Imperial Scandal discussion round 3 – parenting

I’m in the midst of finishing up the wedding novella. Colin is not yet born in the novella, but he’s a very important part of the equation as Suzanne/Mélanie and Malcolm/Charles’s agree to marry. Suzette/Mel’s pregnancy is the reason Malcolm/Charles proposes and the implications of the marriage for the child she’s carrying are a major part of her considerations as she weighs whether or not to accept him. This seems a good time to post another of the Imperial Scandal discussion questions:

6. How does being parents affect Suzanne’s, Malcolm’s, Cordelia’s, and Harry’s actions in the course of the book? Do you think their lives and relationships as couples would have evolved differently if they didn’t have Colin and Livia?

Speaking of Cordelia, I’ve just posted a new Fraser Correspondence letter from her to Lady Caroline Lamb.

 

Imperial Scandal discussion round 2 – the path ahead

Dinner at Chateaulin in Ashland

Just got back from a fabulous few days at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. As always, the plays provided lots of fodder for future books and the drive to and from Ashland gave me lots of time for plot mulling. So I thought for this week’s post I’d pose another of the Imperial Scandal discussion questions, which goes to issues that will arise in subsequent books:

Which couple do you think has the most difficult path ahead–Suzanne and Malcolm, Harry and Cordelia, Rachel and Henri, Violet and Johnny? Why?

I’d love to hear everyone’s thoughts. I confess I’m not sure what I think myself on the subject, though the book I just finished, set in Paris two months after Imperial Scandal, deals quite a bit with Suzanne & Malcolm and Harry & Cordelia confronting the past and trying to forge a future. And those issues will continue to reverberate (and perhaps come to a head) in the book I’m beginning to plot.

Happy belated Mother’s Day to all moms and honorary moms. In honor of Mother’s Day, this week’s Fraser Correspondence addition is a letter from Lady Frances to Mélanie/Suzanne about Aline’s pregnancy and the challenges of motherhood.

 

The challenges of the wedding night scene

I’ve been having a fun writing the novella about Malcolm/Charles and Mélanie/Suzanne’s wedding. I’ve thought about these events a lot and I know the characters well. It’s interesting–and at times surprising–going back in time and getting to know who Malcolm and Suzanne were before either had influenced the other. And the last couple of days I faced a unique challenge in telling the story of these characters I know so well–writing their wedding night.

As I’ve discussed before, with these books I instinctively faded to black the first time I got to a love scene. But this scene is different. The details matter in showing what the scene means to both Malcolm and Suzanne. It’s a challenge to work out what they’re both thinking and feeling and to decide how much emotional and physical detail to include.

There’s also the question of how much to “romanticize.” There’s a certain amount of awkwardness for both Suzanne and Malcolm which seems very real. But I found myself worrying it made them look too foolish. Then a bit later I worried I was getting too flowery. It’s a tricky balance. Just as Mel/Suzette tries to find the core of who she is throughout the series, I have to try to find the core of who these characters are in this scene and what’s true to them.

I think Dorothy Sayers gets the balance of reality and poetry perfectly in Peter and Harriet’s wedding night scene in Busman’s Honeymoon. What are your favorite love scenes? How detailed are they? What makes them work?

This week’s Fraser Correspondence addition is a letter from Mel/Suzanne to Lady Frances.

 

Novella Teaser

This was going to be my April teaser, but the last couple of weeks were busy with the Merola Opera Program’s annual Benefit Gala, A Royal Affair (there are Mélanie and I above in our tiaras). So the April teaser is being posted in early May. It’s a scene from the novella I’m writing about Malcolm/Charles and Mélanie/Suzanne’s engagement and wedding, provisionally titled The Lisbon Bride. In this scene, Charles/Malcolm tells his valet Addison that he’s going to be married. It’s fascinating for me to go back in time and discover who these characters I know so well were at the start of their relationship.

