Happily Ever After Writing Romance
Rebecca Thomas
I enjoy a love-hate relationship with Alaska, where I live with my husband and two teen-aged sons. While I struggle with some aspects of the 49th state (darkness, cold) I have grown to appreciate the unique things the last frontier has to offer (no...
Having fun in #Alaska
Taken by my friend from his porch at 3am
Happy first day of spring! Now is the perfect time to start planning a visit to America’s gorgeous public lands. Pictured here is a meadow of wildflowers at Mount Rainier National Park in Washington at sunset. Photo by Danny Seidman (www.sharetheexperience.org).
Excerpt from THE EARL’S CHRISTMAS COLT
Incredulous, Arabella glared at her brother. He’d chosen her husband without her consent? Without considering it necessary to ask her? “I thought I was going to attend the season. I thought I would have a choice.”
“I gave you a choice last season and you wouldn’t select anyone, so now it’s up to me. The London season doesn’t suit you, I understand that. I do. You’d rather be in the stable with your precious horses than in a ballroom dancing.”
“Perhaps that’s true but—”
“Let me finish. You’re well past a debutante’s age, need I tell you? I’ve not pushed the issue because of Father’s death, but he’s been gone over two years now. It’s time you marry. Trust me, Arabella,” he said, his tone softening. “I would only select someone whom I believe you would be compatible with.” With a hopeful smile, he extended his hand.
Decorum insisted she take it, while the stubborn part of her recognized his action for what it was–coercion. With a few words and a touch, he expected her to give up her dreams and instead follow the path he’d chosen. She’d found little interest in the season, and knew this day was coming, but she just didn’t expect it today.
“He needs to be a fine horseman,” she said, “or you know we won’t get on well.”
Irritation flashed in his eyes. “I know what kind of person suits you. Give me some credit. He’s an earl, holds several other titles, and he’s next in his line to inherit a dukedom.” Arrogance curved his smile. “You should thank me. You’re engaged to a future duke.”
Any normal noblewoman would be thrilled at the prospect of marrying a duke, but all Arabella could imagine was how her freedoms would be taken from her.
“I’ve never met a single duke I liked.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
Will gazed skyward, snorted, and shot her a look of disgust. “My beloved sister—more concerned whether her future husband is good with horses, than his pedigree, title, or fortunes.”
“Why has this duke agreed to marry me?”
Will straightened his coat. “He isn’t a duke yet, but he’s a good man, Bella.”
Her suspicions grew. Bella? The shortened form of her name Will used only when he tried to get his way. “If he is such a catch, then why isn’t he selecting a young debutante in London?”
“He’s not the type to go courting debutantes. He’s a very private man, and an old friend of mine.”
Annoyance churned within her. An old friend, which equaled some deplorable scheme. Or, something was wrong with the man. “How old is he?”
“Four and thirty.”
The image of a bloated, decrepit man who drank in excess came to mind. She wanted to strangle her brother. “He’s nearly three feet from the grave.”
“If that’s your opinion, then I’m two feet from the grave.”
Perhaps he’d slip and fall in. Inwardly chastising her errant thoughts, she asked, “He’ll be requiring heirs?”
“Isn’t that why every man marries,” her brother replied too smoothly. “At least a man of his rank. You haven’t even met him yet. Don’t judge him so harshly.”
“Don’t judge him so harshly? You decide to step in and dictate my life and expect me to thank you? To offer no judgment? Tell me,” Arabella said, all thoughts of easing her brother’s burden forgotten and her anger building, “did this almost duke find my lineage up to his standards?”
“Bella—”
“Don’t Bella me. Blast it, I feel like breeding stock.” Her mind spun with outrage. “And he’s agreed to marry me without having met me?”
“Yes. It isn’t so unusual.”
His mild tone grated her further. She didn’t want to discuss this right now; she needed time to think, to sort everything out. Arabella turned and headed toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Out…riding. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Don’t be glib with me. I can see your intention to ride, but it’s going to rain and it’s cold enough to turn to snow.”
“And now you care? Tell me, is it because I am your sister, or for what you will receive through this arrangement?”
His face reddened. “You’re being difficult.”
“No,” she said without apology, “I’m a woman who just learned she’s to marry a stranger, nearly an old man, and leave behind everything she knows, without her permission.” She yanked on her riding gloves.
http://www.entangledpublishing.com/the-earls-christmas-colt/
1842, Liverpool, England
Ally’s steps slowed and she glanced between buildings. Lightning flashed in the distance, temporarily rendering her blind against the black of night. She peered down the street, seeking any signs of movement. Carefully, she set the rifle down to tighten the belt holding up her trousers. She double-checked her cap, making sure no strands of hair fell loose.
After she was positive no one followed her, she picked up her rifle and crept along the stable’s back entrance. An ominous boom of thunder rumbled and a drizzle of rain spit across her cheeks. She paused, lingering in the shadows of the stable, waiting for any sign of people.
She leaned her shoulder against the door, gripping her rifle in one hand and a lantern in the other, and stepped inside. Wariness grazed her spine as she studied each hinged gate along the dirt walkway. Licking the rainwater from her lips, she gazed into the last stall on the right at the colt.
The young sorrel lay on his side, his body thrashing. Terror blazed in his dark brown eyes. He struggled to stand. His back leg was splinted and wrapped and unable to support his weight. Ally set the lantern down beside the colt with trembling hands. A wave of nausea overcame her. She clutched her stomach and willed her nerves to settle.
A spattering of rain sounded on the roof in a low steady hum. She pressed the cool base of the rifle stock against her cheek and hardened her resolve to do what must be done. The metal from the trigger burned into her finger. Gently, she placed the tip of the barrel against the colt’s temple. The colt’s dark eyes widened.
Time stopped.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered in a raspy puff of breath.
She steadied her hold on the rifle.
The colt looked at her as though he understood, as though he’d already forgiven her.
“I can’t do it.” The rifle slipped from her hands. She fell to her knees and retched.
Defeated, she dropped her chin to her chest and cried. How could anyone let an animal suffer so? She had to take him out of his misery. She had to.
A loud crash at the front stable door jolted Ally from her despair. Footsteps followed the screech of gate hinges.
“You there, boy—” The man pointed a slim finger at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Her blood turned cold in a jolt of recognition. She knew that face: Harrison Cross, the Earl of Linford. “M—Milord, I was just attending to this colt.”
“You.” A murderous rage flashed in the depths of his ice blue eyes.
She knew those eyes and she prayed he didn’t recognize her.
Cantwell, Alaska
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North America’s highest peak, Mt. McKinley!