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Excerpt: DISCOVERY OF DESIRE

Susanne Lord — Mon, 02 Jun 2025 20:25:47 -0400

CHAPTER ONE

Mazagaon Port, Bombay, December 1850

Seth Mayhew wouldn’t call it a curse.

But a man on his 13th sail couldn’t help but wonder.

Damned if he hadn’t lived this before. From where he stood on the deck of the HMS Isabella, Bombay might have been Brazil. The same briny stink of the harbor. The stray dogs nosing the pier. The carts, the cargo, the cries of the dockmen—all agitated and out of sorts like the arrival of a fifteen-hundred-ton steamship somehow took ’em by surprise.

It was just like every port in Brazil. Like a remembering. Like the start of every other expedition that had ever failed.

But Seth wouldn’t call it a curse. This time, he wouldn’t dare.

Under his boots, the ship steadied entering the still waters of the harbor, same as the clippers he’d sailed to Santos, Recife, and Paranaguá had done. After three months at sea, he had that same urge to jump the rail, to swim for shore, to race on dry land as far as his legs and lungs would carry him. Christ, yes, Bombay might have been Brazil.

If not for the hundred love-starved bachelors waiting in welcome.

“You ever seen a sorrier sight ’n that?” Eddie, the young cabin boy from Dover, slouched on the rail beside him and spat overboard. “All them hot-arsed English come for a look at our girls like they was buying cattle. A man’s meant to have dignity. If it was me, and I was wanting a wife, she’d not see me standing down there.”

Seth could say nothing to that. He’d be the first man forward if he could afford to keep a wife. But he was only an explorer, and this expedition held no promise of profit.

“It’s a queer sight, I give you that,” he said.

“Them black suits don’t make no sense for India,” Eddie said. “Or them silk chokers and beaver hats.”

“Well, there’s an English gent for you. Like they’re strolling the Strand.” Seth eyed the mob, envious of their tailored suits despite the heat. “Shows why they’re here, I suppose. For a first look at Englishwomen fresh off the boat. These men’ll not be going native—not in their dress and not with the local women.”

“No sense in any of ’em,” Eddie snarled.

Seth had to grin. Only a shirttail lad of sixteen could muster that level of scorn. “None I can see.” He elbowed the lad gently and winked. “But then, I’ve always been democratic where women are concerned.”

He thought that was clever enough, but Eddie only scowled down at the mob like all forty-four ladies onboard were his kin.

Seth sighed. “Cheer yourself, lad. East India’s been shipping our girls here for a couple hundred years to wed their men, and that won’t be changing today.”

“No matter to me. Wasn’t one that didn’t chuck me a shoulder if I said a word to ’em.”

“You know those ladies couldn’t fraternize with the likes of us. They have to keep their reputations, not arrive all sullied. Besides”—he lowered his voice—“their mums likely warned them about sailors like you.”

That was said in jest, but Eddie puffed up. “There’s truth in that, I suppose.”

Erasing his grin, Seth nodded manfully and let it alone. The boy was of a tender age. He’d not yet learned the kind of girl he might win. Hell, if a seaman’s life was all the boy had ahead of him, he’d not be marrying at all. And Seth knew himself that wasn’t a hope that died easy.

The ship listed and the grim thought scattered. The tugs were nudging the ship into its berth, inch by maddening inch.

Seth gripped the rail and pushed his body up and down as he waited, relishing the burn in his shoulders. He’d found all sorts of ways to take his exercise these months at sea. Seemed the only way to keep from chasing all the questions in his head in a circle, like: Was he too late? Would Bombay prove the curse?

Was Georgie still alive?

He gripped the rail tighter and kept on.

Down on the wharf, a fair number of the men held up name signs. There might be distant family and fiancés among them for the lady passengers. And for him, hopefully one translator.

Tom Grant was supposed to meet him, but damned if Seth would find him easy. The man may be fluent in three Indian dialects and supervisor of an East India Company plantation, but there was no knowing if he was clever enough to bring a sign of his own.

Seth pushed off the rail and patted his coat pocket. The letter crinkled in answer.

“Well now, lad.” Seth picked up his bag and shook Eddie’s hand. “This is good-bye. Safe travels. And don’t you go ruining any of these women before they get a chance to get themselves wed.” He winked at the boy. “After that, they’re fair game.”

“I won’t.” Eddie’s smile faded. “And…good luck finding your sister.”

Surprised, Seth stared down at the boy. He’d only told a couple of his bunkmates.

The boy shuffled his feet. “I wondered why you was sailing on account of your not looking like a Company man. I thought you might be a soldier, but soldiers don’t book steerage and eat mess with the crew.” He shrugged, shrinking farther into his shirt. “I didn’t tell nobody. I just wondered.”

“It’s all right, lad.” Seth patted him on the shoulder but the boy didn’t raise his head. This was why he’d wanted it kept dark. Knowing such things was nothing but a burden. “Thank you, Eddie. And don’t worry. I’ll find her.”

And he would find her. Finding was what he did.

With a final wave, Seth hiked his bag onto his shoulder and headed below deck to the gangplank—and saw he wasn’t getting off this damn boat as quick as he’d hoped. The four dozen ladies were queued to disembark, so he retreated a step.

So these are the venture girls…

He’d not seen the women the entire sail— hoped not to see them at all. Booked steerage as he’d been, and not allowed aft of the paddle boxes, it had been impossible anyway.

No, he didn’t want to see them. Their bonnets and ruffles and ribbons were too much of England, of home. Most of them would never get back.

And some wouldn’t survive the year.

On the wharf below, the bachelors hushed with anticipation. With this welcome, wasn’t any wonder these ladies did the long sea to marry. In England, men with the blunt to keep a family were worse than scarce. The women at the back of the line turned to examine him— worn boots, secondhand suit, overgrown hair. The speculation in their eyes dimmed and he tried not to mind.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He put on his best smile. Some dropped their gazes, some pressed against their corsets like they’d forgotten how to breathe. All of them were scared- looking.

No, he didn’t want to see this.

Beneath their pale skin, Seth saw the prettiness. He couldn’t help it, even when his heart wasn’t in it. Well. Georgie always did call him the Worst Flirt in the Midlands. But that had never been accurate.

He’d always been the best.

“Don’t I hear the gentlemen’s hearts cracking from here,” he teased, and the women giggled nervously.

“Careful not to smile at ’em, ladies, or you’ll starta stampede.”

The girls laughed more easily, a few of them blushing. Damn their fathers. Did they even know what their daughters would face here?

The gangplank connected to the quay with a hard clang and the bonnets swiveled around. It was time. Slow as a march to the gallows, the ladies shuffled across the plank and stepped onto the dock.

And then matters went ass over elbow.

Eager bachelors swarmed the ladies. Stevedores shoved the Indian servants aside. Ragged beggars—some missing limbs, some crawling on the ground— pleaded for coin and food.

“Sahib…”

The instant Seth stepped foot on land, a clawed hand tugged at his sleeve. He followed the wiry arm to the bent head of an old man.

“Sahib,” the old man pleaded.

Automatically, Seth reached for a few copper paisa but a white hand shot out to stay him.

“You mustn’t give them anything,” a mustached man said. “It only makes them more aggressive.”

Aggressive? The old man couldn’t stand straight and had an eye cloudy with cataracts. Seth gave him a silver anna instead.

The crush of bodies swayed him, but he’d never been afraid of people. The venture girls, however, were huddled as close together as their wide skirts allowed.

Indian servants shooed the beggars away. Black-suited Englishmen corralled the ladies like sheepdogs. A rumbling din of male voices advised the ladies, consoled them—badly, it seemed—and underneath it all, a calm, crisp voice…

“Ladies?”

A woman’s voice. Sweet and low and nearly swallowed in the fray.

Maybe it was because his explorer’s senses were honed to seek the rare, the anomalies in nature, but Seth trailed that voice to a venture girl twenty feet away. She wore a trim white jacket and green skirt with starry, white flowers all over it. Her sun helmet concealed all but a bit of brown hair.

“Ladies, as no one has told us yet what to do, if you are to be met by someone, would you move to this end?” She gestured and the ladies shuffled to do her bidding, obedient as soldiers.

Seth jerked to follow, then paused. He was to meet someone. Should he wait with them?

A small wave of her hand and the ladies leaned forward in attention. He did, too.

“And the others can wait here for Captain Travers,” she said. “He will accompany you to the customs house.” The women sorted themselves, fear in every pair of eyes clinging to their officer.

Seth dragged in a lungful of air that didn’t ease the tightness in his chest. Wasn’t any of his business.

And wasn’t a thing he could do to help.

He turned to plunge into the crowd, but then the little officer spoke again.

“We are here, ladies,” she said gently. “And we are fine.”

The words were plain, but it was like she’d hushed the whole world. He didn’t want to, but he looked again. The venture girls stood in two close circles, their small valises and parasols clutched to their chests, and watched the chaos around them with wide eyes.

But they kept their chins up now.

For the first time in months, a real smile curved his lips. People needed someone to depend on. Like those ladies depended on that little officer.

And she was little, at least to him. She wouldn’t stand any taller than his chin and his hands could span her waist. But little or not, she wore that dainty, braided jacket like a captain of the Eleventh Hussars. There wasn’t a wrinkle on her skirts or wayward crease in its folds. And that straight spine was all the sight he had of her— she didn’t fidget and she didn’t turn.

Composed, capable, orderly-like. He’d drive a woman like that to Bedlam.

But he fell a little bit in love with her anyway. He was bumped from behind. The mustache-man angling for a closer look. “Give the ladies their breathing room, mate,” Seth said. “They might like a bit of time to repair themselves.”

The man swung about. “You traveled with them, didn’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“Did you learn any names? Which are the prime articles?”

“The prime— ? Hell, I don’t know.”

The man turned around to survey the girls. “Not that I expect them all to be handsome. They couldn’t find a husband back home, could they? But taking an ugly wife…” He grimaced, then squared his shoulders. “I mean to have one, just the same.”

Seth stared down at the man and muttered, “There you go, mate. Words to set a lady’s heart aflutter.”

Irritated, Seth waded against the stream of bachelors closing in on the ladies. Wasn’t any of his business.

The men holding signs had formed a line and were shuffling toward the ladies to be claimed. They obeyed the little officer, too. His translator might be among them, so he read his way through the crush. MISS EUNICE SIMMS…MISS LOUISE ALPERT—

Ah, here! CLAIMING WILLIAM REPTON AND— and?— MISS W. ADAMS.