I’ve also posted a new letter to the Fraser Correspondence from Aline to Gisèle.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Charles stared round the sitting room of the lodgings he had occupied since he’d come to Lisbon four years ago. Papers overflowing the writing desk. Books crowded on the bookshelves that lined three walls (two of which he’d purchased after he moved in) and stacked on the floor and nearly every available surface. One comfortable frayed tapestry wing-back chair by the fireplace. A door leading to the adjoining bedchamber, also crowded with books but with little else to give it a personal stamp.
“Sir?” His valet Addison’s voice cut in on his thoughts. “Is anything the matter?”
“No. That is—“ Charles turned to look at the man who’d been his valet since he went up to Oxford. “I’m going to marry Mélanie de Saint-Vallier.”
A genuine smile broke across Addison’s reserved face. “My felicitations, sir. To you both.”
“Thank you.” Charles cast another glance round the room. “She’ll be coming to live here. As will Blanca.”
‘So I would presume.
“We’ll have to—“
“Make room.” Addison, who had presided over a bachelor establishment for nearly a decade, seemed unfazed. But then very little fazed Addison, from unexpected guests to French snipers. “I’ll speak to Señora Rivera and see if we can have the small room down the passage for Blanca—Miss Mendoza.”
“We should have another chair in the sitting room at the very least.”
“And a chest of drawers for the bedchamber. I’ll see what I can do. I imagine Mrs. Fraser will wish to purchase more after she settles in.”
“Mrs. Fraser.” How odd it sounded. His mother had been Lady Elizabeth Fraser, a welcome distinction now. He didn’t need his parents hanging over this oddly begun marriage any more than they inevitably would. “Thank you. Addison—“ Charles turned to look at his valet. They had depended on each other, shared tight quarters, saved each other’s lives more than once. Addison knew him in ways no one else on earth did. Yet they rarely spoke of personal topics. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
“I’ve always thought you possessed a very keen understanding, sir. This only confirms that opinion.”
“I don’t have the least idea what I’m doing.”
“I expect that’s true of many people when they get married. Miss Saint-Vallier is an exceptional woman. You’re a fortunate man.”
“I’m well aware of it.”
“And she’s a fortunate woman.”
Charles smiled. But it couldn’t banish the bite of incipient failure.

 

Imperial Scandal Outakes – 3 versions of the the Suzanne/Mélanie & Raoul scene

When I was working on the Imperial Scandal revisions, I mentioned that there was a scene my editor asked me to consider changing. It’s a scene after Waterloo, where Mélanie/Suzanne goes to see Raoul. My editor thought that Mel/Suzette’s actions in the scene might destroy reader sympathy for her. On reflection I agreed, and I like the way the scene ended up in the revision process. But I’m glad I got to write it the original way to see how that played out. I thought it would be interesting to post both versions along with a third version I wrote in the revision process. I’m keeping the Mélanie & Charles names in these because that’s how I wrote it originally.

Let me know what you think. Which version do you prefer? Would the original version have damaged your sympathy for Suzanne/Mélanie? How would your image of the characters and response to the book have changed if I’d included one of the alternate versions? Would a different scene have changed the impact of the book or the trajectory of the series? Which would do you think is truest to the characters?

In keeping with the theme, this week’s Fraser Correspondence addition is a letter from Raoul to Mélanie.

This is the original scene:

