There are few things I like to do more, than sit back with a good book that I can get lost in for hours – curling up with a blanket and a cuppa on a cold windy day,  sitting in the park on a picnic blanket, or in the garden with a cheeky glass of wine; nothing beats a good book. Look what happened at the end of GOT season 9.

I don’t just like to read romance, however, I like many genres, but romance is the one I turn to when I need something to escape with. I like my romances cosy, fun and utterly escapist – I’m not one to like shedding a tear at the end of a drama, or the harrowing real-life plight of one character, or another. Give me a rakish duke who just so happens to cross horns with the one woman who can tame him, a listless lass who inherits a teashop on the coast, or a sassy businesswoman who falls for her rival and I’m in heaven.

As an indie author, I know how important it is to market your books and find your tribe. So, I am going to start reviewing, sharing and recommending the romance books and authors that I enjoy on my blog. I feel I should point out that I’m doing this completely for free, from my own reading library and that all the opinions are just that – my opinions. I’m sorry if I love something and perhaps you don’t, but on the whole, I think if you like your romance books to be like a warm bubble bath in molten chocolate, chances are you might like something I do too. If you discover a new author here, my work is done and I’ll be as happy as a heroine on the final page of a Julie Quinn novel. I can’t help but do a giddy little dance upon realising that I’ve just discovered a new author (to me) with a back catalogue as long as my arm. It’s like hitting the readers jackpot – but one without any money, in fact, just the opposite when you can’t resist buying all their books (heaven forbid, there’s a series)! This is what I hope to share with you.

I should note that I don’t mind a bit of ‘steam’ in my romance, but it’s also not something I look for. I like all types equally – from lollipop sweet to Chili Pepper hot! I will make this clear on all my reviews; whether there is sexual content, or not. I realise that everyone’s preferences for this are different.

Finally (you can’t blame for a bit a of cheeky self-promo), if you like your romances like mine, then chances are you might like the books I write. I’d love for you to check them out, drop me a line below, or join my mailing list and I’ll tell you about my latest books and news. But, more importantly, you too might like some of the books I enjoy reading and I want to ‘share the love’. So, check out some of my book reviews and recommendations if you’re looking for something to read next.  I hope you’ll love them too. x

More coming at the end of the week.

P.S. If you have any favourite romance authors, especially if they’re an indie, I’d love you to tell me about them below. Thanks.

Everyone knows that writing a book takes time – A LOT of time, but few people realise (save for those who have experienced it first-hand, or are married to an Indie author like my long-suffering spouse) that the marketing that follows a book’s publication is a colossal tidal wave of tasks.

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Photo by Emiliano Arano on Pexels.com

Now, by ‘tidal wave’, I mean a wave of tasks so plentiful, so big and so friggin’ frightening to a person who ‘just wants to write books for a living’ (like myself), that one may need to be coaxed out from under the kitchen table with glasses of red wine and 500g bars of chocolate. There’s Facebook ads, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, BookBub and so many other funkily named social media and marketing platforms that it literally makes my head spin.

You can’t do it all. Rome wasn’t built in a day… etc.

First, drink the wine, then eat the chocolate and then try something. Just one thing if that is all you can manage. Monitor how successful that one thing was then either repeat it or dump it and try something else. Before long you’ll be surfing that tidal wave like a pro (I keep telling myself). But for now… eat the chocolate. [image error]

To celebrate the launch of my new Regency Romance entitled ‘Courting Miss Colborne’ I am going to post some excerpts here on my blog for you to enjoy. The whole book will be free to download over the bank holiday weekend (19.4.19-21.4.19) just in case you want to help boost my spirits to inflate my proverbial lifevest. Click here to download it from the Amazon store.

“…whomever you choose to marry can be as rich as a king, or as poor as a pauper. Your brother is settling enough money on you to ensure that you, and whomever you choose, have enough money to be set up for many generations to come. And that my dear, is freedom indeed.”

Aunt Annabelle to Miriam Colborne before her first and only season.

