In case you didn't notice it, I just added The Official Fever Series Soundtrack to Karen's myspace page. It looks so cute that we wanted to share the code with you in case you wanted to add it to your myspace page. The songs were written and performed by Karen's husband Neil. He wrote the songs specifically for the series. If you haven't heard them before we hope that you enjoy them. If you have heard them before we hope that you still enjoy them.
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I have to send you to Karen's board to get the code for this widget because if I post it here her player will show up here, not the code.
Karen's publishers posted this note on her podcast page:
Simply put, we're ecstatic about the reaction to the Darkfever Podcast so far. Thanks to all of you, the Darkfever podcast jumped up to number 3 on the iTunes Literature section and number 7 in the Arts section, as well as number 1 on the Podiobooks.com charts. As this is our first experiment in podcasting a full novel, we can't thank you enough for supporting the Darkfever Podcast.
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Karen wants to use this as an opportunity to show her publishers what wonderful fans she has. The more successful this podcast is, the more cool promotions her publishers will do for her fans. You've wanted your chance to be heard by her publishers. This is it. Let's bump Darkfever to number 1 all around!
Chapter Three of the Lady Lies (where it heats up a little)
Chapter Three
A pat to the lips the color of blush rose.
A scent of jasmine on the pulse.
A Paris creation of shimmering lime silk. A shockingly re-stitched bodice atop a cleverly designed half-corset. A cleavage to die for! And no bust-pads needed.
A pendant of a delicate jade apple, dangling deliciously between full breasts. Come hither, sweet man, dine with me. Rafe smiled at the mental image of she and the Marquis cavorting in the Garden. As she studied her reflection, she felt certain even Eve would have approved. Silk stockings tied with ribbons, satin slippers, and nothing more. No underskirt. No chemise.
He would notice her! She'd been at Land's End for three days now and had seen the Marquis only one time. The night she'd arrived. His expression had been so forbidding, his countenance so grim, that Rafe had fled immediately to the room allotted her, and listened as the Marquis' angry voice thundered in the study below.
"What the bloody hell is she doing here!" she'd heard. Trina's reply had been too soft for Rafe to hear, but she and Trina had rehearsed it well. Rafe had no place to go. Trina felt sorry for her. She didn't want to leave her at the convent, and had persuaded a very reluctant Rafe to come home with her. And didn't she, Trina, deserve it after all? He was forcing her to marry, the least he could do is let her have some time with her friends before he pawned her off.
Pragmatic to the end, Rafe didn't expect Trina to have added that last, although she had tried to bolster Trina's courage enough. Unfortunately, Trina was not a forceful person, she preferred to avoid conflict whenever possible. Rafe was quite certain Trina's reply had been sweet and stuttering. But Rafe wasn't worried, he could hardly send her away now.
What she hadn't counted on was that he would avoid her like the plague. That her first glimpse of him might be her only glimpse. For the past three days, the Marquis had cleverly evaded any semblance of a normal schedule, taking long rides, and longer solitary sojourns in the East Wing of Land's End. Well, tonight, if he failed to appear for dinner, she was going to discover what kept him so occupied in the unexplored east wing.
*** In another part of the sprawling brick mansion that was called Land's End, a man was dressing for dinner. This was his house, damn it! And he was not going to continue skulking around his own home. Land's End had been so called by the Marquis de Galle because it was his safe haven. No lovers did he bring here, no women friends. None but family. Of late he'd taken to spending more and more time on his own at the estate. Far from London, far from the mistresses who'd fantasies he brought to life, far from his colorful past.
But now she was here. And it chafed him to no end. No matter how occupied he kept himself, there was a constant shadowy reminder floating just below his conscious mind that she was in his house. She was dressing, or undressing, eating, laughing, exploring his territory. He'd come to think of her with capital letters: She. And he hated that.
He would ignore her, he decided, as he discarded another cravat to the increasing pile of rejects. Too garish, where the hell had that one come from anyway? Thoughtfully, he studied his reflection, and on impulse discarded his formal vest and overcoat. He always dined in his shirtsleeves at Land's End. Comfortably unbuttoned, and that was not going to change. Not a thing was going to change. All he had to do was live through eighteen more days, and everything would return to normal.
"Guilt," he muttered aloud, as he ran a hand through his thick hair. "You can't shake her from your thoughts because you feel guilty. Well, stop it. She got what she asked for." It was with that reminder that the Marquis pulled on his boots and went to dinner.
An hour later, the Marquis was firmly convinced she hadn't gotten what she'd asked for at all. Matter of fact, he wasn't even certain he remembered what he thought she'd been asking for. Or what he thought he'd taught her. But it was much too obvious what she was asking for now.
Dinner was interminable, filled with the imp from hell across the table, and she wasn't wearing bust-pads. He knew that because he could see the crests of her nipples through the sheer lime silk. He was surprised one hadn't popped out of her lace edged bodice by now. He was also rather disappointed.
The Marquis tossed back another brandy as he watched the girl chatter animatedly with his ward. Protocol be damned, he was having brandy with dinner. And brandy after. Possibly even a brandy when he woke up tomorrow. Shooting a furious look across the table, he realized She was talking to him.
"Don't you think so?" she asked.
"What?" he snapped, realizing two pairs of eyes were riveted on him and they were awaiting some kind of reply.
"We were talking about what Trina should expect when she gets married," the imp said innocently. "As you are her guardian, and she has no mother to discuss such matters with her, don't you think you should prepare her for events to come?"
"The events to come," he clipped tightly, "are that Lord Tuttleridge will give Trina a fine house, a respected name, a generous allowance upon which we've agreed, and of course children," he added. Then he wished he hadn't, as she burst into sprightly laughter.