He pushed himself to his feet at her entrance but made no move to come toward her. The light slanting through the high windows showed her that apparently he had received no further hurt. She stared at the familiar bones of his face and felt the breath rush from her lungs. In his eyes, she saw the desolation and shattered hopes that were the twin of her own. She closed the distance between them, took his face between her hands, and kissed him full on the lips for the first time since her marriage.
For a moment he went still as ice beneath her touch. Then he closed his arms hard round her.
Sensation took over, driving out the demons of the past seventy-two hours. The past two and a half years. She curled her fingers behind his neck, seeking oblivion with the desperation of one on the edge of madness.
His lips slid to her cheek, the line of her jaw. She tugged at the folds of his cravat.
Air rushed between them. One moment his arms were round her, his mouth against the hollow of her jaw. The next he was he was holding her by the shoulders, his gaze opaque. “Think, querida.”
“No.” Thinking was the one thing she didn’t want. She dragged him back to her, fumbling with the buttons on his waistcoat.
She felt the breath shudder through him. Then he crushed her to him and his mouth was against her own again, urgent and desperate. She stumbled to the narrow bed and pulled him down beside her, keeping her mouth against his so he couldn’t utter any more foolish protests. She pushed his waistcoat from his shoulders, and then she had to pull back enough to tug his shirt over his head. By that time he’d found the strings on her gown. They fell back against the scratchy blanket in a tangle of half-removed clothes and urgent, clumsy fingers.
Coherent thought mercifully fled. She lost herself in the scrape of fabric, the brush of skin against skin, the pressure of his hands, the force of his lips.
When thought inevitably forced its way back, she was lying on his chest, her head pillowed on his collarbone, his fingers twining in her hair.
She stayed still for a moment, memorizing the scent of his skin, the sound of his heartbeat beneath her ear, the solidity of his arm round her. Then she pushed herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. “I’m through.”
He folded his arms behind his head. His gaze showed not surprise but something else that might have been sadness. “I thought as much.”
“You couldn’t possibly–”
“What did what just passed between us mean if not goodbye?”
“This isn’t another attack of conscience. I’m done. I’m getting out. I’m not your agent anymore.”
“Clearly stated.”
She sat up and folded her arms across her chest. She mistrusted that mild tone. “It’s over.” Her voice shook, beyond her control. “We lost.”
“It’s never entirely over. But we were certainly dealt a decisive blow. Not only has the game changed, it will be played on an entirely different board.”
“Damn it, Raoul.” She reached down and grabbed his shoulders. “It’s not a game.”
“Of course it is.” He caught her wrists in a gentle grip. “A game with life and death stakes and people’s future and liberty hanging in the balance.”
“I’ll still fight for the things I believe in,” she said, perhaps a little too firmly, because she couldn’t bear for there to be any doubt on this score. “But I’ll only act openly as Charles’s wife.”
He nodded. “I think you’ve made a wise choice.”
“For God’s sake, Raoul.” She pulled free of his grip and grabbed her mantilla from the pile of clothing on the floor. “What game are you playing? You’re never so magnanimous without an ulterior purpose.”
“We’ve never been in circumstances like these.”
“I mean it.” She tugged the mantilla round her shoulders. Her nail snagged on the lace. “I won’t work as your agent anymore.”
“I know. I’ll miss you.”
For some reason that was when her throat closed and tears prickled the back of her eyes. She turned her head to the side, unable to bear the pressure of his gaze. “All these years. The fighting, the lying, the compromising. Twisting ideals to meet necessity. And this is where it got us.”
“One can never see where it will take one. All one do is do the best one can in the moment.”
