Being Real

This morning, I feel like being real.

I mean, I’m always REAL. But I mean, the dirty bathroom kind of real, the shut your bedroom door so no one sees the mess kind of real.

Some of the real grittiness of life people don’t want to see, if we are being honest. They have their own grittiness and don’t need to be messin’ with mine.

Everyone asks me how I do it. When I start to tell them how I organize my day, or my method of calendaring, eyes glaze over. So I don’t think they really want to know the detailed account of my minutes. I’ve started making jokes about my piles of laundry and that brings a laugh, and a glint of satisfaction that concerns me.

I think people wonder what had to give so that I might have time to be an author. And I wish the answer was, “nothing that I valued had to go.”

But that’s not entirely true, so now I’m being real.

You know that awesome book you have that totally sucks you in and you don’t need food, or sleep or even the bathroom while you are reading it?

That’s how writing a book is. Once you slip into that world, your fingers flying across the keyboard, you are lost, and all interruptions seem secondary.

That sounds lovely, right? It actually is. Drafting a book is a magical journey to another place.

But then you have to edit. Which is painstaking and careful and brow-beating work. Where something is not working and even if you don’t know exactly how to fix it, you have to fix it. But editing is where things start to shine and your intent becomes clear. It’s like a slow reveal gem buried deep in the earth. Editing consumes me in a different way than drafting consumes me.

And then there’s proofreading which is fine.

But if you write books, chances are, you want people to read them. So there is a whole side of writing that has nothing to do at all with actually creating stories. Marketing, platform building, networking work. I sort of LOVE/hate this work. I love the people aspect of it. Love to meet new people, love to connect, love having people in my life. I don’t want to talk about the parts that are grueling. I mean, I can only be real about a few things at a time.

So if I let it, writing could take over my life, and there are two-week stretches when I have a deadline and it actually does take over most of my time. The trouble with the time vacuum is that I have a vibrant and rewarding life outside of writing.

And this morning, it got real.

I got a text. “We are coming to get Audrey at 8 this morning.” Cute friends, taking her to breakfast. So I walk by her room at 7:15, considering whether to wake her or let them surprise her. AND I SAW HER ROOM. I feel like I was in there just the other day, right? And it was clean?

Then my older teen saunters over. “Mom, do you know where our calculators are?”

He has the ACT this morning and must leave in twenty minutes. And I happen to know we have gone on a graphing calculator hunt before and come up empty handed. We buy a new one every year but we never actually have one to use. So I leave Audrey asleep in her bed and move to help my son. After much drawer and old back pack digging we find one, but it is not charged. Then we find another, miracle of miracles, but the batteries are old and crusty. The hunt for AAA batteries ensues. In the meantime, clock is ticking for girls to arrive and embarrassing room awaits. Then BAM breakfast. “Have you eaten anything?” Of course not. I scramble for something edible and quick. I cannot give him cereal before the ACT, isn’t that bad? Too many carbs? I vaguely remember peanut butter being a good thing, so I slab some on a couple rolls and add Nutella for luck and hand them to my son, with a water bottle and power bar for snack and send him out the door. Back to Audrey’s room and I start to notice the other rooms in the house. So you get my point. Authoring for me means messy rooms. I am willing to give up cleaning to write books. But when my older kids took the ACT, before I became an author, everything was laid out the night before and they arose calmly with plenty of time to do their best. Right now as I type, I am panicking a little bit because I don’t know if he brought a spare number 2 pencil. I don’t even know if he brought A pencil but I’m assuming even a sixteen year old guy would remember that.

In the meantime, other teen didn’t finish his merit badge in time for a particular deadline, and I didn’t get to hug my youngest after losing a basketball game in double overtime.

But good things are happening too. Older teen will finish his Eagle Scout project next week and be almost done earning his Eagle Scout award.

Let’s, just for fun, make a list of all the things.

Two sons’ progress towards Eagle in Scouting.

