Top Ten Sexy Reads!

I was delighted to learn this week that Bride of the Solway, my September Harlequin release in North America, has made the Top Ten Sexy Reads on eHarlequin! To whet your appetite, I thought you might like to read an extract from a later stage of the story, when things are beginning to get...well…a little interesting. So here it is. Enjoy!



Ross and Cassie are escaping on foot from their dangerous pursuers. It is freezing cold, clouds have blocked out the last hint of starlight, and the pouring rain has soaked them both. Ross has managed to find a ruined barn where they shelter together in the pitch dark. They can smell and hear and touch. But they can see nothing at all…

He started to search through the pockets of his coat but stopped with a curse so violent that Cassie gasped. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to shock you, but I am an idiot. Just look what I have found.’

‘I would if I could, but I’m afraid my cat’s eyes seem to have deserted me for the moment. What is it?’

‘My brandy flask.’ He started to unscrew the top. ‘This will help to ward off the chill, Cassie. You need to get warm.’ He pulled her against him and put the flask to her lips.

She pushed it a way, with a cry of protest. ‘Ugh! I can’t drink spirits. You will make me drunk.’

‘Cassie, you are as stubborn as a Spanish mule. You are soaked through, you’re shivering with cold, you haven’t eaten all day, but you refuse the only thing we have that might help?’ He picked up a handful of hay and thrust it at her till it touched her skin. ‘You could always eat the hay, of course, but since you are not a horse, I venture to suggest that the brandy would do you more good.’ His anger was perilously near the surface now. Did she not understand the danger she was in? He almost wanted to shake her. And to force the brandy down her throat.

Very gently, she opened his fingers and removed the wisps of hay. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, putting her hand in his. ‘I didn’t mean to vex you. I know you have my best interests at heart.’

‘Then, will you—’

Without letting him finish, she took the open flask from his hand and swallowed a large gulp.

‘Cassie, you can’t—’ It was much too late. She was already coughing and spluttering as the spirit burnt its way down her throat.

‘I—’ Her voice was a barely audible croak.

Ross quickly set the flask down and pulled Cassie into his arms, kissing the top of her head. His anger had evaporated on the spot. He only hoped she would not realise that he was laughing.

But she had. ‘You rogue,’ she wheezed as soon as she had a little control of her voice again. ‘You’re laughing at me.’

‘Well, you did rather remind me of a frog.’

‘Oh? I’m happy to admit that I am wet and cold, as frogs are, but I didn’t think I was green.’

He laughed again but this time she was laughing with him. ‘You may indeed turn green if you stay as wet as you are. Seriously, you must get warm. I dare not build a fire, just in case. So we shall have to make the best of what we have. Lie down here with me. My coat can cover us. It’s heavier than your cloak and perhaps not so wet on the inside.’

She did as he bade her, apparently without a qualm. Most other ladies would have had a fit of the vapours at the thought. But most other ladies would not have been alone with a man in the first place.

He pulled her body close against the length of his own, trying to warm every inch of her. He tucked the coat around her as best he could. His boots were sticking out, but her poor injured feet were, mercifully, covered.

‘Are you feeling any warmer now?’

‘Yes. Much,’ she whispered. ‘I can certainly feel the effects of the brandy now.’

‘Good.’ He held her even closer. ‘Try to go to sleep if you can.’ He tucked her head under his chin. Her hair had come down around her shoulders in a mass of damp, tangled curls. Exactly like the first time he had ever seen her. A sodden gown and a mass of tangled hair.

She moaned a little.

‘Cassie?’

‘It is nothing. Truly.’

This time her body was betraying her, for she had started to shake uncontrollably. The noise of her chattering teeth was incredibly loud in the dark silence.

‘This is no good. We must get you out of those wet clothes. There’s no other way.’ Ignoring her stammering protest, he threw off the greatcoat and pulled her up so that he could start undoing her gown.

‘Sir, you cannot—’ she managed between shivers.

‘This is no time for propriety, Cassie. If we don’t get you dry, you’ll never recover from this.’ He was running his hands down the back of her gown as he spoke. ‘Dammit. Where are the fastenings on this confounded garment?’

You may already be imagining what happens next. Two people alone in the dark, huddling together for warmth and comfort, skin against skin...

Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com

A Valentine's Day Taster

Yesterday, as we all know, was Valentine's Day. It was also the publication date of the RNA's 50th Anniversary Anthology of short stories, Loves Me, Loves Me Not. Actually, it was already in the shops. I saw it there last week and was delighted to see how stunning that cover looked.

My story in the anthology is called The Trophy Hunter's Prize. Like my novel, His Cavalry Lady, this story is set in London in the summer of 1814 when the capital was full of visiting royals, celebrating their final victory over Napoleon (they thought!). The Russian Tsar, Alexander I, got most of the attention, since he was young and virile and attractive. He could dance all night, and frequently did. But, as well as the Tsar, there was the King of Prussia, and various other princes, dukes and generals. Londoners, high and low, went wild with celebrity spotting. The crowds around their hotels and carriages were vast, as people vied with each other to catch a glimpse.

My hero, Andrew, has just returned from India. He's made his fortune and is looking for a wife in what he expects to be the ordered, London scene. What he finds is rather different, as you'll see from the start of my story...


June 1814
After the searing brilliance of India, London seemed subdued, like a water-colour by a novice artist who had mixed his paints too thin. Andrew Mortimer shivered a little, in spite of the summer sunshine.

He straightened his elegant new coat and continued to stride down Piccadilly towards the park, where there should be open space, and fresher air to breathe. Before long, however, the dense crowds slowed him almost to a standstill. Yet they seemed good-humoured. With a nod here and a word of excuse there, he might make his way through.

‘’Ere! Wot d’you think y’re doing?’ cried a large florid woman when he tried to edge past her. She looked him up and down, noting the expensive clothes and the unusually brown skin. ‘Furriners,’ she muttered darkly. ‘Never did ’ave no manners.’

Still, she had made a little space for him to pass. Andrew managed to reach up to touch his hat and said, in his most affected English drawl, ‘Why, thank you, ma’am. Most kind.’ The woman’s jaw dropped. Very satisfying.