“Damn you, stop it with the platitudes. You have to feel it too. It’s over. Bourbons on the throne of France for good, reforms repealed, monarchs grabbing for power. Castlereagh and Metternich and their ilk trying to turn clock back on every shred of progress since the Revolution. Wasted years, wasted lives–”
Her chest ached from the lost purpose that had been wrenched from her at the news of the French defeat. The thing that had kept her going after the loss of her family, that had given her a focus, that had been the core of who she was. A sob tore through her.
Raoul’s arms closed round her again, in a very different way from earlier. She pushed against him, desperate to strike out at something. Then she drew a sharp breath and sobbed into his chest until the rage had drained from her, leaving her empty and winded.
“You can never let yourself think your work’s gone for naught,” he said, stroking her hair. “Or you’ll go mad. Believe me, I speak from experience.”
She drew back and looked up at him. “Ireland.” She’d spent many evenings hearing him talk about the failure of the United Irish Uprising in 1798, anger and regret sharp in his voice.
“And the Revolution.” Raoul had been a passionate supporter of the Revolution, but he’d found himself imprisoned in Les Carmes and had nearly gone to the guillotine. “One has to go on and do the best one can. Which I’m sure you’ll continue to do.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Easy?” His voice cut with sudden force. “There’s nothing easy about it. Do you think I haven’t replayed every decision I’ve made a dozen times, haven’t asked myself–” He shook his head. “But believe me, believe me, querida, you’ll find a way to go on. Because there’s no other choice.”
“Are you saying this is what you want?”
“No.” The short word held layers of meaning. “But I think it’s what’s best you for you.” He pushed her hair behind her ear with a tenderness that was somehow in very different key from what had passed between them a short time ago.
“Since when does what’s best for any of us matter more than the cause?”
“My dear girl. I’m not nearly so single-minded or such a schemer as you make me out to be.” He hesitated a moment. “Philippe was killed.”
She bit her lip. Tears stung her eyes. “I have a letter for his sweetheart.”
“Do you want me to—“
“No. I know where to send it.” She reached down into the pile of clothes and found her drawers. “What will you do now?”
“I’ll manage.”
She swung her gaze back to him. “You don’t trust me any more.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He picked up her chemise and handed it to her. “But our interests no longer neatly align. No sense in putting either of us in an awkward situation.”
She nodded. Practicality, that was what was called for, and a cool head. He pulled on his own clothes and helped her do up her laces and strings in silence. She turned to the cracked looking glass and tried to pin her hair into some semblance of order.
Raoul leaned against the wall. “In a few days or a few weeks you’re going to think back on the past hour and feel an intolerable burden of guilt. Try to remember that guilt is a singularly wasteful emotion.”
She met his gaze in the spotted looking glass. “Who says I’ll feel guilty?”
“My intuition. You won’t like the fact that you’ve betrayed your husband.”
She gave a rough laugh. “I’ve been betraying Charles from the day I married him. The day I met him if it comes to that.”
“For a cause. And there’s one way in which you managed to stay faithful.”
She jabbed a pin into her knot of hair, hitting her scalp. “I don’t believe in fidelity, remember?”
“You didn’t use to. I think you’ve changed.”
She stuck two more pins into her hair and draped her mantilla over her head. “I have so many sins on my conscience, I hardly think this one is going to rankle.”
“But it may.”
“What the devil makes you so certain?”
“Because I’m quite sure I’ll feel the same.”
She turned to look at the man who had always subsumed guilt to the needs of the moment.
He took a step away from the wall and moved toward her. “If it does, look on it as a moment’s madness.” His hands closed on her shoulders. “And for what’s worth and for my sins, it meant the world to me.”