"That's what I'm talking about. The children part. Trina doesn't have any idea what goes on between a man and a woman. Since she doesn't have a mother to tell her, someone needs to advise her. You can't expect her to go to her marriage bed without an idea of what is to come!"
The Marquis tensed. He was not going to get goaded into this discussion by her. "I'll leave that to you, Lady Bennington. I've no doubt you've got it all figured out," he said brusquely, and refilled his glass.
"But I don't. I don't have a mother either. I know," she exclaimed, as though struck by sudden inspiration. "You could tell us both."
The Marquis cocked a dark brow and looked at her. Looked at her so hard, and so piercingly that she finally turned her gaze away beneath the stress of his regard.
"Guess not," she muttered, toying with her pendant.
"No. I guess not," he gritted, watching the play of the jade apple between her breasts. Lovely breasts. Softy, full, lusciously shaped breasts. Young breasts. Very, very young, bloody hell, as young as his ward's! Who by the way, came the voice of the rakehell within, is soon going to be doing precisely what you're trying not to think about doing to her oh-so young friend--so if you, yourself consider Trina old enough, then doesn't that make Lady Imp old enough, also?
He rose so suddenly that he banged his knee on the table. He cursed, and slammed his chair back into place. "I have accepted the fact that you have to be here, Lady Bennington, but I do not have to accept your childish games. If you have something intelligent to say to me, then by all means, I'll be happy to listen. But if you intend to continue deliberately provoking me in every possible fashion," his eyes raked over her bodice, "then I beg of you, stay in your room until you leave. I have no interest in kid play."
"In that case, I do have something to say," Rafe retorted. "And it's perfectly intelligent. Don't you think it's a gross injustice that you can choose whomever you wish to spend your life with, while we," she gestured to herself and Trina, "are no more than pawns? Trinkets to be dispensed to men with no say of our own at all?"
"Why, Lady Bennington, I wasn't aware you were betrothed. Please give my condolences to the poor bastard."
Rafe felt her jaw jut. He brought out the worst in her. "I am not betrothed--"
"Just when I was starting to feel the world might be a safer place, you shatter my illusions," he mocked.
"But Trina is," she continued, "to someone besides Lord Tuttlesnit."
"Tuttleridge."
"And you," she bludgeoned on, "who indulges his every whim at every turn--"
"Not quite every one, I assure you."
"--are ruining her life. You're forcing something on her which you yourself wouldn't tolerate. You restrict her freedom, you consign her to a lifetime of misery, just so you can get her off your hands."
"It is not just so I can get her off my hands," the Marquis thundered, his gaze flickering to his young ward. He wasn't that callous. But bloody hell, his young ward had chosen the wrong man to marry. He had to intervene.
"Then why are you doing it?" Rafe challenged.
"I will not explain my actions to you," the Marquis growled. "Further, I don't need you filling her head with nonsense, so keep your bloody opinions to yourself."
"How do you justify this?" Rafe exploded. "Forcing her to marry someone she's never even met. Why, this Lord Tuttledick could be a monster! He could beat her, abuse her, lock her in her room and no one would ever know. Why are there totally different rules for men than there are for women?" That was what really chafed. She hated the restrictions that had forced her from her father's side. A son could have stayed with him. But not a daughter.
He would not correct her. He wouldn't. "Tuttleridge," he snapped. "And it has nothing to do with women. Sometimes we elders have to make choices for the children in our care. Sometimes the children's choices cannot be trusted. Trina wrote to me saying she was going to wed. Rather than stand idly by while she ruins her life, I arranged for her a fine, upstanding husband who will provide her with a good and comfortable life. Stay out of my business or you'll suffer my wrath. If you were my ward, you'd have been over my knee a time or two. As you're under my roof, and in my care for the time being, you may end up there yet."
One can always hope, Rafe thought wickedly. At least then she'd get near him. Near enough to prove she was a woman, and then spit in his face. To seduce, then reject him. "Don't threaten me," she sneered. "I am not your ward, and my father would call you out."
"If your father had any care for what you are becoming, he'd thank me," the Marquis retorted flatly. "Stay out of my affairs, Lady Bennington. Stay away from me as well. I will not tolerate your meddlesome ways." Grabbing his brandy, he tossed it back in one gulp, slammed it down on the table and stalked from the room.
Rafe raised a brow at Trina, after he'd left the room. "Is he always so irascible?"
Trina shook her head. "Rafe, you astound me. I have never seen anyone fight with the Marquis before. I think you have more courage than sense. But thank you for t-t-trying to stand up for me. It means a lot to me." Trina shrugged her slight shoulders sadly. "But it's not going to help. You see how resolute he is. He's not going to budge."
"Then it's on to Plan B," Rafe said firmly. And Plan B for herself and the implacable Marquis as well.
***
Plan B involved a discreet study of the Marquis' habits over the next few days. Rather than avoiding her, he was now ignoring her. If they chanced upon one another, he would nod, and continue. Any attempts at conversation by Rafe were simply ignored. In truth, there were few attempts for Rafe was too busy forming her next plan to bother. The Marquis had resumed his customary schedule, and was surprisingly prompt about it. He rode at eight in the morning--God, Rafe hated getting up that early! But she watched him each morning. He usually didn't return until lunch. He ensconced himself in his study each afternoon, taking a meal in private. At six precisely, he went to the East Wing, and she concluded eventually that he must bathe there. Although the maids brought bath water to hers and Trina's room, she'd never seen bath water being brought to his. But upon his return from the East Wing, his hair was damp and his clothing different.
