A Match Made at Matlock-New book coming soon!

Good morning to all and yay we all made it to March. Spring can’t be far behind, right? This month’s theme at JAV is March is for Merriment and the project that I am bringing to you today fits it perfectly!

Almost two years ago, a group of author friends (Jan Ashton, Jessie Lewis, and Julie Cooper) and I set out writing a story that we knew would bring us a good time, and that we *hoped* would also yield a great story. The plan was to write the love stories of 4 couples, interwoven together as they all gathered for a house party.  For myself, the couple I wrote about was my guy, Viscount Saye and his beloved, Miss Lillian Goddard.

The result is a novel we’ve called A Match Made at Matlock. Chapter one is below! I hope you enjoy it and that it entices you to want to read more! The cover reveal is at Austenesque Reviews on March 28 and the book goes on sale April 4th.

PS for those readers who might be a bit more genteel than I am–my apologies for the manner in which Saye refers to his rival. What can I say, sometimes he is just quite beyond my control and he DOES love to shock people.

~ ~ ~ ~

Viscount Anthony Saye, handsome, clever, and rich, united in one person all the best blessings of existence, and had lived thirty-two years in the world with very little to distress or vex him. Thus the pang which smote his heart on Harley Street whilst visiting his mother’s eldest sister was an uncommon and decidedly unwelcome sensation.

He had come to Aunt Fortescue’s house that day because he liked her. She was a bold and independent creature who was fond of gossip and skewering the nonsensical upon her rapier of wit. She was, in other words, vastly entertaining. He had not been long in her saloon when Mrs Goddard and Lady Burlington were announced.

He stood, as was proper, and bowed when they entered. To Lady Burlington, a noted beauty of three decades—as well as three stone—past, he teased, “Lady Burlington, pray tell me that dreadful husband of yours is dead at last.”

“Shameful to wish death on a member of the peerage, Saye,” she scolded with a hidden smile.

“But if he dies,” Saye said, leaning in to kiss her cheek, “he will be spared the indignity of gossip when I steal you from him. Surely it is an act of mercy?”

She tittered and blushed, all the while trying for a severe frown at him; and in all, it was quite satisfactory. To Mrs Goddard, however, he could not be so charitable. No indeed, for such a mother as Mrs Goddard, he could offer only the most correct of bows and beat a hasty retreat to his seat.

Mrs Goddard, alas, was beautiful in the same way as her daughter was—blonde curls, large blue eyes, and a bosom that made a man wish to plant himself within it. He was not sure exactly how old she was, but she had most certainly not turned forty-five, and indeed, she looked a decade younger.

But Mrs Goddard’s charms were interesting to him only insofar as they revealed to him his future. For it was her daughter, the darling, delightful, and undoubtedly delicious Miss Lillian Goddard who truly raised Saye’s ardour. Miss Goddard would be, one day, Lady Saye—hopefully before she was required to become Lady Matlock—but not yet. He believed himself full young to contemplate the gravity of matrimony, and he supposed she was too. 

The hens began to cackle and scratch over the on dit of the ton and Saye, well-versed in the ability to half-listen while he read the paper, found nothing of novelty or diversion in any of it. He had just begun to consider taking his leave when Mrs Goddard, with a sharp thrust of her knife into his bosom, said, “My Lilly shall receive an offer soon, I am quite certain.”

Behind his newspaper, he raised one brow, suddenly alert to the conversation. It seemed as if time stood still while he held his breath, awaiting some response to what surely must have been a mistake.

“Really?” asked Aunt Fortescue. “From whom?”

“Mr Harold Balton-Sycke,” said Mrs Goddard, whilst Saye released his breath, carefully soundless. “Lord Saye, you might know the gentleman?”

He lowered the paper with a sharp twist. “What?” he asked, sounding as peevish as he possibly could.

“Mr Balton-Sycke,” Aunt Fortescue prodded. “Do you know the gentleman?”

Mrs Goddard added, “I believe he mentioned he might have been at school with you.”