 Prologue

 – Seven years earlier

If it wasn’t for his chores, it really would be the perfect day William Bissett thought, admiring the way the spring sunshine sparkled across the water’s surface and reflected the light as if it were adorned with fine jewels. He had always felt more comfortable being outside with nature than inside with books and expensive furnishings, and after a particularly harsh winter, the arrival of spring was most welcome. Not only did it mean that he would at last be able to shrug off the continuous feeling of damp in his bones, but it also meant that he could finally get back to spending most of his day out of doors.

Bringing down his hammer, he fixed the next plank onto the broken jetty, his efforts shattering the tranquillity of the day; disturbing the nesting birds and drowning out the distant sounds of bleating sheep. He repeated his task, nail-by-nail, until eventually he found a rhythm and allowed his mind to drift. William’s father, Peter Bissett was the steward at Barrington Hall, and William was fortunate that the current earl of the estate was happy for him to follow in his father’s footsteps. To this end, William turned his hand to everything; considering even the smallest of tasks an opportunity to learn and further his knowledge. For one day he hoped to be the one in charge – the one others would rely on for answers and leadership. Sometimes, William imagined the role being similar to that of a captain on a ship, and his mother would laugh at his romanticism – ‘It’s just a job William’, she would say, but to him it meant so much more, and as he pondered how it would feel to finally begin achieving his ambitions, he lost concentration on his task. His rhythm faltered and without thinking he watched the inevitable fall of the iron hammer onto his fingers.

“Grahh!” he called out, fisting his hand against the pain and stepping back in shock.

That was all it took.

A momentary loss of attention.

William’s foot slipped against the moss-covered panelling of the jetty and he lost his balance. Leaning back against the direction of the fall as strongly as he could, he counter-balanced too far and fell, his body toppling over the edge of the jetty into the icy water of the lake below. His heart thudded, his panic immediate as the water engulfed his limbs.

He couldn’t swim.

Terrified, William felt the reed infested water encase him as he desperately reached toward the jetty hoping to grip its edge, but the movement did nothing more than to increase the water splashing about his face. Spontaneously he squeezed his mouth and eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe heavily through his nose and thrashed to stay afloat. His movements battered the water around him and instead of air, icy liquid entered his airways and he spluttered as he fought for breath. His body took over as his mind lost itself to fear; instinct and a drive for survival moving his body to help him stay afloat. Oblivious to his efforts his own weight pulled him under – he simply could not raise himself enough to stay above the surface, and it was too deep for his feet to reach the bottom. For the first time, his head ducked entirely below the waterline, before he somehow managed to force his way back out of the water. Gulping in a lungful of precious air, William fell beneath the water again, panic pulsing through his body as he realised he was going to drown.

Holding his breath, he looked up towards the surface, horrified as it began to drift away as he sank. Rays of sunlight reached down ethereally towards him through the water’s green tinge, taunting him and his plight with their indifference. His lungs began to burn as he drifted further downwards, his legs kicking and his arms reaching up in the hope that they would somehow propel him back to safety with will alone. His movements achieved nothing and he simply sank further. Hope leaving him as his body begged for air and he felt his fate become inescapable.

Then suddenly, without warning, a dark shadow hit the surface of the water, shattering the sinister calm like a hammer on glass, a long and black apparition stretching down towards him. William instinctively reached his hands towards it, his fingers wrapping tightly around the rough edges of a plank of wood. As his consciousness began to waiver, he gripped the splintered edges with the last of his strength and was pulled upwards. Blackness spread across his vision and the last ounces of his self-control holding his breath diminished. His screaming lungs inhaled as he left the water and he was thrown spluttering across the edge of the jetty. Gulping for air, he coughed and gasped as his body greedily inhaled. With water dripping from his sodden clothes, he heaved on all fours to clear his lungs. Bleary-eyed, William turned to see who it was that had saved him. The figure stood tall and proud against the sun; the light blinding him as he tried to make out the features lost in silhouette. It was impossible, he could not see who they were. Then they spoke.