This is the first alternate version:

He pushed himself to his feet at her entrance but made no move to come toward her. The light slanting through the high windows showed her that apparently he had received no further hurt. She stared at the familiar bones of his face and felt the breath rush from her lungs. In his eyes, she saw the desolation and shattered hopes that were the twin of her own. She closed the distance between them, took his face between her hands, and kissed him full on the lips for the first time since her marriage.
For a moment he went still as ice beneath her touch. Then he closed his arms hard round her.
Sensation took over, driving out the demons of the past seventy-two hours. The past two and a half years. She curled her fingers behind his neck, seeking oblivion with the desperation of one on the edge of madness.
Air rushed between them. One moment his arms were round her, his mouth against the hollow of her jaw. The next he was he was holding her by the shoulders, his gaze opaque. “Think, querida.”
“No.” Thinking was the one thing she didn’t want. She tried to drag him back to her, but his hands tightened on his shoulders.
“You don’t want this, Mélanie.”
“Damn you, you can’t know—“
“I know exactly. You want to lose yourself. You want to forget. You want to find solace. But a few moments of oblivion won’t take away the pain. And afterwards you’ll hate yourself.”
She wrenched herself out of his hold. The pain and anger she’d holding at bay since last night roiled through, clawing at her mind and senses. “ I don’t believe in fidelity, remember.”
“But Charles does. And you believe in him. Even if his side defeated ours.”
She stared at him, the word defeat echoing in her brain. Her chest ached from the lost purpose that had been wrenched from her at the news of the French defeat. The thing that had kept her going after the loss of her family, that had given her a focus, that had been the core of who she was. She pressed her hands to her face, but a sob tore through her.
Raoul’s arms closed round her. She pushed against him, desperate to strike out at something. Then she drew a sharp breath and sobbed into his chest until the rage had drained from her, leaving her empty and winded.
She stayed still in his arms for a moment, memorizing the scent of his skin, the sound of his heartbeat beneath her ear, the brush of his breath against her hair. Then drew back and looked into the eyes that knew her so well. “I’m through.”
“I thought as much.” His gaze showed not surprise but something else that might have been sadness.
“This isn’t another attack of conscience. I’m done. I’m getting out. I’m not your agent anymore.”
“Clearly stated.”
She sat down on the edge of the cot and dripped its metal frame. She mistrusted that mild tone. “It’s over.” Her voice shook, beyond her control. “We lost.”
“It’s never entirely over.” Raoul sat beside her, a few inches of gray blanket between then. “But we were certainly dealt a decisive blow. Not only has the game changed, it will be played on an entirely different board.”
“Damn it, Raoul.” She grabbed arm. “It’s not a game.”
“Of course it is.” He caught her wrist in a gentle grip. “A game with life and death stakes and people’s future and liberty hanging in the balance.”
“I’ll still fight for the things I believe in,” she said, perhaps a little too firmly, because she couldn’t bear for there to be any doubt on this score. “But I’ll only act openly as Charles’s wife.”
He nodded. “I think you’ve made a wise choice.”
“For God’s sake, Raoul.” She pulled free of his grip. “What game are you playing? You’re never so magnanimous without an ulterior purpose.”
“We’ve never been in circumstances like these.”
“I mean it. I won’t work as your agent anymore.”
“I know. I’ll miss you.”
Her throat closed and tears prickled the back of her eyes again. She turned her head to the side, unable to bear the pressure of his gaze. “All these years. The fighting, the lying, the compromising. Twisting ideals to meet necessity. And this is where it got us.”
“One can never see where it will take one. All one do hold onto what one believes in.”
“Damn you, stop it with the platitudes.” Her fingers dug into the coarse blanket. “You have to feel it too. It’s over. Bourbons on the throne of France for good, reforms repealed, monarchs grabbing for power. Castlereagh and Metternich and their ilk trying to turn clock back on every shred of progress since the Revolution. Wasted years, wasted lives–”
A gentle hand stroked her hair. “You can never let yourself think your work’s gone for naught,” Raoul said. “Or you’ll go mad. Believe me, I speak from experience.”
She turned to look at him. “Ireland.” She’d spent many evenings hearing him talk about the failure of the United Irish Uprising in 1798, anger and regret sharp in his voice.
“And the Revolution.” Raoul had been a passionate supporter of the Revolution, but he’d found himself imprisoned in Les Carmes and had nearly gone to the guillotine. “One has to go on and do the best one can. Which I’m sure you’ll continue to do.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Easy?” His voice cut with sudden force. “There’s nothing easy about it. Do you think I haven’t replayed every decision I’ve made a dozen times, haven’t asked myself–” He shook his head. “But believe me, believe me, querida, you’ll find a way to go on. Because there’s no other choice.”
She stared at him, memories coming thick and fast. His hands tossing her into the saddle. His voice drilling her on court protocol. The steady trust in his eyes when he sent her on her first mission. “Are you saying this is what you want?”
“No.” The short word held layers of meaning. “But I think it’s what’s best you for you.” He pushed her hair behind her ear with a tenderness that was somehow in very different key from their kiss a short time ago.
“Since when does what’s best for any of us matter more than the cause?”
“My dear girl. I’m not nearly so single-minded or such a schemer as you make me out to be.” He hesitated a moment. “Philippe was killed.”
She bit her lip. Tears stung her eyes. “I have a letter for his sweetheart.”
“Do you want me to—“
“No. I know where to send it.” She got to her feet and picked up her mantilla. “What will you do now?” she asked, running the black lace through her fingers.
“I’ll manage.”
She swung her gaze back to him. “You don’t trust me any more.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He got to his feet as well. “But our interests no longer neatly align. No sense in putting either of us in an awkward situation.”
She nodded. Practicality, that was what was called for, and a cool head. She turned to the cracked looking glass and tried to pin her hair into some semblance of order.
Raoul leaned against the wall. “In a few days or a few weeks you’re going to feel an intolerable burden of guilt. Try to remember that guilt is a singularly wasteful emotion.”
She met his gaze in the spotted looking glass. “Who says I’ll feel guilty?”
“My intuition. You won’t like the fact that you’ve betrayed your husband.”
She gave a rough laugh. “I’ve been betraying Charles from the day I married him. The day I met him if it comes to that.”
“But you could hide in the needs of the moment.”
She jabbed a pin into her knot of hair, hitting her scalp. “I’m used to living with sins on my conscience.”
”With peace you’ll find you have leisure to dwell on the past. To question past actions to replay past moments, to play the damnable game of what if.”
She pushed two more pins into her hair and draped the mantilla over her head. “What makes you so certain?”
“Because I’m quite sure I’ll be doing the same myself.”
She turned to look at the man who had always subsumed guilt to the needs of the moment. He returned her gaze. The scars in his eyes had never been plainer. “Raoul—“
He gave a faint smile. “Don’t worry. As I said I’ll manage. Somehow other one finds a way to go on.”
She crossed the room to him and put her hand against the side of his face. “Keep safe.”
He caught her hand in his own and kissed it. “Look after your family, querida.”

