Are you tired of top ten lists, faithful reader? I hope not because here’s mine.

10. Rules of an Engagement by Suzanne Enoch – what could be better than sailing the South Pacific, encountering natives, fascinating wildlife and pirates? If your ship’s captain is smoking hot, of course. Read my review HERE.

9. Pleasures of a Dark Prince by Kresley Cole – an very good entry into a consistently excellent series.

8. Lessons in French by Laura Kinsale – soooo nice to see Ms. Kinsale back and full of humor.

7. Slow Heat by Jill Shalvis – I love Ms. Shalvis’ baseball series and hope for more books soon. Please? Pretty please??

6. Love in the Afternoon by Lisa Kleypas – the end of the Hathaway series. I’ve always had a soft spot for Beatrix and was very pleased with her book. Also, I’m a sucker for books with letter writing.

5. Infinity by Sherrilyn Kenyon – the first story in her Chronicles of Nick series. I’m not usually a YA reader but I was intrigued enough by hints of this one to pick it up. So good! And she seems to be correcting/re-booting some errors in the main DH series, maybe. We shall see.

4. Play of Passion by Nalini Singh – one of my favorites of the series and certainly my favorite of recent entries. Plus we get to see bits of Hawke and Sienna. Yay!

3. Exclusively Yours by Shannon Stacey – are you looking for an excellent straight-up contemporary? Look no further! And the sequel is very good, too.

2. Here There Be Monsters by Meljean Brook – so it’s a novella. And I was skeptical, even after seeing the raves. Why would I put a novella I was unsure about picking up on my “Best of” list? Because it’s awesome! It gives us our first glimpse into Ms. Brook’s Iron Seas series which leads me to…

NUMBER 1!! The Iron Duke by Meljean Brook – I don’t have words for how excellent this book is. It defies description – at least, a description that properly conveys it’s awesomeness. All I can say is READ IT.

Now for some books I’m looking forward to in 2011 (in release order, as things stand now):

Call Me Irresistible by Susan Elizabeth Phillips – yes, I know several people have already read this one but I haven’t. My copy is pre-ordered though. Why? It’s Teddy’s book! It seems like I’ve been waiting for his story forever.

ShadowFever by Karen Marie Moning – why this one? Barrons! And the wait is almost over. Yay!

A Lot Like Love by Julie James – I have enjoyed all of Ms. James’ books so far and expect this one to continue that trend.

Breaking the Rules by Suzanne Brockmann – do you need to ask why? One word: Izzy Izzy Izzy! (What? It’s one word…three times.)

Any Man of Mine by Rachel Gibson (beware the Flash!) – her last few books have been hit-or-miss for me so I’m hoping this one will be a hit. Sorry for the lack of cover. Our friends over at the Book Binge have it posted, though.

There are many more, of course, but those are the ones that are coming up soonish.

Agree? Disagree? What are you looking forward to?

The long wait for Laura Kinsale fans is finally over. Her latest book, Lessons in French, is on the shelves, and here’s your chance to get a look at the first chapter of her new romance.

First, a little bit of a teaser:

Trevelyan and Callie are childhood sweethearts with a taste for adventure, until the fateful day her father discovers them embracing in the carriage house and, in a furious frenzy, drives Trevelyan away in disgrace. Nine long, lonely years later, Trevelyan returns. Callie discovers that he can still make her blood race and fill her life with excitement, but he can’t give her the one thing she wants more than anything—himself.

For Trevelyan, Callie is a spark of light in a world of darkness and deceit. Before he can bear to say his last goodbyes, he’s determined to sweep her into one last, fateful adventure, just for the two of them.

Without further ado, Lessons in French…..

Chapter One

Lady Callista Taillefaire was a gifted wallflower. By the age of seven-and-twenty, she had perfected the art of blending into the wallpaper and woodwork so well that she never had to dance, and only her most intimate friends greeted her. She could sit against the pink damask in the ballroom or sit against the green silk in the refreshment chamber. She didn’t even have to match to be overlooked.
“Did you hear that a carriage came to Madame de Monceaux!” The scarlet plume on Mrs. Adam’s headband swayed alarmingly as she leaned near Callie’s ear. “I believe it is-” But she suddenly broke off her confidence and took Callie’s hand. “Oh, do look down! He is starting this way again.”
Callie obeyed, instantly developing a profound interest in the catch on her bracelet. She had not quite succeeded in becoming completely invisible at these affairs. There were always the gentlemen of a certain category who solicited her hand, just in case she might be clutching her eighty thousand pounds in it, Callie supposed, which would save them the trouble of a stop at the bank as they carried her off.
“There, you are safe!” Mrs. Adam said gustily, as if Callie had barely scraped through with her life. “Let him pour the butter-boat over Miss Harper, if she is so foolish a girl as to listen to it.”
Callie let go of her bracelet. She had found that looking down and discovering a flounce had come loose from her hem, or a stone had worked its way into her slipper, was evasion enough to discourage the hopeful abductors. Even for eighty thousand pounds they were not very persistent. She was, after all, Lady Callista Taillefaire, who had been jilted three times. Even a gentlemanwith dishonest designs would have to ask himself what, precisely, could be wrong with her.
She had wrestled with this question herself. Indeed, she and her father and her sister and their acquaintance and all the local gossips and probably two or three of the wiser village goats had spent a good deal of time dissecting the matter. No satisfactory answer had been agreed upon. Her father had attributed it to the general decline of British Manhood into Riot and Villainy. Her sister Hermione felt that Callie showed a deplorable lack of respect for the fashion in caps. The gossips largely blamed it upon Napoleon. During the French wars, they had blamed everything on Napoleon, and even five years after Waterloo he had not outlived his usefulness in that regard. The goats, being commoners, very properly kept their opinions to themselves.
It was Callie’s own conclusion that she was quite plain, and had red hair, and she was very stiff and shy with gentlemen, even after she became engaged to them. Perhaps more so after she became engaged to them. Her eyes were neither brown nor blue, but some grayish-green middling color, her nose could politely be described as Grecian, having barely escaped the threat of Roman, and her fair skin flamed with unbecoming splotches of pink in the slightest touch of wind.
It was also true that she had a habit of lugging newborn calves into the kitchen from time to time, which might be considered eccentric in the daughter of an earl. But since her family had taken care that no rumors of this peculiarity should escape beyond Shelford, Callie felt that she was not held to be actually dangerous.
Mrs. Adam eased her ample figure from her chair, giving Callie’s hand a squeeze and a pat. “Bless me, there is Mr. Hartman going in to tea. I must speak to him about the altar-cloth, but I will be back directly. You’ll be quite all right now that the sets are forming.”
Callie nodded. Having escaped the looming threat of being dragged off by her hair and ravished, or at least required to dance, she dared a glance at Miss Harper as the young lady took her place. The girl seemed to be enjoying her swim in the butter. Callie gazed at the couple, imagining herself-suitably embellished with golden hair and flower-blue eyes and eyelashes that were the toast of England-dancing gracefully through the figures. She made light and witty conversation. Her smile pierced the fortune-hunting gentleman to his heart. He was so taken with her that he forgot all about her fortune and fell desperately in love for the first time in his cynical and dissolute life. He vowed to give up gambling and drink on her behalf, and fought several duels with men of vague but wicked demeanor in defense of her honor. Finally, when she refused him, having selected from among her large following a gentleman of steadier nature, he threw himself from a sea cliff, leaving a poem of unrequited love in which Callie was thinly disguised as a mythological heroine with a name at least eight syllables long, which she would look up later. The poem was published in all the papers and made the ladies weep over it in their boudoirs.
She blinked, realizing the music had paused. The gentleman who had thrown himself from the cliff in despair was conversing with Miss Harper on the topic of how many sunny days the town of Shelford had enjoyed so far in the autumn.
Callie could never think of what to say to gentlemen. She could feel her cheeks turning splotchy if she tried. There had been one, once, who had been so easy to talk to that she had quite lost her head over him, but that had not turned out well. It was quite settled by now. She was born to be a spinster. The gentlemen would have to declare their undying devotion to other ladies. Callie would be too much occupied with developing a delicate constitution and a dependable recipe for tapioca-jelly.
Her father, of course, had understood none of this, because he loved her. He had thought her pretty, and stubbornly refused to be convinced otherwise by the abundance of evidence. As long as he lived he had persevered in escorting Callie to each London season, arranging betrothals, signing settlement papers, and raging almost to tears each time the gentlemen broke it off. By the third time, Callie had really been more distressed on her father’s behalf than on her own. She was not by nature a violent person, but she had given serious consideration to sewing a teasel-burr into her former fiancé’s unmentionables, or even perhaps recruiting a live black-beetle for this mission, but decided in the end that it would be a disservice to the bug.
In any case, she had found no occasion to tamper with his personal linen, although the lawyers had been pleased to make his bank account smart by the removal of ten thousand pounds to avoid a breach-of-promise suit. He had departed on a ship for Italy with his beautiful, penniless new wife, while Callie sat with her crestfallen father in the study and held his hand.
The thought of it made her wrinkle her nose, blinking back the sting. She missed her father painfully, but it would not do to let her eyes fill with tears in the midst of a country dance. She turned her face down, brushing her nose with the feathers of her fan, concentrating on the swish and thud of the dancers’ feet on the wooden floor and the off-key note on the pianoforte, waiting for the moment to pass.
It was only a local assembly, nothing so glittering as a London affair, but still Callie would not care to make a scene. For a year after the Earl of Shelford’s death, she had at least been spared the agony of any social occasions, but now that they were out of mourning it was her duty to accompany Hermione.
Callie kept a careful eye on her sister’s partners. It was up to her to make certain no fortune-hunter stole Hermey. Their cousin Jasper wasn’t precisely the sharpest needle in the pincushion, and since his elevation to the earldom, his lady wife was most anxious to see Callista and Hermione packed up and departed from Shelford Hall. An early wedding for Hermey would be just what Lady Shelford liked, and she would not be particular as to the groom. Any person would do as long as he wore trousers and promised to take Callie along with her sister.
So Callie put on her gray gloves, hid her red hair as well as she could under a lavender turban, and sat herself at her guard post on the row of satin chairs along the wall, watching her sister dance with a most suitable baronet. He had taken leave from his promising position as an under-secretary in the Home Office and traveled up from London particularly to pay his compliments to Lady Hermione. Along with his addresses, it was to be hoped, though that had not yet transpired.
Her favored position in the Shelford assembly rooms overlooked the dance floor and the entry. She had only to lift her lashes to see each newcomer, without any noticeable turn of her head. It was late now. The crush of people in the arched doorway had long since cleared, and so she merely glanced when a single figure appeared there.
For an instant she looked away again calmly, seeing only another smartly dressed gentleman who paused to watch the dancers. It was as if recognition struck her heart a moment late-a sudden rush of heat to her face, a squeezing of her throat. She found she could not catch her breath.
It was him.
She threw a panicked look toward him, knew it certainly, and then had nowhere at all to look or to run. She was alone on the wall of chairs. Mrs. Adam was vanished to the refreshment room and everyone else danced. She stared down at her toes with desperate concentration, hoping and hoping and hoping that he would not recognize her.
He might not know her. She had not instantly recognized him. He was older. Of course he was older-one could hardly suppose that she herself had reached the advanced age of twenty-seven without him doing the same. In the first blink of a look, she had seen a dark-haired handsome gentleman; it was only with her second panicked glance that she knew his face: sun-darkened and harder, all the smiling promise of youth matured to a striking man.
He stood with a quiet confidence, as if it did not concern him to arrive late and alone, or to receive no welcome. Any number of people here knew him, but no one had seen him yet save Callie-none who acknowledged him, at least. He had been gone from the vicinity for nine years.