“William Bissett, you are an absolute idiot! Your mother has been telling you to learn to swim for years!” said a very irritated, very self-righteous feminine voice. “What on Earth were you doing in the lake?”

He would recognise that voice anywhere, for it was the voice that seemed to exist purely to torment him. Of all the people that could have come to his aid – why did it have to be her?

“Hello Miss Colborne,” he spluttered, inwardly rolling his eyes at fate’s wicked sense of humour. If it had been anyone else that had rescued him, he would have simply been grateful, but it was not, it was her – Miss Miriam Colborne, the earl’s younger sister and the most unladylike, annoying, self-righteous blue-stocking he’d ever met.

Suddenly drowning didn’t seem so bad.

 

Chapter 1 

1830 – Seven years later

“Things are not going to be fine Rogers, it’s an absolute disaster,” said Miriam Colborne, shifting her feet on the grass and inhaling slowly as she tried to instil a sense of calm within herself. She had just received a letter from her elder brother, informing her in no uncertain terms, that she would be making her debut this year. It was quite apparent from his wording that no excuses in delaying again would be acceptable. Jonathan had informed her that ‘Aunt Annabelle’ (she was not really her aunt, but was the aunt of her sister-in-law, Lady Sophie Barrington), would be arriving within the week to help her order dresses and prepare. According to the letter she was expected to leave Haverton Manor and the Colborne Estate within a fortnight. “I cannot simply up and leave Haverton within a few weeks…”

“He probably thought best to catch you unprepared Miss; you are very adept at finding reasons to put off your debut ‘until next year,’” Mr Rogers, the elderly steward of the small Colborne Estate said, looking more than a little amused. “It was wood rot last year was it not? Blight the year before that…”

“I never did decide what type of blight it was, did I,” replied Miriam, matching the older man’s amusement with her own as she ruffled the fur of her dog Rufus and threw a stick for him to fetch. Rogers was right; nonetheless, she really had employed every trick in the book to avoid going to London for her first season. At three-and-twenty she was almost now too late, but although her brother had indulged her these past few years, clearly he was not going to let another year pass without forcing the ton upon her. “Perhaps if a fever came upon me?”

“He will certainly suspect, and regardless, even you cannot make a fever last the entire season of 1830.”

“This is sadly quite true Rogers, but it really is the most awful timing,” she said leaning against the wooden framework of the gate and staring out across the field. Despite the bad news, it was a beautiful day, and Miriam revelled in the feeling of the sunshine on her skin at last. It was the first day that the sun had been shining brightly for what felt like months, and now, with spring finally making its presence felt, the sun’s light shone down vividly, casting golden rays that enhanced the colour of everything they touched; the grass appeared greener, the sky bluer and the air sweeter than she had witnessed in far too long. Thank goodness the dreariness of winter was at an end – though she certainly did not want to waste the glory of spring by being holed up in London. “Truly awful timing…”

I’ll be posting more of ‘Courting Miss Colborne’ over the next few weeks, but if you’d like to read more now and fancy downloading it (free between 19.4.19 and 21.4.19) click here to download it from the Amazon store.

 

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged (having a baby will do that you know), but I’m back and raring to go and thought I’d start my blog for this year (yes I was aiming to publish in Jan) with an overview of some of the key things I have learnt from my writing journey so far.

[image error]Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

If anything is helpful to anyone on their own writing journey, or you have any questions or advice of your own, I’d really love to hear from you in the comments section below. Lesson number one – there is a LOT to learn and SHARING IS KEY. I’ll say it again in case you missed it;

#1 Share, like and be kind. Karma is karma don’t you know.

Fortunately, there are many wonderful people to connect with, share with and ask your questions to. Send your questions into the ether of social media, or ask Goddess Google and you’ll find an answer somewhere! Thank you so much to those people that write answers and just, well, know stuff.