One daughter preparing to go to the Philippines in May. This includes researching and acquiring all things that will keep her alive over there. As well as getting her shots. And giving her the emotional support and building love she needs before she goes for 18 months.

One daughter returning from 18 months in Spain. Finding her apartment, with specific friends, adding all her classes.

One son’s support as he gets ready to audition for HS band.

One daughter’s talent development in voice and piano and possibly volleyball. This weighs on me a little bit.

My responsibilities at church. These are large and varied and all consuming if I let them. My husband is the Bishop of our congregation. And so by default my role at his side could be as large or small as I make it. And I also have a job leading the music program for the children at church every Sunday.

Friends. I do have them still, I hope.

The yard, the house.

Dentist Appts. I mean, this deserves its own blog post.

And so on. Everything fighting for its moment at the top of my to-do list each day.

 

Balance

I can always tell if my life is out of balance when my closet and my laundry room are a mess. My desk, though, my desk is ALWAYS a mess, and I like it that way.

Because I feel like balance is an inside out kind of thing. You can only be truly organized, balanced, at peace, if the smallest unseen corner is also organized, balanced and at peace. Even if the front room that everyone sees is a mess, I can find peace that my closet is organized. Go figure.

That seems like a lot of pressure and even as I wrote it, something in my chest pinched. But I don’t mean you can’t have peace if you throw all the junk from the counter into your bedroom when company comes. I just mean that Peace is an inner state.

And I don’t have much peace when my life is out of balance. In fact, I feel uncharacteristically stressed when life is out of balance. I can accomplish tons of things, be always busy, juggle many projects at once as long as I’m balanced. But I can be doing only two things and feel completely overwhelmed if there is an imbalance.

What do I mean by imbalance? I’m not sure how everyone else works, but I have some pillars that need to be present in my life in representative amounts, and that creates balance for me.

Pillar One: I need to feel fulfilled and connected in my family life. Nothing will ever be perfect at home, but I need to feel like my relationships with the family members are loving and that we are all progressing.

Pillar Two: I need to progress in my passions. Right now this is writing and all that comes with being an Author.

Pillar Three: Friends, connections, service, volunteering–This is basically all the other people outside of my family in my life.

Pillar Four: A peaceful and organized space. I am not sure how much of a pillar this is for me, but I think it is important. And everyone’s version of organized is different. But I am realizing more and more that my space needs to be in control or my balance is off.

Pillar Five: I need to feel at peace with and connected to God.

If any of these pillars is off kilter, I am off kilter. And none of the others function well for very long.

 

Can your Romance Stand Alone?

Can your Romance Stand Alone?

A Tribute to the Clean, Proper and Sweet.
and compelling, gritty, tense, angst ridden, smart and fun.

As a historical romance author of clean fiction, I get asked every so often, “Is there a market for clean romance?”

When I tell them, most exuberantly YES! Many adults nod their heads gratefully. “Great! Where can I buy your books?” RIGHT HERE

But sometimes a well meaning friend will ask, “Who’s your market? Teenagers? Middle Schoolers?”

So I thought I would explain why I write clean romance, why the market, especially among adults, is growing, and why it can be the most compelling, page-turning option.

1. Steamy scenes can be a crutch. The temptation to go from one such scene to the next with only a weak plot in between is too much to resist for some writers. Sex sells to its audience, but remember it has a specific audience, not an all-encompassing one. I recognize that beautiful books have been written that include steamy scenes, but this is just a reminder to take note, even if the scene or plot naturally calls for such a scene, even if it has a purpose and is character driven and important to the story, the sex can immediately dull the tension in your story, because the story can morph into a plot about the sex.

Just like the gentle touch on your hand, fingers lacing together sends thrills of expectation up and down your arm; once you kiss, the hand holding is nice, but you hunger for the kiss. Also in a romance, once you include a sex scene, everything else dulls because every other physical act cannot measure up, and the story escalates from one hot moment to the next. The story, the romantic arc, the plot points, all become secondary.