Saye pretended to think about it before replying cheerily, “Oh yes. Carrot-haired blunderbuss from Norwich, I believe.”

Mrs Goddard’s brow wrinkled, no doubt uncertain whether he meant an insult or not. “Lowestoft. I daresay Lilly will be so very happy there. She has always loved the sea and—”

“The sea is nothing to the forest,” Saye opined brusquely. “The problem with the sea is all the storms and the flooding. Give me a good forest any day.”

The ladies paused, looking at him, and he wondered if Mrs Goddard was envisioning her precious Lilly swept away in a flood. The thought gave him a little satisfaction but was not nearly enough to calm the tempest in his breast. How dare his Lilly accept the attentions of another man?

At length, the ladies returned to their conversation. Lady Burlington, it turned out, once knew someone who might have been to the Balton-Sycke family seat and felt it her duty to describe every last coverlet and curtain to them all. Saye thought he bore it all with great dignity, despite the fact that he wished to box Mrs Goddard’s ears and ask her what sense there was in giving such a lovely daughter over to a stupid oaf like Balton-Sycke, known among those of Saye’s set as Hairy Ball-Sack.

It came to pass that his aunt wished to know when the engagement might occur. “It could be another month complete, likely more,” Mrs Goddard said regretfully. “Mr Balton-Sycke will be away from town with his sister, but once he returns…”

A month, likely more. Saye’s mind was instantly enlivened. But what to do? Could anything be done? Surely she did not love the idiot, did she?

At once, all three ladies were looking at him. “I beg your pardon, Aunt?” he asked.

“I asked,” said Aunt Fortescue, “if I was wrong in thinking you once had a tendre for Miss Goddard.”

The three ladies awaited his answer with faint smiles and mild interest. No doubt the civil thing to do would be to answer in the affirmative, rhapsodise over her beauty, and proclaim Hairy Ball-Sack a lucky fellow. Alas, Saye was rarely civil if another choice was given to him. He yawned, his mouth wide, then spoke in a disinterested tone. “I might have danced with her once. Short girl, is she not?”

Mrs Goddard’s expectant smile faded into an uncertain frown. “No, not so short. Indeed, not short at all.”

“A tall girl then? Cannot think I have danced with too many of those.”

“Not tall either,” Mrs Goddard protested. “Really, just a very common height. A pretty height.” Looking around at the other ladies, she added, “I have always thought my children were the best possible heights. Nothing notable, neither too short, nor too tall. And in any case, my lord, she has lovely blonde hair and blue eyes.”

“Very handsome girl,” Lady Burlington said. “Very handsome indeed.”

Saye rose. Gesturing at the women with his index finger, he said, “What you all ought to do is assign them a colour. Start of the Season, get two, three gowns, all the same colour. Then when a man wants to know about this woman or that, we simply say, ‘she’s the rose coloured one’ or ‘the lady in green’ and everyone knows exactly what’s what.”

He strolled to his aunt, bending to kiss her cheek. She was amused by him, he could tell, giving him an indulgent grin. “Think of all the money you should save,” he added before excusing himself and leaving the old birds to their clacking.

* * *

Across town, in her friend’s drawing room, Miss Lilly Goddard sat amongst the ladies she had known since her girlhood. Lady Euphemia Boothe had been the first of them to marry, likely because she boasted the most determined and unyielding mother. Miss Georgette Hawridge had been the Incomparable of their Season; a noted beauty with a fine fortune and exceedingly good connexions, she always had a faint expression of ennui that made gentlemen and ladies alike desperate to pique her interest. Georgette was forever receiving offers—the latest from one of the de Borchgraves of Belgium, which she had infuriated her family by refusing. Then there was dear Miss Sarah Bentley, who despite her sweetness and fortune was commonly left to sit at balls—likely because when a man did ask her to dance, she would too often run his ear off speaking of her decidedly unusual interests.

Euphemia had taken poor Sarah in her sights; having introduced her to a cousin of her husband—a dreadful old fellow with yellow teeth and an unfortunate propensity to suck on them—she wholly expected Sarah to run poetic over him.

