The following is an except from my new book (title to be announced soon!), which will be released in the next week or so. It's set in the same world as my previous story: late-Victorian era London. There are some familiar characters and settings if you read the first one, but it can be taken as a standalone novel.

The main romance happens between this unlikely pair. I really enjoyed writing about a good girl this time around, not that I don't love a brat. And the hero is definitely on the darker side... but don't worry, Teresa is more than a match for him in the end. ;)

Enjoy!

Chapter One

“What’s it to be then? Another swan?”

Teresa bit back a nervous laugh. The mistress did love her bulbous headed swans. “No, Mr. Murray. It’s to be a serpent.”

“Ah. Fitting.”

Teresa agreed. The serpent was a metaphor for temptation, everyone knew that. And Teresa knew what sort of parties Mistress Caro hosted at some of the most prominent addresses in London—the naughty sort. Teresa didn’t know what exactly the guests got up to, she only knew that it was secret and scandalous and it wasn’t her place to ask questions.

She was only there to carve the ice sculptures. “The other two will be swans,” she admitted, gesturing at the other two large blocks of ice awaiting her attention.

“You’d better get to work then.”

Teresa tightened her grip on the icepick and the mallet as a shiver of anticipation ran up her back. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Murray was not her employer. He was a member of Caro’s club. Nearly a year previous, the party had been held at Mr. Murray’s house and he’d caught sight of Teresa carving the ice and stopped to chat with her about it. He asked her many lively questions about her carving and she’d felt compelled to answer him, even though it went against Mistress Caro’s rules for Teresa to speak with any of the guests. It was his grand house and he was a powerful and wealthy man. So Teresa couldn’t very well ignore him, which was convenient because she didn’t want to ignore him.

When he had appeared early for the next party she’d pretended to herself that it was merely a coincidence. When he’d continued to appear, she allowed herself to feel flattered. Now she enjoyed his company more than she could say.

She got up on her stool, put the pick to the block, and slammed the hammer down on it. It was vigorous work carving out the rough shape of the sculpture. Her arms ached and her breasts strained against the top of her corset for a little while before bouncing free over the top. It wasn’t her fault, she told herself, and there was nothing to be done about it. Her blouse and the chemise beneath it preserved some of her modesty at least.

The chisel was next. She pared down even more of the ice with grim determined blows. Mr. Murray had been surprised by her strength the first time he watched her, but Teresa had explained that her work at a theatre, painting large backdrops and even turning the cranks and working the pulleys to get them up and down, made her stronger than she looked.

Shards and shavings of ice fluttered around her. Before long she was soaked from her curly blonde hair to her navel in freezing water. She swiped the back of her hand over her brow and stepped back with her knuckles pressed to her mouth. The hardest part was over.

“Did you finish the seashore in time?”

She felt a little thrill as she always did when he remembered the small details of their last conversation. She’d complained about the backdrop a month ago. Surely a man like him had much more important things to occupy his mind? “Yes, sir. The paint was a bit wet, but the audience was none the wiser.”

“I am still waiting for an invitation to attend one of your productions.”

“They’re not my productions.” She selected a smaller chisel and shaved down what would be the serpent’s coiled belly. “And you’ve done nothing to deserve such torture.”

“You might be surprised.”

Her heart skipped. By reputation Mr. Murray was a fearsome man of business. “This one is even worse than the last, sir. I know I always say that but… It’s actually so awful that it’s almost entertaining.”

He laughed. “Almost?”

“The heroine dies of a broken heart.”

“Again?”

“There’s no other cause this time. She just up and dies. Well, first she loses her virtue and then she’s abandoned and then she sings and then…” Teresa nudged the chisel along the belly, “…she dies.”

“She doesn’t throw herself off a cliff or…?”

“No.” Teresa continued to shape the coils.

“Perhaps you missed something. She might have a weak heart or some such? I’ve seen that before.”

“No.” Teresa shook her head. “She dies of a broken heart alone. That’s what the song is about.”

“I insist that you sing it to me.”

She laughed so hard she had to stop carving. “No.” Her face heated. “That really would be torture.”

“For you or for me?”

“Both of us.” Teresa didn’t sing. She also didn’t talk to wealthy gentlemen who regularly attended parties so scandalous that servants like Teresa were paid ten times the usual rate to keep them quiet. Not ordinarily anyway. Ordinarily, Teresa was so shy she never talked to any gentlemen at all if she could help it.