So glad to see you here at Duck Chat once again!

Today we have a special treat for you – Laura Kinsale is here and she’s going to be talking a bit about her latest book, Lessons in French, and some other tidbits.

Be sure to leave a comment or question for Laura today. Sourcebooks is giving away two copies of Lessons in French to two lucky comments, but, sorry, for U.S. and Canada only.

Now let’s chat!

DUCK CHAT: Welcome, Laura!  I’ve heard writers often say their stories take them in surprising directions, or dialogue flows from some unknown place. Is it the same with you? Do your characters surprise you sometimes?

LAURA KINSALE: Definitely!  I have to write them to find out about them.  It wouldn’t be any fun if they didn’t surprise me.  The hero, Trev, in Lessons in French, was originally supposed to be much more cynical and selfish than he turned out to be.  Instead, he is very much a “guy” in that he really wants to do the right thing, but just finds himself in trouble.

DC: If you could retire any question and never, ever have it asked again, what would it be? Feel free to answer it.

LK: “Tell us a little about yourself.”

DC: Do you ever argue with your characters while you’re writing? Who usually wins?

LK: No, I never argue with them; it doesn’t feel like that.  It might feel that I’m trying to push the story in a direction that it just won’t go, as if I’m shoving at a blank wall.  Sometimes when I back up and take a fresh tack, it works.

DC: Now let’s talk about Trev and Callie in Lessons in French. Would you give us a look into their relationship and story in this book?

LK: If you love those stories where the shy, plain girl gets the hot dashing guy in the end, Lessons in French will be your kind of book. Lady Callista ought to be quite a catch—she’s the daughter of an earl and wealthy to boot–but she’s been left standing at the altar by three different men. She’s long ago resigned herself to spinsterhood, and her greatest desire is to win the silver cup at the agricultural fair with her prize bull, Hubert. That’s until Trev d’Augustin waltzes back into her quiet life. The son of French émigrés, he was run out of town by Callie’s father years ago for stealing a bit more than a kiss from her. Callie and Trev share quite a past, in fact, full of secret adventures and harebrained antics that no one else knows about, not even Trev’s very shrewd mother. On his return, Callie is instantly drawn willy-nilly into scandal and deception–the sort of deception that involves trying to hide a huge bull under the bedsheets. She goes from having no suitors to having more than she wanted. And in the midst of these escapades, she finds herself falling in love again with the worst possible man for her.

DC: What’s the one thing you’d like readers to come away with after reading Lessons in French?

LK: I want them to smile.  I hope readers find that it’s like a great romantic movie that makes you laugh, and shed a few tears, and come out feeling good about the world.

DC: What is sure to distract you from sitting down and working/writing?

LK: Don’t let me turn on a video game!

DC: What advice would you give to your younger self?

LK: Don’t spend so much time at the computer!

DC: Growing up in Texas, one would think you might have chosen to write westerns. Was that ever a consideration throughout your career?

LK: I didn’t actually grow up in Texas, though I visited my grandmother there every summer.  I’m not sure why westerns don’t really ring a bell for me–I seem to be more of an Anglophile in my stories.  In real life, I love the American west.

DC: If you were a book, what would your blurb be?

LK: A romance novel can be more.  More fascinating characters than you ever anticipated.  More unexpected depth.  Emotion to engage your heart and your mind.  Stories that keep you awake and words you will remember long after you close the book.

DC: Your first book was published in 1985. Is there any one of your stories that really stands out twenty-five years later, it flowed so easily, it was the most difficult to write, the most emotional, or anything along those lines?

LK: For me, the character of Allegreto stands out the most, in both of the books he appeared in, For My Lady’s Heart and Shadowheart. He started out as a minor character, just a servant really, but he became more real than real, to me and to many readers.  I could never predict or control him; he was always an active entity operating by his own rules.

DC: If you had never become an author, what do you think you would be doing right now?

LK: Riding/owning/training horses in some capacity.

Lightning Round:

- dark or milk chocolate?      – dark

- smooth or chunky peanut butter?     – chunky

- heels or flats?     – flats

- coffee or tea?      – tea

- mountains or beach?     – mountains

- flowers or candy?    – both

- pockets or purse?     – pockets

Be sure to come back later today to read an excerpt of Lessons in French!

Sandy M’s review of Lessons in French by Laura Kinsale
Historical Romance published by Sourcebooks Casablanca 26 Jan 10

When I heard Ms. Kinsale had another release coming out, I’m sure I was just excited as the rest of her fans. I’ve read only a few of her previous works, with Flowers from the Storm being my favorite. It’s an all-time favorite for me, in fact. I’m wondering if that’s why I’m just a tad disappointed in this book. Now, that’s not to say that LiF is not a good book. It’s just not what I expected, perhaps.

And maybe that’s not fair of me. After I finished this story, I read somewhere that Ms. Kinsale wanted to write another light-hearted book. Maybe that’s what I needed to know before I started reading this one. I didn’t expect that aspect of it. which kind of threw me for a bit, though I did get used to it as the story went on.

But another thing that nearly didn’t work for me is Trev, the hero. He’s such a dichotomy I’m not sure which way to go with him. One minute I like him just fine, the next I’m irritated with him, the next I don’t like him much. And our heroine, Callista, is sometimes in the same boat. But she had the good fortune of loving him since she was a little girl. I’m not so lucky.

Trev has finally gotten word his mother is gravely ill, so he’s come home at last. He’s the one Callie has always loved and he’s a sight for sore eyes after the stigma of her three broken betrothals. The attraction is still there, though Trev left her years before after her father caught them in a very compromising position. Trev is haughty and arrogant to a fault. For me, a little too much so, considering his background during the years he’s been gone. It’s not sterling. And he admits it, is a little ashamed of it. But it is what it is, according to him. Dichotomy No. 1.

He also brings good news when he returns home. He’s been able to purchase the estate and properties lost to his family years before and bring good recognition to his family name once again, something that puts his mother’s mind at ease. But his reassurances aren’t all they’re supposed to be. He talks a good game a majority of the time and everyone, even the reader, believes him wholeheartedly. Dichotomy No. 2.

Another example, Trev has a temper. At first with everyone but Callie. With her, he’s gentle, calm, and loving. However, at one point he’s jealous and angry and starts in motion circumstances that endanger a lot of people, including Callie. When she learns it’s all his doing, he is repentant, of course. He’d never hurt her. But he also doesn’t think when anger gets the best of him. Dichotomy No. 3.

Callie is as independent as can be for a young woman of her time. She’s witty and doesn’t take much bull from anyone, thanks to her previous near-marital mishaps. Of course, the one person who trips her up every time is Trev. But she eventually conquers her anxiety when around him and their relationship grows, despite knowing they can never have more than a friendship.

Things get a little silly when it comes to Callie’s prize bull, but since it’s all for the lightheartedness of the story, in the end it works out. Trev does anything and everything for Callie and comes clean when needed, and he was still growing on me at the end of the book. He’s not one of those heroes who takes an early lead in a read and never looks back. But when he does all the right things at the right time, you know you’re headed at least in the right direction with him.

This is a fairly solid read, even though it’s not quite what I expected.

Grade: B-

Summary:

She is, after all, Lady Callista Taillefaire, jilted three times in spite of her fortune and her father’s best efforts to find her a husband. Now her greatest desire is to win the silver cup at the agricultural fair with her gigantic prize bull, Hubert. But when Callie’s only old flame returns from his long and mysterious absence in France, her quiet spinster life turns upside down. Dark-eyed, elegant and a magnet for trouble, Trevelyan d’Augustin has given Callie lessons in more than his language in the past. Her father put a harsh and humiliating end to any dreams of romance with a French émigré scoundrel, however, and Callie never thought to see him again. Swallowing his pride, Trev has finally come home to care for his failing mother, but his secrets and misdeeds follow him. Callie soon remembers that nothing is ever peaceful with Trev around. The enormous Hubert vanishes into thin air, one of her former jilts comes back to woo her in a most determined manner—and her bull takes the town by storm! In the midst of these misadventures, Callie finds herself falling in love again with the worst possible man for her…

Read an excerpt.