“I thought you wanted to get married,” Euphemia huffed.

“I did. I do! But…”

“But nothing! How can you marry someone if you will not even dance with him?” Euphemia pressed.

“I meant to dance with him,” Sarah said earnestly. “Truly, I did. But they had these delightful cakes, you see, and I thought if I could find the cook and learn what was in them—”

“Georgette?” Euphemia said, having raised her long fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Pray say something to this girl. At a ball with a very eligible man, and she goes looking for the cook! My word!”

But Georgette only laughed, and Sarah, likely seeing her opportunity to escape Euphemia’s interrogation, asked Lilly, “Has Mr Balton-Sycke spoken as yet?”

“Silly,” said Lilly with a smile, “do you think I would sit here eating cake without telling you about it if he had?”

“Well goodness!” exclaimed Euphemia. “What is the delay? Why, when my dearest William wanted to propose, it was the work of a moment! He called with his mother, and although—”

“Yes!” said Georgette. “We have heard the tale at least fifty times apiece. I daresay I know it better than the story of my coming out! But Lilly, are you anxious for it? You seem…rather unconcerned, if I may say so.”

Lilly gave her friend a fond look. Dear Georgette, so perceptive and unafraid to ask the difficult questions. One had to reply with candour for her, as there was no sense wasting time with dissembling. She took a sip of tea, stared into the cup for a long moment and then announced, with no attempt to soften her words, “I do not know that I shall accept him.”

There was a moment of shocked silence before Sarah laughed, a trifle too loudly. “Not accept him? But of course you will accept him.”

“He has such a good family,” Euphemia said. “And think of that lovely house in Lowestoft! I was there some years ago, and it is simply marvellous, so modern and light!”

Lilly shrugged.

“Of course you will accept him!” Sarah urged again. “Why would you not?”

There was a silence, all of the ladies staring in rapt fascination at Lilly as she continued to toy with her tea cup. At length, gently, Euphemia said, “You surely do not still pine for Lord Saye?”

Lilly’s blush replied to them all. A chorus of dismay went around.

“He is a rake, Lilly, he will do nothing but break your heart!” Euphemia protested warmly.

“He is not the marrying sort,” Georgette added.

“Well he must, sometime,” Lilly said. “He requires an heir.”

“An heir!” Euphemia scoffed. “He will think of that when he is sixty and his mistresses are all as old as he is.”

“She is probably right about that,” Georgette added.

“He makes me laugh,” Lilly said weakly. “There is precious little to laugh at with dear Balton-Sycke, sweet as he is. He simply is not diverting.”

“Laugh?” Sarah stared around at the other three. “Who wants a ridiculous husband?”

“Oh, I do not mean to say he is ridiculous,” Lilly protested. “I mean, he is, sometimes. But he…I am amused by him. Whenever I am with him, I wish I could remain forever. When I am with Balton-Sycke I feel…well…sometimes I find myself reorganising the shelves in my closet or thinking of where I shall go next. He is just dull.”

“Not dull,” Euphemia protested. “Steady, as a husband should be.”

“And then…well, you do recall how Saye and I kissed once?”

“At a masque?” Sarah asked.

“It began there,” Lilly admitted. “But I went out onto the terrace with him later, for air.”

“For air,” Euphemia moaned. “How often the path to doom begins by going to the terrace for air!”

Lilly could not help herself—she had to giggle at Euphemia’s theatrics. “I assure you, I am not doomed.”

“You will be if you do not accept Mr Balton-Sycke!” Euphemia retorted.

“In any case,” said Lilly softly, then continued telling her friends the sweet remembrances of that delightful evening, the scent of roses in the air and Saye gently easing her mask from her face, then not-so gently tossing it behind him as he kissed her quite beyond anything she had ever thought possible. And then! “He made me some promises.”

“Promises?” Sarah asked.

Lilly blushed hotly but managed to tell her friends what Saye had promised her. It had shocked and scandalised her at the time, and it still did, mostly—but she was more than a little intrigued by it all.