He had gone only a few yards further when he was forced to stop altogether. The huge crowd seemed to draw breath, as one, then it let out an ear-splitting roar and surged forward towards the Pulteney Hotel, carrying Andrew with it. He had to put all his efforts into keeping his balance. When he was at last able to look about him, he saw that the Tsar of Russia had appeared on the hotel balcony above them, which was clearly the reason for the lusty cheering. And, not three yards from where Andrew stood, a small figure in a pale dress was being trampled in the crush.

He yelled a warning. No one seemed to hear. If she was to be rescued, he would have to do it himself. He flung himself at the men who barred his path. He shouted at them. No reaction. There was just too much noise. As he pushed and pushed, his mouth came close enough to yell into one man’s ear. The man moved a fraction.

Andrew forced his body through the tiny gap. He could almost touch her now. Just a yard or so more. Her muslin skirt was spread across the filthy roadway. How was it that these men did not realise the harm they were doing?

They were all gazing up at the Tsar, their arms raised, their mouths open to bellow their delighted approval of the hero who had defeated the tyrant Bonaparte. The London mob had made its choice of the young and virile Emperor of Russia over their own fat, frivolous Regent.

Andrew was close enough now to see her. She was dirty, young, and frightened. She seemed to be screaming for help. But he could hear nothing. With a huge effort, Andrew shouldered aside two men who were in danger of treading on the girl. He reached down, grabbed the little figure by the arms, and heaved.

Nothing. He redoubled his efforts and heaved again.

It was like pulling a difficult cork. One moment her body was stuck fast. The next it had popped out and Andrew was toppling backwards with her. But he did not fall. The wall of people held him upright.

In his arms, the girl was still screaming and now, with her head against his shoulder, he could hear it very well. It hurt. He used his chin to nudge aside her broken straw bonnet and put his lips against her ear. ‘Pray hush. You are safe now, I promise you.’

She uttered one final, piercing scream. Then putting her mouth against his ear, she cried, ‘Safe? You are like to ruin me, you numbskull. Look at my gown.’

He looked down. Her skirt still lay spread on the ground in a drift of filthy muslin pinioned by enormous boots. Like pressed flower petals edged with footprints. The lady in his arms was dressed in little more than a shift, and torn stockings.


Of course, if you want to know what happened next, you'll have to get hold of a copy of the anthology. I promise you the collection is worth it. There is something there for every kind of reader -- contemporaries, historicals, even a vampire story!

I hope you all had a wonderfully romantic Valentine's Day. I did! But I'm not saying a word about what went on....


Joanna

Celebrity watching, 1814 style

A few days ago, Nicola blogged with an extract from her story in Loves Me, Loves Me Not, the RNA's 50th Anniversary Short Story Anthology. Nicola’s story The Elopement is a wonderfully tongue-in-cheek tale that I’m sure everyone will enjoy.

My own story in the anthology takes place in London in 1814, during the celebrations for the end of the Napoleonic Wars. (London wasn’t to know that Napoleon would escape from Elba and start it all over again, of course.) The city was full of foreign royalty. Everyone, from the highest to the lowest, wanted to be able to see these illustrious visitors. Like today’s celebrity watchers, Londoners wanted to be able to tick off all the names on their lists. And that’s where the trouble starts…

The Trophy Hunter’s Prize

June 1814
After the searing brilliance of India, London seemed subdued, like a watercolour by a novice artist who had mixed his paints too thin. Andrew Mortimer shivered a little, in spite of the summer sunshine.

He straightened his elegant new coat and continued to stride down Piccadilly towards the park, where there should be open space, and fresher air to breathe. Before long, however, the dense crowds slowed him almost to a standstill. Yet they seemed good-humoured. With a nod here and a word of excuse there, he might make his way through.

‘’Ere! Wot d’you think y’re doing?’ cried a large florid woman when he tried to edge past her. She looked him up and down, noting the expensive clothes and the unusually brown skin. ‘Furriners,’ she muttered darkly. ‘Never did ’ave no manners.’

Still, she had made a little space for him to pass. Andrew managed to reach up to touch his hat and said, in his most affected English drawl, ‘Why, thank you, ma’am. Most kind.’ The woman’s jaw dropped. Very satisfying.

He had gone only a few yards further when he was forced to stop altogether. The huge crowd seemed to draw breath, as one, then it let out an ear-splitting roar and surged forward towards the Pulteney Hotel, carrying Andrew with it. He had to put all his efforts into keeping his balance. When he was at last able to look about him, he saw that the Tsar of Russia had appeared on the hotel balcony above them, which was clearly the reason for the lusty cheering. And, not three yards from where Andrew stood, a small figure in a pale dress was being trampled in the crush.

He yelled a warning. No one seemed to hear. If she was to be rescued, he would have to do it himself. He flung himself at the men who barred his path. He shouted at them. No reaction. There was just too much noise. As he pushed and pushed, his mouth came close enough to yell into one man’s ear. The man moved a fraction.

Andrew forced his body through the tiny gap. He could almost touch her now. Just a yard or so more. Her muslin skirt was spread across the filthy roadway. How was it that these men did not realise the harm they were doing?

They were all gazing up at the Tsar, their arms raised, their mouths open to bellow their delighted approval of the hero who had defeated the tyrant Bonaparte. The London mob had made its choice of the young and virile Emperor of Russia over their own fat, frivolous Regent.

Andrew was close enough now to see her. She was dirty, young, and frightened. She seemed to be screaming for help. But he could hear nothing. With a huge effort, Andrew shouldered aside two men who were in danger of treading on the girl. He reached down, grabbed the little figure by the arms, and heaved.

Nothing. He redoubled his efforts and heaved again.

It was like pulling a difficult cork. One moment her body was stuck fast. The next it had popped out and Andrew was toppling backwards with her. But he did not fall. The wall of people held him upright.

In his arms, the girl was still screaming and now, with her head against his shoulder, he could hear it very well. It hurt. He used his chin to nudge aside her broken straw bonnet and put his lips against her ear. ‘Pray hush. You are safe now, I promise you.’

She uttered one final, piercing scream. Then putting her mouth against his ear, she cried, ‘Safe? You are like to ruin me, you numbskull. Look at my gown.’

He looked down. Her skirt still lay spread on the ground in a drift of filthy muslin pinioned by enormous boots. Like pressed flower petals edged with footprints. The lady in his arms was dressed in little more than a shift, and torn stockings.