2. Let’s talk tension. Suggestion, anticipation , desire and yearning make a story, lead a story and romantic arc for a hundred pages or more without anyone tiring. The thirst is far more compelling than the satisfaction. Aren’t those the things that turn pages? Don’t we write hooks and cliff hangers for a reason?

3. THE SECRET: Emotional fulfillment is far more satisfying than physical fulfillment. And if you can accomplish true emotional fulfillment, where hero and heroine come together in a way you never thought possible, in a perfect blend of a whole, completing each other in just the right ways, the audience leaves feeling far more rewarded than if they had tangled up in someone’s sheets for a scene or two. And here is where steamy romances often fall short. So much physical fulfillment is reached that the other aspects of the relationship can feel neglected or superficial.

4. Personal reason number four. I think art should stay away from interpreting our most sacred expression of love. The holy moments shared in complete intimacy are better in real life when untainted by interference from the imaginations of others.

5. As a historical writer, is your philandering time-period appropriate? It pains me to read Regency romances with open groping and closet make-outs, and sex between nobles. None of that is time period appropriate. The heroes and heroines not only do not act in a manner appropriate for the time, but they don’t think like a hero would in that day. Attention authors: most married couples did not even share the same bedroom–Intimacy was not discussed, not referenced, not public in any way. If handled any differently in the next Regency you pick up, the character’s ideas and passions are  modern and historically inaccurate.  And that grates the historian in me. Note: My books have some really really fun kissing, but it’s secret, or accidental, or married, or shocking or otherwise appropriate for the time.

And, the key, the clincher:
Ask yourself, can your romance stand alone? Is your story good enough that your audience would read it with or without any steamy scenes at all?

So, yes, there is a market for clean romance. The market is large and consistent and reliable, and it is growing. The authors are well known and established, many bestsellers with bids for movies. Just one Goodreads group has over twenty thousand clean romance books listed in it. And the market is larger and farther reaching than the inspirational lines of books that you would expect, larger than the Christian publishers. Big houses have whole lines dedicated to the sweet and the proper.

AND there is a growing adult audience that actively seeks nice, fun, compelling romance with no sex. Pay attention to the past success of Clean Flicks and now Vid Angel. Media in all forms is neglecting a paying, large audience of adults who would prefer a cleaned up version of excellent entertainment. Also in literature, at the time of my writing this list, Amazon has a category called, “Clean and Wholesome Romance” with over 15,000 books currently listed. A quick scroll through the first page of the list showed many five star options with reviews in the hundreds.

Multiple best sellers are available with publishers who are actively seeking clean and proper romance. See this Facebook group of excellent literature–all clean. https://www.facebook.com/wholesomeromance/?ref=br_rs

Or this one https://www.facebook.com/ProperRomanceSeries/

As readers, we can seek them out, praise authors in our reviews and pay attention to the excellent stories that are told without crutch or gratuitous device. I hope we will, because it will only further draw attention to a growing, marketable and lucrative sub-genre.

Red Caps, Eagles and the Sparrow

Complicated: the best word to use when describing England’s change to greater democracy. What could they do, with the French Revolution so close at their heels? Fear dictated much of the lawmaking. At the forefront, they wished to avoid the terror from across the channel. Undercurrents of resistance to change, the noble class’s feelings of superiority, and an uncharted course as to how to go about change kept things moving at status quo for hundreds of years longer than was necessary.

Theme. Authors talk a lot about theme.

I think most of the time, theme just happens without meaning to. It’s all tied into the author and her voice and the things she innately cares about.

But sometimes we do it on purpose.

In The Nobleman’s Daughter, some important moments in history helped dictate the theme. Reading about the working class rallies and hopes for rights and freedom helped me to see a character who could help them.  Someone who was privileged but had her own limitations of freedom: A woman in Regency England.  Peterloo was devastating. Horrified lawmakers, poets, human beings all reacted in disbelief that such a thing could happen. But from that beginning, the great pendulum began to creak awake. “They say” it swings. I wonder if it hadn’t stalled for a thousand years or so in England before this moment. But Regency England marked a time of change. In fact, if you look at history all over the world, change defines the era on every continent, a brief echo beginning in London.