The man holding the card eyed him suspiciously. So this was his translator. Brown hair, spectacles, younger than he’d expected. But he looked clever. He’d do.

“Tom Grant?” Seth asked.

“I am. You’re Will Repton?”

Seth grinned. “For your purposes, I am.” He shook his hand. “I’m Seth Mayhew. You’ll be working for me instead.”

“I— ”

“This explains it.” Seth handed him Will’s letter. “Will couldn’t leave England on account of his being leg- shackled and expecting a little baby. But Georgie’s my sister after all, and the orphan in Tibet is who she was after, so I’m here and Will’s not. It’s all a bit Hamlet- without- the- prince, but there it is.”

Tom Grant blinked behind his spectacles. “Who are you?”

Maybe he just looked clever.

“Seth May— ” He never was skilled at explaining. “Read the letter, mate.”

Tom Grant passed the sign to him, cracked open the letter, and began to frown. That frown wasn’t how Seth wanted to start their partnership, but the man had agreed to the job, and would be earning a hell of a salary for the effort.

But Tom’s expression wasn’t growing any happier as he started page two.

“That letter explains it all.” Seth flapped the sign against his thigh, waiting. “’Course it was Will who raised the funds to sail here hoping to— ”

“To find the lost orphan. I know,” Tom said, his voice dropping to a grumble. “Another survivor of that massacre.” He didn’t bother looking up from the letter— which was damn provoking.

“You don’t think the baby survived, do you?”

“I think Will Repton survived a nightmare, and I think he needs to believe he wasn’t alone.”

“That baby lived. My sister crossed into Tibet to search for her.”

That stopped Tom’s reading. “Right.” He lowered the letter a fraction to push his spectacles higher. “Sorry. The latter is true enough, in any case. So when you lost communication with your sister, you persuaded Will to let you come in his place?”

Seth nodded. “Would’ve gone off my head not being able to search for Georgie.”

Tom’s frown deepened, and he went back to staring at that letter like he was hoping the words would change.

It was good that Tom’s help had been secured in advance. Finding another translator wouldn’t have been easy. Seth’s rank as an explorer- for- hire wouldn’t open any doors with the Company men. Even when he’d been under the employ of East India, they hadn’t treated him much better than a mule driver.

Or the mule.

Tom flipped the letter over and started reading from the beginning. Again.

With a sigh, Seth dropped his bag at his feet to wait— and remembered the sign: CLAIMING MISS W. ADAMS. Tom Grant was collecting one of the venture girls then.

W? The man couldn’t write her name in full? Wasn’t any of his business.

Meaning to be helpful, Seth held the sign high and waited.

***

“Mina!” Emma clutched her arm. “I see him. I see your Thomas Grant.”

Mina’s stomach rolled. Thomas was here. Of course he was— of course he would be. If only the ground would steady. Her sister’s sudden grab had nearly toppled her. Ninety- nine days on a boat and she couldn’t seem to lock her knees.

Mina reached into her skirt pocket and squeezed the stone in her hand. Through her lace glove, the quartz was as cool as if it still held the weather of England within it.

Emma’s blue eyes shone— and that was nearly all Mina was sensible of. Distantly, Mina felt the sun on her neck. More sharply, a bead of sweat trickled to the small of her back. Too warm…

Emma had suggested she wear her green dress to meet Mr. Grant— the pattern of starry woodruff reminded Mina of home and it was the finest of her day dresses. But it was too warm. Especially with the cholera belt— no, the healthful flannel cummerbund she wore.

Oh dear, all her gowns would be too warm.

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Excerpt: IN SEARCH OF SCANDAL

Susanne Lord — Mon, 02 Jun 2025 20:24:26 -0400

CHAPTER ONE

London, March 1850

“For God’s sake, man. Make way.”

The impatient command came from close behind, startling in its proximity. Will Repton clenched his teeth against a reply and edged to the right of the pavement, his limping gait either too slow or too unsightly for the haughty Londoners passing him.

Ignoring their frowns, he tucked his chin against the cold wind coursing down Oxford Street and trudged on. At the end of the block, he slowed. There was always a body rounding the corner, always a carriage approaching, always another woman averting her gaze from his twisted step.

So many bodies, so much bustle. He didn’t remember London this way. Could six years so alter a city?

Though it hurt like the devil, he straightened his stride entering Hanover Square. Here, at least, was unchanged. The same statue of Chancellor Pitt, the same handsome homes, the same center of wealth and pedigree. This was Mayfair as it always was on a Sunday afternoon, and he was calling on Ben Paxton just as dozens might call upon their acquaintance.

If he didn’t remember the London sky looking flat as paint in the space between buildings, he reasoned he’d not had the iridescent heavens of the Yangshuo Mountains to compare it with before. And if he couldn’t shake the chill from his bones of late, he shouldn’t be surprised. He was a good stone lighter and less insulated than when last he was here.

No, the city hadn’t changed. He had.

Will had left London a hale and hearty envoy of the East India Company; he’d returned—after being twice-rumored dead—a famed explorer, celebrated plant hunter, and universally pitied cripple.

The wind threatened to dislodge his hat and the icy handle of his glass case bit through his glove, but it was the precious plants within that would suffer most from the cold. He hurried to gain the shelter of Paxton’s door. For a moment, a wry smile twisted his lips, standing at the affluent address. He’d not seen Paxton in years—long before his astonishing marriage to a countess—but the man was a friend of his father’s.

And as wealthy and sympathetic investors went, he was an excellent prospect.

A quick turn of the bell key, the door opened wide, and Will froze in reaching for his card. The butler with the smiling face and crescent eyes so resembled a stevedore he’d met on a dock in Xiamen that Will nearly uttered ni hao in greeting.

No, London hadn’t changed. But he could look nowhere without the colors of the East seeping into its lines.

“Good afternoon,” Will said. “I believe I’m expected.”

He presented his card and followed the butler to the receiving room. In the quiet hall, the drag of his heel was conspicuous, but still he slowed to assess his surroundings. Marble floors. Paintings crackled with age. Silk wallcoverings. Paxton had married very well.

A Chinese vase was displayed in an alcove. He was no expert, but centuries old to be sure. Yuan or Ming Dynasty—

A patter of footsteps slapped on the tiles behind him and he spun round, his muscles seizing in readiness. A boy—three or four or six, he could never discern the age of children—dashed past the stairs and vanished behind a door.

The sight came and went so swiftly, he clenched his eyes and grappled with the reality of the vision.

A disturbance of the air…a faint chortle from the room…

The boy was real.

Will dragged in a breath and willed his heart not to pound out of his chest. Damn it. His father had warned him Paxton had children.

“Don’t mind our young master.” The butler grinned from the end of the hall. “The boy has us all at his mercy. There’s not a nursery in London that can hold him.”

He nodded stiffly, unable to share the man’s amusement. Ratcheting tight his nerves, he passed his coat and hat to the servant, who swiftly withdrew. Confused, he watched the butler disappear around a corner.

He’d always been announced before. At least at all the other fine houses where he’d solicited funds.

Will turned into the room and jolted to a stop. This was no reality he’d ever known—London, China, or otherwise. The parlor was screamingly female, stuffed with satin seats and tasseled pillows and a perverse number of breakable objects on every surface, but it was a gathering of men who swung their heads at his entrance.

Evidently not the desired addition to their party, the men ignored him to rearrange themselves in the parlor. One propped an elbow on the trinket-covered mantelpiece, another leaned suavely against the pianoforte, another feigned interest in a book. One young man, of a romantic bent, brooded out the window stroking the petals of a rose.

Eight—no, nine men. All posed in depictions of masculine leisure. Ridiculous, in light of all the doilies. What business did they have here?

And where the devil was Ben Paxton?

He set down his small Wardian case, checking through the fogged glass that the plants hadn’t been upset in their journey, and searched for a seat.

The only available chair held an ugly needlepoint pillow of a goat. Or perhaps a horse, though it appeared to have only three legs. Whatever the sorry creature was, it was named “Beatrice” according to the stitching beneath. A child’s effort. Moving aside the pillow, Will sat—and slowly sank—into the overstuffed cushion.

“I say.” A man in a red coat pointed to Will’s case. “What is that? That little glasshouse?”

“I use it to transport plants.”

“Indeed?” The man abandoned his pose by the fire to inspect the greenery. “And where are these transported from?”

“Pitigala.”

“Piti—where?”

“Ceylon.”

He peered inside. “Are there flowers? Shall we take them out?”

“No flowers. And I’d not open the case because of their scent.”

The man’s brows quirked with amusement. “Rotten luck there. Bit pungent are they?”

Will stared, trying to make sense of the man’s words. “Putrid, actually. Much like a rotting carcass.”

And he thought the room silent before…

Will scanned the bewildered faces; the man with the rose even suspended his brooding to squint at him. Could they somehow smell the carrion plants he carried?

Sighing quietly, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. It was too long. Just this morning, Mum had said it was time to see to it. Now that he was back in Civilized Society, as she put it, he couldn’t lumber about like one of his beloved shaggy-haired yaks. Given a choice, he’d prefer the company of his pack yaks any day. He fingered the frayed edge of his cuff. It might be time to get himself to a tailor as well.

A salver heaped with civilized calling cards sat on the table at his elbow. The uppermost name belonged to a viscount. Beside it, a bouquet of rosebuds. Around the room, more bouquets. Several, actually. The perfume of the flowers wasn’t near as thick as all the colognes…and hair tonics…and shaving soaps—

They’re here for a woman.

Will shot to his feet, flinching at the protesting pain in his leg. “I’m in the wrong room.”

The man in the red coat laughed. “No, never tell me that! You must stay and present your offering to Miss Baker. The look on her face would be beyond price.”

“Miss Baker? Who is—” Right. Paxton’s sister-in-law, Charlotte Baker. The countess’s sister.

His jaw tightened with embarrassment. The butler mistook him for a suitor of some society miss. It was ludicrous.

Men like him did not marry.

“Excuse me,” he grumbled. No doubt the girl possessed a colossal dowry to draw this gathering.

He turned and nearly plowed over a woman standing in his path. His heart jolted from the near collision—but there was little that didn’t jolt him lately. He stepped back. And stood corrected.

Charlotte Baker needed no dowry.