The girl in the ruined dress is Kate de Lacey, named for Little Black Dress author and RNA stalwart, Kate Lace, to whom my story is dedicated. But if you want to know what happens to my Kate, you’ll need to buy the book. You won’t regret it if you do; it’s a gorgeous collection and I’m very proud to be part of it.

Best wishes and happy reading
Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com

GETTING THE NAMES RIGHT

I’m nearing the end of a Christmas story (for 2010, I hope). Its working title is Mystery, Marriage and Mistletoe and it’s landed me with all sorts of issues of detail about people and places. I find myself wondering how other writers do names and whether they find it as challenging as I do.

First — character names. There are some names which, with the best will in the world, I could never give to my hero or heroine. Some just sound wrong to me, though I shan’t offend my readers by saying what they are! My characters’ names have to feel right and that’s something deep in my bones, I’m afraid. Sometimes the characters object, even if the name seemed right to me. I remember that my hero in A Regency Invitation started out as Will but ended up as Marcus because he flatly refused to answer to Will! Since William was the name we finally chose for the villain, it’s probably just as well. At that stage in my career, William definitely sounded villainous. Maybe that will change one day and I’ll have a hero of that name? Still too early to say.

I have a long list of names (culled from baby-naming books) that I might like to use one day. When I start a new book, I look down that list, and see whether anything jumps out at me. For the Christmas book, the name I chose for the hero was Jon/Jonathan. I didn’t intend to pick that one. It just felt right. The heroine’s name was much easier. She insisted on being Beth from the very first page. I had no choice in the matter!

And then there are place names. Georgette Heyer used to pore over maps for place names, both for towns and villages, and give them to her characters. Anyone remember the beautiful Augustus Fownhope from The Grand Sophy? Well, Fownhope is a Herefordshire village, not far from where I live.

I have sometimes used real place names or variants on them. For example, my hero in Marrying the Major was Hugo Stratton with a country seat at Stratton Magna. There’s no such place, though there are various places with Stratton in the name, like Stratton St Margaret’s. My secret — which I’m happy to share — is to take an existing place name and modify it, either by adding something like Magna, or by changing the odd letter. So one of the key villages in the story I’m now writing is called Little Fratcombe. As far as I know, there’s no place called Fratcombe. I arrived at that by taking the name Batcombe and changing B to Fr. Fratcombe may not really exist, but I reckon it sounds as if it should.

Having given the village a name, I then found that I had not the slightest idea what it looked like. That really did cause me problems. In the end, I had to draw a detailed map of it, complete with houses, shops, trees, a stream, a church with a graveyard, and rather a lot of sheep. You’ll be relieved to know I’m not planning to include it with the manuscript, so you will be spared the sight of my very unrealistic drawing.

Anyone else have a better way of deciding on names? I'd love to know.

Best wishes
Joanna

www.joannamaitland.com

Busy, Busy

I’m a bit late with my blog this month. I’ve been in London all week, doing research, meeting my editor to discuss what I’m going to write next, and attending the RNA AGM and summer party. The party was great, as ever, and a wonderful opportunity to catch up with old writing friends, plus agents and editors. The Joan Hessayon Award was presented to a very worthy winner, Allie Spencer, for Tug of Love, though sadly Dr Dave Hessayon wasn’t well enough to attend. We all raised a glass to him and hope he is better very soon.

We also saw cover flats of the forthcoming RNA short story anthology, Loves Me, Loves Me Not, which will be out in hardback in the autumn and in paperback next year, the RNA's 50th anniversary.

For Regency fans, there are quite a few Regency stories, by authors including Louise Allen, Elizabeth Bailey, Nicola Cornick, Amanda Grange, and (I’m proud to say) me.

The cover jpeg here doesn’t do it justice — it’s really a beautiful gold, with foil decoration.

Then, this morning, when I was just about to start on the blog, the postman arrived, bearing a box of hardback books. At last, I get a chance to see the UK cover of the third book in The Aikenhead Honours trilogy, His Forbidden Liaison.

I had assumed the UK cover would be the same as the US one, focusing on the sexy legs in stockings. In fact, the UK book uses the inside cover from the US edition, so you get a chance to see what hero and heroine look like, plus a fair sample of sexy stocking as well. I hope you like it as much as I do.

The hardback is out in June. The UK paperback will be out in September. (In the meantime, the paperback of book 2 of the trilogy, His Reluctant Mistress, is out in the UK next month.)


Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com
Touch the past, taste the passion

Russian Marriage

Last week, I was guest blogging on Risky Regencies about the research I’d done for the Aikenhead Honours trilogy, and especially for the first book, inspired by the real-life adventures of Nadezdha Durova, the cavalry maiden. Here she is:
If you’ve read His Cavalry Lady, you’ll know that it contains a Russian wedding. Sadly, it just wasn’t possible to describe it in detail, but here’s a description from the journals of the Wilmot sisters, dating from 1803-1808.

First, the wedding of nobles:

“In the morning I went accompanied by Princess Anne Simonovna and the 2 Mlles Kotchetoffs to see General Loptoff’s wedding with the Princess Gallitzen, as I had never seen a noble’s wedding in Russia. We went to the church at 12 o’clock and soon after arrived the Bridegroom in full dress. The Bride followed half an hour later, dressed in Lace, satin, a bandeau of diamonds, and diamond earrings. Their rings were exchanged three times; they sipped three times the wine, emblematic of sharing equally the joys or sorrows of life, they wore the Nuptial Crowns, and were led three times round the altar. The Priest then read a sort of exhortation or sermon, and that’s all. The bride was not veiled as peasants are, nor is a noble’s wedding so interesting as a peasant’s. There was a good number of persons in church. After having congratulated the bridals we returned home. By the bye General Loptoff quitted the Church before his lady.”
[The picture shows the cathedral of St Nicholas]

Then the arranged wedding of peasants (though not, as you’ll see, poor peasants):

“The first interview between a young man and woman destined for each other by their parents … always takes place during the dead of the night that no creature except the two families immediately concerned may know anything of the matter, as if it happened that the man refused on seeing her to marry the woman chosen for him, no other would marry her during her life. This however rarely happens as the fathers are very arbitrary. As for the young women they are disposed of without a question on the subject and being kept close prisoners literally till they are married. 'Tis no great wonder if they accept anything that’s offered having nothing better to compare and give a preference to; besides their marriage releases them from a confinement which they grumble against most bitterly. This first interview fixes the fate of the young woman looked at, as they call it, but the supposed first interview in presence of all the relations on both sides takes place some days after, during which time the father of the bride-elect sends a list of what gowns, petticoats, pearls, diamonds, linen, plate etc he intends to give with his daughter to the bridegroom-elect, who frequently expostulates on the scantiness or bad taste of the goods, naming what pleases him better. When the assembly of relatives takes place and the matchmaker, the young man begs this most essential personage to ask for such a young woman by name in a profound whisper; she does so; he is then permitted to touch her hand. From that moment they are considered man and wife. The arrangements for the ceremony are public and all’s said. There is no difference in the religion of this class of persons from that of the noblesse.”