The red cap of liberty: a symbol used in France during the revolution. Also used in England, but not with violent intent. Lord Nathaniel calls himself red. And the Liberty Seekers use the cap as a symbol among them.

Eagles: At rest and in flight. Eagles are majestic. And they fly free. And they fly high. Strong and rarely seen, they rule the air as a large predator. I love the idea of an Eagle. No one stops him/her. No one gets in their way. H/she goes where she pleases. Fiercely protects her own. Lord Nathaniel is a brilliant Eagle at rest, presiding over his own. Charlie is THE eagle in flight, doing the work, tireless, taking the risks.

The Sparrow. First I researched to see what small birds the English had as pets during the time period. And turns out they came over from the Netherlands and people would provide an early version of a bird house for them, as well as keep them in cages indoors. So the Duke purchased some for Lady Amanda when she was a little girl and she immediately set them free. And it became a tradition between them. He would order more and she would set them free, until as she grew older, she kept some, because they seemed happy in their cage and that encouraged her when she felt a bit trapped by all the RULES and expectations in her society. But the sparrow is really the perfect bird. Small, non-assuming. And mentioned throughout time in literature. Sparrows have made their impact on the great tomes of time and in much international folklore.

The prevailing thought about sparrows centers around their small, unassuming physical appearance that nevertheless accomplishes great things. This article gives many examples of the use of a sparrow in story and literature. I most like the last idea: “It symbolizes that no matter how big or tiny you are, you can conquer the world with your hard work.”

And in the Bible: Luke 12: 6-7 “Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God? But even the very hairs of your head are numbered…”

And so Lady Amanda is my sparrow. Known. Strong. Influential even though she is the smallest.

What is Peterloo?

While researching for my first Regency romance, The Nobleman’s Daughter, I asked over and over, “But what about the poor people? Have they no rights? No recourse? Who is caring for them?” I had a wonderful story in mind highlighting the beautiful and wealthy elite–the plight of the poor mercilessly bumped it aside. So I stopped ignoring the lower classes, like the wealthy of the time should have done, and I really looked at what had happened to these people.

And I found that no one was speaking for them. No one SAW them. Think about that. In a world where we feel like we have a voice, however small, imagine if you had no recourse, a government who didn’t care, nobles who hoped to keep you in your lowly position, and zero money or opportunity to gain more.

I just couldn’t fathom their lives. And then I wondered how did they get out of that mess? As a people, what brought about change? And that’s when I discovered Peterloo.

The poor were rising. They were not content to live in misery, not content with their lack of rights or freedom, and they bravely asked for change.

Sixty thousand people showed up in a great rally. Think about that. How often could you or I gather sixty thousand people to stand up for anything? And this was before phones or internet or any form of simple communication. They rode horses. And they came in peace with signs. Women too. “No Corn Laws” (their food was taxed an unbearable amount) “Votes for all” “Love” “Unity and Strength”.

They prepared to hear speakers. Full of hope that something would finally change, they came in their Sunday best.

And they were chopped down. By swords. Chased out of the square, trampled. It was one of the worst tragedies of the time and became known as the Peterloo Massacre.

I am proud of these peaceful fighters for freedom, thrilled to continue their memory in my romance, and determined to be another voice who stands for the downtrodden, for rights and for freedom.

Costumes, Heroines, Frenchies

“They seek him here. They seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him anywhere…”

The Scarlet Pimpernel. A Tale of Two Cities. Les Miserables.

I have a thing for the French Revolution.

Where tragedy strikes, heroes rise. It always happens. When oppression grinds, freedom struggles against it.

The human spirit beacons, like a fiery torch and I love to study the struggle for freedom. All of my novels so far address this theme in one way or another. The Nobleman’s Daughter, my first novel coming this November 2017. Seeking Suffrage, my third novel. Aya’s Journey, my middle grade tribute to the brave slaves in our country. And Scarlet, my second novel to be published.