Past the spangles and beads sparking into his eyes, a porcelain doll had come to life. Glossy, dark curls framed the flawless oval of her face. A little nose tipped over lips so pink and pillowy, they shaped themselves into a smile even at rest. And as he stood staring, her cheeks blushed perfect, matching roses and the effect was complete. Another figurine as ornamental as the dainty teacups in the room.

But decorative as she was, her curves were more than functional. Those would stir the primitive in any man. And after Tibet, the primitive in him was very close to the surface.

He wanted to drag her someplace private and…and…

Keep her.

Will grimaced at his lack of imagination. It was a mad thought.

Yet another mad thought.

“I beg your pardon,” he muttered as he picked up his case and sidestepped past her. “I was directed to the wrong room.”

“The wrong—? Oh, but…sir?” Her hands fluttered up but withdrew. The tentative gesture, to delay or help, he ignored. The little doll and—Christ—her chaperone, followed him into the hall.

“It must have been Mr. Penny, Ben’s valet,” she said, hurrying to keep pace at his elbow. “He is at the door today because Mr. Goodley, our butler, had eaten a little mutton that had gone off, I’m afraid, and he must have assumed…well, today is Sunday—”

Will stopped in the middle of the hall. Every door was closed.

And Miss Baker was still talking.

“—and as it is Sunday and you are…well, you are”—she shrugged and tilted her head—“well, not here for me, as I am now aware. I am very sorry.”

Will tensed at her remorse. Stemming from pity, no doubt. With his drab suit and shaggy hair, he would not compare favorably to her suitors. Or had he imagined the remorse? More likely she laughed at him.

Easing his gaze onto hers, his mind stumbled to see eyes of such pure blue they appeared almost violet. No, not violets. Delphiniums.

He redirected his gaze and blew out a frustrated breath. Damn it all, he didn’t think flowery thoughts. He was a botanical journeyman, paid to catalog and classify. Blue eyes. Merely blue.

Yes, she was a pretty girl.

Not that it mattered in the least.

He sought the butler or valet or whatever he was, but only the redheaded chaperone stood watching him with bald amusement. He tightened his grip on the handle of his case. “Miss Baker—”

“Yes, I am Charlotte Baker.” Three skipping steps in jeweled slippers brought her to stand unnecessarily close. “But we have not met, I am sure of that.”

He watched that smile suspiciously. Wouldn’t his mum be heartbroken to see him now? Standing so near a beautiful, unmarried girl with only escape on his mind?

“Will Repton, miss.” By the widening of her eyes, he surmised his name was known to her. It was all those damn newspaper stories. “I’m here to meet with Ben,” he added to discourage questions. But there was no need. His name had effectively rendered her mute.

He cleared his throat. “Where should I—”

“You are William Repton?”

His frown deepened, concerned by the raw astonishment on her face. “I…well. Yes.”

“No. William Repton, the explorer? Of China? That William Repton?”

He sidled away and pointed to the nearest door, careful to keep an eye on her. “Is this the room then?”

She launched forward, startling him backward and nearly into upsetting the Yuan or Ming vase—he still didn’t know, he was no expert—and for God’s sake, what did she want?

Miss Baker hooked his elbow and his eyes careened from the small gloved hand to her widening smile to her big delphinium eyes. “Miss Baker—”

“Do please put that case down.”

“But Ben—”

“Ben will not mind. He is well aware I have been desperate to meet you and has been positively maddening in not inviting you sooner. He would not begrudge me this chance—I pray you will not—and I simply must know you better. Please?”

She batted her lashes. At him. The sight both aroused and disturbed.

Taking his speechlessness for compliance, Miss Baker emitted a kittenlike squeal and pulled him back into the horrible parlor.

Christ, where the devil was Ben Paxton?

“Gentlemen!” she announced. “How fortunate we are. I must introduce William Repton. No doubt you are aware of the man and his achievements. He is here to meet with Ben, but I would not let him go.”

The men stared, half-curious, half-dubious, as Miss Baker led him to a short settee. Commanded to sit beside her by a dainty hand, he folded his stiff leg, gritted his teeth, and lowered with control. The arrangement was too close; if he turned his head, they’d brush noses.

“I hope you will not find the flavor of our tea too pedestrian given your learned palate, Mr. Repton.” Miss Baker poured him a cup of tea. “Our housekeeper prides herself on her blend. She has been induced to try a variety from Assam which I find a bit bracing but lovely with milk. How do you take your tea? Sugar? Lemon? Or perhaps with a sprinkling of tobacco?”

The last was said with a giggle to the man at the pianoforte before she directed her smile back at Will. “I am being silly, of course. That is a jest between the viscount and myself. Sugar?” She waited with sugar tongs poised over his cup.

He blinked. “No.” Her smile dimpled. “No, thank you.”

“Forgive me, Miss Baker,” the red-coat man said. “But ‘Repton’ is not a name known to me.”

The man, who was evidently a viscount, scoffed. “Come, Matteson! You cannot be in earnest. The man is written of ad nauseum in the periodicals.”

“Indeed,” another man put in. “You cannot tell me you have avoided the tale of ‘Chinese Will’?”

Recognition struck the man like a board to the back of the head. “Oh, deuce take it! You are Chinese Will?”

Will turned to Miss Baker to beg his freedom, but she only beamed brighter.

“There are two Mr. Reptons of accomplishment, actually,” she said, her gaze not unlatching even as she addressed the others. “John Repton is supervisor at Chiswick Gardens. But his son, my—our Mr. Repton, is England’s most remarkable plant collector. His reports are sublime and archived at the Geographical Society. Mr. Helmsley, you are a member. Have you not read them?”

Mr. Helmsley aborted his sip of tea with a clumsy gulp at being blindly addressed. “Ah…regretfully, no, Miss Baker.” He leaned forward in an attempt to catch her eye. “But I shall do so post haste now that I am aware of your interest and we may have a meaningful intercourse on the subject.”

The other men committed to reading the reports themselves, but the pretty hostess seemed unaware of their attempts at ingratiation. Will glanced at her, feeling her rapt attention like a bonfire.

No sensible woman looked at him like that.

Perhaps there was something wrong with her.

“Favor us then, Mr. Repton, with tales of adventure.” The viscount didn’t mask the imperious edge of his voice. “My father will be mortally jealous when he learns I have met ‘Chinese Will,’ the man himself.”

Will frowned into his teacup, plunked the dish on the table, and turned to summarize the last six years of his life in as few words as possible.

***

Charlotte was too overcome to listen. How was it possible?

But thank God. Thank God! Here he was! The man who could redeem the family name. The man she dreamed of. The man she was destined to marry—even if William Repton was not yet aware of the fact.

At last here and just as she had seen him a hundred times before. More. Never in London, never in any real place, but he was already so very dear and familiar.

And she didn’t imagine him so from the countless accounts of the incredible Mr. Repton.

He was familiar because he looked just the way she imagined her beloved explorer would look if she could invent him. Hair that was many shades of blond, and never—no never—thinning. Easily, the thickest hair of all the men in the room—though it was a bit long for fashion. Her heart panged tenderly for the lock curling at his collar.

And those were just the right shoulders—slightly too broad and muscled for his frame—because she did so love a man’s shoulders. And that face…

Well, she had never assembled his features so perfectly before. But for whatever this mood was, with its corresponding “just get on with it” expression, she would only choose this square chin, stern brow, and piercing blue eyes to form this handsome, heroic face.

A heroic and somewhat irritated face.

She dropped her gaze. Goodness, she must not stare moon-eyed at the man. What nonsense had she prattled on about before? Why, why, had she mentioned the mutton?

“I wonder how you were able to read them, Miss Baker?”

Lord Spencer’s voice recalled her to the present. “Do forgive me. What did you say?”

Lord Spencer—Hugh, as he had asked to be called—flicked an uneasy glance to Mr. Repton and reset his smile more tightly. “The reports, Miss Baker. The Geographical Society is exclusive to men. How did your little person conspire to read them?”

“Ben is a member and retrieved them for me.” Charlotte beamed at Mr. Repton, willing him to look at her, but he seemed to prefer scowling at his boots. “Or most of them anyway. I have not read the final installment.”

“Nor should you,” Mr. Repton said.

“But I must.”

“There is nothing in them of worth to a lady.”

“Nothing of…?” But he appeared entirely in earnest. How could he not know what his writing meant to others? To her? “But you are too modest. The reports are full of sound and color and feeling! When I read them, it is just as Aristotle wrote—the soul never thinks without a picture—”

“Miss Baker—”

“It is not my mind that thrills at the adventure—”

“Miss Baker—”

“—but my very soul—”

His head reared, passion sparking in his eyes. “Then you see what you wish to see.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Those intense eyes, the flushed cheekbones, the hot, panting breath laving her cheek. The man was magnificent!

His words were utter nonsense but he delivered them with such glorious conviction.

Another lady might have been chastened and turned shy in the face of this growling man. But she had always been a bit more…well, buoyant than most.

And his chest was heaving so attractively within that awful coat.

Unable to repress it, she smiled hugely and his glare faltered. “Now I am all the more curious why our perceptions should differ,” she said softly.

His eyes widened and she remembered herself. “Would anyone care for more tea?” She reached for the pot. “Though perhaps it does not refresh. I cannot credit how warm the parlor is.”

All the men were instantly solicitous of her comfort.

All except for Mr. Repton, who had taken a firm grip of his temples.

Doubt trickled over her. Had she said something to distress him? Were the memories of his travels painful?

Perhaps they were. It appeared he had been injured, though he limped only a very little. Having watched him walk a few paces, his back was straight above his slim hips and hard, sculpted backside. The memory of which warmed her already-heated cheeks.

She could not recall ever noting the shape and muscularity of a man’s bottom before, but there it was.

Quite a vivid picture, really.

She pressed a napkin between her damp palms. The parlor was too close, but then she had not expected most of these gentlemen, as they were not of a society she encouraged. Only Lord Spencer was Upper Class Proper; the rest only Upper Middle.

Only Lord Spencer. After three seasons…

How odd…how odd and remarkable and wonderful that none of these men mattered in the least now. Not now that she’d made a discovery all her own: William—no, Will. A fitting name for one who made his own place in the world, Society and lineage and rules be hanged.

Here was the husband she yearned for. Not a mere aristocrat but the Talk of London. And quite literally, the man of her dreams.

She angled a glance at his profile. Yes…the very picture.

If only these men would leave. If only he would look at her again. She leaned close. “Mr. Repton, I—”

“His Grace, the Duke of Iddlesleigh,” Mr. Penny announced from the door.