Jewels, especially diamonds, figure a lot in accounts of noble life and dress, and not only at weddings. This is the jewel I had in mind in His Cavalry Lady when I was describing Alex’s visit to the Hermitage in St Petersburg (shown at the top of this post).

Alex thinks it’s hideous. What do you think?

However, since it's April and the second book of the Aikenhead Honours trilogy is out in the USA and Canada, I should probably be blogging here about His Reluctant Mistress and Vienna, plus all the amazing celebrations that took place during the months of the Congress of Vienna.

Reading a diary of the event kept by a local bureaucrat was very interesting. In the first weeks, he recorded absolutely everything that happened down to the last detail. By Christmas, he appears to have become bored out of his mind. He recorded only unusual events, and not even all of those. He was more concerned about the huge inflation in Vienna and the fact that his pay wasn't enough to cover food and heating. In fact, the Austrian Emperor had to give all his staff a pay rise. No wonder he was nearly bankrupt!

In the Riskies blog last week, I commented on the special napkin folding which was used at the Austrian Imperial court, but only when the Imperial family was present. Nowadays, it's is used only when the President of Austria hosts a state dinner, apparently. What's more, the secret of the elaborate folding is known only to two people at any one time. It's a state secret that goes with the job.

You may think such a thing would be easy to fathom. I did, until I looked at it. Here it is so you can decide for yourself. Are there any origami specialists out there who think they can replicate this from a single damask napkin? Looks like a very daunting piece of reverse engineering to me, but you may know better?


Joanna

Late PS: I have just discovered that I've been giving you the wrong date for UK paperback publication of His Forbidden Liaison, book 3 of the Aikenhead Honours trilogy. It's not July. It's September 2009. (The hardback will be out in July.) Many, many apologies to UK readers who have been misled and who will have to wait even longer. Grovelling apologies to all.

Extracts at last!

Just to let everyone know that my website has now been updated to include extracts from all three volumes of The Aikenhead Honours trilogy.

This is especially to tempt my UK fans, including the ones who have complained in (very polite) comments here on the blog that they are waiting too long for books 2 and 3.

US readers can buy book 2 (His Reluctant Mistress) next month and book 3 (His Forbidden Liaison) in May, but UK readers have to wait till June and July. Sorry, folks. If I'd been responsible for the scheduling I'd have tried to make it earlier.

You can reach the extracts on my books page, here.

Joanna

Ostrich Feathers and Scented Candles

Last week was quite a week.

On Monday, I went up to London to attend the RNA’s Romantic Novel of the Year Lunch which took place on Tuesday at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington. It was a great event and thoroughly enjoyable for everyone who was there.

In spite of the weather and the travel difficulties, the room was full and buzzing with excitement. Last year, the tables had been decorated with balloons and streamers, straining for the ceiling. This year, there were scented candles floating lazily in large glass bowls, and arrangements of red and black ostrich feathers in matt black candelabra, looking like exotic head-dresses at some rather off-beat ball.

There were video screens, too, where we saw the covers of all the short-listed books and heard their titles and stories as we waited for the moment when the winners were announced. First, the winner of the Romance Prize — India Grey, for Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire’s Pleasure. Then, the winner of the Romantic Novel of the Year — Julia Gregson, for East of the Sun. You can see the winning authors, and read more about them, and the other finalists, on the RNA’s website here.

The RNA — which celebrates its 50th birthday in 2010 — has also inaugurated a Lifetime Achievement Award. The first recipient of the engraved star trophy was Judy Piatkus, a publisher who really believes in romantic fiction, and who gave many RNA members their start in publishing. If the audience’s reaction was anything to go by, her award was hugely popular.

Many historical authors were at the lunch. Among others, I saw Louise Allen, Anne Herries, Carol Townend, Mary Nichols, and Elizabeth Bailey, who also does a fantastic job as the RNA’s volunteer press officer. If you’ve seen newspaper articles about the award, raising the profile of romantic fiction, Liz probably had a hand in them.

And when I eventually arrived home, late on Wednesday, a box of author copies was waiting for me — the US edition of His Reluctant Mistress, which will be published in North America in April and in the UK in June. I will admit to having taken some out and stroked them. It doesn’t matter how many books I write, it’s still a thrill to receive real, printed copies and to know that the book will actually be out there for readers, I hope, to enjoy.

Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com

Trilogy Covers at Last

I’m delighted to tell you that I now have the covers for all three of The Aikenhead Honours trilogy, to be published in March, April and May in USA/Canada and, in the UK, in June and July. I think they are just gorgeous. I hope you do, too.

His Cavalry Lady
Dominic Aikenhead, Duke of Calder, meets Alex, the Cavalry Lady — except that she appears to be a man, Captain Alexei Alexandrov! She has lost her heart to Dominic, but how can she ever show him what she feels? For years, she has served as a man, and no one has penetrated her disguise. Does she dare to risk everything by showing herself to Dominic as the passionate woman she really is? And how will he react if she does?


His Reluctant Mistress
Lord Leo Aikenhead, the second brother, is a renowned rake at whose feet many women have fallen. Not one of them has touched his heart. Then he meets the beautiful singer Sophie Pietre, who has absolutely no intention of succumbing to Leo, however much he pursues her. But in the midst of the dangers and intrigues of the Congress of Vienna, Sophie’s very life may depend on Leo’s aid. Will she be able to resist him then?