To help another who cannot help themselves seems the noblest monument to leave behind. And to help them achieve freedom so that their spirit can soar as it was designed to do, I can think of no higher achievement.

So when my mind stumbled upon the idea of creating a WOMAN Scarlet Pimpernel, I dove in immediately. Elaborate costumes, secretive escapes, desperate victims, and clever heroines. Throw in a gorgeous Frenchman and a league of brave Englishmen, and I could read this story over and over again. As I finish up another round of edits, I am fairly certain many of you could too. At least this new author hopes so. Look for my tribute to the iconic character of The Scarlet Pimpernel early in the year 2018.

 

Regency: The Struggle for Freedom

Regency.

If you love Regency, you really love it. If you haven’t read a true Regency Romance yet, find yourself one. Usually when we think of Regency, we think of Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, pretty dresses, handsome Lords, the marriage mart. Servants to follow you everywhere and respond to your every wish. Reading a delicious Regency is escapism at its finest.

But there is so much more to the time period besides the 1.5 % that held title or property or both. More than anything, Regency is about CHANGE.

And during this time period, the poor were SO POOR. And the wealthy, obscenely so. And the working class started to clamor for change. For freedom. For Rights.

Throughout the time period and into the next, 1820 especially seemed to ring a clarion call around the world. Every continent started to speak out. Every human felt a stirring inside. Maybe. I’d like to think so. All over, society started to change. The American colonies led the way. And the tide of freedom swept the Earth, like a great tsunami, pummeling and destroying oppression while carrying freedom fighters in life rafts over the top of them all. The tide is still rolling out. It hasn’t yet reached some corners, but I hope it will. Because freedom is the gift we are meant to have, not just some of us, but all.

So when I began researching for The Nobleman’s Daughter, I was not surprised to find a large movement among the poorer classes of people in England: A desire to be free. And they started to speak out.

And Regency is credited with some of the events that triggered change. I can’t wait for you to read my book, to learn about things like The Peterloo Massacre. And what effect it had on England.

Forgotten Pieces of History

On my daughter’s Instagram, she wrote, “This world will remember us.”

And I believe her. She is that kind of person.

It begs to ask though, HOW do we go about remembering? Eight decades from now, when I am turning to dust, and her children are too, who is remembering?

One of the greatest joys of writing for me, has been to extend our collective memory. In my research, I always stumble upon things that are just about to slide into the abyss of the forgotten, and I snatch them up just at the edge. I am a historical event magnet or something. And then, as I include them in my stories, their existence in memory is extended. And this gives me joy.

I know there are some things in history we would like to forget, we wish never happened. We would give anything to apply the great eraser and annihilate their existence. But I recognize the danger in this. We must keep talking about history. We must extend our collective memory, even of difficult, embarrassing, or heart tearing things. We owe it to the people who lived through it, and we owe it to ourselves. Else we too have to experience the same.

So, as I begin this author journey with you, take note of the history. It is in great honor and tribute that I include the snippets that I do.

And enjoy the story, cause that was just FUN.

 

Maid in Disguise

“Father.” Liz tried to reason with him. “His teeth protrude so far forward that he cannot even close his lips around them.” Not the largest of her concerns about his suitability, but one that surely her father would recognize.

Chuckling while he glanced over the ledger on his desk, he responded, “Lizzy, Lizzy. Come now. What is a little awkward teeth placement when you consider his station in life, his holdings, his family. You could live in any of his lovely estates, have every opportunity, every frivolity…”

“All of that, without love or affection would feel like prison. You ask too much.”

“I hope that you will change your mind. Get to know him. You have hardly spoken three words to each other.”

“Which is why I cannot fathom your acceptance of his suit without consulting me, without even knowing him properly.” She leaned forward, palms down on his desk, hoping he would look into her eyes. “He might be cruel, prone to fits of temper.”