The men swiveled their heads as Iddlesleigh entered and Charlotte stiffened with surprise. And shame.

Thank goodness he had not found her alone. But honestly! An unmarried duke ought to have a better use of his time than to always be hunting for his next mistress. Undoubtedly he would have requested her favors and she would have declined with all the humble gratitude a powerful man like him would expect. She may be common-born but she was no one’s cocotte .

Not his, not Lord Welston’s, nor Misters Ware’s, Adkins’s or Playfair’s. She almost suspected the men of wagering on who might win her virtue as often as the stupid offer was made.

“Dearest Charlotte.” Iddlesleigh brushed his lips over her fingers. “I see from this entrenched party of admirers, I am shamefully tardy. Will you forgive me?”

She removed her hand, mindful not to yank it from his touch. “You are always forgiven, Your Grace.”

The duke hoisted an imperious brow at Will, who stared out the window as if watching a tedious bit of theater. It was obvious that Iddlesleigh desired Will’s seat and expected him to surrender it to his betters.

It was not obvious to Will.

The duke paused pointedly until Lord Spencer surrendered his seat and the duke sat. His Grace turned to Will. “I am not acquainted with you, sir.”

Charlotte touched Will’s sleeve and a hard muscle jumped under her fingers, thrilling her. “This is Mr. Repton, Your Grace. Do you not recall that we spoke of him at the musicale last week?”

The duke’s eyes sharpened. “Indeed. The plant hunter.”

“Your Grace,” Will mumbled at Iddlesleigh and stood abruptly. “Miss Baker, thank you for the tea. If you’ll excuse me.”

No! No, no, no! He could not leave! “Yes, of course.” She stood to offer her hand in farewell but Will was already at the door. Faced with the delicate challenge of chasing after a man with all correctness, she began with a bright smile for the benefit of the room and called after him. “Allow me to show you to his study.”

Will stopped short at the sound of her voice and let her precede him with a huff of breath. She blinked at the sound. Did he truly not like her?

At the door, he lifted his plant case and walked to the center of the hall, his head swiveling from one closed door to the next. Slowly, he turned back with what was becoming a familiar frown. That could not be his usual countenance. It was horribly out of place on the Mr. Repton she knew.

“Will you direct me, Miss Baker?”

“I am sorry to have kept you—”

“Miss Baker—”

“—but you must know how ardently I—”

“Thank you.” Will held up a staying hand, then—looking embarrassed at the uncivil gesture—dropped it. “I do thank you, but…”

His eyes caught on something behind her. Patty stood at the parlor door. Her maid really was a lax chaperone; she did not even bother to look up from her novel.

Will shook his head and whatever he muttered was too low to hear. Not that she could attend. His jawline was magnificent. Would it appear so even when he was not clenching it?

“Miss Baker, I’m sure you understand my eagerness in seeing your brother-in-law, having matters of actual importance to discuss.”

Matters of actual importance. Oh dear. She really ought to take offense at that. Very likely she would, later.

“Yes, of course,” she murmured.

***

Blast it! God—! Save him from virgins!

He’d hurt her feelings. Of course he had. He was a yak’s ass. A steaming pile of horse apples. A maggot in the—

“Jamie?” Miss Baker turned to the footman. “Mr. Repton was shown to the wrong room. Would you see him to Ben’s study?”

The footman’s lips bunched with smothered laughter and Will stared over the boy’s head. What matter if the lad was amused by the picture he made as one of her callers? God’s sake, the woman attracted the likes of a duke.

He had changed. He’d always been patient before. And slow to anger. And kind to women.

But damn it, weren’t servants supposed to be helpful?

“Yes, miss.” The sniggering footman set off down the hall. “This way, sir, if you please.”

Will inclined his head to Miss Baker, letting his eyes touch that beautiful face one last time. That beautiful, pouting—damn it—sad little face.

He bowed stiffly. “Thank you…for the tea, Miss Baker.”

Her eyes shot to his and her brilliant smile was blinding him again. “You’re welcome, Mr. Repton. And please do call anytime. Anytime at all.”

He stared. Did she just invite him to call? On her?

Perplexed, he walked away but something made him stop and look again.

Still there. Still beaming.

There was definitely something wrong with her.

And yet…

“Why?” he heard himself ask, frowning at his own stupidity.

Her head tilted in question. A trait of hers, then. A bloody adorable one. “Why did you read my reports?” he asked brusquely.

“You are a hero.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Good-bye, Miss—”

“But then because—” She glanced back at the parlor of admirers and, for the first time, her face wore a look of uncertainty. “Because I felt you were writing to me. And to me alone, and if I did not read every report as soon as they arrived, then you would be all alone. And not just feel alone, but truly…be alone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” he blurted.

But you were, a voice in his mind hissed. You were alone at the end.

“It is silly, I know.” Her blush deepened, but still she smiled. “Everyone tells me I am prone to fanciful notions. I realize those who actually experience have no need for fantasy. I am endeavoring to be such a person.”

She eyed him expectantly—hopefully—but he was at a complete loss. With a quick bow, he turned and left her in the hall.

Thank God the study was empty. He set down the plants and massaged the tension in his neck. At twenty-eight, he’d stared down the sheer wall of an eight-hundred-foot gorge but was shaken from a minute’s proximity to one happy…confusing chatterbox of a woman.

There was much to get used to again. Crowds, comforts, women. He and the crew had subsisted on the crudest food and meanest shelter, growing tough as the weathered hides they wore on their backs.

Yet rugged as they all were, he’d been the only one to survive...

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When you’re not writing, or reading, what is your go to activity for relaxation?

Susanne Lord — Wed, 14 Sep 2016 00:00:00 +0000

Writing and reading historical romance are my two modes of relaxation. Without them, I don’t relax. I do relax a little on my one vacation a year to England, but I’m thinking that’s not a great answer. Sleeping relaxes me. Can I say sleep?

There’s not a lot of time for relaxation because there’s always other demands on my time. Literally, every friend I’m thinking of at this moment would relate to that: a stay-at-home-mother of five, a social worker, an investigator for the Illinois DCFS, a university professor, a social media consultant, and a scriptwriter for corporate training programs. I think nearly every woman my age can relate to not having time to relax.

For the past 12 years, I’ve worked 45-50 hours a week as an advertising producer with continual deadlines. Some days are easier than others, of course. Others are worse. After work, there’s my writing and promoting the writing. Even snapping pictures during my day to share on facebook or twitter falls into family-friend-reader outreach, and that doesn’t really relax me, though it is less taxing on my brain. (So that may venture a little into the realm of fun, I suppose. Maybe. But not really.)

And I’m unmarried without children, or even a pet to feed or clean up after. Writers who juggle family commitments and full-time jobs and write more than two full-length books a year are like unicorns to me—no. They’re more like the claymation Medusa from the 1981 movie, Clash of the Titans. Remember her? With the snake-hair and rattle-snake tail and green, glowing eyes that almost turned Harry Hamlin to stone? That’s a little how I envision those women. Monsters who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. (They’re probably perfectly nice and fine. Probably.)

Okay, so if sleep isn’t an interesting answer, here’s another. On the nights I don’t write or read I go to a live theater. Theater in Chicago is the best in the world. The best. I can’t even listen to a New Yorker, Londoner or some artistic director from an avant-garde company in Amsterdam claim they’ve got the best city, because they’d be wrong. Also, sad and deluded and sad. Chicago is the best city for theater. I’m not talking musicals—totally different thing, Broadway kills it for musicals. But theater though. Our community of actors, directors, playwrights, set designers, dramaturgs, theater spaces and audiences are the best in the world. Period. It’s that simple.

All right. Maybe theater doesn’t relax me, either, as I’m getting puffed up just thinking about it. These days, maybe I don’t relax. I’m answering this question at nine o’clock on a Tuesday, in a conference room at my office, eating the second half of a Jimmy John’s sub that I bought for lunch. (Tuna salad doesn’t go bad that fast, right?) Like every other woman I know, I’ll relax when I go to bed tonight (with a book). So… can I say sleep? Yeah, I think I’m gonna have to say sleep.

Originally posted on FreshFiction.com, 14 September, 2016

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Top 5 Favorite Places to Travel Back in Time

Susanne Lord — Thu, 8 Sep 2016 00:00:00 +0000

My new historical is the story of an English explorer and a shy heroine who sail by steamship from England to Bombay, and back. Seth Mayhew and Wilhelmina Adams make the perilous journey for different reasons: Seth to find a lost sister, and Mina to wed a civil servant stationed in India. (Spoiler alert: Mina’s plans are gonna change.)

In 1851, that journey takes 99 days, with caravan travel across Egypt before getting back on a boat at Suez. In 2016, that journey takes 20 hours. There’s almost no place on the globe we can’t go, and yet there’s one country we’ll never reach. As Hartley famously wrote, ‘The past is a foreign country…’.

If only time-travel were possible! Instead, we rely on historians to understand how those foreign people of the past lived. Traveling in England, I’ve caught vivid glimpses of the past in five glorious places and wanted to share them with you.

Carlyle’s House, London

In 1834, Thomas Carlyle leased a house in Chelsea, a less posh area of London, to escape the more-fashionable crowds. Rather than retreat to the country, the literary superstar enjoyed entertaining metropolitan guests in his front parlor. Or, as many accounts suggest, holding forth as lesser writers, like Dickens and Thackeray, listened meekly.

The Harpur-Crewes were both shy of society and intellectually ravenous, so a secluded mansion-cum-museum was really perfect. Their amassed collection of art, books and zoological specimens was left largely intact, and in receiving these treasures, The National Trust decided to use Calke as an illustration of the decline of the aristocratic country house amidst crippling death taxes and the passage of time.

Rather than display the antiques prettily, the only preservation work has been to stop further deterioration. What’s left is a house frozen in time: marble busts shoved in a pantry, stuffed animal heads strewn across a bed, stables filled with crumbling carriages, and a gardener’s bothy with 19th century tools. There is a haunting sadness walking through those cluttered rooms, with your vision split between 18th century splendor, and the hopelessness of a family unable to keep their legacy intact.

Over 50 more images can be found on my pinterest board for Calke Abbey, if you'd like to see!

https://www.pinterest.com/slordauthor/calke-abbey/

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My Research in Writing DISCOVERY OF DESIRE

Susanne Lord — Tue, 6 Sep 2016 00:00:00 +0000

What kind of research did you do to write Discovery of Desire? What was the most interesting thing you discovered?