Welcome once again to Duck Chat!

Today is going to be a very fun day. We have Meredith Duran in the house!

Besides being a romance author, Meredith is a doctoral student in anthropology, loves doing field work in such places as India and browsing through library travelogues written by Nineteenth Century Englishwomen. British history is a favorite of hers and she talks about that with us today. When she needs a fix, some of her favorite historical authors are: Laura Kinsale, Judith Ivory, Loretta Chase, Sherry Thomas, Connie Brockway, Joanna Bourne, Marsha Canham, and Jo Goodman

Her books have become fan favorites, and if you haven’t read any of Meredith’s stories yet, do read on and learn all about them. She even gives us a sneak peek of her new book that’s being released next year. Be sure to leave a meaningful question or comment for Meredith because she’s going to be giving away a copy of Bound by Your Touch and Written on Your Skin. Now let’s chat!

DUCK CHAT: Meredith, I’m curious – it says on your website that you grew up enamored of British history and one of your life’s goals was to go to London to see Holbein’s portrait of Anne Boleyn. What was it that first captured your interest in British history? Have you attained that goal of seeing the Holbein?

MEREDITH DURAN: Good question! It was Shakespeare that got me hooked into my obsession with English history. I’d always been a very, er, dramatic child, so when I was about eight or nine, my parents decided to take me to a Shakespeare festival. I believe it was Richard III that we saw, since I can still recall the precise way the actor hissed the line, “You…try…my…patience!” The play was over my head, but the costumes fascinated me (I decided then and there that I was going to become a Shakespearean actor when I grew up – heh, what a great way to make a living!). The fate of the little princes also haunted me, so when we got home from the festival, I decided to ransack the local library for more information about them. This led to an interest in the Plantagenets (I had a VHS copy of Lion in Winter that wore out, I watched it so much), which yielded in high school to a fixation on the Tudors. (I made color Xeroxes of Henry VIII’s wives and plastered my dorm room wall with them. And, yes, my friends did think this was a little weird.)

DC: If you could retire any question and never, ever have it asked again, what would it be? Feel free to answer it.

MD: Ha! This question right here is a work of evil genius – asking me to admit my least favorite question, and then to answer it! I think this question is the one I’d like to see retired.

DC: One of my questions sometimes of authors is if they have an old WIP under the bed, back of the closet, shoved to the back of a drawer that they might pull out and rework. The answer is usually no. In your case, that’s exactly what happened with The Duke of Shadows, your debut book. When you were in the process of reworking it, was there ever a point when you nearly chucked the whole thing, thinking it would never work? What kept you going?

MD: Actually, I didn’t rework the manuscript until it had won the Gather/Simon & Schuster contest. Since I only had five weeks to revise it, I had no time to entertain doubts. What kept me going? The willingness of my friends to let me disappear for five weeks. Also, the utter heady thrill of knowing that the words I was placing on the page would be read by my fellow romance readers. Actually, those five weeks were the happiest of my life to date – one long, exhilarated marathon of creativity.

DC: Any other works hidden away like The Duke of Shadows that we might see some day?

MD: Most of my shelved manuscripts are the work of adolescent enthusiasm – a few fantasy manuscripts, a paranormal romance (I was ahead of the curve! Blame it on a childhood filled with LJ Smith, Christopher Pike, and Lois Lowry), nothing I would inflict on the world. However, I actually had another book pulled from beneath the bed recently –a women’s fiction novel that was agented in NY, but never sold. It’s a coming-of-age story about an Anglo-American girl whose obsession with Hindi cinema begins to warp her view of reality; in short, she starts to lead her life as though she were a heroine in a Bollywood film. (If you’ve ever watched one of these films, you can see how this might cause farcical results.)

After realizing it was never going to sell, I sort of forgot about it, until one day I mentioned it to a friend who lives in Delhi. He wanted to read it. I gave him a PDF copy. Three years on, he happened to befriend someone in publishing there; he mentioned it to her, she asked for a look, and lo and behold: it’s being published in India this fall! What a surreal and happy ending. I loved writing that book – it’s a work of pure affection, by a huge fan of Hindi films – so I’m so glad it will get an audience.

DC: While we’re talking about TDoS, tell our readers a little about the story and its characters, please.

MD: The Duke of Shadows tells the story of two star-crossed lovers who meet in India in 1857. Each of them is an outcast, Emma because her reputation is in tatters, Julian because his birth – as a ducal heir whose grandmother was Indian – offends the sensibilities of a society in which racial divisions are becoming increasingly stark. When war breaks out, they have no choice but to trust each other in their fight to survive, and in the process, they fall in love.

But war has a way of destroying happy-ever-afters. They are separated, and by the time they find each other again in London, the darkness of their pasts, and the cost of their own survival, may prove too great for their love to overcome.

DC: I’ve heard writers often say their stories take them in surprising directions, or dialogue flows from some unknown place. Is it the same with you? Do your characters surprise you sometimes?

MD: Yes, I know I’m in the zone when my writing and characters surprise me.

DC: Do you ever argue with your characters while you’re writing? Who usually wins?

MD: Nope, I never argue with them. When the writing isn’t coming easily, I like to argue with myself, though. (“Your plot is weak! What the hell were you thinking, Duran?” LOL.)

DC: What is sure to distract you from sitting down and working/writing?

MD: The internet is a terrible temptation. Good books also furnish endless distraction, but I don’t feel so guilty about that; reading seems to replenish my “well,” as it were.

DC: Your second book is Bound by Your Touch. First, are your books related in any way? Would you tell us about Viscount Sanburne and Lydia Boyce?

MD: The Duke of Shadows has no relation to any of my other books. Bound by Your Touch is related to Written on Your Skin insofar as certain characters (and part of the timeline) overlap, but each of the books stands alone, as a separate and contained story that does not require knowledge of the other.

As far as Sanburne and Lydia go – well, BBYT is an opposites-attract story, the key twist being that they’re not nearly so opposite as they might believe (and wish) themselves to be. At the beginning of the book, Lydia would tell you that Sanburne is a useless, handsome scoundrel whose only employment in life lies in breaking the rules, preferably in as spectacular a fashion as possible. Sanburne would tell you that Lydia is a self-important, overly serious bluestocking, who no doubt would be horrified to learn that her prickly façade practically begs a man to breach and dismantle it.

To Lydia’s horror and Sanburne’s amusement, these two actually end up having far more in common than they suspect.

To Sanburne’s horror and Lydia’s amusement, she has a peculiar talent for breaching and dismantling *his* façade.

Fireworks result!

DC: What has been your favorite book cover from your releases so far and why?

MD: The Duke of Shadows still reigns supreme in my heart: that minaret, the late light of sunset slanting in through the window, and the black spine made it really distinctive. Although WOYS is such a gorgeous red… Grr, it’s hard to decide.

DC: I’m going to guess that you really don’t have a least favorite cover. True? LOL, the cover gods have been mighty nice to you!

MD: True! I’ve lucked out.

DC: How do you feel your male or female characters have evolved over your career? Do you think you write them differently now than you did when you started?

MD: The Duke of Shadows was mostly Emma’s story – Julian was a swoon-worthy hero, no doubt, but he has made his peace with his own childhood traumas; the only thing that haunts him is his past with Emma. Hence the second half of that book is really about his effort to rescue her from the darkness into which she has locked herself.

On the other hand, the heroes in Bound by Your Touch and Written on Your Skin are classically “tortured” insofar as their inner conflicts are no less sizeable than that of their heroines. They’ve got to do a lot of growing before they can win their happy-ever-safter. So, if anything, I’d say that I’m growing crueler and crueler toward my heroes. Ha!

DC: Your latest release is Written on Your Skin. I love that title, by the way. We meet Phin and Mina in this book. Can you tell us about them and their story?

MD: Phin is a world-weary former spy. He was pushed into the game against his will. It stripped away all his idealism, and he is determined, for the sake of his soul, never to return to it. So when Mina Masters comes to him for help – help that would require he reenter the game – he resists with all his might. Problem is: she saved his life once. He’s indebted to her, and ultimately has no choice but to help her.

Mina is something of a femme fatale, who has learned the hard way how to use her looks and her wits to protect herself. But her fierce independence masks a serious fear of making herself vulnerable to anyone. It chafes her that she requires Phin’s help. It burns her to have to trust him. But she hasn’t any choice in it.

What ensues is a battle of wills between two very smart people who are very good at lying to themselves and others. But in each other, they have met their match.

