Regency Romantic Suspense Excerpts

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Quite an Adventure ~ Excerpt from 'A Code of Wonder'

“You’ve had quite an adventure for a country miss.”

She squeezed Derrick’s immense arm and looked into his familiar comforting eyes. “Will there be a scandal? I just couldn’t bear to bring any more pain to my mother. She’s suffered badly after our banishment in the country… all because of the cruelty of my father.”

“No. Wessex is a gentleman. He can be trusted to reveal nothing.”

“And I won’t be forced to marry him? Won’t I be ruined if anyone finds out about Lord Wessex undressing me?”

Derrick paused on the landing.

“Did more happen between you and Wessex…? Did he…?”

To hear the brave man, viewed as invincible, stammer, made her smile for the first time in a while. The blush spreading across his cheeks was so out of character.

“Only that he kissed me.” She tried to sound nonchalant as if being kissed by a virile and handsome naked man was a routine occurrence in her life. “I can’t fault his desire since I believe any man near a naked woman might attempt liberties. And he did explain that he was only trying to wake me.” She would never forget how tenderly he’d treated her. The way he’d cupped her face between his big rough hands. His lips had been soft and warm, causing heady and unfamiliar sensations.

A Code of Wonder is part of the Regency holiday anthology, Snowed in with a Rogue.

You can read A Code of Wonder and six other romantic stories for just $0.99.

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Snowed in with a Rogue Release Day!

It’s release day for Snowed in with a Rogue, the multi-author Regency romance holiday anthology which includes an all-new Code Breakers holiday novella. Read Chapter One from A CODE OF WONDER and then download the box set.

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Chapter One

December,1803
Rural England

Nicholas Balthasar Trentham, Earl of Wessex, sprawled in the rickety chair, propped his feet on the table, and took another swig of ale, the best the Dragon and Cock had to offer. Peering through the soiled window, he watched the clouds blowing across the sky. A winter storm was brewing. If he didn’t leave immediately, he’d be forced to spend the night. He had stayed in worse places, but, at those times, he had always been deep in his cups.

Anger and resentment swirled in his gut like the beginning snow flurries outside. The ale wasn’t dimming the memories. It had been over a year since his father, the old earl died, and he still hadn’t gone home, if you could call Wemberly Abbey a home. It hadn’t been home since his mother had died in childbirth, trying to bear a spare heir for his father.

He had impulsively decided to return to his estate after becoming thoroughly bored with the holiday parties. Bored with his last mistress, bored with his drunken friends, bored with society; he didn’t need to affect ennui to be fashionable. None of his usual pursuits piqued his interest.

What half-witted reason drove him to want to be at the estate for the holidays? Refusing any form of introspection, he sat upright, yearning for action. If any of his disreputable friends got wind that the rogue Nash longed for the holiday spirit of his childhood he’d be ridiculed out of his clubs.

Disgusted by his self-pitying thoughts, he resolved to return to town. He’d spend the holidays staggering from party to party. It was better than being alone during the holidays with no siblings, no family but distant cousins. Lady Stafford had been hinting for months, and perhaps he’d succumb to her advances since it had been a month since he ended his affair with Genevieve.

 As he scanned the darkening sky, motion from a window at the adjacent inn caught his attention.

Someone was trying to escape without paying his bill.

An arse molded into tight riding breeches backed out of the open window. His rake’s eyes rapidly recognized the shape, firmness, and the perfect size for a man’s hands. If his tastes were anything to be trusted, this was not a man’s arse.

He watched her slow, slithering descent down the building, her blond curls swirling around her shoulders. His blood stirred, and his mind raced with possibilities.

 This trip had just got interesting. Why was this sweet thing in breeches attempting an escape? He stood and reached for his box coat.