“Impossible!” Euphemia declared while Sarah pointed out that the mantid species was known to eat males after their usefulness was concluded. To Georgette, however, the acts described did not seem quite so shocking. She wore a self-conscious half smile and looked away from the group. Lilly resolved to ask her about it all later.

“When I think about doing any such thing with Balton-Sycke,” she said, “I feel rather nauseated. But with Saye…”

Georgette’s small smile had now grown to a full-out grin, but she still said nothing, allowing Euphemia and Sarah to express all the outrage that was expected. Well, Euphemia had married a man who was nearly fifty, who could blame her? And Sarah? For all her fortune and good family, she was nearly wholly disinterested in feminine pursuits; fashion bored her, she was useless with a needle, and she fell over her own feet when she danced.

Lilly allowed them to turn the conversation to the delights of redecorating the house in Lowestoft, but somehow she knew that wall hangings and rugs could not colour in the lines of a grey existence. While the two other ladies were entering Euphemia’s carriage, Lilly touched Georgette’s arm, wordlessly asking that she accompany her.

Georgette gestured towards the street, likely needing a turn in the cold air as much as Lilly herself did. Her mother was ever-fond of a good blaze, and their rooms were nearly always stifling. When they had walked a short distance, Georgette said, “Well, Lilly, I am proud of you. You are much naughtier than I ever gave you credit for.”

“I have not done anything naughty yet, much to his lordship’s dismay. But am I a fool to consider turning my back on Balton-Sycke for…for…?” Lilly gestured helplessly.

“Délicieux jeux d’amour?” asked Georgette frankly, and made Lilly blush.

“No! I mean, yes…more like the general enjoyment of life! I do not mean to say that I do not enjoy spending time with—”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Georgette said. “And do not think I censure you for it. Indeed, I do not! We shall, all of us, grow old with these men. Once the thrill of engagements and weddings has worn off, there must be more to life!”

“I agree,” Lilly replied warmly. “And that brings me to the greatest problem of all.”

“That my cousin has not spoken?”

“Oh yes,” said Lilly. “I do tend to forget you are related to him.”

“On Lady Matlock’s side. But my darling girl, you must know Saye might have said those things merely to be shocking.”

“I know,” Lilly groaned. “And I have scarcely even had the opportunity to be in society with him since that masque. I do not know if it was anything of significance, or merely the words of a man who had drunk too much and wished to steal a few kisses.”

“The heart wants what it wants. Sometimes all other considerations must be laid aside.”

“You sound like you know something of the matter,” Lilly said with a sidelong glance at her friend. “Have you some secret lover that none of us knows of?”

Georgette laughed. “Do you not know everything I do? Come now! Mr Balton-Sycke is gone for a month. Surely there must be some way to use the time to advantage?”

“I must,” Lilly said determinedly. “I cannot accept Balton-Sycke, but neither can I refuse him, not with my mother all but shopping for my trousseau.”

“Just think of your strategy carefully,” her friend advised, “because nothing so easy will make that boy don the leg shackles.”

* * *

The January air bit at Saye as he exited his aunt’s house and walked swiftly towards his club, but he scarcely felt it. His mind raced with plans and schemes and horrifying visions of what would happen if he failed to stop this calamitous event.

He had just turned onto Piccadilly when a vision arrested him. Her—or at least he thought it was her, blast those accursed bonnets!—walking with his cousin Georgette. For a moment he thought of walking over to them, but no; they appeared deep in conversation and, in any case, he knew not what he might say except to demand that she immediately throw aside any notions of Ball-Sack.

His swift stride became a pensive stroll as he entered his club, nearly hurling his overcoat at the waiting manservant as he espied his brother and Darcy sitting at a table. Darcy was looking rather thunderous himself, but Saye had no time for his whinging. Today he would have the luxury of the whinge, and they would all shut their pie holes and hear him.

“Where have you been all morning?” Fitzwilliam asked by way of greeting.