His Forbidden Liaison
Lord Jack Aikenhead, the youngest and wildest of the brothers, is an incorrigible gambler and playboy. He finally begins to discover what responsibility means when his spying expedition to France is caught up in Napoleon’s return from Elba. He knows he cannot fulfil his mission without the help of Marguerite Grolier, a spirited silk-weaver from Lyons, but she is forbidden to him. He must treat her as a sister, or forfeit his honour. Marguerite, however, is not bound in any way. And she has absolutely no intention of treating Jack like a brother!

I can't really decide if I have a favourite. What do you think? I admit there's a certain allure about those sexy silk stockings...

Joanna
www.joannamaitland.com

Christmas 1814

Since today is a special day, I thought you might like to read how some of my characters spend Christmas. I’m including a short extract from the second of The Aikenhead Honours Trilogy, the story of Lord Leo Aikenhead and Sophie Pietre, the woman with the most beautiful singing voice in Europe.

In His Reluctant Mistress, Leo and Sophie spend Christmas in a tiny Alpine village where they are snowed in. For fear of spoilers, I shan’t explain how they come to be there, or why, but I hope you will still enjoy the atmosphere. And the hint of mystery, too…


*************************
They had left the church behind them. Its bells had welcomed Christmas and fallen silent at last. The villagers had returned to their homes, calling out greetings to each other as they closed their doors against the cold.

Sophie and Leo walked slowly back to the edge of the village and the welcoming warmth of their inn. The only sound now was the scrunch of their boots on the crisp snow. Above them, the sky was huge and cloudless and filled with stars. Behind the village houses, snow-shrouded fir trees stood sentinel, motionless as guardsmen on parade. There was not even a whisper of wind.

Sophie sighed with pleasure. She felt a great sense of peace in this place, isolated from the outside world and from the dangers that threatened there. She found herself wishing that the roads would never re-open. She glanced up at Leo, wondering what thoughts were going through his mind. Did he feel the same?

He flashed a smile at her and tucked her arm more closely into his. He had insisted that she take no risk as they walked, though he must have known perfectly well that the firm fresh snow was not at all slippery.

Sophie had been happy to accept his excuse and his arm, for it was almost the only time they had touched since their arrival in the village. Leo had been scrupulously polite throughout, but Sophie knew that he was deliberately avoiding her whenever he could. He had to join her at mealtimes, of course, for they were supposed to be cousins. But the rest of the time, he was nowhere to be seen. She had no idea what he did all day. She had asked him, once, and received some mumbled excuse about seeing to the horses. Feeble, indeed. The inn had servants to do such menial chores.

Tonight, walking arm in arm, he was more relaxed than he had been since their flight from Italy began. Was it the coming of Christmas? The service had clearly affected him deeply, even though she doubted he had understood a word of it. The tiny village church had been crammed with people, all singing with gusto. Sophie had been asked to sing, too, for the whole village had heard her practising at the inn. She had chosen her favourite German carol, ‘Stille Nacht’, which she had sung very quietly, and unaccompanied. She had put her whole heart into it. It was probably the most moving performance she had ever given, anywhere. And it was for Leo.

‘May I say—’ Leo stopped to clear his throat. ‘May I say, madame, that your singing tonight was utterly perfect? I have never heard anything so beautiful.’

His words set up a glow around Sophie’s heart. She would treasure them, always. ‘Thank you, Lord Leo,’ she replied softly. She wanted to say something more, to build on this unexpected closeness, but it was too late. In ten paces, they would be back inside the inn.

The landlady took Leo’s heavy coat and Sophie’s fur-trimmed pelisse while they both removed the snow from their boots. ‘There is a fine fire in your parlour, signora, if you would please to go up?’ The woman was beaming at her in a peculiar way. What was going on?

Sophie went upstairs to change her boots and her gown. Then, curious, she made her way to the private parlour where Leo was to rejoin her. From the corridor, it looked a little odd, as if it was lit only by the flickering firelight. She stepped into the room. ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘How wonderful!’ The landlady was standing proudly beside a small Christmas tree covered in tiny white candles. It reminded Sophie of the millions of stars in the midnight sky outside. So very beautiful.

A moment later, she heard Leo’s indrawn breath behind her. Was this tiny wonder new to him? She had been told that English Christmas customs were bizarre and uncouth. She turned, smiling, to explain, but he shook his head at her. Silence. His eyes were wide. She was sure she could see a hundred tiny reflections dancing there.

‘You approve, signora?’ The landlady’s words broke the spell.

Sophie started, then beamed at the woman. ‘Happy Christmas, dear lady.’ She handed over the money she had prepared. ‘And thank you for the tree. It is perfect.’

The landlady risked a quick glance at her palm. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened. It was a hugely generous gift.

But Sophie had not finished. She handed over silver coins for the other servants, too. She said they were simply gifts to celebrate Christmas, and to thank the little inn for the splendid service she and Leo had received. But, in truth, they were thank offerings for the days they had spent together in the peace of this place, and for the days they might still have to come.

The landlady’s thanks were effusive, but eventually she left them alone.

Leo looked about him. He had become a little uncomfortable, Sophie thought, now that he was alone with her. He was trying to find an excuse to leave, but she would not permit that. Not until she had finished what she had set out to do. She crossed to the fireplace and lifted the jug of mulled wine that sat by the hearth. ‘Glühwein, Lord Leo? It is wonderfully warming after a midnight walk through the snow.’ Without waiting for his answer, she poured two glasses and offered one to him.

He looked a little taken aback, but he could not refuse without appearing impolite. In all their time on the road, he had been scrupulously, infuriatingly polite.

Sophie raised her glass in a toast. ‘Happy Christmas, Lord Leo. And may we all reach Vienna well ahead of any pursuers.’ She grinned. ‘Even in your amazingly uncomfortable carriage.’

It was the ice breaker she needed. He laughed, and drank. ‘Excellent. As good as any mulled wine I have ever tasted.’

‘I should imagine so,’ Sophie replied, sipping her own wine and savouring its comforting warmth. ‘It is one of the traditions in these parts, along with the tree.’ She nodded towards the twinkling candles. ‘And there is another tradition here, on Christmas Eve. After church, we exchange—’ She stopped short. That would not do. ‘We give gifts, as you just saw me do to the landlady and her servants.’

‘Charming.’ He downed the last of his Glühwein and crossed to the fire to refill his glass.