And this is the scene in the published book:

He pushed himself to his feet at her entrance but made no move to come toward her. The light slanting through the high windows showed her that apparently he had received no further hurt. She stared at the familiar bones of his face and felt the breath rush from her lungs. In his eyes, she saw desolation and shattered hopes that were the twin of her own. For a moment, she wanted to run and hide in his arms. Instead, she leaned against the closed door and said the words that most needed to be said. “I’m through.”
Something flared in his eyes. Not surprise but a flash of acknowledgement that might have been sadness. “I thought as much.”
She took two quick, determined steps into the room. Her mantilla slithered to the floor. “This isn’t another attack of conscience. I’m done. I’m getting out. I’m not your agent anymore.”
“Clearly stated.”
She dropped down on the edge of the cot and gripped its wooden frame. She mistrusted that mild tone. “It’s over.” Her voice shook, beyond her control. “We lost.”
“It’s never entirely over.” Raoul sat beside her, a few inches of gray blanket between then. “But we were certainly dealt a decisive blow. Not only has the game changed, it will be played on an entirely different board.”
“Damn it, Raoul.” She grabbed his arm. “It’s not a game.”
“Of course it is.” He caught her wrist in a gentle grip. “A game with life and death stakes and people’s future and liberty hanging in the balance.”
“I’ll still fight for the things I believe in,” she said, perhaps a little too firmly, because she couldn’t bear for there to be any doubt on this score. “But I’ll only act openly as Charles’s wife.”
He nodded. “Knowing you, not to mention Charles, I imagine you’ll be able to accomplish a great deal.”
“I mean it. I won’t dwindle into a wife.”
His mouth curved in a faint smile. “I don’t think you could if you tried.” He looked at her for a moment. She had the oddest sense he was memorizing her features. “I think you’ve made a wise choice.”
“For God’s sake, Raoul.” She pulled free of his grip. “What game are you playing? You’re never so magnanimous without an ulterior purpose.”
“We’ve never been in circumstances like these.”
“I’m serious. I won’t work as your agent anymore.”
“I know. I’ll miss you.”
For some reason, that was when her throat closed and tears prickled the back of her eyes. She turned her head to the side, unable to bear the pressure of his gaze. “All these years. The fighting, the lying, the compromising. Twisting ideals to meet necessity. And this is where it got us.”
“One can never see where it will take one. All one do hold onto what one believes in.”
“Damn you, stop it with the platitudes.” Her fingers dug into the coarse blanket. “You have to feel it too. It’s over. Bourbons on the throne of France for good, reforms repealed, monarchs grabbing for power. Castlereagh and Metternich and their ilk trying to turn clock back on every shred of progress since the Revolution. Wasted years, wasted lives–“
Her chest ached from the lost purpose, wrenched from her at the news of the French defeat. The thing that had kept her going after the loss of her family, that had given her a focus, that had been the core of who she was. She couldn’t seem to stop shaking. A sob tore through her.
Raoul’s arms closed round her. She pushed against him, desperate to strike out at something. Then she drew a sharp breath and sobbed into his chest with raw desperation until the rage had drained from her, leaving her empty and winded.
“You can never let yourself think your work’s gone for naught,” he said, stroking her hair. “Or you’ll go mad. Believe me, I speak from experience.”
She drew back and looked up at him. “Ireland.” She’d spent many evenings hearing him talk about the failure of the United Irish Uprising in 1798, anger and regret sharp in his voice.
“And the Revolution.” Raoul had been a passionate supporter of the Revolution, but he’d found himself imprisoned in Les Carmes and had nearly gone to the guillotine. “One has to go on and do the best one can. Which I’m sure you’ll continue to do.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Easy?” His voice cut with sudden force. “There’s nothing easy about it. Do you think I haven’t replayed every decision I’ve made a dozen times, haven’t asked myself–“ He shook his head. “But believe me, believe me, querida, you’ll find a way to go on. Because there’s no other choice.”
She stared at him, memories coming thick and fast. His hands tossing her into the saddle or showing her how to load a pistol. His voice drilling her on court protocol or correcting her accent. His arm secure round her as she drifted into sleep. The steady trust in his eyes when he sent her on her first mission. “Are you saying this is what you want?”
“No.” The short word held layers of meaning. “But I think it’s what’s best you for you.” He pushed her hair behind her ear with a tenderness that was somehow in very different key from the days when they’d been lovers.
“Since when does what’s best for any of us matter more than the cause?”
“My dear girl. I’m not nearly so single-minded or such a schemer as you make me out to be.” He hesitated a moment. “Philippe was killed.”
She bit her lip. Fresh tears stung her eyes. “I have a letter for his sweetheart.”
“Do you want me to–“
“No. I know where to send it.” She got to her feet and picked up her mantilla. “What will you do now?” she asked, running the black lace through her fingers.
“I’ll manage.”
She swung her gaze back to him. “You don’t trust me any more.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He got to his feet as well. “But our interests no longer neatly align. No sense in putting either of us in an awkward situation.”
She nodded. Practicality, that was what was called for, and a cool head. She turned to the cracked looking glass and tried to pin her hair into some semblance of order.
Raoul leaned against the wall behind her. “In a few days or a few weeks you’re going to feel an intolerable burden of guilt. Try to remember that guilt is a singularly wasteful emotion.”
She met his gaze in the spotted looking glass. “Who says I’ll feel guilty?”
“My intuition. You won’t like the fact that you’ve betrayed your husband.”
She gave a rough laugh. “I’ve been betraying Charles from the day I married him. The day I met him if it comes to that.”
“But you could hide in the needs of the moment.”
She jabbed a pin into her knot of hair, hitting her scalp. “I’m used to living with sins on my conscience.”
”With peace you’ll find you have leisure to dwell on the past. To question actions, to replay decisions, to play the damnable game of what if.”
She pushed two more pins into her hair and draped the mantilla over her head. “What makes you so certain?”
“Because I’m quite sure I’ll be doing the same myself.”
She spun round to look at the man who had always subsumed guilt to the goal in front of him. He returned her gaze. The scars in his eyes had never been plainer. “Raoul–“
He gave a faint smile. “Don’t worry. It won’t be the first time I’ve pieced my life back together.”
She crossed the room to him, took his face between her hands, and kissed him on the lips for the first time since her marriage. For the last time. “Keep safe.”
He squeezed her shoulders for a moment, as though catching onto the past, then released her. “Look after your family, querida.”