“To visit Aunt Fortescue,” he replied tersely, “and it was there I learnt of a horrible disaster about to happen.”

“What is it this week?” Darcy asked. “A spot on your trousers?”

“Or on Florizel?” Fitzwilliam suggested, referring to Saye’s snow-white Pomeranian.

“Maybe his carriage had the cheek to get dirty,” Darcy teased.

“Or perhaps—”

“Enough,” Saye snapped. “Ridicule me later if you like, but this time I have a dreadfully serious problem and there is nothing in the least humorous about it.”

He paused then, scowling at them both until they assumed more contrite countenances; then he announced, with no little ceremony, “My wife is contemplating matrimony to Hairy Ball-Sack.”

“Who?” asked Darcy.

“Harold Balton-Sycke from Lowestoft,” Fitzwilliam informed him. “Good fellow. A year behind me at school.”

“Oh yes! Has that sister who sings so beautifully.”

“The very one. Good family.”

“Listen here!” Saye interrupted. “The relative merits of Ball-Sack’s family are irrelevant! She cannot marry him, because if she does, then she cannot marry me! Now let us think and think hard, men. I have one month to vanquish Ball-Sack and steal his girl, and we must plan how to do it. Darcy—you have come back from the ashes with Miss Barnett, tell me how you did it.”

“Bennet.”

“What’s that?”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy said patiently. “Her name, Saye, is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Bennet, Barnett, Bassett…Does it really signify? She will surrender it soon enough for a better one, will she not? And then I shall call her Lizzy,” Saye snapped.

“Or Elizabeth, if she permits it,” Darcy replied.

“Or Liza. She seems like a Liza.”

“Elizabeth.”

“Zabet,” Saye mused. “I heard of a gypsy called Zabet once and I was rather taken with the name.”

“You will not call my wife a gypsy name,” Darcy said stiffly. “Why must we always have these stupid conversations?”

“You are right, you are right,” Saye conceded. “What Zabet wishes to be called is her own business, and my business is winning Lilly Goddard. How to do it is the less easy matter.”      

“Here is an idea,” Fitzwilliam said. “What if you called on her, asked her to dance, were kind to her mother et cetera, and then simply asked for her hand?” He gave a little smirk that encompassed both his relations. “You both have a penchant for making things difficult that need not be.”

“Oh really?” asked Darcy. “Well, where is your wife?”

“A facer on you, Richard,” Saye added gleefully. “Where is your wife indeed?”

Fitzwilliam shrugged. “The Season is not kind to a poor soldier,” he said, with more candour than was his wont. “The ladies are more apt to be enchanted by the young bucks flashing their blunt, most of whom are not even seriously pursuing matrimony. Darcy got the last good woman—I am sure of it.”

As it was, there was a small estate that Saye had inherited along with his viscountcy. It was in an unfashionably north-eastern part of England, and the weather there was far too cold, but it would do for a second son. Lord Matlock had forbidden him to confer it until Fitzwilliam was engaged to a lady they all approved of, fearing he might find himself tricked into some unsuitable alliance. His brother could be rather heedless when it came to female temptations.

“Until Mr Bennet yields, I cannot marry her,” Darcy intoned glumly. “We have had, already, a lengthy journey to become engaged, and I begin to fear the engagement itself will be longer still.”

“Well, perhaps I shall have time to win her yet,” Fitzwilliam said with a grin. He leant over then and gave Darcy a little punch on the arm. “She did rather enjoy my society at Rosings.”

“She had little choice as you were forever hanging about her,” Darcy muttered.

Like the days in the nursery. Saye sighed heavily. He had been forever stopping fights between the pair of them back then. “Your error,” he told Darcy, “is that you neglected to anticipate your vows. Fathers become remarkably agreeable to nuptial haste once their daughters are despoiled. But enough about Zabet, we need to get back to my problems.”

“Will Elizabeth be coming to town soon?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Miss Bennet will come to town sometime before Easter,” Darcy replied with a hard stare. “When Mr and Mrs Bingley take a house.”