At this, the Earl leaned back and laughed. “My dear, he is thin as a rail and short besides. You could squash him like a bug, temper or no.”

“You are not thinking, Father. He could command the household to lock me up. You might never see me again. ‘Oh, she is unwell today.’ They would say. ‘Oh, she couldn’t make it this trip.’ Years could go by, years and you would never speak to me, not knowing if I lived or died.”

He shook his head. “If it wasn’t such a frowned upon profession, I would have encouraged you to be an actress.” He began filling in numbers on a ledger. “I have no time for your theatrics.”

Liz rested her elbows on knees, and held her face in the palms of her hands. Thinking on the last ball, she breathed out in exasperation. The room had been full of handsome gentlemen, kind gentlemen, fun, smart, engaging men; and who did her father accept? Lord Nigel Pinweather. Pinweather. Was she to be Lady Pinweather?

Her father pulled his timepiece from his pocket. “Did I mention he is coming to walk in the park this morning? Should be arriving any moment.”

“Ugh! Father, you did not mention it, no. I would have been completely indisposed had you brought it to my attention.” She stood. “As it is, I feel a headache beginning to pinch between my eyes.” She held the bridge of her nose with two fingers and walked to the door.

Lemming, their Butler stepped in front of the doorway just as she moved to exit.

“Oh, do excuse me, my lady.”

“It’s quite all right, Lemming.” Her father waved him into the room and Liz stepped aside.

“Lord Nigel Pinweather here to see you, my lady.”

She reached a hand out to steady herself on the wall.

Lord Davenport chuckled. “Early riser. As he should be. Lemming, please show him into the morning room.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Liz paced in front of her father. “Must I entertain him? Alone? Where is Mother?”

“Of course your mother will join you, don’t be silly. Your sisters too, I’d imagine. Now, give him just a moment to get settled in there and then pour the man some tea.”

“And we’re to go for a walk?” She craned her neck to see outside, but alas, the birds chirped prettily on a bright and sunny day.

“Come now. Give it a chance, my dear. Who knows but he has a charming personality with a bit of wit to recommend him.”

***

A full thirty minutes after her first sip of tea, she longed for their promised walk.

Lord Nigel pointed at her with his cup. “And then the swine all ran to the far corner of the yard, chasing the young lad while he yelped and hollered. He sounded like the hounds were after him.” He laughed with deep heaving breaths. “You understand. As if he were on the hunt…” He looked from her to her mother with his eyebrows raised.

Her mother forced a smile.

Liz did not. During his first such account, she had waited for more, for the purpose, but it never came, just his laughter. And a cruel sense of humor. Watching him rock, celebrating his own abysmal humor, she wondered if he noticed no one else cared. Or did he think they were all as enthralled as he?

And his teeth. She did not consider herself so utterly frivolous that his teeth should matter, but his lips could not close properly. Would she ever have to kiss those lips? She brought a handkerchief to her mouth, hiding the slight upheaval and burning in her throat.

Food passed across his mouth, and his tongue couldn’t quite reach to dislodge it. Tea didn’t fully wash it away. She found herself distracted, cringing at a piece of cucumber marring his teeth’s yellow surface. And then a bit of sandwich flung outward and landed on her knee, a crumb. Watching that piece of soggy bread soak into her lovely pink taffeta, she knew Lord Nigel could not be her future. How was one to dislodge bread crumb spittle from her person? And how was one to dislodge a suitor?

She stood. Perhaps if she made herself ridiculous, he would turn away and seek a suit elsewhere. Interrupting his next inane account, she rose. “It is time for our walk, is it not?”

Her mother’s eyebrows rose.

If she had to endure a walk in the park with this man before he would leave, then they had best get started. “Do you not agree, Lord Nigel?” She giggled and snorted, wiping her glove below her nose. She offered the same gloved hand to him.

His smile widened as he clasped her hand in his own. Then he raised his eyebrows twice before bowing.  She winced when the weight of his lips pressed into her fingers—those same appendages which had just now been wiping her nose in such an uncouth manner.