 

Imperial Scandal Discussion

Imperial Scandal has been out for over a week, and I know some people have read it, so I thought this would be a good time to start a discussion thread. All comments and questions welcome (even if you haven’t read the book). To get the discussion going, I thought I’d pose one of the questions from the Reading Group Guide, which I think goes to the heart of the

1. Suzanne, Cordelia, Julia, Jane, and Simon all betray (or in Simon’s case withhold information from) the men in their lives in different ways. How do the betrayals compare? Which do you think is the most devastating?

Speaking of betrayals, I’ve just posted a new Fraser Correspondence letter from Mel/Suzanne to Raoul just after her arrival in Brussels.

 

Imperial Scandal is on the Shelves

Plotting Suzanne and Malcolm's next adventure with Audrey and Nancy

Today, 27 March, was Imperial Scandal’s official release day. I’m so excited it’s finally out in the world. Excited and a bit nervous. One lives alone with one’s book for so long before publication – it’s wonderful and a bit nerve-wracking to finally get readers’ reactions. With the battle of Waterloo at the heart of the story and some major developments in the character arcs for Suzanne/Mélanie and Malcolm/Charles, Imperial Scandal was a challenging and exciting book to write. The writing of the book is intertwined with the developments in my own life in the past year. When i started working on it I wasn’t even pregnant. I turned it in to my editor just before I learned I had a baby on the way. I finished the revisions as I started the second trimester of my pregnancy. And now the book is being published just after my daughter turned three months old.

Speaking of which, Mélanie and I just got back from a trip to New York. I had a wonderful time taking Mélanie around the Kensington offices, where everyone was so nice to her. Mélanie was awake and smiling and then obligingly slept through a long lunch with my editor Audrey LaFehr and my agent Nancy Yost. Audrey, Nancy, and I had a great time as we always do. We did some great talking about the next books in the series and we discussed the possibility of an enovella, between Imperial Scandal and the next book, that would fill in some of the backstory. I’m thinking of doing it around Suzanne/Mel and Malcolm/Charles’s meeting and marriage. What do you think? Is that something you’d like to read about? What would you like me to touch on in the story in terms of events and POV? Are there other episodes from their past you’d like to see dramatized?

I’m finally back to updating the Fraser Correspondence. I’ve just posted a letter from Mel/Suzette to Simon about their arrival in Brussels.

If you read Imperial Scandal, do let me know what you think!

 

Garden Intrigue Giveaway

Lattes and Napoleonic spies

One of the highlights of Mélanie and my trip to New York last week was the chance to see the wonderful Lauren Willig. While Mélanie napped, Lauren and I spent two plus hours catching up over lattes at Pan Quotidien. We talked about research and revisions, current and future projects. With Lauren’s inspiration and suggestions, the next Malcolm/Charles and Suzanne/Mélanie book began to take shape in my imagination.

Lauren was also nice enough to agree to giveaway a copy of her wonderful new book, The Garden Intrigue, on my blog. I found The Garden Intrigue very hard to put down – despite the fact that I read it in the midst of trying to finish writing The Princess’s Secret. I kept wanting to sneak away from Malcolm/Charles and Mélanie/Suzanne in 1815 Paris to visit Lauren’s characters also in Paris about a decade earlier. Garden Intrigue’s heroine is the delightful Emma Delagardie, American ex-patriate and girlhood friend of Hortense Bonaparte. The hero is Augustus Whittlesby, who provides comic relief in earlier volumes of the series with his atrocious poetry but who proves to a brilliant agent living behind a persona much as Percy Blakeney does in The Scarlet Pimpernel. You can read an excerpt from The Garden Intrigue here and one commenter of this post will win a copy.

What’s your favorite Scarlet Pimpernel-type hero or heroine in disguise?