Excerpt from Written on Your Skin:

Delhi, 1857

Julian first noticed her because she looked so bored. Waiting for the Commissioner’s arrival had put him on edge. He stood at the top of the room, half-attending to the feverish chatter around him, his eyes fixed on the door. Rumors in the bazaar daily grew darker, and it was clear to him now that if Calcutta would not act, the local government must. Tonight he meant to exact a promise on that account.
He became aware of the woman gradually. It was her stillness that drew his attention. She was leaning against a wall, not ten feet away. Though several people surrounded her, sipping negligently at their wine and laughing, she seemed somehow apart. Tired of it all. Her eyes, which had been resting vacantly on the space over his shoulder, focused on him. They were a penetrating blue, and gave Julian a start. He saw that she was not bored at all, but unhappy.
She looked away.“Sir,” she said evenly, bobbing a shallow curtsy. Something in her tone indicated she’d overheard the tail end of his argument with Frazer. He opened his mouth to respond—after all, the lady had seemed to be waiting for him—but she had already retreated in a swish of cornflower silk, and he was not in the mood for a chase.
He began to wonder about the coincidence when she drifted after him into the garden. Was she following him? In London he might have felt some faint, predatory stirring of interest—he enjoyed women, particularly those who spared him the trouble of pursuit—but he had a policy of avoiding memsahibs. Their husbands were rarely understanding, and they themselves tended to be so bored by life on a British station that passing love affairs quickly inflated to their entire reason for being. There was also an absurd set of ideas circulating about him in Anglo-Indian circles, variations on the theme of exotic Eastern eroticism, and he’d long since grown weary of it.
But she did not, in fact, seem to know he was there. She paused at the edge of the lawn, one hand coming to her throat, and seemed content to stand there, an abstracted look on her face. A breeze came over the grass, and her fingers loosened, letting the shawl flutter around her shoulders. Fleetingly, her pale lips curved in a smile.
Again, he was struck by the impression that she stood at a great remove from the scene around her. Curious. He studied her more closely, finding nothing of special note. Her hair was an unremarkable color, a curling, sun-faded dun that, in conjunction with her pale skin, made it seem as though all the energy of her being were focused in the brilliance of her deep blue eyes. A very odd sort of beauty, if a beauty at all. He wondered if she had recently been ill.
The thought made him impatient with himself. She was young, no more than twenty-two or –three years, with smooth white skin that bespoke a typical memsahib’s routine. What was there to wonder about her? She would spend her days closeted in a bungalow, reading or at needlepoint. When the monotony began to wear, she would take heart in her zealous belief that the English way of life was the only one of merit in the world.
She muttered something beneath her breath. Despite himself, he leaned forward. He could not quite make it out. Surely she had not said—
With a violent gesture, she splashed her wine into the bushes. “Pig swill,” she said clearly.

The garden was not cool, but it was quiet. Emma turned her face into the sultry breeze and let her eyes drift shut. Had Mrs. Greeley been speaking the truth? Either way, the woman must have been surprised at Emma’s impassive reception of the news. It was unpleasant, of course; one didn’t often learn that one’s betrothed was conducting a torrid affair with a married woman. But the act seemed entirely in keeping with the person Marcus had become since their engagement.
Perhaps it was this land that had changed him so. Emma had only been here a few weeks, but she already sensed that India had taken hold of her: loosening her tongue, widening her eyes. Even now, when her mind should have been racing with the implications of Mrs. Greeley’s words, the gentle swaying of the trees and the parrots twittering in the branches above distracted her from thought. The night air mantled her bare shoulders, thick and warm, so richly perfumed with night-blooming jasmine that she wondered if she would carry the scent back inside with her.
A cow lowed in the distance. She felt a brief stirring of pity, imagining he was confused at the excess of liberty granted him by the native culture. As to why the cows were encouraged to wander through the streets, Marcus had told her that the Hindus believed them to be some sort of deity, but he hadn’t been able to elaborate. Marcus was often impatient with details.
This party, for instance. He should have told her, given her some warning regarding the people she would meet. Within five minutes it had become clear that Delhi society was no friend to her, that news of the shipwreck and her “dishonorable” rescue had tainted local opinion. But instead he’d let her march inside like a lamb to the slaughter, encouraging her to mingle with the sharp-tongued harpies whilst he conferred with the Commissioner.
All this, and then to discover he was having an affair with the hostess!
Well, it was clear that whatever they did when alone together, Marcus had not reviewed Mrs. Eversham’s wine list for her. He was possessed of impeccable taste. With a scoff she tossed the remnants of her bordeaux into the shrubbery. “Pig swill!”
The quiet laugh startled her, and she gasped, squinting into the shadows. “Who’s there?”
A form emerged from the trees, offering her a toast from a silver flask. “Pig swill indeed,” he said, and lifted the pocket pistol to his lips for a long swallow.
She relaxed slightly at the Oxford drawl, which complemented a deliciously low, rough voice. “Pray do not relay my sentiments to our hostess, sir.” Or perhaps do, she added silently.
Another step brought him full out of darkness, and she caught her breath. It was the man from indoors—the one whom she had nearly collided with earlier. Once again, his height took her off guard. He was taller even than Marcus, and a full head over her own considerable length. His eyes were a luminescent green-gold, cat-like as they reflected the faint light spilling from the bungalow. They watched her as though he waited for something.
“Are we acquainted?” she blurted out—knowing very well they were not.
He gave her a faint smile. “No.”
When he said nothing more, she arched a brow, returning rude stare for rude stare. At least, she hoped it was rude, for she suspected she might be ogling him. The man was unnervingly handsome—like something from a fever dream, brilliant and fierce, skin touched by gold and hair so black it absorbed the light. Earlier, indoors, she had found herself looking at him, thinking his face begged to be sketched. It would take only a few economical strokes—sharp, angular slashes for the cheekbones, a bold straight line for his nose, a fierce square for his jaw. Perhaps his lips would take more time. They were full and mobile, and saved his countenance from sternness.
He was very tanned. Doubt flickered through her mind, quashed as she considered his starched cravat and elegantly cut tail coat. Of course he was English. The lazy grace with which he held himself made her aware of her own unmannerly slouch. She straightened, lifting her face towards the stars.
“A lovely night,” she said.
“Pleasant weather,” he agreed, eliciting a startled laugh from her.
“You must be joking!” she said, when he tilted his head in question. “It’s dreadfully hot.”
“Do you think so?” He shrugged. “Then I suggest you withdraw to Almora. The hill stations are quite popular this time of year.”
His reference to the tradition of retreating to the Himalayan foothills during the hot weather sounded almost contemptuous. “You don’t plan to go?”
“Business holds me here.”
“Business. You’re with the Company, then?” Most everyone she had met so far was in the employ of the East India Company, either as a civil servant or, like Marcus, as an officer in the army.
But he appeared mightily amused by the idea. “Dear God, no. I see my reputation does not precede me.”
“Oh, is it very bad?” The question was out of her mouth before she could reconsider, and she blushed as he laughed again.
“It’s even worse.”
When she realized he wasn’t going to elaborate, she ventured to continue. “You’ll have to tell me about it yourself; I’ve only just arrived in Delhi, you see.”
“Really?” He sounded surprised. “I didn’t know they raised chits like you in England.”
“Chits like me?” She frowned. He had settled back against a tree trunk and was smiling at her indulgently, as if—suddenly it came to her—she were some three-year-old who had just shown him a neat trick with her doll. “Are you being insulting?”
“I meant you seem to have some spirit.”
“You are being insulting,” she decided. “To me and England both.”
“Well then.” He sighed and rolled his shoulders; his coat fit closely enough to reveal the ripple of arm muscles beneath the fabric. She wondered what he had done to acquire them; it was not at all the fashion. “Now you’ve discovered the first part of my reputation. I am considered terribly ill-mannered.”
“But I knew that the moment I saw you! A gentleman would refrain from drinking spirits in the presence of a lady.”
His brows rose. “And a lady would not call her hostess’s wine—what was it? Pig swill, I believe?”
Her laughter was reluctant, but genuine. “All right, you’ve found me out. I’m a black sheep as well. Really, it’s a wonder my intended will have me.”
“Paragon of virtue, is he?”
“Not quite,” she said dryly. “But they’ll forgive him just about anything.” The conversation was utterly inappropriate, of course; but she had forgotten how good it felt to joke and be silly with someone, and to be spoken to without those ever-present undertones of pity and speculation. “In fact, someone inside just called him the ‘Darling of Delhi.’”
“He sounds dreadfully dull. Do I know him?”
“Oh, you must. This party is in honor of us, you know—of our engagement.” His sudden stillness made her frown, and she searched his face, concerned she might have embarrassed him. “If you don’t know who the party’s for, I promise not to tell.”
“Oh, I know.” His voice was very soft now. “That would make you Miss Martin.”
“Indeed! And now you must tell me your name, so I won’t be at a disadvantage.”
His cat’s eyes moved over her shoulder, and he smiled again, this time rather unpleasantly. “Here comes your betrothed,” he said, and took a deep swig from the flask.
“Emmaline! There you are!”
She turned back towards the doors, shielding her eyes from the light. “Marcus!” He was yanking his cravat in place, and she wondered acidly if he hadn’t been waylaid by their hostess somewhere between the Commissioner and the garden. “I was taking some air,” she said. “Flannel is horribly ill-suited to this climate.”
Marcus stepped into the yard. “I hardly think that’s appropriate for public discussion,” he said severely. “And I did warn you about the weather, but you insisted—” His voice died away as he stared at her companion. “What in blazes are you doing here?”
“Lindley,” the man said curtly. “A pleasure.”
Marcus made a rude noise. “I’m sure I can’t say the same. I had no idea Mrs. Eversham was so indiscriminate with her guest list.”
Emma glanced rapidly between them. The stranger’s expression was perfectly neutral; Marcus, on the other hand, was glaring and breathing like a bull. “Marcus, really! This gentleman—”
“Knows he is not welcome,” Marcus said. “Not anywhere I am, and certainly nowhere near my future wife. I would suggest you leave now, sir.”
The man shrugged. “Of course.” Slipping the flask inside his jacket, he sketched a shallow bow. “Accept my congratulations on your betrothal, Lindley. Miss Martin is utterly charming.”
“You soil her by speaking of her,” Marcus snapped. “Beware lest I call you out for it!”
Now she was truly alarmed. Something about this man—perhaps his slight smile at Marcus’s threat—made her think he would be more than a match for her intended. “Gentlemen, this is absurd!”
“Come with me.” His hand tightening cruelly into her forearm, Marcus all but dragged her back into the bungalow.
Inside, the sudden brightness of numerous lamps and candelabras made her wince. She pulled Marcus to a stop at the edge of the crowd, beneath one of the giant fans hanging from the ceiling. Its starched chintz streamers were wilting in the humidity. “I cannot credit your behavior,” she said. “How could you behave so loutishly!”
“How could I?” Marcus pulled her around to face him. “Do you know who that man is? Do you know?”
“Stop shaking me!” She yanked her arm from his grip. The strong, sour odors of wine and sweat were rising from his skin. Maybe he had overindulged tonight, but that was no excuse. “What has come over you?”
“That is my cousin,” he managed, his face purple. “That is the half-breed who would have the dukedom instead of me.”
“That—” She stopped, understanding. “That man is Julian Sinclair?”
“One and the same.”
She turned away from him, staring blindly toward the dancers. Marcus had written to her of his second cousin, Julian Sinclair. Sinclair’s father Jeremy had married a Eurasian, a woman of mixed English and native descent, when he had thought his brother the Marquess would have the dukedom. But within a short period, the cholera had killed Jeremy, and the Marquess had died in a hunting accident. That left Jeremy’s young son as heir to the dukedom—Julian, whose blood was one-quarter native.
Now Julian Sinclair was grown, and his grandfather, the current duke, had made sure through every legal means that his grandson would follow him in the succession. But Marcus could not accept the idea that a man of mixed blood might inherit the title, when Marcus, pure-blooded English and in line after Sinclair to inherit, might himself wear the strawberry leaves so well.
“He didn’t seem Indian,” she whispered to herself.
“Of course he didn’t!” Marcus exploded. “The Duke has done everything in his power to assure it—Eton, Cambridge, a seat in the Commons. But while a man can ape his betters, he can’t change his blood. The proudest title in Britain is to go to a mongrel!”
She looked back to him, stunned. “Marcus, you sound so… hateful.”
He stared at her, his mouth thinning into a grim line. “Is that so? To think, you’ve only been here for five days, and already you’re starting to pant after the natives. What would your parents say?”
She winced. A servant was passing with a tray of wine; she reached out and snared a glass. “That is cruel.”
“Cruel but true. Even in death, they knew the honor of being Martins.”
She took a deep swallow of the wretched bordeaux and shut her eyes. Again and again it returned to haunt her—this image of her parents’ faces, so small and pale as the ocean closed over them. The pain of their deaths did not fade; most nights, she still awoke weeping from nightmares of drowning with them. Only a miracle had guided her to the gig on which she had floated for almost a day; only God had given her the strength to cling to it as the hot sun beat down and she despaired of ever being found.
She set the glass on a sideboard and looked directly at him. The atmosphere was close and torpid, and sweat was trickling down her nape; strange, then, that she felt so cold. “You think it would have been more honorable to let myself drown?”
After a mute, stubborn moment, his face softened, and he reached for her hands. “No, my dear, of course not.”
But she wondered. After all, he could play with his precious honor all he liked, risking it with his conspicuous philandering, his exorbitant gambling debts. But to have that honor tarnished by a woman! Surely it must irk him, to risk being made a laughing-stock by upholding a betrothal with a woman of questionable reputation—a woman who had arrived in India sheltered not under the watchful gaze of her mother and father, but by a crew of rough-and-ready sailors. Those sailors had saved her life, but Anglo-Indian society was wondering if they hadn’t robbed her of something even more important: her virtue.
Naturally, the fact that her betrothed’s virtue was completely and publicly compromised was of no import at all.
She lifted her chin. “Oh, I was only speaking with him, Marcus. Do let’s forget it. There’s no need to look so grim.”
Marcus exhaled. His eyes began to search the crowd beyond her shoulder. “I’m wondering why he hasn’t been thrown out by now.”
“Perhaps because he’s the Marquess of Holdensmoor?”
He slanted her a sharp glance. “I’m not in the mood for your cheek, Emmaline. And for your information, the man’s a threat to the Crown. He’s been stirring up talk of a possible insurrection, trying to goad us into abandoning Delhi. Thinks our native troops might turn on us.”
“Gracious! Might they?”
He waved a dismissal. “It’s treason to even think it. No, of course they won’t. We give them the bread their families eat in the morning. Just because of some silly nonsense at Barrackpore—”
Yes, she remembered that. It had been all the talk in Bombay upon her arrival in the port city. A sepoy, a native soldier, had turned on his British officers. He had shot two of them before he was stopped by his superiors; what had been so alarming, if she recalled correctly, was that none of the other natives had attempted to disarm him.
“He does have a point,” she said. “It’s a bit alarming.”
“It was one isolated incident in over two hundred years on this continent. And the man was directly hanged. We’ll have no more trouble along those lines, I assure you.”
“But if Lord Holdensmoor is partly native, perhaps he has heard something—”
“Emmaline!” Marcus wheeled to face her. “Yes, the man is part native, and for all I know, he’s trying to scare us out of Delhi so the natives can take it back! In fact, I believe that is exactly what he is up to, and I have told the Commissioner so! Now cease your ignorant speculations and make yourself pleasant for your host.”
“My host? Do you mean the one you’re cuckolding?”
All color bleached from his face. Oh dear. Blonde hair didn’t look so well on skin that particular shade of green. “What did you just say?” he asked.
“So it’s true.” Nausea rolled through her stomach. “Well. I suppose you’re going to tell me you still love me anyhow.”
His eyes, such a guileless shade of blue, searched her face. “Of course I do.”
She managed a smile. “Yes. We have loved each other quite a long time, haven’t we? Since we were born, I believe.”
“Since forever,” he said, with an admirable show of sincerity. “And whatever rumors you hear to the contrary, there is no woman in the world for me but you. Some people are jealous, you see, and they would spread vicious gossip in order to harm me—”
“I know,” she interrupted, and then stopped, swallowing hard when her voice would have broken. How sad to realize that she could no longer believe a word he said. “Marcus, I think I’d like to leave now.”
He considered her for a moment, then gave a short nod. “Of course. But I will call on you at the Residency tomorrow. We’ll discuss this, and you’ll see, my dear. These lies—you must simply set them from your mind.”
“Naturally,” she murmured. “If you’ll find Lady Metcalfe for me?”
She leaned back against the wall, watching him push his way through the congratulatory crowd as he went in search of her chaperone. Even though his back was turned, she knew every gesture that he made, sensed every smile that crossed his face. Such was the familiarity of twenty long years—decades of their families plotting to bring them together, arranging their betrothal, choosing the names of their unborn children. The Martins and Lindleys had never known that the only two who would live to fulfill their dream would be the very two who had never been quite as enthusiastic as the rest: the bride and groom themselves.
She closed her eyes, turning her head to press her cheek against the cool bungalow wall. The windows rattled in a strong gust of hot wind, and the candles flickered with the inrush of jasmine and darkness. Strange, how the night called to her so sweetly, promising a lovelier, more innocent place. Yes, India seemed to draw out her very soul. Perhaps that was why she felt so bruised inside—as though her defenses had been laid bare, allowing a terrible melancholy to settle in her core.
Surely she wasn’t grieving over Marcus? She had abandoned her childish dreams of romantic love three years ago, the first time she’d learned of one of his many paramours. She’d been heartbroken then, but her mother had explained quickly enough: marriage was not about something as illusory and fleeting as love. It was about alliances, partnerships, the continuation of the family line. Marcus’s grand and crumbling estates would be consolidated with the vast Martin wealth, and the two of them would create a dynasty that would compensate for her mother’s failure to produce male issue.
So what, then, could account for this sudden foreboding? It slid like a shadow between her and the brightly lit room, leaving her with the odd conviction that she stood apart, watching a great panorama like those they sometimes displayed in the British Museum. This room seemed like Pompeii before the volcano eruption, or Rome before the fall: a civilization on the edge of disaster.
A shiver slid over her, and she glanced away, starting as she found herself locked in a vibrant emerald gaze: Lord Holdensmoor, coming in from the gardens. His face was expressionless as he stared at her. In defiance of both Marcus and her own gloomy reverie, she offered him a smile.
His own was rakish and swift, the effect of it on his aloof, aristocratic features dazzling to behold. And then he too was gone, his tall, broad form swallowed up by the crowd in a cloud of crushed silk and waving peacock feather fans.