ORIGINALLY POSTED ON LORI'S READING CORNER, 5 September, 2016

Seth and Mina’s story begins in 1850’s Bombay (now called Mumbai) before returning to London, so I had a fascinating (and dark) history to research. In 1850, India was under British rule, a colonization made possible by the first forays into the territory by the East India Company, an organization that came into existence modestly-enough in the late 16th century and grew into a powerful, militarized, multi-national corporation.

The East India Company was the British government’s agent in India until 1857, and because of its long history of trade and foreign competition, the company had formed enormous security forces, and a vast administrative network. That meant English men in India, hundreds of soldiers and civil servants, with the means and desire to marry.

I had a really basic knowledge of India’s history, but somewhere along the way, I saw an article about a book by Anne de Courcy, titled The Fishing Fleet: Husband Hunting in the Raj. De Courcy had written a fascinating book about women in the late-19th and early-20th century who had travelled to India to marry the English civil servants, soldiers and businessmen living and making their fortunes in India.

But in reading that book, I learned that English women had been traveling to wed men in India for far longer than that. A couple centuries longer, in fact. These venture girls, as they were called, left their homes—prepared to leave them forever—in hope of marriage.

The prospect of life and marriage in India frightened some of the women, and thrilled others. Some regretted their choice, others found contentment. The reality of living in India for many meant living an isolated existence on remote plantations, or losing their children to illness, or sending them back to England to be educated and not seeing them for years on end.

As the daughter of an Okinawan woman who married a white American, and adopted a new country as her home, I was moved by the courage and struggles these women faced. While my mother flies to Okinawa from Chicago, via Tokyo, in about 15 hours, these women sailed for three months, over a dangerous ocean. When I think of all that they left, all the comforts of fluency in their native language, the easy understanding of their culture and humor and slang, the sense of acceptance and belonging living among your countrymen, I can’t help but mourn their lives a little.

Sending my heroine, Wilhelmina Adams, along with her sister, Emma, across that ocean to India, tearing them away from their five sisters in Chesterfield, England, to wed, to survive, I was reminded of those Venture Girls. Adventurous or desperate, their lives are endless fascinating and poignant.

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Setting DISCOVERY OF DESIRE outside of England

Susanne Lord — Mon, 5 Sep 2016 00:00:00 +0000

Discovery of Desire is set in a very unique location for a Victorian romance, what inspired you to set the book outside of England?

Originally posted on RAMBLINGS FROM THIS CHICK, 2 September, 2016

The beginning of Discovery of Desire is set in Bombay, and the second half returns my hero and his heroine to London, and parts north of London, in Derbyshire. I needed to send my explorer-hero, Seth Mayhew, away from England as he’s on a quest to find his lost sister. The search for Georgiana Mayhew, and an orphaned child, is at the center of a mystery that runs through the first three London Explorer books.

Seth, the burly, good-natured, handsome explorer for the East India Company, has just disembarked from a steamship from England and set foot on Bombay soil after a three-month sail—but he hasn’t sailed alone. The ship’s other passengers include nearly four-dozen “Venture Girls,” who are potential brides for the hundreds of Englishmen living and working in India. Among these hopeful women is Wilhelmina Adams, a woman from a neighboring village to Seth’s. The two had failed to meet both in England, though they were both in the same county, and during the sail, as passengers in steerage class (such as Seth) were strictly forbidden from entering the first class passenger’s areas (where Wilhelmina and the other Venture Girls spent their days and nights).

I could have sent Seth to China, Tibet, or Burma in search of his sister—I could have sent him nearly anywhere in Asia. But when I learned of the existence of these Venture Girls in the 18th and 19th century—these brave, perhaps desperate, women casting their fortunes to the wind and sailing east to marry—I had to put Seth on a boat to Bombay.

I’m sure a great deal of my interest in these women stems from the fact that I’m a product of two cultures: Okinawan and American. Having lived several years in both countries, and witnessing each of my parent’s experiences and struggles in a foreign culture, I feel a certain poignancy in imagining the lives of the Venture Girls, and all that they left behind. Only by the fortune of fate did I find myself a child of two stable, civilized and free countries. I can fly to Okinawa in around 15 hours, I can skype with my cousins, I can see pictures of their children on facebook.

But these women in 1850, leaving their home, sailing for three months over a dangerous sea, sailing into even a dangerous harbor, would have faced so much uncertainty. I had so many questions, wondering about the many reasons a woman would have found a new world more tenable than their existing one. Did they regret setting foot on that ship? What did they fear most? How did they change in dealing with their culture shock? Who was able to acclimate happily and kindly? Who grew bitter and hateful towards everything around them? What did they regret all their lives? Did they die wondering how much better or worse their lives would have been had they stayed in the country of their birth?

I tore Wilhelmina away from her home, her sisters, and the landscapes she loved. I made her afraid, but resolute. I made her strong in her love for her sister and for Seth, and put her on a course of sacrifice to serve the people she cared about. And then I gave her the happiest of endings, which not every Venture Girl had.

If you’d like to learn more about the lives of these women, I encourage you to read Anne de Courcy’s book, The Fishing Fleet.

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What Advice Would You Give Your Hero & Heroine?

Susanne Lord — Fri, 2 Sep 2016 00:00:00 +0000

First, it may help the readers of this blog to know a bit about my hero and heroine, Seth and Mina. Imagine them a little like Rocky Balboa and Adrian. At least, that’s how I sometimes imagined them. Seth is honest and kind and good to the core, but he’s a simple man who was raised in poverty. He’s physically powerful, but gentle. Expert at what he does, but not highly-educated. Mina is not as awkward as Rocky’s Adrian, but she is unassuming, and shy in the company of men.

Mina and Seth both witnessed the financial struggles of their parents and families. More than anything they fear poverty, and seek a safe, secure life—even if that means denying themselves love, desire, and friendship. Nothing can mean more to them than a warm place to sleep and food in their stomach.

So, shaped as they were by the struggles in their childhood, they are self-conscious of all they lack. Their lowly perceptions of themselves—Seth, as a man who lacks breeding, money and education, and Mina, as a woman whose worth is in being an efficient, economical homemaker—causes them to reason they are not worthy of love, and must endeavor only to find security. A belief that is entirely logical, but not at all true.

The advice I’d give Seth and Mina at the beginning of the book would fall on deaf ears, but here it is: If you’re lucky enough to find a person who is full of honor, who makes you smile, and who stirs your imagination into dreaming of a future that is more than just secure, more than just survival, then have faith in that relationship, even in the midst of all your practicality and fear. But neither of them would take that advice the day they meet in Bombay. They won’t be ready to believe that advice until they return to London.

The two of them almost lose each other in their determination to choose a safe, immediate option. There was an African proverb that kept coming to mind as I wrote Seth and Mina’s story: If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together. Together, they are stronger than they are apart. That’s the advice I’d give Seth and Mina, but their journey into heeding that advice is what makes up their love story in Discovery of Desire.

Originally posted on HARLEQUIN JUNKIES, 2 September, 2016

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The Best Writing Advice I Ever Received

Susanne Lord — Fri, 2 Sep 2016 00:00:00 +0000

Probably one of the best bits of writer’s “life” advice I received came from my editor, Deb Werksman, at Sourcebooks, who wisely told me: Don’t read the bad reviews. I’ll tell you if you’re doing something wrong. Reading reviews is crazy-making, and that goes for both good reviews and the bad ones. Sharing something you’ve written is a vulnerable space to live in and too often, romance writers question whether all the effort and emotion they put into their book is even worth it. But I can expand on Deb’s wonderful advice: don’t read other writer’s reviews, either. There is no truer adage in the business of writing than this: comparison is the thief of joy.

But when it comes to writing advice, Sol Stein’s books on craft are among my favorites. His books are loaded with great information—so much that it’s difficult to retrieve it all during the writing. During the revision stage, though, I have a little Sol Stein cheat sheet that I refer to.

The one guideline of his that I try to remember during the drafting is this: On every page, is there something active and visible?

That idea was simple enough to hold in my mind as I wrote, and it shifted my perspective. Writing became a little more like creating a play in my mind, where everything happens right in front of the audience. Or, in my case, in front of the reader. Dialogue is always active, so when I’m tempted to have my hunky, wounded hero brood and stare unseeing off into the horizon (because dreamy), I stop myself and ask whether or not I might have him talk or do something, so the reader can infer his emotion (and find him even dreamier).

Sol Stein says this is courteous to the reader, because it’s more fun for her. I don’t always accomplish it, but I see my favorite writers manage this quite often. There’s that saying that a writer starts the story, and the reader finishes it, so you have to give them the room to do that. Sol Stein’s books are among the ones I recommend to writers at any stage in their career.

Originally posted on The Sassy Bookster, 2 September, 2016

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My 5 Favorite Romance Authors

Susanne Lord — Mon, 29 Aug 2016 00:00:00 +0000

Mary Balogh was the writer who lured me into my love of historical romance. I started with Lord Carew’s Bride, and after that first wounded beta hero, I went on a Balogh-binge. I bought her entire backlist and read them all, and have bought every book since. Mary Balogh has the ability to transport me to my idealized view of rural, Regency England. The stone cottages, the small churches, the manor house of the wealthiest family in the village—no one conjures that landscape like Mary. The way in which her heroes and heroines adhere to Regency manner and custom, while still achieving their relationships, is always such a delight to read. I liken reading Mary Balogh to settling into my seat at a live theater—another of my passions—and knowing a favorite actor or actress is going to step on stage. You can just relax and enjoy, because you know she’s gonna be great. Mary Balogh is the gold standard.

Tessa Dare writes funny, hapless, talented, relatable women like no one else. The skill in how she paces and plots her stories is remarkable. There’s an effervescence to her books that make me forget my workday and smile (and sigh). The heroines are the stars of her stories, and I’ve always thought one of Dare’s greatest talents is creating just the right hero to shove into the heroine’s path.

Elizabeth Hoyt. What can I say about Elizabeth-take-all-my-money-Hoyt? I pre-order her books faster than any other author’s, because she hooks me with her openings like no one else, and keeps me hooked. Hoyt writes characters as Characters—unique and multi-faceted and eccentric. I fell in love with her hero Harry Pye, in The Leopard Prince. The hero is a common-born land steward who falls in love with an aristocratic Georgian lady, and the first line is my favorite for a class-crossing historical romance: “After the carriage wreck, and a bit before the horses ran away, Lady Georgina Maitland noticed that her land steward was a man.”