Sophie took another tiny sip, set down her glass, and straightened the skirts of her red silk gown. It was her favourite because it became her so well. The fabric shimmered in the firelight, glowing with deeper reds and golds and purples. The tiny gift that had been hidden in her bodice was now held tightly in her fingers. She fixed her gaze on his back, and waited.

He turned, his glass halfway to his mouth. ‘Is something wrong, madame?’

‘No, Lord Leo. Nothing at all. But it is Christmas Eve, and I have a gift for you.’ She opened her clasped hands and showed him what she held.

**********************

If you want to know what Sophie’s gift was, I’m afraid you’ll have to read the book! The Aikenhead Honours Trilogy will be published in the USA and Canada in March, April, and May 2009. In the UK, book 1 is already available. Books 2 and 3 will be published in paperback in June and July 2009. Ben’s story, His Silken Seduction, will be published in Harlequin’s Undone! ebook series, in July 2009.

Finally, I’d like to take this opportunity of wishing peace and happiness now and in the New Year to all of you who love historical romance and also to everyone you love.

Joanna
www.joannamaitland.com

Women living as Men

I read in the papers last weekend that a movie is to be made about the life of James Miranda Barry, a woman who successfully masqueraded as a man in order to qualify as a medical doctor in the early part of the nineteenth century, and then served as a surgeon in the British army, eventually rising to be the head of the army medical service. Her gender was not discovered until after she had died when, it is reported, she was found to have a perfect female form, but with stretch marks that suggested she had borne a child.

(You can read the report for yourself here. http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2008/sep/21/medicine.mcelhone. The stars are to be Natascha McElhone and James Purefoy.)

The film is not going to be as simple as a story of a brave woman triumphing over male prejudice in a career at which she excels. Apparently it will focus on her time in South Africa where she fell in love. Her lover, Lord Somerset, was initially concerned that he was falling in love with a man and would therefore be guilty of the heinous crime of homosexuality. If they were found together, the punishment could be death. When Barry let him into her secret, he decided that he could follow his heart after all. I find that illogical. (Though perhaps love is never logical?) He might know that their affair was heterosexual, but to anyone who discovered what was going on, it would still appear as a homosexual affair. If they were discovered, the only way to save their skins might have been to reveal that Barry was a woman and thus to ruin her.

The movie will, apparently, allow the male lover to make the heroic sacrifice. In order to protect Barry’s identity as a woman, he will be disgraced. She will go on to make a great career in military medicine. As a man.

I dealt with all these themes in His Cavalry Lady where my heroine, like Barry, has made a long military career serving as a man. My hero also worries about his apparent attraction to another man. Plotting the resolution of their dilemmas was quite a challenge, as you may imagine.

No doubt the film will spawn various fictionalised treatments of women successfully pretending to be men. There’s plenty of material. Barry and Nadezhda Durova, the real-life inspiration for my heroine, were not the only women who served in the military. At least I can say that I’m not climbing on to a post-movie bandwagon. My story is in the shops now. I got there first!

Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com

TAKING THE RIGHT ROAD

I spent a fascinating day in the Maps room at the British Library recently. I needed to know what Marseilles and Lyons looked like in 1815 for the third book in the Aikenhead Honours Trilogy.

Jack’s story, His Forbidden Liaison, starts in Marseilles where Jack and his fellow-spy Ben have been sent by the Duke of Wellington to try to suss out the extent of support for Napoleon. Suddenly, their careful plans are thrown up in the air. It’s not a question of whether there might be support for Napoleon in the future. He’s actually landed, only a few miles along the coast!

The story takes them from Marseilles, to Lyons, and then to Paris. All the while, Napoleon is making the same progess from Mediterranean coast to capital, gathering enthusiastic support along the way. It’s an exciting, and dangerous story, for my hero and his friend. But they do have help along the way, from Marguerite, a remarkable Lyons silk-weaver, with some interesting uses for a brass candlestick.

Lyons seems to have had a complete make-over after the fall of Napoleon in 1815. In 1813, on the south end of the peninsula between the rivers Rhone and Saone, there was a huge oval place des victoires, a grand tree-lined cours impérial leading up to a semi-circular monument, and a projected imperial palace with huge formal gardens. A year or so after Waterloo, there was almost nothing on the map but fields. All traces of imperial grandeur had gone.

My most urgent research task was to identify the roads around the old port in Marseilles. I had spent a year in the city as a student, but that was no help at all. The Marseilles where I lived was, and is, huge and sprawling. I needed to know how much of it was there in 1815.

What I found was fascinating. There was a maze of twisting medieval streets on the north side of the port, while on the south side, a much more modern and spacious layout had been adopted, with a canal running round what looked to be warehouses. The famous broad street running up into the city from the old port, La Canebière, was there, but wasn’t tree-lined as it is now.

And the names had changed, of course. The city end of the old port was called the quai impérial in 1814, but had become the quai de Monsieur by 1820. (It’s now the quai des Belges.) The place impériale of 1814 had become, predictably, the place royale by 1820. One which hadn’t changed by 1820 was the tiny place du cul de boeuf, which has a rather rude translation, I’m afraid. It amused me so much that I’ve used it in my story.

My favourite, though, was further out beyond the gate in the city walls, on the road north to Aix-en-Provence. There I found the place pentagone. Of course, with that name, it was not square at all, but a huge non-symmetrical space. However, its previous name had been place des 13 escaliers, the square of 13 staircases. Doesn’t that conjure up a wonderful image?

Joanna

PREVIEW OF HIS CAVALRY LADY

Boulogne, June 1814

It was the smell that woke him.

For fully three seconds, Dominic lay quite still in the Lion d’Or’s best bed, trying to make sense of the strange messages tumbling into his brain. Dark. Silence. Smoke? Fire!

He flung himself out of bed. Light! He needed light! And where the devil were his breeches?

A terrified neighing ripped through the pre-dawn silence. Then a whoosh, as if a giant were sucking in a monstrous breath. Followed by red, hellish light.

The smoke had turned to flames. The Lion d’Or’s stables must be on fire!

Dominic threw wide the half-open window, stuck his head out and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Au feu! Au feu!’ It was surely loud enough to wake even drunken grooms.