DC: Is there a genre you haven’t tackled but would like to try?

MD: I’m an avid reader of YA, paranormal romance, historical fiction, SF/F, and urban fantasy. I have ideas for books in all of these genres. Time is what I lack!

DC: What advice would you give to your younger self?

MD: Relax. There’s always time for a walk in the sunshine.

DC: You have listed on your site you’re currently reading Nalini Singh’s Branded by Fire. I have to say I loved this book, it’s the best of the series for me. How did you like it? Give us some of your thoughts about it?

MD: I just updated that yesterday! I’m a huge of Nalini Singh. I’ve just started reading the book, so I can’t say much, save that it’s fantastic so far. Oh, also: it takes serious talent to write a sex scene in the first chapter, before we’ve gotten a chance to fully invest in the characters, and make it so incredibly riveting.

DC: If you were a book, what would your blurb be?

MD: Gosh, great question. Well, blurbs are meant to sell the product, so I’ll abandon modesty for this exercise. Perhaps something like, “Fast-paced intensity, interspersed with moments of wicked humor and whimsical reverie.”

DC: Your next book has just received its title, Wicked Becomes You, and is due out in May of next year. May we get a sneak peek?

MD: Sure! Here’s the working copy:

She’s been burned not once but twice by London’s so-called gentlemen . . .

Gwen Maudsley is pretty enough to be popular, and plenty wealthy, too. But what she’s best known and loved for is being so very, very nice. When a cad jilts her at the altar—again—the scandal has her outraged friends braying for blood. Only Gwen has a different plan. If nice no longer works for her, then it’s time to learn to be naughty. Happily, she knows the perfect tutor—

Alexander Ramsey, her late brother’s best friend and a notorious rogue.