Fitzwilliam said something, but Saye scarcely noticed. He had been, at last, struck by inspiration. “We should have a house party at Matlock!”

That stopped their squabbling. He continued, “I shall invite Georgette and her friends—”

“Georgette?” Fitzwilliam gave him a quizzical look.

“Our cousin. I like her, and we need to spend more time with that side of the family,” Saye informed him piously. “I shall ask dear Zabet, perhaps some few of her many sisters—”

“Stop calling her Zabet.”

“—an assortment of lovelies for my brother…with a masquerade ball, to be sure, to give the poor sod a fighting chance with them…”

“Travel to Matlock may be difficult,” Darcy opined.

“Bah!” Saye said. “The roads are as good as any in the Empire.”

He felt, suddenly, as good as he had felt for some time. Yes, bringing her to Matlock was just the thing. Let her see the place which would be her own, let her feel his significance apart from the ribaldry of London. He could already imagine his attire—not the dandy of town, but a country gentleman. A country gentleman with éclat to be sure.

“So you get Miss Goddard to Matlock,” Fitzwilliam said. “And then?”

“And then I make her love me and accept my offer of marriage, and Hairy Ball-Sack crawls back into the sea where he belongs.”

“Saye,” Fitzwilliam said, laying a hand on his arm. “Just tell me this. Do you love her?”

“Do I love her?” Saye gaped at his brother. Every so often, he was reminded of just how stupid his brother really was, and this was surely one of those times.

“Yes. Do you love her?”

“Or do you just want to win her?” Darcy asked.

“That is a fool’s question.”

“But what is the answer?” Fitzwilliam insisted. “Love? Or the need to claim victory?”

With a deep sigh, Saye shoved his face into his hands. “I should not be required to—”

Darcy said, “Saye, if you want this woman so badly, it should not be such a difficulty to—”

“Yes! Does it suit you? Yes, yes, yes, I love her, and if I cannot have her, I shall die of misery. Besting Hairy Ball-Sack is a nice side victory, but it is nothing to my need to have her for my wife.”

With a curse, he rose, shoving his chair violently against the table. He cursed again for good measure, and spun on his heel, stalking through the club, glaring angrily at everyone he saw.

When he had nearly gained the door, a large hand clapped him on the shoulder, arresting his progress. He turned to see Darcy had risen and followed him and even now offered a compassionate grin.

“Come back to the table,” he said. “Your brother has ordered some of the French brandy brought out for us. Let us toast another man down!”

~~~~

The blurb for A Match Made at Matlock

Viscount Saye, clever, handsome and rich, is startled one wintry day by the news that his beloved, Lillian Goddard, is to become engaged to another. Unwilling to lose her, he quickly plans a party at his ancestral estate to woo her away from her suitor. Twenty ladies and gentlemen respond to his invitation, eager for a fortnight of revelry in Saye’s inimitable style.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, at last engaged to his beloved Elizabeth Bennet, finds himself stymied by her father. Mr Bennet has consented to the engagement but forces them to endure a prolonged courtship, with too much time spent apart. Getting Elizabeth to the house party is only the first in a series of frustrations and challenges that confront them. Will their love and attachment prevail?

 

Georgette Hawkridge, a cousin of Lady Matlock, has all the finest qualities of a lady of fashion. Alas, she has fallen in love with a decidedly unfashionable man, an affection they have kept well-concealed. Two weeks is a long time to hide, however, and the truth of what they mean to one another—and the man her suitor really is—must eventually emerge. 

 

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam attends his brother’s party with no thought for anything but time among friends; after all, he is too poor to marry, an idea that rankles, particularly when he must watch love bloom around him. Then he meets Sarah Bentley, a pretty, wealthy girl with a predilection for admiring the unlovable; but will he know his heart before it’s too late?

 

Amid masques and marvels, love will abound; attachments will be formed, tried, and tested, and one couple’s engagement will come to an end. For all who heed the summons, it will be an unforgettable fortnight at Matlock!