He dragged on his breeches and crammed his feet into boots. A voice rang out below. At last! Then more voices. A woman’s despairing wail. And the ominous crackle of the fire taking hold in dry straw and ancient timbers.

Dominic took the stairs three at a time. In the yard, the silence was turning into utter chaos. Yelling, cursing men milling around in the eerie light. No one fetching water. No one saving the horses.

He grabbed the nearest groom by the shoulder. ‘Get to the pump,’ he ordered in crisp French. ‘Start filling buckets. And you—’ he seized another by his flapping shirt ‘—rouse all the men from the house. Get them into a line to pass the buckets. You two. Don’t stand there gawping. Start getting the horses out.’

In the space of half a minute, Dominic had turned the commotion into the beginnings of order. The terrified horses were being led to safety. Water was being brought. But the flames had a head start. And they were winning.

The front part of the stables and one side of the doorway were ablaze. One panicked horse was refusing to be led through. It was fighting against the halter, rearing, eyes rolling, hooves flailing. With a cry of pain, the groom dropped to the ground. The horse fled back into the stables.

Dominic lunged forward, hefted the unconscious groom over his shoulder and raced across the yard to the inn. By the door, a maidservant stood motionless, wide-eyed with fear. ‘You, girl.’ He laid the boy ungently at her feet. ‘Make yourself useful. Look to his hurts.’ He did not wait to see whether she obeyed. He had to help save the horses. Only one other man left to do that. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

The smoke was now so thick that it was difficult to see. And to breathe. Dominic looked around for something to use as a mask over his face. If only he had thrown on a shirt. But he had nothing. He would have to continue as he was. Taking a deep breath of the cooler air in the yard, he plunged into the hell of the burning stables.

Still at least half a dozen terrified horses to save. Possibly more. He could barely make out the back of the stable. It was full of smoke, though not yet ablaze. But he could hear the sounds of hooves thundering against stall boards. At least some of the horses must still be tethered. He raced to the back of the building, keeping as low as he could, to avoid the choking smoke. Let the groom deal with the horses nearer the door.

Like a ghostly apparition, a slim shape in grubby white emerged from the swirling smoke, leading a horse. No more than a boy, from the little Dominic could see, and dressed only in a bedgown and boots. But a boy who knew horses, for he had covered the animal’s eyes to quiet it. ‘Well done, lad,’ Dominic gasped as they passed. No reply. The boy had his mind on his task. Just as Dominic must.

It was taking too many precious minutes to rescue the horses. All the time, the fire was engulfing more of the building. Yet the boy in the bedgown was fearless, always going back into the most dangerous area of the stable. He had a way with the terrified beasts, too. More than once, Dominic fancied he heard the lad’s voice, murmuring strong and low, urging the animal towards the flaming doorway. He had even started to cover the horses’ nostrils against the acrid smoke. Part of Dominic’s brain registered that he would find the lad after this was all over, and reward him for his bravery. He would have been proud to have such a boy in his own service.

Out in the yard again, Dominic caught a dripping cloth tossed to him by one of the inn servants. Gratefully, he covered his head, hoping that the boy had done the same. With this, there ought to be a chance of rescuing the remaining animals. Only a few more to bring out now. He ran back into the thickening smoke.

He found himself struggling with the tether of one of the last horses. The straining beast had pulled it tight in the iron ring. Its thrashing hooves were threatening to crack Dominic’s head open. If only he had a knife. Damnation! The rope refused come free. At this rate, they would both burn!

A strong, lean hand appeared out of the smoke holding a knife. Bless the boy! A single slash cut the rope. Then the hand disappeared again. No time to say a word of thanks. The horse, suddenly freed, reared up to its full height with a loud and terrified whinny. Dominic ducked under the deadly hooves and grabbed the trailing rope, forcing the animal down. He had to get this horse out. The fire was really taking hold now. Soon the stable roof would be aflame. There would be no more rescues then.

At last, Dominic managed to coax the horse through the stable doorway. Someone had taken an axe to the blazing wood so that the gap was wider and the flames were less fierce. The broken, smouldering timbers lay on the ground. Dominic thrust the rope into a waiting hand and raced back inside, ignoring the prick of sparks on the bare skin of his back and chest. He had tiny burns all over his body now. No doubt he would look as though he had a dose of smallpox when this was over. But he had to be sure that there were no more horses hidden by the smoke.

It seemed the lad in the bedgown had had the same thought. His eerie figure was just visible through the swirling darkness, searching among the stalls. Dominic ran towards the boy. ‘Is that all of them?’ he yelled, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the fire.

Before the boy could say a word, there was an ominous crack above their heads. Dominic caught a glimpse of a huge, flaming beam dropping towards them. Towards the boy! Dominic bridged the space between them with a single stride, grabbed the boy and thrust him aside. The beam hit the stable floor just inches from where they stood, showering them both with sparks. In seconds, the boy’s bedgown had caught alight.

Dominic made to tear it off him.

‘Non!’ It was a scream of anguish.

The boy must be a idiot. Surely he knew that it was better to be naked than to burn?

‘Non!’ the boy cried again, ripping the tail of his bedgown out of Dominic’s hands.

There was no time to argue. And only one solution. Dominic pushed the boy to the ground and covered him with his own body, rolling them both in the dirt to stop the sparks from taking hold.

And then he understood.

This was no boy. The lithe body straining against his own belonged to a fearless, and extraordinary, girl!

******************************

The book will be available in the shops in the UK at the beginning of next month. I hope you all enjoy it. And if you want to read a longer extract, the rest of that opening scene is on my website here.

Joanna

JULY COMPETITION WINNER!

The July competition was to name the second story in my Aikenhead Honours trilogy.

The answer is: His Reluctant Mistress. The winner is Sherry Haut who will receive a signed copy of the first book of the trilogy, His Cavalry Lady. It will be in the post to you tomorrow, Sherry. Congratulations and I hope you enjoy the story.

For other readers in North America, I’m afraid the story won’t be published until the spring of next year, but UK readers can buy it at the beginning of September. In the meantime, you can read an extract on my website here. Or, if you’re really keen to get reading, the Mills & Boon website has it for sale in their shop here.

The Aikenhead Honours
Three gentlemen spies: bound by duty, undone by women!