Jennifer Ashley. The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie. Enough said.

There is so much I admire about Courtney Milan. Before I had the good fortune to meet her, I’d read all her books, and thought them so beyond the realm of the historicals I’d been reading. But since I’ve embarked upon the business of publishing, I’ve witnessed how she embodies the best spirit of the writing community. She is a brilliant, fierce, outspoken champion for inclusiveness. She flings open doors left and right for so many authors who are writing in all sub-genres of romance—almost daily, it seems. Her books are among the cleverest historicals being written, but I have to count her among my favorite writers knowing the extent to which she guides (and drags and pushes and compels) authors and publishers into shaping a better publishing landscape for all writers and readers.

Originally posted at HART'S ROMANCE PULSE, August 29,2016

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The Two Covers of Discovery of Desire

Susanne Lord — Thu, 25 Aug 2016 00:00:00 +0000

Back in May, I joined a panel of historical romance authors to participate in a Q&A regarding our writing lives. Someone asked the question: How much control do you have over your book cover?

The answer is, a little.

I've got a little, the creative director at my publishing house has a little, as does the photographer who shoots the models, the retoucher who composites a background behind the characters and finishes the image with a beautiful, painterly effect, and the cover designer who assembles the art with the wording.

I assume my editor has a little, perhaps even the sales reps. In any case, A LOT of people put their two cents into the cover.

The process starts months before the first draft of my book is even turned in. I provide my publisher with cover direction. Things like descriptions of the characters, the essence of the book, the time period, and notable scenes. Here, below, is a screen grab of what I sent. My book begins with my London Explorer and his heroine arriving by ship in Bombay (now called Mumbai), before they return to England.

So you see the reference images I sent: steamships, a social club for East India Company men living in Bombay at the time, Victoria carriages and a scene of a marketplace.

Many didn't agree with me when I was a student at the University of Illinois in the '90s protesting the use of Chief Illiniwek as the school's mascot. The great majority saw nothing wrong in the use of an icon that they felt only honored Native American culture, and instilled pride in them. But I protested at the football games because I had doubt, and doubt is all it took. In truth, back then, I wasn't wholeheartedly against the mascot. The first time I saw the mascot's dance at an Illinois football game was pure theater for me, all excitement and thrills.

But I had doubt knowing the use of that mascot upset Native American people. If I couldn't articulate at the time that Chief Illiniwek, in his exotic headdress and rousing dance across a football field culminating in a stadium of Illini fans chanting 'chief!' and swinging their invisible tomahawks, was serving to turn a whole race of people into 'the other,' making them separate and exotic and different from me, I had enough doubt to at least know something was wrong.

There was enough doubt to think: maybe they're right.

So on this recent May day, when I arrived home, I emailed my agent and told her that I wanted to fix the cover. She immediately emailed my editor, and my editor and the publishing house jumped to see what they could do. They didn't question me, they acted, and I'll always appreciate them for that. The cover hadn't gone to print, though it was awfully close, so the situation was much easier to resolve. My publisher went back to the cover artist and gave me a beautiful new cover that I can look at again.

I realize some of you will not fully believe there was any issue to correct, but I hope if you've read this long post, you'll take a moment to consider that in asking to change the cover, maybe I was right, too.

I welcome your comments, and would be happy to share them and respond to them. Thank you for reading.

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Publishers Weekly reviews DISCOVERY OF DESIRE

Susanne Lord — Tue, 2 Aug 2016 00:00:00 +0000

"Lord builds a charming Victorian-era tale of romantic destiny on a subplot from her novel IN SEARCH OF SCANDAL.

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Kirkus Star for Discovery of Desire

Susanne Lord — Thu, 30 Jun 2016 00:00:00 +0000

"How do two lovers, with nary an aristocratic title or fortune between them, find their happy-ever-after in 1850s Bombay and London?

In this lovely historical romance, Lord (In Search of Scandal, 2015, etc.) presents her protagonists with the challenge of joint penury. Seth Mayhew is a world explorer who finds botanical specimens for the avaricious East India Company but has little to show for it except a cottage in need of repair. His current voyage to India, moreover, is not for work but to search for his missing sister and an orphaned baby. Wilhelmina "Minnie" Adams is one of several indigent sisters and has sailed to Bombay to marry a company bureaucrat in order to save her family from ruin. When she and Seth meet, the chemistry is unmistakable, but the question of how they could be together without ending up hungry and homeless haunts them both.

From such untenable circumstances, Lord builds a tender, layered narrative, shot through with moments of pathos and pleasure. When Minnie consoles Seth following his bewilderment at the East India Company's indifference to his sister's fate or when he sacrifices his heart for Minnie and her family's financial security, the novel distinguishes itself from the run-of-the-mill Victorian romance. Lord is even able to present a fairly accurate picture of 19th-century Bombay through descriptions of neighborhoods and the use of dialogue in Marathi; these touches enhance the plot rather than serving as exotic color, always a threat in novels set outside the Anglosphere.

If you like your romance with the sweetness of Mary Balogh's novels or the anguish of Sherry Thomas', this is one to cherish.

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Deleted Chapter of IN SEARCH OF SCANDAL

Susanne Lord — Thu, 25 Feb 2016 00:00:00 +0000

The original draft of In Search of Scandal contained even more brooding and tortured longing for Will and Charlotte. The following is the deleted Chapter 7. Charlotte has kissed Will (disastrously) at Spencer's dinner. The couple are again at odds. The lost scene occurs the next day at Hyde Park, as Will agonizes over the kiss, and waits for Charlotte to appear...

Hyde Park on a Saturday afternoon was where Will Repton came to battle his demons. He had too many demons, to be sure. Mammoth, immortal demons that could, at times, be quieted with work or exercise or, at times, drink. But this small demon—with heart-seizing blue eyes and an angel dress—he needed a clear head to fight, and a quiet bench along the Serpentine in the park was his battleground.

Why did she kiss him? Him?

Last night played over and over in his exhausted mind and he dropped his head in his hands. He needed sleep, any sleep. Even if it brought the usual dream.

Christ, now he knew the feel of her lips and the taste of her skin. He fisted his hair, welcoming the sharp pinch on his scalp. He deserved pain. He deserved worse.

A sudden breeze rustled the leaves in the tree above him, in agreement or censure. Aware of the pathetic spectacle he was making of himself, he sat up on the bench. But staring across the water, he saw only delphinium eyes. And her tears.

She’d kissed him. And he’d kissed her back.

Kissed her like he'd meant to stay.

The throbbing in his temples deepened. What did it matter? Spencer would propose. She would be a viscountess in the fall and he’d be where he belonged: on a boat for Tibet. Whatever madness had taken hold of them last night with the perfume of jasmine and peonies in the air was of no account.

Christ, how would he face her now? An apology was in order. Groveling and self-flagellation may be in order. And if Wallace and Ben learned of what had transpired, he should prepare for a sound beating and a matching limp for his other leg.

He could write her. Apologize and promise he’d not bother her again. And if she wanted him away…

The thought burned all the others to ash. If she told him to stay away, could he obey? He’d never see her. He’d never see Jacob in his little sailor suits. He’d never see any of them.

His heartbeat quickened. If he didn’t see her, what would he remember? The smell of her hair? Her white dress? Their dance? Her kiss? Would he turn every memory over and over in his mind as he did those that died in Tibet? If she left him so suddenly, so completely, like the others…

What would his crippled mind do with the memory of her?

Fear seeped through his skin. No, he didn’t want to remember her. He wanted to see her now. Now and every day until the day he had to leave—as he planned, as he prepared. As ordinary a parting as he could make it so he could free her to her future.

And to his past.

She wouldn’t vanish like the others. He’d apologize but he’d not stay away. Even if he had to see her out in the city. At the park with Jacob and his nurse.

As he was seeing her now.

Even expected as it was, the sight slammed through him, pinning him to the park bench. He didn’t know what to call what he was feeling, this overwhelming relief, this satisfaction, so he called it gratitude. Though ‘gratitude’ seemed too mild a word for what he’d been craving.

He’d waited two hours, knowing she came to the park on Saturdays so Jacob could sail his boats. The trio didn’t see him, seated as far as he was. Swans and ducks floated closer, curious over whether the new arrivals might offer food. With her remarkable grace, Charlotte gathered her skirts and dipped level with Jacob. The sun sparkled off the water behind them, blinding him with brilliance.

She laughed and Will's hand sought the handkerchief in his coat pocket that he’d used to blot her tears.

He’d made her cry. Charlotte Baker wasn’t meant to cry.

The knot in his chest loosened, his lungs seemed suddenly filled with air. Seeing her was enough. He rose to leave, and nearly made it to the path when familiar steps ran behind him. Jacob. The boy must have recognized his bloody limp.

“Mr. Repton!”

Jacob’s high, laughing voice arrested his step. Careful to set his face to a placid mien, he turned to the child.

“Jacob, hello.” His conjured surprise sounded entirely false.

Charlotte followed slowly, her eyes unreadable in the shadow of her bonnet.

“I’m going to sail my boat.” Jacob held aloft his toy sailboat. “Do you want to see it? It goes fast if there’s wind.”

Charlotte reached them and tipped her head to the boy, blocking her face from his sight. “Mr. Repton was leaving, Jacob. He must have an appointment somewhere.”

But the boy stood quiet, and his eyes were so hopeful, that at that moment, he didn’t much care about Miss Baker’s discomfort or his own. He could do one, small decent thing and maybe he’d sleep tonight.

He braced his knee against the protesting pain and sank onto his haunches. “That’s a fine ship. Let’s see it sail.”

The boy’s joy at the turn of events couldn’t be contained. He bounced down to the lake. “Over here, Mr. Repton.”

Charlotte turned to follow but he placed a staying hand on her arm. The nurse cast a curious glance at his hand on her lady’s arm but kept pace with Jacob down to the riverbank.

Charlotte avoided his gaze but her skin was pale and there were shadows beneath her eyes. If there was one thing he recognized, it was the face of a sleepless night.

“Miss Baker—”

“I apologize for last night.”

“No, I—”

“I acted without thought and only caused greater discord between us. Please forgive me for… everything. You have my promise I will not bother you again.”

His hand tightened on her arm. “I was wrong—”

“You were not wrong. Last night was… merely another of my fanciful notions.”

Before he could make sense of her words, she was walking to join the others by the water.

Was that it? Would she not let him make amends?