#2 The second thing I have learnt is that editing and re-drafting can kiss my arse. I hate it; it’s painful and boring and takes too long and is the place authors’ souls go to die. Make your life more joyful and hire someone if you can, if not, do your best. An upcoming blog post of mine will share some of my own personal tips and tricks for the editing of your draft to help things along a little.

#3 Criticism – yes it hurts, but after the initial wound has faded (and definitely give it time to fade before any reaction occurs) usually it’s pretty useful. Most people are fairly decent and they’re just being honest.

[image error]Photo by Lukas on Pexels.com

If they’ve thought something could be improved, it’s likely others have too and so it makes sense to adapt. Of course, nice reviews make our spirits shine and our complexions glow; so these are the ones we like the most.

#4 Tactics for bolstering yourself after criticism (especially if you feel its undeserved) – If you want to make yourself feel better have a look at their other reviews; maybe you’ll discover they have a very particular genre they like (which isn’t yours), they have very strong views on certain things (that maybe don’t match with what you’ve written), or they rarely give a good review. Enough said.

#5 Plan your book launches – writing the book is simply the sponge of the cake – you still need the frosting and the decoration to make it complete. Advertising and promotion are like these final things, as is an awesome cover. You need to get people interested so they’ll bite into the sponge. No-one eats plain sponge – not even Mary Berry’s.

#6 Facebook – boosting your Facebook posts has really worked for me in the promotion stakes. As has using a few well thought out hashtags.

#7 Kindle countdown deals haven’t worked well for me, but the free promotion days always seem to result in a bump in sales for a week or two after.

I am certain I have much left to learn – I’ll keep you updated on my adventures into authoring.

 

That is what I have learnt since writing my first blog post – I am choc-full of idealism, but time poor. Note to self: must make more time.

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One of my dearest friends reassures me that this is why I am always late – because I am an idealist. I think this is a rather nice excuse for always turning up tardy, but perhaps not the most productive. I simply cannot get everything done that I would like to (or even plan to do on all the silly little lists I make scattered about the house like confetti).

However, I did get the following done:

slightly better blog (marginally) however, actual blogging fell by the wayside somewhat (apologies),
got to grips with Twitter  (I think) – I now know what a hashtag is!
have set up my author page on Amazon,
am two chapters shy of completing my new book ‘Courting Miss Colborne’ (forgive the plug 

So, I’m 35 and now a blogger. I literally never thought this would happen. Never. Ever.

Ever.

If you knew me better, you’d be surprised too. Still, there is something very exciting about embarking upon something that scares you slightly. But I genuinely think that this journey of mine might be of interest to some people, and maybe even inspire some to ‘give it a go’ themselves. And that would be enough for me.

So without further ado let me introduce myself. I am ‘middle-aged’ wife and mother living a very middle England, comfy existence – so I should now be what I want to be, yes?

No.

I’m not even close.

And now almost twenty years (ouch!) after finishing school I’m nowhere near to being what I wanted to be when I grew up. So is 35 too late? Have I missed the boat?

Like hell I have.

I always wanted to be a writer, artist or someone who just ‘makes stuff’ when I grew up. However, according to some and myself at the time, ‘making stuff’, writing and drawing are too competitive and you can’t make any money – ‘you’re better off getting a proper job’. So with those wise words of warning ringing in my ears I became a teacher (I now have ten years under my belt) and started training as a psychotherapist. It is only now after twelve years or so of doing jobs that were OK (and paid the mortgage) that I am finally confident enough to bravely take a risk. I might write stuff that nobody reads, I might have forgotten how to draw and I might make stuff that looks like the creations found at the collage table at pre-school… but, maybe not.

Maybe it’ll be great.

Maybe being older and wiser and more able to shoulder the risk of failure will path my way to success. Can it be done, can we be what we want to be when we grow up when we’re already a bit grown up already?

I’ll let you know, but for now I’m going to give this blogging thing a go and have signed up for https://nanowrimo.org/ to write a book in a month. It could be the next ‘Water for Elephants’. I’ll let you know how I get on.

Meanwhile I’ve got some clothes to iron and Bake Off to watch.