So why won’t a confirmed scoundrel let her be as bad as she wants to be?
Unbeknownst to Gwen, Alex’s aloof demeanor veils his deepest unspoken desire. He has no wish to see her change, nor to tempt himself with her presence when his own secrets make any future between them impossible. But on a wild romp from Paris to the Riviera, their friendship gives way to something hotter, darker, and altogether more dangerous. With Alex’s past and Gwen’s newly unleashed wildness on a collision course, Gwen must convince Alex that his wickedest intentions are exactly what she needs.

DC: What would be your “voice’s” tagline?

MD: Hmm. Okay, I was blushing for days over something the Book Smugglers said about Bound by Your Touch – Ana called it “sophisticated, beautifully written and utterly romantic.” I’d like to imagine this applies to my voice!

DC: If you had never become an author, what do you think you would be doing right now?

MD: Well, I’m a PhD student in anthropology, so I hope to be an anthropologist as well as a novelist. Were it not for the fiction writing, I’d still be aiming at a professorship.

DC: What else is on the horizon for Meredith Duran?

MD: I’m off to India for a year to do anthropological research! The laptop, of course, comes with me.

Lightning Round:

- dark or milk chocolate?     – Dark.
- smooth or chunky peanut butter?     – Chunky.
- heels or flats?   – Both.
- coffee or tea?    – Coffee.
- summer or winter?   – Summer, for the sunlight – not for the heat!
- mountains or beach?   – Mountains.
- mustard or mayonnaise?    – Mix them together!
- flowers or candy?    – Candy.
- pockets or purse?    – Pockets.
- Pepsi or Coke?   – Coke.
- ebook or print?     – Until I get an e-reader, print all the way.

And because they’re still amusing:

1. What is your favorite word?    – kerfuffle
2. What is your least favorite word?     – Glint.
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?    – Reading amazing fiction. Mountains that slope down to the ocean. London. Airports and hotel lobbies, spaces that encode the possibility of encountering the unexpected.
4. What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?    – Anxiety. Traffic. The glare of the sun off concrete and high-rise windows. Really, really hot weather.
5. What sound or noise do you love?     – Fiddle music. The ocean at night. The sound a dog makes when he sighs through his nose. The scratch of a fountain pen across textured paper.
6. What sound or noise do you hate?     – The squealing of brakes and microphones. The high-pitched, almost-but-not-quite-undetectable hum of electronic equipment. Alarm clocks.
7. What is your favorite curse word?     – Erm. In my mother’s presence? “Crap.” Since she’ll probably google me and find this interview, I’ll leave it at that!
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?   – In another life, I’d love to work for the foreign service. Learning languages is such fun. The opportunity to live in so many places overseas, to settle down and really get to know those places, and also to find a support network wherever you land — all of that sounds fantastic.
9. What profession would you not like to do?    – I would make a very bad chemist. In high school, titration always slayed me.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?    – “Good job. The library is that way, between the pizza parlor and the puppy playpen. Get to it!”

DC: Meredith, thank you so much for taking the time to chat with us today!

Our three blog hosts cum Western Romance experts have taken the time to tell you a little more about their thoughts and feelings concerning this beloved genre of theirs. So sit back and have fun with these ladies as they answer the same questions from their very differing points of view!

Sybil in Sybil-ese:

GREAT WESTERN DRIVE: What was the first western romance you ever read?

SYBIL: No clue. Whirlwind Bride by Debra Cowan is the first western I see reviewed on TGTBTU on 3/14/05, but was nowhere near my first western. Or my first Harlequin Historical. I want to say prolly Nicole Jordan’s The Outlaw or Elizabeth Lowell’s Winter Fire, which lead to the Only Series (Winter Fire is still my FAVE and the only series ROCKS).

BUT back when I read trash (I say that with so much love and why I am confused to this day why romance is called ‘trash’), but from 13 to early 20s (I slowed down around 17 cuz I was verra busy causing trouble, uh I mean working), in between reading all of V.C Andrews, Sidney Sheldon, Daniele Steele, Jackie Collins I read a western romance. All I recall, it’s a cover with a bathtub type thing (barrel like) with the outlaw behind her. She was kidnapped. And uh… that is just about it… This is the time to I read Glitter Baby by SEP.

I always say my first romance was Shadowheart by Laura Kinsale because that is when my OCD blogness started. When I went searching for like minded people, found Maili’s blog and AAR. It is when I started my blogspot and blah blah blah (I warned you I ramble, yes?) AND didn’t figure out until after I was blogging for a few years? that Glitter Baby was THE SEP. So I still don’t really ‘count’ that nameless book.

GWD: Do you have a favorite western romance author?

SYBIL: I have favorites I like to bitch about *g*. No longer writing westerns but SHOULD BE faves would be Susan Kay Law, Maureen McKade, and Dana Ransom.

GWD: How about a favorite western hero? Heroine?

SYBIL: Oh I suck at this type of question, can I phone a friend?

GWD: When reading, what do you look for in the perfect cowboy?

SYBIL: Oh holy hell, these questions were put together while I was dealing with the website cuz yuck. I will go with K and W gave amazing answers and point you to them. [Ed. you could try, Syb!]

GWD: And the perfect cowgirl to go with that cowboy?

SYBIL: Someone who can hold their own…

GWD: How do you know when you’re reading a bad western romance? Are they any signs?

SYBIL: The author takes the idea that alpha means abuses, demeaning, or assholish. But oddly I can read and LOVE Elizabeth Lowell’s old westerns. For some reason they don’t trip my switch as being ‘too much.’

If the characters all sound like they are in 2009, I can’t read that, or if the cheese is just too fantastic. The whole drama over Cassie Edwards was odd to me because her writing seems like such a bad joke, I was not at all surprised it was copy and paste.

GWD: What’s the one thing that will really turn off you when reading a western romance?

SYBIL: LOL the above

GWD: How do you know when you’re reading a good Western

SYBIL: LOL I make it through the first few chapters without a headache from rolling my eyes.

GWD: Is there one Western that stands out above all others?

SYBIL: Ride the Fire by Pamela Clare. There is something about a book that opens with a man pointing a gun at a very pregnant woman demanding she doctor him and she gets the upper hand in the first few chapters.

GWD: Who is the Western Author who no longer writes them that you miss the most?

SYBIL: Oops, I answered this, huh? Did I miss anyone? Lorraine Heath REALLY should come back as well as Patrica Potter

GWD: Why do you think westerns have seen such an ebb and flow over the years?

SYBIL: I think it is totally about glitz and glam. People think west and think of the work, sweat, work, bawdy women, work and go ewwwww I want that pretty, pretty, pretty Regency book. Waltz me baby, which is all well and good, but people tend to forget a lot of the Regency history in those books are painted with the same romance brush as westerns.

Personally I don’t ‘put myself’ into the shoes of the heroine. I don’t want to fall in love with the hero as much as I want to fall in love with the love story. And some of my themes lend themselves so well to westerns – Second Chance stories, Road Romances, ‘Cabin Romances.’ People also forget America had a lot of money and glam in the East, so some of those ‘westerns’ can give them both things. They even have virgins in the west… honest.

Ramblin’ Kristie J:

GWD: What was the first western romance you ever read?

KRISTIE: I’ve been reading Westerns for years, so I can’t remember exactly which one it was – but I have a feeling I was at a UBS looking for Rexanne Becnel and forgot her name and ended up getting a Rosanne Bittner instead. I can’t remember what book it was – but it blew me away and I was hooked from then on.

GWD: Do you have a favorite western romance author?

KRISTIE: Well, Rosanne Bittner *g*. Also Patricia Potter, Cheryl St. John, Lorraine Heath (Westerns only). Those are the ones who first come to mind.

GWD: How about a favorite western hero? Heroine?

KRISTIE: Hero – there are too many to choose from!! Heroines one of my favorites is Miranda Hayes from Outlaw Hearts by Rosanne Bittner.

GWD: When reading, what do you look for in the perfect cowboy?

KRISTIE: I always love a hero who is wrecked for the heroine – in any genre. I also love the tortured hero. Lobo from Patricia Potter is one who fits both those bills.

GWD: And the perfect cowgirl to go with that cowboy?

KRISTIE: As for cowgirls – one who is strong, who doesn’t rely on the hero to bail her out. One who wears dresses for the most part, although I did just finish Stacey Kayne’s latest, Mountain Wild, and she was a trapper yet I really liked her. I think it was because she was forced into her circumstances rather than choosing it. [Ed. See, Sybs, not so hard!]

GWD: How do you know when you’re reading a bad western romance? Are they any signs?

KRISTIE: I started reading one not long ago and the author put in “Western” speak!! It was awful – even worse than Scottish speak. I couldn’t get past the first chapter. It may have been a good story, but I’ll never know. Wooden stereotypes are also annoying.

GWD: What’s the one thing that will really turn off when reading a western romance?

KRISTIE: Bad writing, bad writing, bad writing. As much as I love Westerns, a poorly written book will turn me off.

GWD: Is there one Western that stands out above all others?

KRISTIE: Outlaw Hearts by Rosanne Bittner. If someone asked for my choice for one that embodies most of what I love about the genre, this is my number one pick.

GWD: Who is the Western Author who no longer writes them that you miss the most?

KRISTIE: Lorraine Heath – without question. Her Westerns had a poignancy – every single one – and I don’t think she has captured that as well in her English historicals.

GWD: Why do you think westerns have seen such an ebb and flow over the years?

KRISTIE: I think all genres have an ebb and flow but the Western more so then most. I don’t think a lot of readers have tried them, so they don’t know what they are missing. I think a number of readers who have tried them just haven’t read the right one for them. And I think some readers like being carried away by the fantasy of England. But if they read the right one – and see what a good Western can offer – I think they can be swayed. There are a lot of genres I thought I’d never try and yet when I read that one book, I was converted. And I think there are quite a fan of Westerns who have kind of ‘forgotten’ about them. We are really hoping to reach all those groups with this Drive.