Subtlety would not turn him away.

She pulled her hand from his grasp. “Oh come now, we have no need of this romantic gallantry. Let us be off, shall we?” She pulled at his arm, dragging him through the open door and ignoring the raised eyebrows of the footman who scrambled to open it soon enough that they could pass.

“Lady Elizabeth, really.” Her mother’s soft tones of disapproval did nothing to dissuade Liz in her course. She turned to eye her mother with a look of defiance.

Ignoring her mother, she used more force to yank Lord Nigel down the hallway.

“Lady Elizabeth. Such strength. Excellent for bearing sons.” He patted her hand where it gripped his sleeve.

She released him. Bearing sons, indeed. “You are too bold.”

“Am I? I feel it is almost decided between us, is it not? Your father seemed most pleased.”

“I cannot speak for him, but as for myself, I am not decided.”

They waited at the front door for the butler to open it. Her maid fell in behind them. Lord Nigel stepped closer. She couldn’t identify the smell on his breath, but, so strong it was, she tasted it on her tongue.

He placed a hand at her elbow. “A proper courtship would be dull, would it not, if I could not spend my efforts convincing you? Turning your heart to mine?” He squeezed her arm and gave it a little shake.

She returned her eyes to his face. “Hmm. I am unprepared for such an effort in my behalf. I do believe you might be better served focusing elsewhere?” There, she’d said it. Perhaps he would desist without her father knowing she’d been the cause.

“Naturally you are unprepared. But I am happy to step in to help, as they say, prepare you.” He raised his eyebrows a couple times and leaned forward, teeth first toward her own mouth.

She yelped and stepped back, bumping against the wall behind her.

“Lemming!”

“Yes, My Lady.” He entered the hallway from their drawing room.

“We are ready to be off to the park.”

“Very good.” His eyes held sympathy. Then he straightened his jacket, stepped forward and opened the door.

***

Liz stomped into the house, threw her bonnet at Lemming and would have shouted to the walls if she hadn’t first heard laughter from her father’s study. And her name. She stepped closer.

“But she must go through with it. How can you be sure she will marry the idiot?”

“She will. Has no choice, really.” Her father’s voice sounded strange, giddy, desperate even.

Laughter carried out into the hallway with the sounds of clinking glasses together.

“Lord Pinweather will make up for any grief you hear from her.  Padding your pockets, he is.”

Liz fisted her hands.

“Nigel’s father made the whole arrangement quite lucrative, not even requiring half what I would offer in dowry. But I’d never force her like this, you know, if we weren’t in such a bind.”

“Ol’ Horace wants his money, that’s all. And now we’re gonna give it to him.”

Tinkling of glasses followed her as she ran down the hall and up the stairs, straight for her mother’s sitting room. She burst in unannounced. “Mother, you cannot let Father go through with this.”

Her mother frowned. “Leave, and come back in with more decorum. We have not raised you to be the harridan you appear at the moment.”

Sighing, she turned and waited at the entrance to the room.

“Hello Liz, won’t you come in?”

Stomping, she came forward in a flurry. “Father is being compensated for my marriage to Lord Nigel. I am part of some sort of business deal.”

She waited for the shock, the denial, the worry, any expression to cross her mother’s smooth features.

“Every marriage is a business deal of some sort.”

Liz’s mouth opened. “How can you say that? Was yours?”

Her mother waved the idea away. “Of a sort, yes. Your father met with mine and they arranged the financial details.”

“Yes, I know all that, but this is worse. They were laughing and patting each other on the back about it. Calling Lord Nigel an idiot even. Father wants me to marry an idiot?”

Her lips pursed and her brow wrinkled. “You were eavesdropping on your father?

“Mother, this is my life! Surely you can reason with him. I don’t want to be tied in marriage to a man my own father does not respect.”

For a moment, her mother’s eyes showed compassion, and she said, “Come here, dear.”

Leaning in, she hugged her mother. “You will speak to him, won’t you?”

“I will not.”

“What?”