Several days passed before she worked up the courage to explore the East Wing, and when she did, she was sorry she hadn't before. Land's End was immense, Trina had told her there were sixty guest rooms. All of them were accounted for in three wings of the house. Trina had also told her that no one, absolutely no one but two elderly cleaning women, were permitted in the East Wing, and strict orders had been given that if the Marquis was there, he was to be disturbed under no circumstances.
All of which piqued Rafe's curiosity relentlessly. Having observed him carefully for days now, she felt safe exploring shortly after he'd ridden out in the morning. She crept down the hall to the ornate door that sealed the wing, and tested it, fully expecting it to be locked. It wasn't, and Rafe snorted. Obviously the arrogant man couldn't conceive of his orders being disobeyed, so locking it didn't even occur to him. She stepped inside, and gasped.
While the rest of the house was an elegant, luxurious country estate, the interior of this wing was ascetic. Simple elegance. Few furnishings, unusual portraits of pagan gods, titled Siva, Vishnu and Brahma. He had quite a library here, several Spartan guest rooms in oriental design, and the piece de resistance--the baths.
They were magnificent, laid of Italian marble in ivory and gold. Here, no expense had been spared. Almost as if the rest of the Wing was vastly understated to excuse the luxuriousness of the great room that housed such a wonder. She'd discovered the room at the very end of the Wing, and upon closing the door behind her, walked to the balcony and stared down. The two floors of the house were one now, with the room opening to a fifty foot ceiling from the balcony out. One had to descend the steps to get to the baths. There was a large open area directly beneath the balcony, as though for some activity, and beyond were the marble stairs that sloped down into the pools.
It was breathtaking. In the center from a lavish pedestal, a multi-tiered fountain showered the pools. The main pool was as large as at the public bathhouses in Venice she'd once seen in the books of Sacred Heart's Library. Around that were three smaller ones, as she soon discovered, of varying degrees of warmth. How decadent!
As she explored the room, she found she'd been right in guessing he bathed here, for the room also housed several closets built in beneath the balcony, with – of all things – mirrors for doors! The entire wall beneath the balcony was mirrors.
Quickly, Rafe rifled through the closets. One contained formal dinner wear, one contained casual breeches and linens, and a third one contained an odd assortment of white robes that belted loosely, with matching white trousers. She'd never seen the likes before, and concluded that they must be Eastern in origin. There were no windows on the walls of the room, but at the ceiling, there were windows. Rafe was astounded. The clear panels alternated with sturdier materials, but at least a third of the ceiling allowed the bright sunshine, or conversely at night, the soft glow of the moon, to fall on the water.
Rafe whirled about on the smooth marble floor, spinning before the mirrors. This room evoked a strange exhilaration in her. To indulge oneself. Oh, she wanted a room like this; to bring her books and candles and read beneath the starry sky, to soak in the soothing hot waters, to stretch out beneath the fountain. To swim with a lover here.
No. Not to swim with a lover. But perhaps to torture a bastard of a man who had called her childish. Suddenly Rafe knew exactly what Plan B was. For while her feet had been whirling, an image unbidden had sprung into her mind. The image of the Marquis swimming naked in the waters while Rafe watched from the balcony. The balcony contained the only entrance to the baths, she could slip in and out unnoticed. But watching him would do nothing to further her plans for revenge. However, him coming upon her unexpectedly might just prove to him what she wanted to prove.
That she wasn't a child. That she was a woman. A woman worthy of desire.
And if he likes what he sees? a small inner voice warned.
Oh, but that was where Trina came in. She would tell Trina that she wanted desperately to try the baths. Would ask her to bring her towels by, and to be prompt. And that was all she'd tell Trina. If Trina suspected what she was planning, she'd never help her. All this would take place with perfect timing shortly before and after the hour of six o'clock. With any luck, the vision of her naked would accomplish what she had been unable to accomplish with more subtle measures. It would make him want her. And when he did, she would reject him, cut him to the quick. Make him feel as terrible as he'd made her feel.
Rafe laughed aloud at the sheer beauty of it. After comparing her own figure to those idealized by the ton, she felt certain of her allure. Now, to talk to Trina.
***
The Marquis de Galle sighed heavily as he closed his ledgers. Not that they required scrutiny. His wealth was so diversified that no single investment needed oversight. He could afford to lose money for the rest of his life on Land's End without making so much as a dent on his sizable inheritance. But each day, he'd been sequestering himself in his study, going through papers unseen for years in an attempt to occupy his mind. To free it from the awareness that she was out there.
Even his familiar, cherished discipline, an ancient eastern art, had been proving worthless of late. Normally he took great pleasure in the grace and control his practice instilled. But lately, that sense of inner balance and control that others so often misconstrued as ego and coldness had eluded him. This evening, he would reclaim it. He would focus until nothing existed but his body as a weapon, his mind lethal as a blade.
Resolved, the Marquis made for the East Wing as the mantle chimes rang the hour. Once through the door he began undressing as he crossed to the stairs at the balcony. As always, he stripped to his breeches, then paused a moment, preparing to savor his first sight of the room that gave him such pleasure. Although his closest friends, the Lords of Lussex, had all been to the East Wing, and had teased him mercilessly about his pleasure palace, in truth he had never brought a woman here. This was his place, and only his. No taint of the fashionable ton would ever mar its serenity.