 Despite his debauched ways, he remained a gentleman. And the little vixen needed further exploration. He needed to uncover the reasons for the lady’s hasty departure…not a lady by her costume, though. Ladies were so boring, whereas…

Swinging his coat over his shoulders, he watched her as she cautiously lowered her feet to the ground. His blood heated with the arousing sway of her hips. The vision of him peeling her out of the breeches and anything she might be wearing underneath, had him hardening.

Loud shouts shocked him out of his carnal daydream as two men rushed from the back of the inn. Like a trapped animal, she froze with her hands on the first-floor windowsill. A burly bearded man grabbed her, jerking her from the sill before backhanding her. His short wiry companion smiled as she staggered from the force of his impact.

Nash dropped his coat and ran to intervene. His need to bloody the brute who touched her beat through him in a deadly rhythm. They were dragging her by her arms toward the stable as he rounded the corner. Her head hung between her slumped shoulders. Every muscle tightened into killing mode. They would pay a painful price for hurting her.

 “Stop!” His voice echoed in the narrow alley between the two buildings.

The men turned toward him, dropping their victim. She pushed herself upright, giving him a view of her pale, heart-shaped face bruised by the violence. Corkscrew curls hung over one eye. She and the men stared at him, creating a strange tableau in the whirling flurries. And his protective instinct roared in defense of this beautiful, fragile creature.

Her attacker spat French out of the side of his mouth as he slowly moved forward. The skinny one reached into his boot for his dagger. A little knife play with two against one. Now the fun would begin. Too bad none of his cronies were here to bet on who would be the victor. Watching the men spread out to attack from both sides, Nash rolled onto his toes and waited. This was child’s play. His fighting skills were well-honed from boxing at Oxford to brawling in the alleys of the East End.

Pea-brain sans front teeth waited, knife in hand, while his heavy-breathing partner stepped within striking distance, his ham-sized fists clenching and unclenching as he swore in French. Nash smiled to hear himself called an English “putain.” He had been called a lot worse than an “English whore.”

Nash’s wide grin stopped the man momentarily. In the thug’s brief hesitation, Nash punched him in the face, shattering his broad nose. The man raised his hands to stop the spurting blood, giving Nash the perfect opening. Nash delivered the full strength of his fourteen stone behind his fist to the soft gut. With the idiot bent over, Nash raised his knee to finish him off. Screaming, the bastard dropped to the ground, grabbing his balls as he fell into a curled heap.

The partner lurched forward, his blade raised high to reach Nash. In one quick swirl, Nash twisted to confront him, but not quick enough to stop the fast slash across his arm. The sight of blood and a long tear in his linen shirt infuriated Nash. He charged the smaller man, wrenched his arm and twisted it with all his force to hear the brittle sound of the break.

Nash raised an eyebrow and asked in French, “Do you wish to end up like your friend?”

Cradling his broken forearm, the man shook his head.

Nash, maintaining his focus on the man, bent and picked up the knife.

Blood lust roared through him. He knew the perfect solution for this manly ailment, and it involved a sweet derriere and blond curls. He scanned the alley for the damsel in distress.

He strode toward the stable, ignoring the pain in his arm, and envisioned her ministering to all his pressing needs.

The sound of beating hooves echoed in the narrow lane behind the inn.

Skirting around the corner, Nash froze.

The woman was on his mount, racing toward the road. The bloody woman had stolen his horse.

Too impatient to wait for the stablemaster, Nash jumped on an unsaddled gray-speckled gelding and gave chase. No one was able to handle the skittish Ace of Spades except for him. She wouldn’t make it out of the village without Ace shaking her off. And he’d be there to rescue her. Again.

She was racing east on the road out of the town, bent over Ace’s neck, with no saddle or bridle, clinging to his mane. He wasn’t sure what was more shocking—that she had remained on the stallion as long as she had, or that Ace was tolerating her on his back.

What trouble had this tiny woman gotten herself into that forced her to steal his horse with no cloak or jacket, in the middle of an approaching storm? There was nothing ahead for miles except his estate and the small village of Wemberly. His friends would never let him forget that he had to chase a woman, weighing less than seven stone, to retrieve his horse.

