So, the fifth book in the Baleful Godmother series comes out later this month! It's called Ruining Miss Wrotham, and I thought I'd take a moment to introduce the hero and heroine to you.

Here's their first meeting in the book. The setup is this: our heroine, Eleanor (Nell) Wrotham has approached her former fiance, Roger, for help. Our hero, Mordecai Black, notorious rake and Roger's illegitimate cousin, witnesses the end of this encounter:

The drawing room door opened abruptly and a young lady strode out. “―hiding behind excuses. A hen has more courage than you!”

Mordecai halted.

He’d been truly and deeply surprised twice in his life. Once, when his father had come to claim him, and the second time when Henry Wright had stood up for him at Eton. This moment qualified as the third. He was so astonished that he gaped. Eleanor Wrotham was here? In Roger’s house?

“If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who has the gumption to do so!” Miss Wrotham was magnificent in her scorn, eyes flashing, voice ringing, cheeks flushed.

And then he saw the tears trembling on her eyelashes. She wasn’t merely angry; she was upset.

Miss Wrotham didn’t see him. She crossed the entrance hall briskly, flung open the door before the butler could reach it, and marched outside.

Roger emerged from the drawing room—red-faced and righteous, his blond hair sleek with pomade. Mordecai ignored his cousin. He strode after Miss Wrotham and shut the door firmly in the butler's face. “Miss Wrotham!” He took the steps two at a time.

Miss Wrotham halted on the flagway and glanced back. He saw surprise cross her face—a brief, wide-eyed flare of astonishment—and then the surprise snuffed out and she was once again her father’s daughter, haughty and aloof.

Mordecai stared down at her and knew in his bones that she was the one woman in all the world whom he was meant to marry. Not because of her appearance and her breeding—those had been Roger’s reason for offering for her—but because of what lay beneath those things: the clear-eyed intelligence, the suppressed passion, the spirit bursting to be free.

He trod down the last three steps. “I’ll help you,” he said. “Whatever it is, I’ll help.”

Miss Wrotham’s eyebrows lifted slightly. She looked him up and down.

Mordecai was suddenly acutely aware of what he must look like: sweaty, hulking, unshaven, dressed in clothes that had been elegant yesterday, but today were wrinkled and travel-stained.

He resisted the urge to tighten his neckcloth and brush the dust from his coat, but it was impossible not to feel embarrassed. Of all the ways he’d imagined meeting Miss Wrotham again, this wasn’t one of them. He felt a faint blush creep into his cheeks—and when was the last time he’d blushed? Years ago.

Mordecai endured her scrutiny, and wished he knew what Miss Wrotham thought of him. Not what she thought of his appearance—it was obvious what anyone would think of his appearance right now—but what she thought of him. Mordecai Black. Earl’s son. Bastard.

Society accepted him—his father’s sponsorship had seen to that—but not everyone liked him. Roger certainly didn’t. Miss Wrotham’s father—a high stickler—hadn’t either. He’d thought Mordecai unworthy of his daughter’s hand, but the man was dead now and the only opinion that mattered was Miss Wrotham’s. What did she think?

I'll let you know what Nell thinks of Mordecai in my next post! Until then, here's a picture of Nell marching out of Roger's house.



[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum's public domain collection.]