The joy of having penned a romance novella several years ago - set at the time of the French Revolution *The Highwayman's Mistress* - and thence picking up years later where the children of characters from a previous book take centre stage, and suddenly a series of novellas leaps to the fore, the characters edging and nudging to have their love stories told first.
In this case Mattijs de Boviere won the toss, his being the son of Francois de Boviere, le Compt of Saint Mont Marche (above) and his mother Diamonta Witaker.
Part of his story was revealed within a charitable anthology, merely as a very short novelette. Now Mattijs' story and that of the Duchess of Rochester has been upgraded to a novella, rather than a lengthy tome, but that's because more and more readers are seeking shorter reads to fit in with busy lifestyles. Added to that, I do love penning short cut-to-the-chase adventure and romance novellas, more especially since several readers mentioned on FB they too loved stories devoid of overt blow-by-blow domesticity and lengthy sleep inducing narrative.
Like all stories there are sub-plots and sub-characters, the extended family if you prefer, where relatives, friends and lovers, vie for attention.
After all, Randolph's mother, Leohne Countess of Martock, had a secondary leading role in *The Highwayman's Mistress* as did the earl when merely that of Richard Viscount Somerton. So it is only natural all the offspring venturing into romantic *entanglements* wish to be featured within their very own novellas. None less so than Randolph Viscount Somerton, first cousin to Mattijs, the pair having served, albeit in differing cavalry regiments, in the Peninsular Wars and at Waterloo.
But first things first - a snippet from *The Runaway Duchess*.
He was not her husband, but he was special. Hers for the moment, and the chances were good indulgence thrice would no more bear fruit than had four years of a hurtful, brutal, and barren marriage. It was their last embrace, the sound of movement above stairs bringing sense of reality to the fore, as did the need to assume a detached countenance. And yet there was marked reluctance in her lover to pull away and retreat; his breath as soft as a feather teasing flesh. It was the folding of a moment in time, his words the seal to their secret indulgence as a letter to a lover.
“It cannot be; as much as I wish otherwise,” whispered he.