Mr. Murray was just so easy to talk to. He always had interesting things to talk about because he was interested in so many things. And people. And most important, he was interested in Teresa, which made her feel interesting. It was a nice feeling, once she got used to it.

Mr. Murray pulled up a chair so he could sit comfortably while he watched Teresa work. “But it cannot be the gravedigger,” he said sometime later. He frowned up at her with folded arms. “He’s barely appeared in the story.”

“He was there all through the beginning.” They shared a mutual weakness for Penny Dreadfuls, the bloodier the better. “And they keep coming back to where the bodies could be hidden? And what about when they talked about him again, this week…”

“When?”

“When they said…” Teresa couldn’t remember exactly. “Something about the funeral and something about how they hadn’t seen their mutual friend the night before?”

“Oh, but they might have meant anybody.”

“It was clearly implied.” She frowned as she added more scales to the body of the snake.

“Hmm. I shall have to read it again.”

“It’s all there, right from the start. Otherwise it’s not fair.”

“I daresay you’re right.”

“There.” She added a finishing touch to the last scale. “Done.”

“Come here.”

This was her favourite part.

Mr. Murray took her cold hands, raw and red from the ice, and warmed them one at a time between his own.

She went and stood before him. Her hand trembled just a bit as she offered it to him, but it was quickly swallowed up and steadied by his two much larger ones.

His touch was brisk and impersonal, almost pointedly so. Her cold skin went from numb to acutely sensitive as he deliberately chafed it. It hurt and it felt good in an uncomfortably pleasant way. She enjoyed it very much—not the least because she got to stand close to him and look at him looking back at her, which her work did not allow for otherwise.

Mr. Murray was not a handsome man. There was nothing of the dandy or the aristocrat in his rough features. His brows were dark and prominent, his nose was slightly crooked and his jaw was rather fierce. Often when Teresa was at home all alone she thought about sketching his likeness in bold charcoal lines.

She never did. It would be a liberty and a shameful indulgence to presume upon that sort of intimacy with a gentleman so far above her.

Socially, he was far above her, but he wasn’t particularly tall. His authority and conviction made him seem larger than other men though. And he was very broad, like a pugilist. She liked his dark wavy hair, but his eyes were by far his best feature. They were a lovely clear brown and when she looked into them, like now, she felt warmed all the way through.
He began to rub harder.

She closed her eyes. This was the most difficult part, a sort of horrid trial that she loved and hated at the same time. With her eyes squeezed shut, her tender skin felt even more sensitive as his large strong hands rubbed her small one without mercy. And she wondered, as she always did, if he was looking at her breasts?

She thought he must look, since her eyes were closed and no harm could come of it. The outlines of her breasts were prominent under her wet blouse and the points of her cold little nipples thrust forward in such a way that she would not blame him for staring, not at all.

She always waited until he let go of her hand before she opened her eyes and offered him the other one. That way he would be able to adjust his gaze and they would both be able to carry on as if he hadn’t noticed her wet blouse at all.

When he released her other hand, Teresa opened her eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

He rose without acknowledging her thanks and carried the small table with her tools to the next block of ice. “Now this one.” He dragged his chair over to face it.

“Yes, sir.” She took her stool and followed him. It was presuming of him to order her about, but she rather liked it. It didn’t allow for any awkwardness to descend between them.

They continued in the same pattern twice more; engaging conversation, a brief respite and trial, and then it was time for Teresa to go.

She began drying her tools and putting them away.

“I shan’t be here next month.”

“Oh?”

“I have another engagement.”

“Oh.” She was glad her back was to him and she didn’t have to hide the depths of her silly disappointment. Two whole months until the next time she’d see him? Even one month was too long.

“I thought I would come and see your paintings instead.”

She froze. They had discussed her paintings. Many times. But…

“When may I come to see them?”

Her hands tightened on the drying rag. “I am home from the theatre after nine o’clock most nights.”

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

A pause. “I will need your address.”

She gave it to him.

“I’ll come on Monday then.”

“Monday?” So soon? Her heart skipped and smile sprang to her lips. “Alright, sir. I will look forward to it.”

***

The second half of the Chapter is significantly less PG, so I won't post it here. ;) Thanks for reading!