“Look, Mr. Repton!” Jacob clapped as the sailboat swayed drunkenly on the water toward an indignant duck, his little fist holding the string attached to the bow.

Charlotte smiled and the nurse was clapping and in raptures over its buoyancy. The best he could manage was an approving nod as he walked to join them. “That’s a yar ship.”

Jacob handed him the string, his little fingers soft and damp in his palm. “You can sail it, Mr. Repton.”

Will looked at the string in his hand, then at the boy squinting up at him against the sun, and then his heart cracked right in two.

Oh damn. Damn, damn, damn.

He was exhausted, overwrought. It was this business with Charlotte. The boy smiled at him, sharing his perfect child’s joy. Little Emile smiled like—enough.

“Jacob, I have an appointment I must get to.” He put the string back into the child’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you for letting me sail your ship.”

Will walked away as quickly as he could. Jacob called ‘goodbye’ but he didn’t turn. It was all he could do not to run.

He'd almost made the bridge when a dog began to bark, and a child’s terrified cry pierced the wind.

And it sounded like the cry of an almost five-year-old.

He looked back—and this time, he did run.

A large dog was bearing down viciously on Jacob, who’d fallen on his bottom and was scrambling to his feet to flee. Charlotte and the nurse hurried after him but Jacob was screaming and running blind.

“Jacob!”

Will zigzagged past confused strollers frozen on the grass, losing sight of the boy between the bodies. His eyes tracked ahead… to the bridle path.

Blood pounding in his ears, he streaked toward Rotten Row and caught the boy seconds before he ran into the crush of riders. Hauling him into his arms, he hugged the child’s shaking body against his chest. “I’ve got you, Emile, I’ve got you.”

His heart was pounding, but not from the run. Panic swept him. The dog bit him—bit something off him. “I’ve got you. You’re all right.”

The boy wrapped tight arms around his neck and released a shattering, high-pitched scream straight into his ear—God, no! The children, where are the—?

Will wavered on his feet but caught himself before he fell. Paralyzed with dread, with memory, he was only dimly aware that Charlotte and the nurse had reached them.

“Oh, love. Oh my love, are you all right?” Charlotte was flushed and panting from her run. Her voice reached him through a tunnel, but she was warm and real against his side. “Did that dog scare you?”

Scare him? He opened his mouth to speak but no sound emerged. Jacob’s cries subsided and his face burrowed against Will’s neck.

He couldn’t look down, couldn’t look to see what he was sure he’d see. He stared straight at Charlotte standing a breath away, begging her wordlessly to help him. “The ground,” he croaked. “The ground.”

Her eyes settled on his face and sharpened with worry. Firm and steady hands cupped his cheeks. “He’s fine. Jacob is fine. Just frightened. He’s not hurt.”

“He’s not hurt.” He spoke aloud, not asking. Just needing the words to be true.

She came closer, bracing him with her hands, and he focused on her face.

This would pass, the other times passed. He would wait and breathe and stay on his feet, and it would pass.

“No, he’s not hurt.” Her eyes were huge with concern but she didn’t look away or release him.

Will gulped in a breath. He shifted the boy higher into his arms to look into his red, tear-stained face, his lips still trembling. No blood. No torn flesh. No ripped shirt or pants or shoes. Jacob was just frightened.

Just frightened. Thank God.

He patted Jacob’s back with a trembling hand that spanned the boy’s entire back. His little body was so small, so vulnerable. Not Emile. He blinked and the picture of a six-year-old boy lying on the frozen ground in Tibet flashed. He jerked, forcing his eyes wide to drive the picture away. A picture he couldn’t see right now. Not when he was holding Ben and Lucy’s precious son.

That wasn’t a demon he could fight.

“I don’t know what come over Ripley.” A withered voice came from two feet below him.

Will looked down at an old woman, with the big dog on a lead. Jacob turned his head and hugged him harder.

The woman smiled remorsefully. “My dog don’t mean no harm, but the old boy don’t hear good anymore. The little tyke surprised him and he barks loud cause he don’t hear himself.”

The nanny scrubbed the now-gentle dog’s big head. “Well that makes sense. He was just scared.”

Charlotte leaned close to whisper to Jacob. “Did you hear that, sweetest? The dog couldn’t hear you and he barked because he was frightened.”

Jacob’s voice was small. “He was scared of me?”

“Yes, love, but he’s not a bad dog.”

Jacob peeked down at the dog, and the mongrel looked back meek and sad as if he knew of all the commotion he’d caused.

“I’m sorry he scared your boy,” the old woman said to him before she walked away.

It was a natural assumption, and no one paid any notice, but her words lodged like a stone in his belly. He couldn’t protect him. Not him, not Emile, not anyone. Not little Aimee.

“Can we go home, Aunt Charlotte?” Jacob asked.

“Are you sure? Do you want to stay and sail your boat?” Charlotte asked.

Close as she was, her crisp perfume comforted him. The same scent from last night. He’d thought it was the peonies.

“Everybody saw me cry,” Jacob said.

The boy looked miserable and Will held him a little tighter. “So what if they did?” He paused to temper his defensive tone. “Everyone knows it’s bloody awful to be barked at by a huge dog. And look how quick you stopped crying.”

Charlotte’s eyes slid to his at the impolite word, which Will had no choice but to ignore. Jacob’s eyelashes were spiky with tears and his grey eyes scanned his for any falsehood. Seeing none, he wiped his eyes with a pudgy hand.

Charlotte kissed the boy’s cheek again, which brought her near Will’s lips. Stupidly, he wanted one small kiss of his own.

“My sweet boy,” Charlotte murmured. “Let’s go sailing, all right?”

Will bent to set the boy on his feet, holding him a second longer to ensure the boy’s legs steady beneath him. “Jacob?”

“Yes, Mr. Repton?”

“Don’t say ‘bloody.’”

Jacob nodded.

Will straightened on his own swaying legs. In the commotion, the nurse had retrieved Jacob’s boat and now took the child’s hand from his. He didn’t want to look at Charlotte. He'd never wanted her to see him like that.

“There’s a bench over there,” Charlotte said. “Will you sit a moment?”

Charlotte was handling him like a ninety-year old, which is exactly how he felt. But he couldn’t let the boy out of his sight. Not just yet. “Yes, I’ll sit.”

He dropped to the bench, his knee rigid, and Charlotte sat beside him, her face drawn in concern. “You’ve been cried upon rather a lot the past twenty-four hours. I am sorry we are so wearying on your nerves.” She offered a small smile but it didn’t last. “You look quite pale, Mr. Repton.”

He shook his head, unable to say what he felt, what he remembered. Charlotte somehow knew not to press him, knew to sit quietly and let him recover.

The sun was shining and a breeze from the river buffeted his jacket open and stirred his hair. A peaceful Saturday afternoon. And he felt no peace. London, and he saw it from half a world away and felt it with a stranger’s body.

Charlotte took up his hand and held it on her lap. Warm. That he could feel. He closed his eyes and, thank God, there was nothing. Just the sun, at last, hot on his face and the smooth cotton of her gloved hand holding his. He was so tired. But he deserved no rest.

He pulled his hand from hers.

“I… I’m sorry.” Charlotte straightened from him and rose. “I promised… I’ll not disturb you any longer.” She started for the river.

He should let her go, he should. He was broken. He was almost certainly mad. But Goddamn it—couldn’t he have one balm for his days? He didn’t deserve it; they were the scraps of another man’s feast. But just for a while? Just while he was here? “Miss Baker?”

She stopped but didn’t turn. He parted his lips to speak, but there wasn’t one question he could truly ask.

Perhaps only the smallest one.

“Do you think… we might ever manage to be friends?”

She didn’t answer right away. Nor did she turn around. And only then he realized how perilously high his hopes had climbed.

“No, Mr. Repton,” she said quietly. “I can no longer imagine it.”

PUBLISHED CHAPTER SEVEN

On the third Wednesday of each month, Lady Henrietta Abernathy invited a select group of two dozen, like-minded ladies to her front parlor to discuss the serious topics of the day…

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27 London Explorer Fast Facts at Pinterest

Susanne Lord — Thu, 7 Jan 2016 00:00:00 +0000

My favorite promotion for IN SEARCH OF SCANDAL was the "London Explorer Fast Facts" that appeared on various blogs and on twitter and facebook. I had a lot of fun going back through all my notebooks and index cards of research to find those factoids I thought were most interesting. (And then pairing them with some beautiful graphics, courtesy of the British Library's 'Flickr Common' album of over 1 million digitized images now in the Public Domain.)

To visit my Pinterest account, click here: https://www.pinterest.com/slordauthor/london-explorer-fast-facts/. I hope you enjoy them!

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Where is Your Go-To Place to Write?

Susanne Lord — Sat, 19 Dec 2015 00:00:00 +0000

As an author with Sourcebooks, I’m fortunate to have been granted the talents of a lovely publicist, Amelia, to help me launch my book. Poor lady. She’s forced to brainstorm ways to promote a complete unknown, and one of the many suggestions she made was that I might write about ‘my go-to place to write.’

Well. I was doubtful that anyone would care as I don’t have a rustic cabin in Maine or house overlooking the Atlantic with a Labrador and cool collection of sea glass in the windowsill. But she is working very hard, and I need all the exposure I can get, so I’ll give it a go. You might want to get comfortable.

I live in Chicago and I don’t have a picturesque space to write. Instead, I have rituals and routines. There are diets, legal drugs and superstitions at play, plus an insufferable self-involvement that doesn’t reflect well on me. But since Amelia asked…

Before I sold THE LONDON EXPLORERS series, I would happily write at coffee shops around Chicago. I wrote the “book of my heart” (Ben’s story, which pre-dates IN SEARCH OF SCANDAL) sitting in various Starbucks around Chicago.

After I was taken on by an agent and given direction and deadlines, I still needed the caffeine but, more importantly, a place without distractions. While writing, I can’t tolerate other people’s chatter, bad music (or awesome music) and icy air conditioning. My home is too full of the temptations of other books, and smudges on the glass desk that I really need to windex, and new lemon-anything recipes. So I had to find a place to write, but I also had to follow a routine.

As I work full-time, the bulk of my writing is done on weekends and that routine hasn’t really changed in the past few years. I wake and shower, drink a glass of iced coffee, and have avocado on toast for breakfast because… you know, brain food.

