Introduction:
~
The
final defeat of Napoleon Bonaparte’s La
Grande Armée, is oft remembered as a great personal victory for the Duke of
Wellington. But, there is no denying, a high price was paid on the 18th June
1815. It was a day of great losses of men, of badly maimed and fatally wounded
personnel. Thus, I have purposefully stepped away from the harshness of battle
scenes, and of blood and gore. No doubt the latter will be recalled time and
time again within other novels commemorating the 200th bicentenary of the
Battle of Waterloo. Instead, my story is that of wives, of mistresses, of terrible
secrets and lies, and the consequences of stolen moments of unbridled passion.
~
As
always my novels are penned with British English spelling and grammar usage,
which is not quite on a par with US English usage. Please bear with me on local
English dialects and character thoughts, for they are, often as not,
grammatically incorrect. I can only hope you will enjoy stepping back in time
to the sights, sounds and scents of a bygone era.
~
Pennard Hall, Somerset.
Blurb:
When news of Wellington’s victory at Waterloo arrives at
Pennard Hall, excitement and trepidation prevails. Thus, with Pennard’s heroes homeward
bound, a grand homecoming ball is in the making. But a letter arrives, a letter
from another woman, and Isobel, Countess of Weston, is quite aware life can
never be as it was before. Worse, a terrible sin in the dowager countess’ past
suddenly threatens to undermine the structure of lawful inheritance. Albeit sage
advice is proffered by the Duke of Wellington, and makes perfect sense, can
Isobel’s son remain as heir to the title: Earl of Weston?
~
Excerpt from opening
chapter.
Chapter 1
~
Pennard
Hall, Somerset 1815: 24th June
~
Having
escaped to the garden, sitting alone and utterly devoid of distractions, it was
so very difficult to brush aside the image of light blue eyes turning smoky
grey in sunlight, and of manly lips curving to a quirky smile. Would that she
could erase that special memory of her heart’s desire and the relaxed manner of
his basking in the afterglow of mutual bliss. But it was all too vivid: even
the remembered sweet scent of flattened meadow grasses, where they had lain
surrounded by moon daisies swaying gently on a balmy summer breeze.
....Both
had known the love expressed between them was oh so wrong, but heady euphoria
had taken hold in the madness of the moment. Although it was true love back
then, illicit love, he still expressed undying love within his letters: letters
she kept hidden.
....Oh
how oft she had pondered over portraits hanging in the upper gallery, and studied
the likeness between her son and that of Earls’ of Weston down the centuries. Mathew’s
appearance bespoke untainted bloodlines, as did that of the present earl’s
younger brother, whilst her husband, the earl, resembled none of the former.
....It
was quite bizarre, for Michael Melrose, Earl of Weston, was fair, with light
brown eyes, and florid features. Albeit of good height, he was so unlike the
taller, dark-haired, blue-eyed Melrose trait, it was little wonder there were
those within society who had looked upon Michael with a curious eye.
Similarities to his mother, the dowager countess, had always excused his
appearance. But his sister, May, had let slip observations from time to time of
a curious bent in relation to her brother’s likeness to that of an unrelated
family, and the very fact the family were not of Isobel’s acquaintance, she had
no means to verify May’s comments.
....Thus
daydreaming, and duly caught unawares, a sudden flash of pink in her peripheral
vision drew her attention, and her heart sank. Oh lordy. So often, when she slipped away to write in her journal,
someone would come looking for her.
....“Izzie . . . Izzie . . .” came a plaintive plea from her sister-in-law. “Where are you?”
....Holding
her breath whilst tempted to take flight, instead she remained seated behind
the trunk of a favoured walnut tree, half hoping the lovely May would pass her
by unnoticed.
....“Izzie. . . Izzie, I know you are out here, somewhere,” yelled May, quite unladylike in manner, followed by a
sharp: “Isobel, answer me.”
....If
May was resorting to Isobel then something was amiss, and she called out in
response: “I’m here, by the walnut tree.”