The absurdity that she had the nerve to steal the Earl of Wessex’s stallion would be entertaining if not for her desperation.

Nash spurred his mount needing answers to the riddle of the woman who rode furiously ahead of him. He couldn’t close the distance. The gelding was no match for Ace’s strength and power and endurance. It was time to end this farce. And get answers he demanded.

Ace would halt with Nash’s whistle.

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Lancelot to the Rescue ~ Excerpt from 'A Code of Wonder'

Miss Elizabeth Louise Lyon, Eliza to her friends, needing a horse to escape, scanned the stable. A gigantic black stallion, standing at least sixteen hands, occupied the first stall—the obvious prize, flaunting his proud stance and giving an insolent flick of his magnificent tail.

She opened the gate to his stall and scrambled up the stacked hay bales to reach him. She didn’t have a lot of time to calm him if she were to make her getaway. Now that she had three men after her, her chance of evading capture had lessened.

She whispered to him, sensing his heroic but persnickety personality, before she swung her leg over his enormous back. The handsome fellow didn’t bolt but turned to stare at her. Whispering how beautiful and brave he was, she ran her hand along his silky, sleek neck.

He pawed at the ground, shook his head, and gave a loud snort. She felt his strong muscles ripple in defiance, but it was all for show. “You’re a sensitive and courageous fellow, and you’ll save me. Your name should be ‘Lancelot.'” Eliza swallowed the unexpected sob in her throat. Abbie, her older sister, always teased Eliza about her need to rename horses to suit their personalities.

This wasn’t the time to have a crying fit, despite her harrowing day. She had to warn Abbie of the danger. If she hadn’t worn Abbie’s cape for her imprudent ride this morning, none of this would be happening to her. But then her sister might have been kidnapped. Although, unlike her younger sister, Abbie wasn’t so headstrong or defiant that she’d risk riding alone.

“You have to help me. Evil men are after me. Not me, but my sister Abbie, whom I strongly resemble.” She hadn’t told the Frenchmen that she wasn’t Abbie. The fear that they might kill her and return to kidnap Abbie kept her silent.

“The only explanation must be for ransom from Abbie’s rich husband. Or could it be her secret work? Why else would wicked men want my sweet and studious sister?” She rubbed Lancelot’s thick, muscular neck, needing comfort from the gentle beast.

The family’s Irish stablemaster always said she had the “touch.” A high compliment that she held to her heart since her mother and her father always found her, their third daughter, wanting. As a gently bred lady, she was supposed to prefer the drawing room and sketching and sewing over spending her time in the stables filled with men and horses. She couldn’t think of her mother right now or how worried Abbie would be when she didn’t return.

She gripped Lancelot’s mane and squeezed her thighs and knees into his giant flank to back him out of the stall. “We must be off.”

A Code of Wonder premieres 10.07.19 as part of the multi-author Regency romance holiday anthology, Snowed in with a Rogue.

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Protecting Abbie ~ Excerpt from 'A Holiday Code for Love'

Rathbourne’s steely gaze seemed to apprehend every frustrating thought whizzing through Jack’s brain. The man also had the ability to wait out any conversation, which was more than Jack could ever do. Jack was always at the ready to jump into any fray. He wasn’t sure if his impulsiveness came from spending too much time with his impetuous younger brothers or if it was a family trait. When he reflected on the escapades of his siblings, there was no doubt about it—it was a family trait.

“I know how important Abbie’s work is.” Jack admired Abbie’s ability to decipher French codes, but her work had also almost gotten her killed. And what had she said earlier about finding a connection to the French spy ring? If she had found a connection, would it put her in more danger? Jack’s heart punched against his chest in aggressive jabs.

How did a husband, a protective, overbearing person like Jack, protect his wife? Jack knew taking responsibility for his family at a young age had forced him to mature in a way that none of his peers understood. Witnessing his father’s despair after his wife’s death had made Jack leery of caring that deeply until he met Abbie. And now, if he lost her, he wasn’t sure he’d survive.

