Five of the Bluestocking Belles have put together a collection of holiday stories for your enjoyment!

Now available for preorder:

A Christmas Quintet

• Friends to Lovers—The farmer’s daughter, the viscount’s son, and the estate manager reunite as adults. Della is starry-eyed for the viscount’s son, but is he really the one for her? (Regency, Christmas)

• Fake Relationship—When the pressure to marry is overwhelming, can a plan put in place at a Christmas house party turn into a love that will last forever? (Regency, Christmas)

• Second-Chance Love—An accident leaves the modiste burned, blinded and in despair until the physician offers hope and stirs memories. (Regency, Christmas)

• Country Mouse and Marriage-Shy Duke—Invited at the last minute to make up the numbers, she expects to be an interested observer. The duke has other ideas. (Georgian, Twelfth Night)

• Two Spies, One Secret—Trapped in a deserted wilderness, will they set aside secrets and past betrayals to rekindle their love and ring in the New Year together? (Medieval, Hogmanay)

Five charming stories for your holiday season, including my novella, Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot, a sequel to my Sons in the Spy Lord Series. 

Preorder today for only 99 cents: https://books2read.com/AChristmasQuintet

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot

Dreading meeting an old enemy at a Yuletide house party, Madame Marie La Fanelle, an acclaimed London modiste, has a clumsy encounter with a lamp that leaves her burned, blinded, and in terror of the future.

But then a kind German physician appears, offering a hopeful diagnosis, and stirring memories of the man she once loved. Can the magic of the holidays heal Marie’s blindness and soften the hardened hearts of two prideful lovers?

Enjoy this excerpt:

“What is it, Barton?” Marie felt a hand at her wrist and clasped it.

It wasn’t Barton’s hand. It was a man’s hand, large, long fingered, and warm. Not clammy and soft, as some men’s hands were. Her breath caught and she dropped her free hand away. A man with such hands had once touched her in intimate ways. Oh, how gleeful that man would be to see her like this.

This, she reminded herself, was not him, else Barton or Bakeley would have recognized him.

“I will take your pulse now, madame,” he said, with the slightest of accents. “Or is it mademoiselle?”

Dr. Huber, the innkeeper had called him. His accent was neither English nor French. If only she could make out his face. Her eyes ached, her whole face ached, and frustration ate at her. “You should like me to introduce myself before I know who you are?” she scoffed.

“Huber, madame. Louis Huber.”

“Louis Huber,” she said dropping the h and the ending consonants and pronouncing the name in the French way. “You are French.”

“Bayerisch,” he said. “Bavarian. Bavarois, if you will.”

She’d never met a German who could speak proper French, and his pronunciation was atrocious.

A soupçon of relief trickled through her. As defenseless as she was, she would not want to encounter a strange Frenchman. She had never been tortured by a Bavarois.

“Now please, quiet yourself a moment while I the beating of your heart measure.”

Pah. He was not fluent enough to put the words in the right order when he translated them into English. She huffed again and grumbled through the long pause as her wrist was held in what was surely a large hand.

“Rapid,” he said. “May I proceed, madam? You are French? Or Belgian?”

Fingers still curled around her wrist, sending an unwelcome warmth through her. She sensed a challenging masculinity about him that she could not do proper battle with in her vulnerable state. “You are impudent, monsieur. Do what you must.”

“Marie,” Barton said. “Perhaps he can help you.”

“We should like to know if Madame La Fanelle can travel to my estate not more than a few hours from here while the road is still fair.”

Bakeley spoke with such pompous authority, she had to gather herself to keep her voice from shaking and speak firmly. “I am returning to London,” she said. “I will rest here one more night and then the earl’s coachman may carry me back.”

“I’ve sent him on to Hazelcombe,” Bakeley said. “Barton and I have a larger coach. You may travel comfortably with her to look after you, while I ride outside. When you are more recovered, you may return to London. My servants and family shall ensure your care during your convalescence. I must insist on this, madame. My stepmother would have my guts for garters if I sent you to London any sooner.”

Bakeley’s stepmother was Lady Jane, who Barton had served as lady’s maid until she left the post to set up in business with Marie. She reminded herself again; it had been Bakeley’s investment staking the endeavor, and Lady Jane and the other ladies of the family displaying their craftmanship in society. She and Barton had been able to pay back his lordship in full with a fair rate of interest. Still…

“I never thought you to be a bully, Lord Bakeley,” she said, and the words sounded more waspish than she meant.

“That is not my intention,” he said.

“Do not concern yourself, my lord,” Huber said. “This peevishness in the patient is an excellent sign. But now, madam, Madame La Fanelle, may I remove the bandage and examine your burn?”

Peevishness, was it? “Oui,” she huffed.

Fingers slid painlessly through her hair, the touch easing a tension she’d not been conscious of. The bandage must have been tied at the top of her head. Ever so carefully he worked the cloth without pulling a single hair on her head.

Cool air hit her cheek and pain rose with it. She raised a hand, wanting to feel the raw spot of singed skin, but he took her fingers in his. “We will not touch. You must keep the burn clean. Some hair has been singed and that will grow back. I observe red skin and some blisters. Those will heal, and I do not believe you will have more than a minor scar which you may cover with a cream until it fades.”

He traced a finger along her uninjured jaw. She winced.

“You have pain there?”

“I have pain everywhere but…” She sighed and shook her head. It hadn’t been pain she was feeling.

“You are very beautiful, madame. This slight injury will not change that.”

“Fustian,” she said. That was a good English word she’d learned from Barton. “Les balivernes. Nonsense.” Or—what was the word her Hanoverian customer used? “Quatsch.”

“I do not lie, madame.”

“I am helpless in bed, grossly burned and bald. You are…”

A memory sprang to mind. A conversation like this from many years ago. Happier times before the betrayal, when she’d learned a new word. He would not know the word’s meaning. “You are havering.”

His fingers stilled. They’d been gently massaging her shoulder. “Havering.”

“Talking nonsense. A word I once learned from someone who spoke English as badly as you.”

A gurgling sound came from somewhere in the room.

Tears sprang to her eyes. Now they were laughing at her.

Here’s that preorder link again: https://books2read.com/AChristmasQuintet