Far below, Rafe was stretched on the fountain's pedestal. Water sprayed up in the air and spilled in a glistening fall across her naked body. Her hair was unbound, curling wetly, and she was in heaven. She'd all but forgotten the Marquis, absorbed in the immediacy of the moment. She'd swum in Japanese bath houses. Her father had loved the custom, and had taught her a love of it as well. But she'd never swum nude before, and the feel of the water against her skin was bliss. As she lay lost in easy thoughts, she wondered why she hadn't heard the chimes ring the hour yet, then immediately realized what was missing in this wing--there were no clocks.
She raised her head slightly, tossing her hair so it veiled her face, and glanced subtly at the balcony.
He was there!
Bent over, tugging off his boots. He hadn't seen her yet, of that she was certain.
She stretched languidly on the pedestal, wildly thrilled by the thought of his eyes caressing her. Her heart was pounding, and she felt a smooth, liquid fire in her stomach, like the time she'd snitched some of her father's whisky. She was shaking. Alive. On fire with life. Look at me, she thought, want me! Want me so much you can't think beyond the wanting.
The Marquis straightened and tossed his boots aside. He felt his soul breathe and stretch, as it always did in this place. He was certain tonight he would be able to empty himself of troubling thoughts, and regain control through his arts. He moved to the balcony and cast his eyes lovingly across his domain.
And froze.
No! his mind hissed.
Yes! his body snarled. You've been waiting for this. You want it. Take it. She wants to give it. Look at her.
He stared.
She was on her back, fully nude and spread, waiting for a lover, her flawless young body glistening with a sheen of water droplets. She was perfection. Youth at it's ripest blush.
The water reflected the evening sky above, and her skin glistened silver and gold. Her long black hair was a wet glory of a tangle around her face, and she was completely abandoned.
He recognized the look on her face. It was the same look he wore when he came here. But, bloody hell, it wasn't her place, it was his, and everything in this place belonged to him. The math was simple: His place, she was in it. ergo, she was his. For the taking. For the doing of any damned thing he wanted to do. And there were a lot of damned things he wanted to do to her. A list longer than his arm.
She rolled over onto his stomach and his knees actually buckled from the intensity of the lust that slammed through him. He grabbed the banister and sucked in a harsh breath.
Her ass was a dream. A base, erotic, carnal fucking dream.
Lush and generously rounded, he could all too easily picture it in his hands, as she--on her hands and knees, head flung back, breasts swaying as his balls slapped against her curves--took him inside her. Took the punishing ride, took his need.
Her back was sweetly curved, her waist trim, her shoulders and arms toned. Her legs were unbelievably long and shapely with enough muscle to wrap around his ass and squeeze hard when she came. Violently and many times, as he would make sure she would. Her skin was honey and cream. When she pushed to her feet, he jerked and choked on a breath.
He wet his lips, tracing his tongue slowly over his lower one, tasting those perfect breasts, sucking the nipples, dragging his tongue over the dusky curls, shoving her legs wide to thrust it inside her, to taste where she would taste like no other.
Blood thundered through his veins, drained his head, crammed his cock ramrod straight, up against his stomach.
Dimly, he realized he was shaking. Not with nervousness, but lust like he'd never felt before, a raw, almost angry hunger that made all his past sexual experiences seem mere shadows of the act. As though he'd been going through the motions, but never felt the fuck. As though until now he'd been a voyeur, hovering over the bed, watching himself give another woman what she wanted, but getting nothing in return but the conquest of another faceless name he wouldn't even remember come the dawn.
With this woman, he would take back. With her, there would be an even exchange. No, the hell with an even exchange--he would take until she was drained, until she lay unable to move. She was young, strong, but more, there was a will inside her most women didn't have. There was the steel of a man inside her. She could handle him, she could take his worst.
He descended the stairs silently, unfastening his breeches and shedding them at the bottom. Nude, he'd sluiced into the water before her head surfaced.
When the Marquis' head crested the water a few feet from her, Rafe opened her mouth, her first thought to scream. She shut it again and just stared at him. Her breasts ached, her body strained in the water. She battled the urge to swim to him, to cling to him, to beg for whatever it was his dark, searing gaze promised.
What was this--this hot, angry fire in his eyes? What in God's name had she awakened?
His eyes were so hungry, so…wild. Panic exploded in her brain. What had she been thinking? She couldn't handle this man! Want me, take me, make me what I don't understand but want desperately to be. Teach me all you know. Make me fly, set me free. She turned, turned to swim away, to flee. Where was Trina? Had she forgotten? How would save herself if Trina didn't come?
He was on her, one hand closing around her waist, the other on her buttocks and yanking her to him. He was hard and huge against her thigh.
"Rafe, Rafe are you here?" Trina called.
Rafe shuddered with relief.
The Marquis went very, very still.
"I brought t-towels, as you asked." Trina's voice floated down over the balcony as the door clicked softly shut behind her.
The Marquis wrapped one hand around Rafe's throat and smiled slowly, and it was the most terrible smile she had ever seen, ice cold, dangerous--and at complete odds with the white-hot fury of lust in his eyes. "You'll pay for this, Ella," he hissed against her ear, Then he clamped her head between both hands and ground his mouth against hers, hard and punishing.
He shoved her away with such force that she plunged beneath the water and sank to the bottom of the pool. By the time she'd clawed her way back to the surface, he was no longer in the pool. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the mirrored doors silently closing.
It was a very subdued Rafe that climbed from the bath and gratefully accepted Trina's towel. Briefly, she considered exposing the Marquis, but for a change, reason took place of impulse. It would accomplish nothing.
She'd wanted to make the Marquis de Galle want her and there was no doubt that she'd achieved that end.
Unfortunately she'd gotten more than she'd bargained for.
There was fire between them. The fire in his eyes was in her blood now. It exhilarated her. It terrified her. That damned duality.