After dressing in one of the three time-tested, pre-assembled ‘writing-friendly’ outfits, I walk to the corner Starbucks, buy my coffee and walk the four miles from my neighborhood to my downtown writing space. The route is always the same. I walk past a pond that reminds me of the English countryside. I pass a 20th century conservatory that puts me in mind of Kew and the traveling botanists. Along the way, a lovely statue of Hans Christian Anderson makes me sad for The Little Mermaid, and there are a few blocks of historic homes in Chicago’s Gold Coast that elicit a block of homes in a Holland Park neighborhood I once saw in London.

By the time I reach my workplace, I am prepared to start. (You’ll note that I’m not actually disclosing where I work as I must preserve my secret sanctuary. It’s Chicago. Quiet don’t come easy.) I sit at a large table, play classical music, drink coffee and eat hard-boiled eggs. And when a deadline looms, I guiltily add Red Bull to the mix.

But for all my anti-social behavior, the best aspect of the space are my writer-friends—two women who are working towards MFAs at Northwestern. (Yes, Northwestern. They impress me, too.) I socialize with them outside of our writing room, so we don’t waste much time chatting. (And there have been chatterers in the past. They weren’t invited back.) We watch each others' things as one of us goes to the bathroom, ask how the writing’s going and answer in as abbreviated a manner as possible, and ignore each other as we stare into space creating. They are wonderfully focused writers and never distract me, as they’re busy doing things like analyzing Nabokov or INFINITE JEST and I’m flipping through a thesaurus for another word for ‘turgid.’ (I’m kidding.)

I would go into the weekday writing routine, but I imagine you’re already a bit sorry and let down from reading the other bit. Actually, I probably should have protected my ‘author mystique’ a little and put in some stuff about scented candles and Moleskine notebooks and deleted that bit about the eggs.

But despite knowing how very dull the writer is, I hope you enjoy reading my debut, IN SEARCH OF SCANDAL, this December. I would hate to let Amelia down.

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Who is my Favorite Victorian Explorer?

Susanne Lord — Mon, 14 Dec 2015 00:00:00 +0000

In the weeks leading up to the release of my first book, I was asked to prepare answers to interview questions that, on the surface, seem entirely pertinent and natural and relatively easy.

Well. They're not easy for me. 'Where did you get the idea to write your book?' completely stumps me. I can sort of make up an answer, but it might change from week to week and no one wants to listen to me try. Susan Elizabeth Phillips answered that question once with, "From a warehouse in Tucson," which was fantastic and funny, as she is fantastic and funny. If I were to borrow that quip, I think folks would respond with, 'damn, girl, I was just asking.'

The 'how long have you been writing romance' question just… I just can’t. I guess Barbie, Ken and Rika-chan (the Japanese 'barbie') endured some torturous heartbreaks at my hands. Then there were the angst-filled teen diaries. A few playwriting efforts didn’t feel right as I couldn’t control every, single thing. I suppose my first completed work was a WWII romance novella that will never be published. At least, not by Avon Impulse.

Then there are the questions I was given by the publicist assigned to me (poor woman). The first being a perfectly appropriate question that I, again, couldn't answer easily.

I could've lied and just said David Livingstone, and folks would nod and we'd all get on with our lives. Instead, I muddled through something truthful and thought I might share here...

Originally posted on KiltsandSwords.com, 12/4/15. (Thank you, Kilts and Swords, for hosting me!)

This is not an easy question to answer. Kind of a touchy subject, really, if you start delving into the Opium Wars and British Imperialism and religious conversion of native populations and all that. I’ll leave that to other forums, as far better brains than mine have scrutinized those topics.

But even keeping my answer within the realm of the individual, the men and women who sailed to distant lands were motivated by the same things that would motivate any of us: money and ego, security and celebrity. In reading memoirs and accounts of their lives, you find explorers who were all-too human and fallible, governed by self-interest, greed and envy. And through a 21st century lens, what they recorded was often marred by racial and cultural prejudice and a disturbing hegemony.

Exploration was rarely a selfless, humanitarian undertaking, and I find it impossible to argue the history of exploration wasn’t also greatly a history of exploitation. These traveling scientists, surveyors, anthropologists and missionaries were world-changers—for good or ill.

Yet when I lower the volume on my jaded, 21st century voice, and reflect on their achievements and contributions to the collective of human knowledge, there is so much that lures me to those men and women. In them you find amazing acts of survival, intelligence and talent, compassion and sacrifice, and of course, courage. Mountains of courage.

Victorian-era explorers sailed for months over nightmarishly deep, dark oceans. Their ships froze in arctic ice. Cholera killed them in the jungles. Native people killed them for their trespassing. Many left their homes knowing there was a better than average chance they wouldn’t return, or return with their health permanently ruined.

Even the notion of venturing to a foreign land with little ability to communicate and no easy access to information is anxiety-forming for me. I don’t do road trips for fear of reckless drivers, cruises for fear of disease, and don’t even get me started on my phobia of airplane trays.

So for all my conflicted feelings towards them, the emotion that usually edges out the others is admiration. But I can’t name a favorite. What I can do is list the explorers who are most closely linked to my character, Will Repton.

Robert Fortune was a Scottish plant hunter who travelled to China in 1848 for the East India Company. Disguising himself as a Chinese man (yes, really), he was able to learn tea-processing methods and transport thousands of tea plants to Calcutta, which provided the source plants for the cultivation of tea in India. And as for the massacre that occurs in THE LONDON EXPLORERS series, that grisly inspiration was provided by the experiences of another Scottish botanist, George Forrest, and the murders and atrocities that occurred during the 1905 Tibet Rebellion. I learned a great deal of about Tibet from the memoir of Susanne Carson Rijnhart—a Canadian missionary—in her attempt to reach Lhasa.

I’ll never meet those men and women so I’d never presume to judge or pretend to know their hearts. Even bent to the cynical as I am, I have tried to remember what explorer Richard Burton wrote in his 1856 notes on exploring the Lake Regions of Central Africa and Zanzibar, and it is a sentiment no one would object to:

“Of the gladdest moments, methinks, in human life, is the departing upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one effort the fetters of habit, the leaden weight of routine…and the slavery of Civilization, Man feels once more happy… Afresh dawns the morn of life, again the bright world is beautiful to the eye, and the glorious face of Nature gladdens the soul. A journey…appeals to Imagination, to Memory, to Hope…”

Whatever the motivations of those past explorers, we remember that the world is not, and has never been, black and white. I hope you find the London Explorer series full of characters that are as complex and fascinating as their real-life counterparts

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What Was Your Favorite Scene to Write? (In Search of Scandal)

Susanne Lord — Mon, 7 Dec 2015 00:00:00 +0000

All right, it’s immodest but I have never been able to pinpoint a favorite scene in IN SEARCH OF SCANDAL. I enjoy every scene in the book—now. I won’t lie and tell you that revising was a joy, but as a new author, I had to revise and re-work continually. I’d still be rewriting if my publisher didn’t insist on that deadline. But there came a point in the revising process when I realized how much the story was improving with the heaps of editorial feedback I received.

But if I have to choose, there’s one scene in IN SEARCH OF SCANDAL that evolved more easily than others: the ‘marriage negotiation.’

During a house party in the country, Will and Charlotte are caught in the woods come nightfall. Without a lantern, the trek home is too dangerous to attempt. They seek shelter in a decorate hermitage. (Yes, convenient. Perhaps you guessed the little folly was also equipped with a cozy fireplace and bed.) Come dawn, Will and Charlotte’s return to the house is witnessed by the other house guests. Lest Charlotte’s reputation be ruined, Will decides he should marry her to present a picture of sincerely-committed lovers.

Both Will and Charlotte are of two minds over the proposal—both wanting and fearing the union. Will fears the deepening intimacy between them, but also wants to be with the woman who brings happiness into his life in the midst of his depression. Charlotte is hurt by the idea that Will only offers marriage out of a sense of responsibility, but wants to experience marriage with her dream man for any amount of time. Charlotte’s yearning for adventure spurs her to accept Will. But only if he agrees to a few terms first…

“I will marry you, and I will thank you for it,” Charlotte said.

He swept her face cautiously. “All right.”

“But I have requirements.”

He stood very still. Then with a quick nod of his head, he widened his stance and crossed his arms. “Yes, of course. Name them.”

“Yes…I, uh…” Was she really doing this? “They are conditions, actually, which are perhaps more forceful than requirements. And they are not negotiable, but before you become too alarmed, there is only one—no, three—that I demand. I suppose ‘demands’ would be the more appropriate term if we are to—”

“Charlotte. The conditions?”

“Yes, right.” She clasped her hands to keep from fidgeting. “First, you must agree to talk to me.”

“Talk?”

“Conversation, I mean. A half hour each day and not warnings about the weather. And I should like it to be uninterrupted, and you should initiate the topic from time to time.”

“Because?”

She raised her brows, hoping to disguise her nervousness with annoyance. “Because that is what a wife would naturally require and this particular conversation will grow tedious if you question every condition I set forth.”

He pursed his lips, studying her face as if he might discover her reasoning there. Seeing nothing in her careful expression, he frowned. “Fine.”

“Second…”

“Second?”

She heard Wally’s words again. She’d not forgotten a one: He loved me as I loved him, and there was not a day we let pass without telling each other that. It was in every embrace…in every good morning and good night…

“Charlotte?”

“I require you bid me good morning and good night. Every day. With a kiss.”

Will blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, mulling her demand for a thoroughly insulting amount of time.

“Oh, honestly! It is not as if I have asked you to wear a pink pinafore and skip through Hyde Park with a hoop and stick.”

He sighed. “All right, agreed. And third?”

She began to speak, then had to start again. “We will sleep in the same bed.”

“Absolutely not. What happened this morning would only happen again.”

“And?” she asked, heartsore at his reaction.

His mouth dropped open to speak, but no sound came out.

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Best First Historical Nominee at RT Book Reviews

Susanne Lord — Wed, 11 Nov 2015 00:00:00 +0000

On such a poignant day (Veteran's Day), I was so surprised to receive the news that In Search of Scandal has been nominated for Best First Historical by RT Book Reviews. So thankful for their generous review.

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Booklist says "A Delightful Debut!"

Susanne Lord — Thu, 29 Oct 2015 00:00:00 +0000

Thank you to Booklist for the lovely review!

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4.5 Stars from RT Book Reviews!

Susanne Lord — Thu, 22 Oct 2015 00:00:00 +0000

Thank you, RT Book Reviews, for the wonderful review!

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