Introducing three of England's most eligible bachelors:

Dominic, Leo and Jack, code-named Ace, King, Knave

Together they are
The Aikenhead Honours
A government-sponsored spying ring, they risk their lives, and hearts, to keep Regency England safe

Follow these three brothers on a dazzling journey through Europe and beyond as they serve their country and meet their brides, in often very surprising circumstances

'Ace', Dominic Aikenhead, Duke of Calder in
His Cavalry Lady (Sept 2008)
'King', and renowned rake, Lord Leo Aikenhead in
His Reluctant Mistress (2009)
'Knave', and incorrigible playboy, Lord Jack Aikenhead in
His Forbidden Liaison (2009)


Best wishes and happy reading

Joanna

TIMING IS ALL?

Last weekend, as many of you will know, was the RNA annual conference. This year, it was at Chichester, in the south of England, near Brighton. Of course, as a Regency novelist, I should have been off to the Brighton Pavilion, but in fact there were much better things to do, and I didn’t leave the campus. We had a wonderful, and thoroughly inspiring weekend, as ever. There was time to catch up with old friends over the odd drink in the bar, there were amazing talks and workshops to start the creative juices flowing (as Fenella has already mentioned), and there were books everywhere. What more could a writer want?

In my case, what I wanted were copies of my own new book, His Cavalry Lady, the first of The Aikenhead Honours Trilogy. Sadly, I didn’t have them. They’re not published until September, so it was asking a lot to have my own copies at the beginning of July. All I was able to do was to display a copy of the hardcover version, so that delegates could see what the cover would look like when it was available in the shops.

I came home from the conference on Monday, driving part of the way through blinding rain, and sat down with a cup of tea. I’m afraid I then fell asleep. Obviously, I must have been working exceptionally hard all weekend or that would never have happened, would it?

And on Tuesday morning, the postman rang the bell to deliver — yes, you’ve guessed it — a box of copies of His Cavalry Lady. I’m running a competition on our newsletter for a signed copy of it and I can now promise that the winner will receive her prize as soon as the draw is made at the end of the month.

Meanwhile, if you’d like to read an extract of His Cavalry Lady, you can find it on my website here.


Joanna

http://www.joannamaitland.com/

SPOOKY COINCIDENCES AGAIN: VIENNA, THIS TIME

I’ve blogged before about spooky coincidences I’ve met during my writing. Here’s another one. This one’s not about Scotland, but Vienna.

The second book of my Aikenhead Honours trilogy, His Reluctant Mistress, is set mostly in Vienna during the Congress. By European standards, Vienna was a very small capital, with only about 200,000 inhabitants. During the Congress, another 100,000 visitors arrived and most of them stayed from September 1814 until May 1815. The city was bursting at the seams.

The Viennese were, at first, very proud to be hosting the Congress which was not expected to last more than a couple of months at most. The Austrian Emperor, Franz, ordered splendid preparations to be made, especially for the many royal guests. Three hundred carriages were freshly varnished in dark green, with the imperial arms picked out in yellow on the doors, and 1400 horses, plus grooms and coachmen, were organised to serve them. Many Austrians volunteered for duty. The humble people were paid and usually worked as domestic servants, often with spying on the side. Sons of noble houses volunteered to serve without pay as equerries and pages in the palace.

One really mind-boggling problem was protocol. When the palace is full of emperors and kings, who takes precedence? Monarchs were very prickly about that sort of thing. There are rules for it nowadays, but in 1814 there had never been such a gathering and there were no established rules.

In the end, it was decided that monarchs would take precedence according to age. That meant that the oldest monarch at the Congress, the King of Württemberg, went in to dinner first among the royal visitors. Unfortunately for the charming young Austrian Empress, whose dinner partner he was, the King of Württemberg was a most disagreeable man, coarse and ill-humoured. He was so enormously fat that a half-moon had to be cut out of the dining table to accommodate his huge belly. Vienna called him the Württemberg Monster.

The Württemberg Monster was also homosexual and was much taken with the handsome young sons of the nobility who were acting as pages. Over dinner on one occasion, he made advances to one of these young men, but he made the fundamental mistake of addressing him using the “thou” form of German (du) which is used only for family and intimates. The young man was affronted. His deference to a monarch vanished. He drew himself up to his full height and announced to the King of Württemberg that he was a baron and that even his own sovereign, the Austrian Emperor, would never dream of addressing him in such a familiar and demeaning way.

And the coincidence? In His Reluctant Mistress, I named my villain — who was created long before I read about this incident — the Baron von Beck. The young nobleman who confronted the King of Württemberg, and who is almost the only minor aristocrat named in the reference books on the Congress, was called, coincidentally, the Baron Beck. The real Baron Beck was obviously an upstanding young man. My villain is neither young nor upstanding, but I haven’t changed his name. I decided that it was just meant to be.

Joanna

TRAVELLING IN REGENCY TIMES

I’ve just finished His Reluctant Mistress, the second book of The Aikenhead Honours Trilogy. Much of the story takes place during the Congress of Vienna but it involves quite a lot of travelling. How did people get from A to B, and how long did it take, especially when the weather was bad?

We tend to assume that travel in those days was very slow. It didn’t have to be. When the Duke of Wellington was sent to take command of the allied forces in Flanders, he left Vienna on 29th March 1815, arriving in Brussels on 4th April. His mode of travel was not easy, though. He travelled by carriage with two companions, Colonel Fremantle and fourteen-year-old Lennox. Their meals were cold, though splendid: foie gras and fine claret are mentioned. They were allowed exactly 4 hours of sleep a night. Wellington remained as well turned out as ever. No wonder he was called the Beau. But the other two slept by the fire in their clothes and probably looked thoroughly disreputable by the time they reached their destination.

Even ladies could travel at an astonishing pace when it suited them. The Duchess of Courland, ex-mistress of King Louis XVIII’s foreign minister, Prince Talleyrand, was in Paris on 19th March 1815 when the King fled the city for exile in Flanders. Napoleon was reported to be approaching Paris. (The reports were right. The following day, Napoleon was carried shoulder-high into the Tuileries palace.) The Duchess fled for Vienna to seek refuge with her daughter and Prince Talleyrand. She reached there late on Friday 24th March, having covered the distance in just 5 days. Her daughter was less than pleased to discover that, in her panic to escape, the Duchess had left her two small grandsons behind!


Joanna