He didn't come to dinner that night. Or the next or the next.
In fact it was just three days to Christmas before she saw him again.
At long last, chapters 2 and 3 of The Lady Lies. A caveat. Many, many years ago, when I was writing this, I was blissfully unaware of the strictures governing regency period romances. My writing skills were in their infancy. My characters do not adhere to the period manner of speaking, specific to the era. They sound as modern as you and I, for the most part. Read for the story, not the accuracy. It's worth it. Chapter Two is mostly story set-up. It heats up in Chapter Three, LOL… Those of you who miss my raw sex scenes, read on, but be warned, there are a few four letter words…
Didn't I tell you? Not your appropriate regency fare…
Chapter Two
The chapel bells played Ave Maria every evening at nine o'clock. It was the signal for the girls of Sacred Heart to spend a quiet half hour in personal reflection, repentance and prayer. After such, the girls were permitted a half hour of social intercourse with friends if they so wished but by ten o'clock, the girls of Sacred Heart must be abed.
As Rafe had never had much interest in repentance or prayer, she'd chosen to focus on personal reflection this evening. She'd removed every stitch of her clothing, and was busy surveying her image in the mirror in her room. She posed, she walked, she sat, she cupped her breasts, she tousled her hair. She cried.
Little girl. Ella, he called her. She'd liked the sound of that name coming from his lips, but understood that he'd only used it as part of a rake's game. Chosen as an endearment, a personal form of address to get around her title. To decrease the distance rigidly enforced by societal positions. To develop intimacy. And it had succeeded.
She hated him. Hated him more than she had ever dreamed possible. Hated him for making her feel infantile, foolish and undesirable, when she'd found his masculinity so overwhelming, so disconcerting. In comparison to the other girls at Sacred Heart, her body was quite womanly, well-curved, tones and sensual. But she'd never seen a full grown woman nude. She didn't know what the ton considered attractive. How could she compare?
Suddenly, she recalled the magazines Caroline received regularly from her sister. La Belle Assemblee was a ladies magazine which offered detailed fashion plates of the styles and ideals most coveted by the haute ton. That would do! She would peruse the plates, compare them to her own body, and have an answer. Damn the man for making Rafe Bennington feel insecure!
Swiftly, Rafe donned her nightdress, and rushed to her door. She peeped out carefully to be sure Abbey wasn't in sight, then quickly slipped down the hall three doors, and into Caroline's room. She burst into laughter when she discovered Caroline's form of personal reflection varied little from her own. Caroline was sprawled on her bed, naked, studying herself in the mirror.
Caroline gasped. "Rafe, do you ever knock?" Rising hastily, she donned a wrapper. "Are they too small?" she asked, gazing at the slight curve of her breasts in the mirror.
"That, my dear friend is just the problem," Rafe sighed, dropping into an armchair.
"What?"
"I don't know," Rafe replied.
"Well, if you don't know what the blasted problem is, how am I supposed to know? You're the one who said there was a problem," Caroline replied irritably.
"I mean, I don't know if they're too small. But mine are bigger," she added smugly, and got a pillow in her face. "Caroline am I pretty?"
Caroline snorted, assessing her beautiful friend. "Rafe, you make us all envious. Your breasts are most definitely bigger. But it's not just that. You have something." She shook her head, searching for the right words. "Something that makes you seem a bit more alive than the rest of us."
"I don't want to be more alive, Caroline! I want to be beautiful. Desirable. A woman."
"What on earth has gotten into you?" This was a side of her friend she'd never seen, a doubting, vulnerable side.
"Where are your magazines?" Rafe asked evasively. "I'd like to look at the latest issues."
Caroline grinned, as she tugged the two latest issues from beneath her plump mattress. "I have to hide them," she explained. "Abbey confiscated the others. Of course she had to give me a lengthy and boring lecture on how the ton's opinion means nothing compared to Madame Roussard's finishing touches. Really! It's not like I had obscene pictures or something, not like what Ellen brought back last break," she complained.
Rafe grinned in response. Ellen had brought back some shocking inkings of a man and a woman, together in unusual positions, that she'd stolen from her brother. The girls had whispered over them so excitedly that Abbey had immediately seized upon their interest, confiscating the etchings with a reproving diatribe. "She probably just wanted them for herself," Rafe remarked impishly.
"Abbey? Prim and proper, bespectacled Abbey?" Caroline rolled her eyes. The two girls perused the magazines in silence then, while Rafe mentally compared herself. Some of the fashions were shocking, low-bodiced, revealing. No wonder he'd found her infantile in her proper willow green muslin, with its high collar, and long sleeves! But in a dress like one of those! Off the shoulders, baring a scandalous amount of creamy shoulders and cleavage, designed to entice…designed to seduce. Rafe glanced down at herself, back at the fashion plate, then down again. Yes, she decided, her lime silk from Paris could be re-stitched. Anisette could do it beautifully.
Suddenly the door burst open. Both Rafe and Caroline rose to their feet immediately at the sight of Trina's face.
"Trina! What is it? What happened?" Caroline cried, rushing to her side.
"Oh, it's so t-t-terrible!" Trina said brokenly, gasping for breath between sobs. Her eyes were red, swollen and filled with tears.
"You're not, you know, expecting are you?" Caroline asked nervously. All the girls knew Trina had been secretly meeting a man of late, and was deeply in love.
"That would be better!" Trina wailed.
"Trina, calm down. We can't help you unless you tell us what happened," Rafe said.
"The Marquis de Galle, he's my g-g-guardian--"
"We know who he is," Caroline interrupted disparagingly. Lousy in bed, she reminded herself.
"He came here t-today."