 

 

March Madness

You’ll notice that my website has a new look for Imperial Scandal, thanks to my wonderful web designer Gregory Paris, and there are now Imperial Scandal detail pages. But Vienna Waltz is also on my mind this week. Last Wednesday I got the fun news that
 Vienna Waltz is a finalist in DABWAHA, a contest for romance novels that mirrors basketball’s March Madness. As with the March Madness NCAA tournament, there are 64 contestants. Readers vote for their favorites in each round from 64 books to 32 to 16 to •8 to 4 to 2 to the tournament champion. I don’t expect Vienna Waltz to last in the tournament long, but  I confess it’s fun to be singled out. I have fond memories of watching March Madness games with my dad. I think he’d enjoy one of his daughter’s books being part of a March Madness tournament.

Any questions about Imperial Scandal from the new pages? Have you ever participated in DABWAHA? What are your favorite books from 2011?

 

Imperial Scandal teaser – Waterloo

Less than four weeks to go until the March 27 release of Imperial Scandal. I’ve blogged about the challenges of writing battle scenes. Here’s a glimpse of the scene before the battle. Once again I’ll be giving away an ARC to a commenter.

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Mist hung over the fields, mixed with smoke from the Allied cooking fires and those of the French on the opposite ridge. Steam rose from cheap tea brewed in iron kettles. The smell of clay pipes and officers’ cigars mingled with the stench of wool still sodden from the night’s rain. Shots split the air as soldiers fired their guns to clean them.
“Waste of ammunition,” Davenport said to Charles. “It’s going to be a long day.”
And it had yet to properly begin. A breeze gusted over what would be the battlefield, stirring the corn, cutting through the curtain of mist. Wellington had taken up a position before the small village of Mont-Saint-Jean. Fitzroy had said that the duke would have preferred the position across the field at the inn of La Belle Alliance, which Bonaparte occupied, but the Allied position had its advantages. Wellington had seen the ground when he was in Brussels the previous year. Charles remembered the duke mentioning the slope of the land to the north which would allow him to keep most of his troops out of sight of an enemy across the field.
To the left stood the fortified farm La Haye Sainte, with white-washed walls and a blue-tiled roof that gleamed where the sunlight broke the mist, and still farther to the left the twin farms of Papelotte and La Haye. To the right, in a small valley hidden by cornfields, was Hougoumont, a pretty, walled château surrounded by a wood and a hedged orchard. Both had been garrisoned with Allied soldiers.
The ground before them sloped down to a valley, through which the road to Charleroi ran, then rose to the ridge on which stood La Belle Alliance. On this ridge, the French army had begun to deploy. An elegant, masterful pageant. Malcolm lifted his spyglass. Lancers with white-plumed shapkas on their heads, chasseurs with plumes of scarlet and green, hussars, dragoons, cuirassiers, and carabiniers, and the imperial guard in their scarlet-faced blue coats. Gunners adjusted the position of their weapons. Pennants snapped in the breeze and gold eagles caught the sun as it battled the mist.
“Sweet Jesus,” Davenport murmured.
“Bonaparte understands the value of theatre,” Charles said.
“Unless he’s also a master of illusion, there are a bloody lot of them. I hope to God the Prussians get here.”
Charles cast a glance along the Allied lines. “We happy few.”
“Shakespeare was a genius, but he’d never been on a battlefield. Do you know what you’re in for, Fraser?”
“I’ve seen battles before,” Malcolm said, scenes from the Peninsula fresh in his mind. “But I don’t think any of us has seen anything like what’s about to unfold.”
Cheers went up among the French troops as a figure on a gray horse galloped into their midst.
“Boney,” Davenport said. “Odd to think I’ve never seen him before.”
“Nor have I.” Charles handed his spyglass to Davenport. Bonaparte wore the undress uniform of a colonel in the imperial guard and a bicorne hat without cockades. Wellington too wore casual dress for battle, though his buckskins and blue coat were more in the style of a gentleman out for a morning’s ride. He wore four cockades on his own bicorne, for Britain, Spain, Portugal, and the Netherlands.
Even without a spyglass, the cheers of the French troops for Bonaparte were evident. In response Wellington rode among his own troops, at a sedate trot rather than Bonaparte’s gallop. He was greeted with respectful nods but no cheering.
Alexander Gordon pulled up beside Charles and Davenport. “Uxbridge has ordered sherry for his staff so they can toast today’s fox.”
“Fox hunting always struck me as a bloody business,” Davenport said. “And a damned waste. My sympathies go to the fox.”
Gordon shot an amused glance at him and held out a paper. “Well, while you’re feeling sympathetic toward Boney, you can take this to Picton. Wellington’s orders.”
Davenport wheeled his horse round but turned back to Malcolm before he rode off. “I don’t say this often, but it’s been a pleasure working with you, Charles.”
Charles reached between the horses to clasp the other man’s hand. “Likewise, Harry.”