Wendy, the SuperLibrarian:

GWD: What was the first western romance you ever read?

WENDY: Nevada Nights by Ruth Ryan Langan, a 1980s-tastic western romance that I read when I was around 14 years old and the first book I read that had gasp s-e-x in it. This book features some of my favorite old-skool tropes. Convent-raised heroine? Check. Mysterious gunslinger named Colt? Check. Soap opera style plot featuring heroine’s odious long-lost family? Check. I wouldn’t recommend this book to readers today, but, dang, as a doe-eyed teen I flipping loved every single word.

GWD: Do you have a favorite western romance author?

WENDY: Hands down Maggie Osborne. She wrote fantastic heroines and never took the easy way out in her stories.

GWD: How about a favorite western hero? Heroine?

WENDY: This is tough. I have a huge soft spot for Beta heroes, so probably Dillon Hennessey from The Horseman by Jillian Hart. Although I also have a soft spot for younger heroes who feel like they have to ‘prove themselves’ – so on that front I think Austin Leigh from Texas Splendor by Lorraine Heath wins.

GWD: When reading, what do you look for in the perfect cowboy?

WENDY: I’m looking for a hero with a strong moral code. Heroes that, while they might have terrible reputations, will ultimately do what’s right.

GWD: And the perfect cowgirl to go with that cowboy?

WENDY: Generally speaking, I like heroines with gumption. They don’t have to kick ass and rescue themselves necessarily, but I also want them to do more than sit in the corner, ring their hands and cry. A lot of western heroines start out their romances literally up against a wall (and no, not in a good way!) and I like reading about a woman who isn’t going to simply roll over and die or pray for a hero to come along and rescue her.

GWD: How do you know when you’re reading a bad western romance? Are they any signs?

WENDY: There’s a long-lost gold mine in the plot. Seriously. Every terrible western I’ve read tends to feature a long-lost gold mine. Also, there’s a bathing scene. Hero and/or heroine spies the other one taking a bath in a stream, pond, lake, whatever and they get all tingly. Sort of like spies in Regency historicals, the bathing scene has been done to death in westerns and it needs to be taken out behind the barn and shot.

GWD: What’s the one thing that will really turn you off when reading a western romance?

WENDY: Too-stupid-to-live heroines who aren’t dead yet. Look, living in the west was hard. There weren’t a lot of comforts, and for that matter, there wasn’t a whole lot of structured law. When I read about a heroine doing something stupid in a western, I think to myself, “How is she not dead yet?”

GWD: How do you know when you’re reading a good Western?

WENDY: Westerns aren’t all that different from other romance subgenres. I’m looking for what I call the Emotional Gut Punch Moment. That moment when the author takes all the emotion, heartbreak, angst, etc., rolls it up and smacks the reader over the head with it. Every book in my keeper stash has such a moment. That moment where the author literally rips my heart out, resurrects it, and stuffs it back into my chest cavity.

GWD: Is there one Western that stands out above all others?

WENDY: This is tough because I’ve read so many great westerns over the years. I would say Lorraine Heath’s Texas/Leigh brother trilogy, mostly because it’s one of the few times in my life I’ve ever read a series back-to-back-to-back. Also, A Reason To Live by Maureen McKade, just for the sheer emotional intensity of that story. That story knocked me out.

GWD: Who is the Western Author who no longer writes them that you miss the most?

WENDY: Definitely Maggie Osborne, who retired after her last book in 2004. I really admire many of her books and, frankly, I think the romance genre desperately needs more writers like her.

Of authors who are still publishing but have left the west? Probably a toss up between Lorraine Heath and Nicole Jordan.

GWD: Why do you think westerns have seen such an ebb and flow over the years?

WENDY: Demographics have changed. The baby boomers literally grew up on westerns, in books, films, and TV. You couldn’t turn on a TV in the 1960s without tripping over a cowboy. But as time has advanced, publishers (like every other industry) is desperate to court that 18-49 year old demographic, and frankly? Those readers (of which I’m one) didn’t necessarily grow up on westerns. Also, publishers want to make money – so they’ll hop on The Next Big Thing, whatever that is, when it starts to sell. Hey, the western romance was king at one point, but like everything, it couldn’t last forever. Readers got burnt out. They got tired of slogging through crap to get to the gems. So they went looking for something “new.” I think readers will come back to the western, especially those readers hungry for real emotional stories. It’s just going to take publishers willing to take the “risk” and talented authors churning out quality stories.

GWD: And there you have it, Western fans, the be-all, end-all last word of the biggest fans in blogdom about reading those famed Western romances. You ready to gnaw on some bones with these gals?

Recently I read on a list that history is all a matter of opinion, not of specific facts, so I thought it was worth revisiting the historical romance, and the knotty topic of accuracy. Does it add to a romance, or take away from it?  [Gwen ed.: read more about the Ducks' views on historical accuracy by following the Accuracy tag here.]

If you take the various Acts of Parliament, the political history in general (it’s all documented, word for word, always has been), plus the economic developments then you have a sound basis for discussion and opinion. But you can’t do it without that framework, and in my mind it’s unalterable. There are certain facts you can’t change, and some that evolved and arrived gradually, but there are some things you can’t alter.Sometimes it’s because they never happened, and there has to be a reason why not, other times it’s anachronisms.

To take things I’ve seen in historical romances, there are some things that just couldn’t have happened.

• A known, famous courtesan marrying a peer of the realm and them being accepted into society with open arms.

Never happened. Couldn’t. Various authors (including me, I have to admit, in A Chance To Dream) have played with the trope, but you have to work really hard for it to become probable.

• Peers of the realm becoming pirates.

It never happened. You have to dig into the wherefores to work out why, but since it never happened, there must have been a reason why not. (Lots of reasons, any of which would work). The most important thing – it never happened.

• Regency gentlemen drinking whisky or whiskey from a decanter on the sideboard.

Whisky (which is Scotland-specific) or whiskey (anywhere else) wasn’t legalised until 1823 and the great technical development, the Coffey still, which made it possible to produce Scotch in bulk, wasn’t invented until 1831. A gentleman could have it distilled for his own use, but it wasn’t a common drink, and didn’t really get popular until the 1840′s. Give the darlings brandy instead.

• A medieval Scottish warrior brandishing his claymore.

No claymores until the late 16th century. They weren’t even called that until then. I’ll leave it to the weapons experts to explain why, because it’s not my area.

• A medieval Scottish warrior wearing a skirted kilt in his clan’s tartan.

Skirted kilts weren’t developed until the 18th century. Before then, they had a plaid, sometimes known as the “great kilt.” No clan tartans until the 19th century, although there were geographically-specific patterns and colors from which the tartan was developed. So you’d be able to say “from the Lomond area” but not “You’re a Campbell.” Or something. If you could see the colors, because the plaid was never washed. It served as a blanket, as well as an item of clothing.

If you know anything about history, it’s likely these details will jerk you out of the story. If you don’t, it’s likely the story will be the “generic” type and if the reader has experience with lots of historicals, they’ll notice how flat the story is, and not be able to put her finger on it. If it’s labelled “historical fantasy,” go girl, put a dragon in and I’ll run all the way to the bookstore to buy it!

Writers owe it to their readers, and to the people they are writing about to make it as real as they can – and that includes sound world-building and accurate history. By all means, speculate, discuss, but base it on a knowledge of what happened then, how people thought then, and you’ll have a great story.

Are there any books based in American history that are this far out? Would a writer of contemporaries get away with sending the traffic the wrong way up Madison Avenue, or having all the avenues in New York have two-way traffic? Why should we expect anything less of the historical writer?

It’s an insult to say “it’s only a romance, so it’s okay, I can write what I like and get away with it” or something else I’ve overheard, “They’ll never notice.” So what? The other person a writer should respect is herself and her art.

I’ve only read one Elizabeth Hoyt so far, for instance, and I already know I love her work and I can forgive her the odd slip, if she makes them, but I’m too busy reading to notice. She gets the feel right, the spirit of the age, and she works hard to fit her characters into a recognisable era and voice. I don’t ask for absolute accuracy, only that the author tries. Or calls it something else.

So if the writer respects the genre they right in, the people and the times she is writing about, and her own writing ability, she should think about getting the details right. Please. So I have more historical romances to read. I dearly love a good historical romance, and I haven’t read too many recently.

And when is the new Kinsale coming out? Please make it soon, my copy of Shadow Heart is worn out!

Before I start this – please remember I’m talking generalisations, about the zeitgeist. There are always exceptions to the rule, always exceptional people and situations, but citing their examples doesn’t make it the norm. Authors generally work with the fringes, with the exceptions, so there’s a real danger that they can become regarded as the reality. 

The problem with historical novels is hindsight. There are so many expectations about the historical novel, and they’re based on relatively modern schools of thought. Much like a Regency gentleman in a novel calling another Regency gentleman “paranoid.” It sounds normal to us, but that’s because we’re the other side of the great psychoanalysis revolution.

I write historicals set in the mid eighteenth century, and even the word “class” wouldn’t have come naturally to the average Georgian. The term “working class” was meaningless. Everyone did some kind of work, didn’t they? Aristocrats worked hard to maintain their estates and build their reputations and that of the country. The farmer worked hard to enrich the land and enrich himself in the process. Oh yes, there were slackers in every part of society, but on the whole most people knew their place and worked to make the best of it.