"What?" Caroline shot a glance at Rafe, who shrugged as if to say, news to me.
"He's t-taking me out of school," Trina said.
"What? Why?" Rafe demanded.
"He's f-found a husband for me. I wrote to him, you see. To tell him that I'd met the man I wanted to marry," Trina sniffled, then her face brightened, "Shelley Pierce, the one I've told you about? Well he asked me to marry him, and I said yes. But I didn't tell Shelley that I wrote to the Marquis asking for his blessing. Shelley wanted to elope, without telling anyone, but I felt my guardians should know. So, I told the Marquis about him, and the next I know, the Marquis comes rushing here t tell me he's marrying me off to Lord T-Tuttleridge! As if I don't even have a life! As if I'm nothing, just a piece of f-flotsam, lint to be d-dusted away!" Trina cried so upset that her stutter, usually controlled, was worsening by the moment.
Rafe's eyes narrowed. The cold, uncaring bastard! "He can't just do that!"
"Of course he can, Rafe," Caroline said. "He's her guardian. He can do whatever he wants with her. He could sell her into bondage if he was so inclined," she exaggerated. "She's his property."
"No, he can't. I won't let him," Rafe vowed.
"Rafe, it's the way things are. Some things must simply be accepted," Caroline said flatly. "A woman is first the property of her father or guardian, then her husband. And should any of those die, she belongs to all other males in between."
"I won't accept it. He's not going to force her into an arranged marriage when she's already in love," Rafe repeated stubbornly.
"Really?" Trina asked in a whisper. "You'll stop him from m-marrying me off?"
"Don't promise something you can't do, Rafe," Caroline warned sharply. "Don't hurt Trina like that."
"Oh, but Rafe, if you would just come home with me maybe you could t-talk him out of it," Trina said excitedly. "I'm afraid to even talk to him. He's so cold and aloof, the man gives me the sh-sh-shivers."
Me too, Rafe thought dismally, but I'm quite certain they're not the same kind. Calmly, she asked, "When?"
"I'm being sent home at Christmas, and the wedding is to take place on the N-New Year. Rafe, you could come home with me, and we'd have a full two weeks to try to talk him out of it. Please," Trina begged.
Caroline turned a speculative eye on Rafe. "You might just be able to do something. You know, since…well, what we talked about today," she said meaningfully.
"What?" Trina asked curiously.
"Nothing." Rafe shook her head. "Just that I have met your guardian before."
"Oh, that's perfect! Please, Rafe?"
"I'll have to think about it," Rafe replied after a moment's hesitation. "Trina, if I think I can help I will. But I need to think about it."
"Think hard," Trina encouraged and hugged Rafe impulsively. "I need you, Rafe. If anybody can handle that monster, it's you," she said with complete confidence.
"I agree," Caroline said thoughtfully, adding her vote of confidence as well.
Rafe nodded. It was just too bad she didn't think so.
*** Twelve o'clock, the bells of Sacred Heart Chapel chimed. Three days to the Christmas holidays, and the L'Ecole de Sacre Coeur would empty out completely for three weeks. Those with families returned home for scintillating holiday parties, and returned inevitably with great tales for the Triple S. Those with families abroad, thus unreachable, went home with friends, or were temporarily stationed at the nearby convent.
Rafe had made her decision. She was going home with Trina. One way or another she was going to the estate of the Marquis de Galle. It filled her with a quiet trepidation, and she wondered for the dozenth time if she knew what she was doing. Absently, she watched Trina pace on the small terrace outside the library. The witching hour, or the hour of love. It was all in the eye of the beholder. And Trina was very, very much in love.
"Shelley," Trina cried, as a tall slender form emerged from the dense shrubbery surrounding the terrace. At a nod from Trina, Rafe made herself scarce inside the library, leaving the two lovebirds alone. Rafe's job was to keep watch while the lovers met, and sound an alarm if the Headmistress should wake.
"Trina, Trina, my love," Shelley breathed, as he took her hands in his.
Trina hugged him tightly. "I was so afraid you wouldn't get my message."
"I'll always come to you, my love. Even if you should try to send me away," he vowed passionately.
"I would never send you way," Trina whispered, her eyes shining. Shelley was her knight in shining armor, the prince of her dreams. Tall, slender, with a face that could only be called angelic, framed by blond curls. Dreamy blue eyes, always elegantly attired. A light touch, and never, never forceful with a woman.
"Your note hinted that something was wrong," Shelley reminded, gently disengaging himself from her embrace.
"Oh, Shelley, it's awful," Trina exclaimed. "My guardian—"
"Who is that?" Shelley interrupted, pointing through the window to Rafe, who was engrossed in a book.
Trina forgot her train of thought for a moment, as she looked where he was pointing. "Oh that's Rafe. Lady Rafaella Bennington," she amended, proud of her beautiful friend. She didn't notice the appraising look in Shelley's eye as he pulled her back into his embrace, studying Rafe over her head all the while.
"With her looks she shouldn't need a dowry to snare a good husband," he observed, casually.
"She has both," Trina offered. "She's terribly wealthy, and the last of the Bennington line."
"What? No siblings? No relatives?" He stroked her hair.
"None. Poor Rafe. She does wish she had sisters or brothers," Trina replied, lost in the feel of him, the scent of him.