“We share something that no other peer can comprehend. Our wives, unlike all other ladies in society, are doing secret dangerous work for our country. It is not an enviable position.”

Jack guffawed. “That’s describing it mildly.”

“Learn from your mistakes. Believe me, I’ve made them. Like you, I assumed responsibility for a large estate at a young age and then I started working for Intelligence. I was used to having control, having my commands followed. I had to discover the hard way that Henrietta didn’t agree with my assumption that she should always follow my orders. In fact, she was fully capable of making decisions for herself.”

“You’d be roasted alive if any man at our clubs knew.”

“I didn’t see you as man who cared about popular opinions.”

“I don’t. It’s the danger. Abbie is oblivious to the threat.”

“Isn’t that what we want?”

“You want Abbie to not recognize the danger? I wake in a cold sweat remembering that French spy holding a knife to Abbie’s throat.”

“Our job is to protect our wives without ruffling their pride so they can use their prodigious minds to unlock codes. That is why we have so many bloody soldiers on the estate, and why they are heavily guarded when in society. It has been easier with Henrietta’s confinement, however that is soon ending.”

Rathbourne did understand. “Abbie gets mad whenever I try to warn her or instruct her. Is it the same with Hen? She was always game for adventures as a girl.”

“My wife is very good at ignoring orders she doesn’t agree with.”

Rathbourne’s revelations eased Jack’s trepidations.

“I do remind her periodically that I’m the Head of Intelligence, to no effect. Not that I want anyone to know my wife doesn’t always follow my direction. Not good for a man in my position.” Rathbourne chuckled.

“Does it get better with time?”

“Easier?” Rathbourne ran his hand through his hair, a familiar gesture signaling his frustration. “No. What I’ve accepted is that Henrietta is perfect for me. There are many men who couldn’t tolerate Henrietta’s independent mindset and capabilities. Though I can’t imagine not having an accomplished wife who challenges me.”

Keep reading: A Holiday Code for Love

#TuesdayTeaser - A Code of Love

She peeled away a sky blue silk to find a worn, brown leather book. She tightened her grasp on the book, trying to stop her hands from shaking. She opened the dog-eared volume, looking for a letter, some word of Michael.

Leafing through the pages, she examined the columns of numbers-a code table. She immediately recognized that this extensive code table was unique. The pages had endless numbers matched to French letters and words. To the untrained eye, this table would appear no different than the one she used to decipher messages sent to Uncle Charles from the Abchurch offices.

She focused on the book trembling between her fingertips. Was this some sort of strange and oblique joke, one of Michael’s McGregors? But Michael never joked about linguistics or codes. No one in the Harcourt family joked about such matters.

A memory floated to the surface-her brother’s high voice fluting down the hallway, calling out to his horrified sister that he had broken one of their mother’s favorite vases. “We’re in a McGregor.” And it seemed nothing had changed over the years. He had her involved in another McGregor.

“Just in time for the Firth ball.” Mrs. Brompton startled her from her reverie. “Shall I send over the deep green silk to Madame de Puis?” Mrs. Brompton folded the silk carefully over her arm. “Remember how your mama always favored her designs? Your mama was always heads above all the other ladies.”

Henrietta nodded. From the look of the cover, the book was old but why would Michael send her old French codes. Was this a book of the new codes the French were working on?

The code developed in the 1700’s was too lengthy and complex to be useful at the battlefront. The French had shortened their coded messages to track troops and communicate strategy. England and France were at peace since the Treaty of Amiens had been signed, but no one believed that Napoleon was finished in his drive for world power.

She fanned the pages of the book, looking for a letter, a note of explanation.

“So you agree? I should send the green silk?”

“Whatever you think, I’m sure…” Henrietta turned back to her desk and reached between two massive volumes retrieving a slender packet-the code table she had meticulously edited based on Abchurch’s previous tables.

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