And in those days, ‘knowing your place’ didn’t carry any sense of superiority or inferiority, it meant what it said. You knew where you belonged but that didn’t stop you aspiring to improve your situation, mainly by making more money. There were no legal barriers preventing you from going as high as you wanted and had the ability for. The British were always proud of that. In theory a beggar could become a duke, and over time, some did, although it might take centuries. However, the family of an upstart Cit went from adventurer to Prime Minister to Earl in the breathtaking space of two generations, so it could be done, and of course, in Charles II’s time, several women went from the streets to becoming duchesses. The Pitts, older and younger, were hugely wealthy and hugely powerful, but until the older Pitt was given the title of earl as his reward for being Prime Minister, they remained commoners. Nell Gwynne, actress and prostitute became the mother of two dukes. The ancestry of many of Britain’s most influential families had their roots in the gutter. And may were proud of that, too.

So many modern writers have assumed that the duke didn’t have anything to do except enjoy the wealth and title, and the title often seems as important as the holdings that went with it. There were very few dukes in Georgian Britain, and they weren’t always as powerful or wealthy as some earls, or even misters. Dukes would also have no time to be a spy, and wouldn’t have considered it if they were. The person who rehabilitated the spy and made it seem glamorous was Ian Fleming. Before that, the spy was considered not a gentleman because he had to lie and cheat to obtain his goal. Even in the army, the spying was played down and not made much of, although at times it was important to the country.

The first person to use class analysis in any way was the social reformer William Cobbett, born in 1763, whose description of the country in “Rural Rides,” published in the 1820’s, including the phrase “the middling sort” – the first reference to the middle classes, who by the 1820’s were more of a cohesive whole and the rising influence in the land. The gulf between richest and poorest was growing into a yawning chasm.

The concept of class and the attached connotations of “better” and “worse” didn’t really emerge until the Victorian era, when hypocrisy and moral condemnation came in with the rise of the bourgeoisie. Social reformers like Friedrich Engels, Mrs. Gaskell and the Manchester group began to question accepted norms, as a result of seeing the suffering of the poor in the newly industrialised cities. Engels corresponded with Karl Marx, and he undertook a formal model of British society as he knew it – and we’re now well into Victorian times.

Basically, Marx developed the notions of class that we have today from a series of disparate notions that were floating about at the time. So applying the idea to a pre-Marxian time isn’t exactly accurate. And I’m speaking here about Marx as a social historian, not Marx as a social reformer. In British schools and universities, his historian aspect is a compulsory course of study. In the States, because of the Cold War, mention of Marx brings up visions of communism and extremism. Modern Marxist historians like John Berger have added to the body of knowledge about history, and while Marx is banned, Berger is often a set text.

In the Georgian era, if the average British person hated anyone, it was the foreigner. They weren’t trusted, were seen as wrong-headed, and the Brit always considered himself superior to the people across the 20 odd miles of the English Channel (or La Manche, depending on which side of it you were). In France, unlike Britain, there were clear legal barriers why a peasant could never become a duke and an intimate of the King. The Brits were always proud of that fluidity in their society.

And let’s be clear – the English did not hate the Scots, or vice versa. Scottish noblemen mostly saw themselves as part of the nobility (their accents, habits and way of life were identical). When the Clearances came to a head in the early nineteenth century, most of the Acts of Parliament were initiated by Scots noblemen and opposed by English ones as inhuman and cruel.

The Jacobite rebellion was led by a man who was as much Italian and French as he was Scots, and as soon as the 1745 failed he went back to Italy and never returned. He didn’t answer any petitions from the people he’d helped to ruin, and turned into an alcoholic wife-beater. The Scots were abandoned. But there were a lot of Englishmen ruined, too. The Jacobite rebellion drew in the strongly Catholic county of Lancashire, and other Catholic strongholds, and many Scots refused to take part, as they were Protestants and had no desire to bring back the Papists. It was observed that Scotland could have been a great nation, if its people weren’t so busy fighting each other. Clan against clan, the despair of every monarch, whether lowland Scot or Englishman (or even German) who tried to rule them.

In the Georgian era, Britain’s relationship with Ireland was relatively smooth. Only relatively, though, and I don’t even want to begin on the headache that is the Irish Question, as Gladstone put it. Being married to a second generation Irishman, I kind of straddle both worlds, and even thinking about it hurts.

It’s amazing how much of our own baggage we bring into what we write without even noticing, and the American concept of equality and democracy all factors into it. To a European, the differences jar and are obvious, but since most of the readers are Americans they don’t notice. And why should they? It’s not a matter of schooling, it’s a matter of understanding, and as I learned when I started to write contemporaries, it’s damned hard to ‘get it’ if you’re not brought up to it.

Since I started writing contemporary romances, albeit paranormals, and writing American heroes and heroines, I’ve become even more aware of the differences in attitude and approach. The big difference is that I have American editors who never hesitate in putting me right (thank goodness!). But American writers of historicals tend to have American editors, so not only inaccuracies of fact get through, but attitude and assumptions. Then I discovered that Americans have classes, and they are so complex that I can’t get my stupid British head around them.

When I wrote Chemistry of Evil, I wanted to make my hero, Evan Howell, New York old money. Although born in the class of rich WASP easterners, he went to jail, and several sources assured me that would make him unacceptable, although he might have been accepted by West Coast old money, as they were a completely different set of people. Argh! I got so confused by the arcane never-written-always-understood rules that I gave up and made Evan a different kind of person altogether. I studied a bit more and I’ve tried again, in the upcoming Red Heat. Please let me know if I got it wrong. I had never realised that American society is as full as classes, albeit of a different kind, than the British, and it wasn’t all based on money. If Evan was as rich as Croesus, I was assured that he wouldn’t have been acceptable to the upper echelons of New York old money.

Ten years ago Laura Kinsale, Mary Jo Putney and even Jo Beverley, who is after all British by birth, were completely new names to me. Thanks to a wonderful lady I will refer to as The Duchess, since she’s a bit shy of putting herself out there, I was introduced to the wonders of the American authored historical romance. I wallowed in Liz Carlyle, the ladies above and many others, and since she didn’t send any guidance in her ‘care packages,’ boxes of books I opened like it was Christmas, I discovered for myself which I loved and which I didn’t. There are authors lauded for their accuracy that I just can’t read because the assumptions are so wrong. They get the historical details right, but not the way society worked. Maids as best friends, dukes as spies, ladies posing as servants, well born virgins falling into bed with the nearest man with no mention or consideration of marriage, people disappearing from society for months on end with nobody wondering about them: none of these work well for me. Below stairs was as stratified, if not more, than above.

But in the interests of accuracy, I have to say that of course some people considered themselves superior to others. It could be brain-power, it could be wealth. It could be family and in Britain, family networks often superseded anything else. It could be “birth,” but that’s where one of the misunderstandings

arise, and it’s a subtle and tricky difference to understand. You were as good as your social network, and that depended on family influence to a great extent. In the county, the gentry were a tight-knit network of nepotism and influence, blending with other officials, like the vicars and bishops, and the lawyers. They weren’t, however, a homogenous class and they didn’t view themselves as such. The prosperous shopkeeper, the farmer and the country vicar might have similar interests. The aristocracy were similarly linked, and then there were the wealthy Cits, a very underplayed section of society in the modern romance novel. (Would you read a book about a Cit, one of the wealthy London merchants and bankers? I’ve long wanted to write one).

And where do I get this from? The historian’s friend, primary data. The letters, books, parish records, journals, newspapers, diaries, novels, poetry, account books and legal records written at the time. Pope’s “Rape of the Lock,” the collections of the letters of society gossips Horace Walpole and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, novels like Fielding’s Tom Jones and Richardson’s Pamela, the scandalous Newgate Calendar, periodicals like The Spectator and The Lady’s Monthly Museum, accounts of the proceedings of Parliament, parish records and court rolls. And many of these have been put online, so that makes it even better. Sometimes I stop long enough to write something. And because this is primary data, I have to form an opinion on them in order to write a cohesive book.

As they say, your mileage may vary. But this is mine.

Recently, I honestly forgot why, we were chatting about the greatness of Laura Kinsale. Or lack of greatness? Or it might have been Shannon C’s lack of knowledge of Laura Kinsale’s greatness.

I don’t recall much more than going on and on and on about my lurve of Seize the Fire, Shadowheart, and The Hidden Heart. Along with how happy I was that I was introduced to romance with the book Shadowheart.

I am difficult. I know – you find this shocking – but if I had been reading romance for a while and discovered that the ‘smart romance‘ was Laura Kinsale and only her or her, Judith Ivory (I still think this is a big reason I can’t read her) and err oh someone else. And all the praise that is can be tossed on her at times in ways that makes it seem that if you hate her writing well… that is ok… romance needs stoopid readers too. ::pats head:: Hey it turns people off, I know shocking.

Of course, I also hate a trend as well. No seriously, if I walked in now, it would take a shit load of work to get me to pick up J.R. Ward. And uh, I loveses me some Ward. I admit d-i-f-f-i-c-u-l-t.

The point of this long winded post is Laura Kinsale is reprinting some of her out of print books with SOURCEBOOKS (not that I can find the info on the site).

And my personal fave is going to be back in print as of October 1, 2008 and without the horrid cover! [Ed.: a cover you can see if you float your cursor over the cover above.] WOOT! I must email mishy. Oh and it looks like it is on Fictionwise and has been there for a while (if you go by the release date which uh 2001?), Seize the Fire:

     Olympia St. Leger is a princess in desperate need of a knight in shining armor. Sheridan Drake, amused by Olympia’s innocence and magnificent beauty, but also intrigued by her considerable wealth, accepts the position of white knight. Unaware that Sheridan is a notorious scoundrel, Olympia willing allows herself to submit to his protection and potent embrace. Theirs is a love born in deception. But as they weather storms on the high seas and flee from nefarious villains, the love sparked by lies begins to burn uncontrollably. Taking shelter on a desert island paradise, the princess and dark knight battle overwhelming odds to keep their adoration burning bright.
     Read an excerpt.

via the Smartest Bitches.