Poor Rafe indeed, Shelley thought. His attention was drawn back to the young woman he held in his arms. A pretty face, petite of form, innocent, and wealthy. She had quite artlessly told him about the dowry bequeathed upon her by the Marquis de Galle. A stupendous amount, really. Shelley glanced one last time at Rafe, the adage about a bird in the hand being worth two in the bush re-alerting him to his betrothed's concerns. "What were you saying, my love? Forgive me for interrupting. I forget myself at times. God, how I've missed you!" he declared passionately. As Trina told Shelley about the Marquis' visit, Shelley felt exceedingly grateful for the dim light of the terrace. Damn the chit! He'd told her they should elope! But anger would accomplish nothing now, whereas tender words and caresses would. So he temporarily checked himself, and said all the things she needed to hear.
By the time he left that evening, or rather early in the morning, Trina was devoted to him, and completely willing to go along with his plans. If the Marquis still hadn't relented by the eve before Christmas, Shelley would discreetly come to Land's End, the Marquis' estate in Lussex where Trina and Rafe were to be. They would elope while Rafe kept the Marquis occupied, and Gretna Green would witness one more private, and unsanctioned wedding.
"But my age, Shelley," Trina said, with a worried frown. "Can't the Marquis void the marriage because I am to young? Mustn't I have his consent unless I'm eighteen?"
Shelley grimaced, wishing he'd thought to ask his brother. He really wasn't that familiar with the law. Laws changed so much of late in England, it was nigh impossible to keep up unless one was a barrister. Better to play it safe, until he could confirm the law. "You've told me your friend is quite bold, Trina," he observed, recalling Rafe. "Could she forge a letter from the Marquis and somehow manage to get his Seal?"
Trina's eyes lit up. "It's just the kind of thing she enjoys doing. I'll ask her." Longingly she added, "I'll miss you Shelley."
"As I will you, my love. I can barely tolerate the thought of all the days yet which separate us from being together, forever! I can't imagine how I'll live that long, Trina." It elicited the expected giggle and blush. A quick kiss, a tender caress, and Shelley Pierce was gone, fading into the night as quietly as he'd come.
Trina stood on the terrace a long time before going in to rouse her trusted guard. How could the Marquis not see that she was old enough to know her own heart? To know true love when she found it? It was horribly unfair of him, to force her to elope when she really longed for a beautiful wedding with all the trimmings. But she knew her heart, and if the Marquis de Galle couldn't be persuaded, then come Christmas Eve, it would be off to Gretna Green with her. And once she was Shelley's wife, she wouldn't need the Marquis anymore. She had dear friends, and she would have her cherished husband.
Distantly, it troubled her that she hadn't told Shelley one nagging detail. But she consoled herself with the thought that they were s much in love that money wouldn't mean anything anyway. Shelley, she was quite certain, would cherish her with or without a sizable dowry. For if she eloped, according to the papers she'd seen, there would be no dowry, there would be no inheritance. But what did money matter when one was in love?
After assisting a sleepy Rafe to bed, Trina skipped lightly down the halls of Sacred Heart to her room. Sleep came easily, as it does to babes and innocents.
*** "You are not going, and that's final!" Abbey said.
Rafe rolled her eyes. "Abbey, you haven't given me a single good reason," she complained, not really upset because she still had one last card to play. "You just keep telling me no."
"Because your father has not authorized it. Each time in the past you went somewhere for the holidays, you obtained permission in time. I can't just send you off without it. And I won't," Abbey said sternly. "You should have thought of this before now, what wit it being only two days to the holiday break. Besides, " Abbey sighed, taking a long look at the beautiful, pouting girl who sprawled in the chair across her desk, "I'm not so certain the Marquis de Galle is a fit chaperon for two young girls."
"He's Trina's guardian," Rafe protested.
"I'm not certain that's fitting either," Abbey retorted.
Rafe sighed deeply. She really didn't like coercing people, particularly not those she trusted, and had grown to love, as she had Abbey. Many were the nights she and Abbey had sat up talking over scalded chocolate, and Abbey had slowly come to replace the mother she'd never known. "Abbey, I'm going to go," Rafe said flatly.
"No you're not."
"Please don't make this difficult, Abbey. I promise to behave."
"Your promise to behave means only that you will apologize prettily after you've wrought havoc on some unsuspecting source," Abbey replied smartly.
"Abbey, I'm not that bad," Rafe protested. "I never hurt anyone with my…somewhat impulsive and…vivacious behavior."
Abbey sighed. "Rafe, dear Rafe, I have the fondest hopes for you. I cling to the waning hope that you will reach maturity before you do hurt someone with your lies," Abbey used the word Rafe had carefully skirted. "I pray most particularly that it won't be yourself who gets hurt. You think your actions are harmless, but I'm warning you, you're going to get in over your head one day. Deep enough that it may be a high price is exacted for your actions. And I won't be there to help you make things better. You must start taking things seriously. You must learn that for every action, there are repercussions."
"What does any of this have to do with my going to Trina's for Christmas rather than rotting away in that damned convent?" Rafe replied obtusely.
"Damned means consigned to hell. I doubt the nuns of the Sacred Heart are consigned to hell. Try to be precise Rafe. And quit cursing," Abbey reprimanded.
"So what does any of this have to do with me going home with Trina?"
"If you can't put two and two together, than it's a good thing you're not going. And you are not going. You are not taking your winsome, wily, sweet, lying self into the home of a notorious rake for three weeks. End of conversation," Abbey said firmly.
Rafe studied the carpet, a sullen look on her face. Blackmail it would have to be. "You know how I am when I make up my mind. I am going home with Trina."
"Over my--" Abbey began, then stopped when Rafe tossed a letter on her desk. She knew Rafe too well to think it was a casual action. Abbey picked up the letter and started to read. It wasn't in her handwriting, but it was a word for word copy of the one she's sent to the Duke of Bennington a few weeks ago. A copy of the real one she was certain Rafe had somewhere, in which Abbey had admitted to an intimate liaison with the Duke himself.
Abbey sank back into her chair and studied Rafe levelly. There was no mercy in her gaze. She tossed the letter back on her desk with cold eyes. "You win Rafe Bennington. But I'm no longer responsible for you. You've gone too far this time. You've abused our friendship, you've broken every rule, you've made it all too clear that you will do whatever it takes to get your way, with no thought to anyone else," Abbey swallowed. She couldn't believe Rafe was doing this to her. Dear Rafe, whom she loved unconditionally. Rafe who had always respected Abbey's bottom line, a respect she accorded no other. "I can no longer care what havoc you bring down upon your own head. I've tried. As of this moment, Lady Bennington, I quit trying. You and I are no longer friends." Abbey turned her back on the girl then, her gesture of dismissal clear.
Abbey didn't see the pain that flooded Rafe's expressive eyes, as she rose to leave. Didn't know that Rafe was experiencing that strange new duality again. The duality that was simultaneously a sixteen year old girl who longed to do nothing more than throw herself in Abbey's arms and beg her forgiveness, and yet also a woman that needed to discover herself, a woman that couldn't turn back.
It was with leaden heart that Abbey watched Rafe leave her study. Rafe had won the battle, but would she figure out that she might well have lost the war? Abbey knew that Rafe had never been emotionally hurt in her entire sixteen years, thus was lacking in a key ingredient to traversing the bridge from adolescence into adulthood. Compassion. Co-Pathos, feeling for another person. Empathy. Rafe was long overdue a less in life, Abbey thought, and maybe, just maybe, this time she'll get one. Abbey couldn't provide it for her, but perhaps the Marquis de Galle could.
A lot of you have been writing to ask--and thank you all for being so sweet and supportive!-- if I'm really okay, if I'm really on sabbatical or if I'm sicker than I'm admitting.
Truth: I'm sicker than I was admitting. I made the idiotic mistake of not treating for Lyme long enough and it hammered me again. I ended up worse than I was to begin with a few years ago. Mea culpa all the way. I didn't stop working, didn't rest when I should have. It's a tenacious disease once it gets into the central nervous system.
I had so many wonderful things planned for Faefever's release and now I'm going to have to settle for promising you all I'll be ready by the time Dreamfever comes out. Which, by the way, I'm loving every second of writing. There's SO much happening in it, so much emotion, so much thanatos and eros, it's an intense installment, hard to write in some places, a dream to write in others, but always exhilarating. Still, I should probably be talking about Faefever, since it's coming out just around the corner, September 16th. Faefever is a wild ride. Darkfever and Bloodfever barely scratched the surface of Mac's tale. After Faefever, Mac will never be the same again. Nothing will.
Because I got so sick, I'm staying with my parents for awhile, which is nice. People say you can't go home again, but you can, and it's sweet to be here in the middle of four-hundred acres of farm that I grew up on. No city lights to spoil the view of the night sky. Kind of like Keltar-land. This time I'm following my doctor's orders to the T and I will beat it.
Thank you all so much for your emails, your posts, your kindness and support. Keep the faith, I will be back, will be doing booksignings and attending conferences, and will be having fun again soon.
It's also available as a free podio at Itunes, Mevio and Podiobooks. I've got a widget to post, but I don't know how, so I'll be talking to Leiha who will--as she always does-- figure it out and make my life run smoothly. Please forward it to all your friends. It's free and fun and, although Joyce Bean doesn't do the voices the way I hear them in my head, she's a fabulous reader and was nominated for two Audie's for her interpretation of the characters.
Until then, I hope you enjoy one of my earliest unpublished (and never to be published) manuscripts.
I posted this as a bulletin but just in case you missed it.
We are having a myspace only contest for a chance to win an ARC of Faefever. An ARC is an advanced release copy of the book and can't be bought in a store at any point and of course, it will be signed by Karen.
To enter the contest you must show your excitement for Faefever on your myspace page, whether it's with a cool banner that you've made or grabbing an image of Faefever or like some fans, an entire page dedicated to the Fever series. Use your creativity.
I know some people are more creative then others, all you have to do is show effort and enthusiasm and you will be entered. You must keep what you do up for the entire month of August and towards the end of August we'll pick a winner. I want to get this ARC mailed at the beginning of Sept so you have it before everyone else.
Email me your URL once you have added it to your myspace page to manager@karenmoning.com. Do not send me your url via myspace, I don't have a way of filing your emails on here. Please put MySpace in the subject line. I will pick a winner randomly from the entries (I will also be verifying all entries) but I will also change the top friends to show off some of our favorites. I added Victoria to Karen's top friends because of her wonderful MySpace page.
Need a little "Fever" to tide you over until those dates? Well here it is: the entire audiobook of DARKFEVER is being released as a serial podcast beginning August 4th, FREE!
That's right--you can experience having MacKayla Lane's first adventure delivered to you in chapter installments beginning August 4th, four chapters a week for 7 weeks ... completely free.
I turned my face into his palm and closed my eyes. His fingers threaded into my hair, cupped my head, and brushed the brand. It heated at his touch. His hand tightened at the base of my skull and squeezed, and he raised me slowly to my tiptoes. I opened my eyes and it was my turn to inhale sharply. Not human. Oh, no, not this man.
"Never show it to me again." His face was cold, hard, his voice colder.
"Why? What will you do?"
"What it is in my nature to do. Get inside, Ms. Lane. It's time for your lesson."
KMM fan Victoria (aka Viking Princess) created this trailer for KMM's board one year anniversary. We think she did a fantastic job of interpreting the Fever series.
