Author Interview & Book Giveaway: Katy Towell on CHARLIE AND THE GRANDMOTHERS

This week, we're pleased to welcome author KATY TOWELL with her latest middle-grade novel, CHARLIE AND THE GRANDMOTHERS, set in turn of the century Victorian England. The author will offer one free copy of the novel to a lucky visitor.  Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's author interview. Winner(s) are contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb.

Charlie and Georgie Oughtt have been sent to visit their grandmother Pearl, and this troubles Charlie for three reasons. The first is that he's an exceptionally nervous twelve-year-old boy, and he worries about everything. The second is that the other children in his neighborhood who pay visits to their grandmothers never seem to return. And the third is that Charlie and Georgie don't have any grandmothers. It turns out a visit to grandmother’s house has never been so frightening…

**Q&A with Katy Towell**

What was your inspiration for Charlie and the Grandmothers?

I love writing for the underdog. My first book--Skary Children and the Carousel of Sorrow--was about outcasts and their struggles with both supernatural evil and basic schoolyard bullies. This time I wanted to focus on kids who know anxiety and trauma. I was one of those overly anxious kids, and I saw close friends deal with devastating life experiences. We didn't really have any storybook heroes with whom we could identify. Most children's book protagonists are fearless despite everything being thrown at them, which is a nice ideal, but you can't possibly live up to it! Charlie and the Grandmothers is for kids like us. 

Why do you think it's good for kids to confront their fears?

Avoiding your fears just gives more power to what scares you, and avoidance leaves you unprepared when you have no choice but to deal with a frightening situation. Life is full of those situations, and they aren't always negative. Love can be scary, too--what if something happens to your loved ones?--but life would be incredibly sad without it. If you don't confront your fears, you could also missing out on something great!

What was the process of creating the illustrations for your book?

I'm inspired by the incredibly detailed and slightly unsettling work of late 19th/early 20th century illustrators like Harry Clarke, Aubrey Beardsley, and Kay Nielsen. Since Grandmothers is set   in the very early 1900s, I wanted to bring some of that aesthetic into the art while making it accessible for a younger audience. I probably did at least 2 or 3 complete versions of every single illustration before calling any one of them "done." I always sketch a rough version of everything, then I use a light box to trace the good parts from my rough sketches for the real thing, and then it's several hours of inking per drawing. And if I'm not happy with the final result, that means starting all over again. My fingers were stained black for days after finishing Charlie and the Grandmothers.

What do you want readers to take away from your book?

First and foremost, I want them to have fun reading it. That's the most important thing, and even fear can be fun. But I also want them to learn that there's nothing wrong with them for being scared or depressed sometimes. It doesn't make them any less capable of being a hero than those seemingly unflappable kids in other stories.

What was your biggest challenge in writing the book?

Finding a way to show Charlie's frazzled nerves and the history behind his nervous disposition while keeping the story fun and exciting was a small mountain to climb, so I'm thankful to my editor, Erin Clarke, for helping to direct me down the right path there. 

What's your favorite scary book?

I love so many! But I think Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes will always be my #1. 

About the Author

Katy Towell is the creator of the Childrin R Skary website and animated shorts ("The Mockingbird Song," "Ida's Luck," "The Little Girl Who Was Forgotten By Absolutely Everyone (Even The Postman)"). She is also a graphic designer, writer, and illustrator in Portland with dreams of one day being the scary old lady in the house about which all the neighborhood children tell ghost stories.

Connect with Katy at:
Website: scary.com  

Facebook: facebook.com/childrinskary  

Twitter: @katytowell   

Tumblr: katytowell.tumblr.com  

YouTube: youtube.com/katytowell

Excerpt Thursday: CHARLIE AND THE GRANDMOTHERS by Katy Towell

This week, we're pleased to welcome author KATY TOWELL with her latest middle-grade novel, CHARLIE AND THE GRANDMOTHERS, set in turn of the century Victorian England. The author will offer one free copy of the novel to a lucky visitor.  Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's post  or Sunday's author interview. Winner(s) are contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb.

Charlie and Georgie Oughtt have been sent to visit their grandmother Pearl, and this troubles Charlie for three reasons. The first is that he's an exceptionally nervous twelve-year-old boy, and he worries about everything. The second is that the other children in his neighborhood who pay visits to their grandmothers never seem to return. And the third is that Charlie and Georgie don't have any grandmothers. It turns out a visit to grandmother’s house has never been so frightening…

**An Excerpt from Charlie and the Grandmothers**

February came, and a colder, darker February Charlie could not recall. He already loathed the month as it was. His worst dreams plagued him relentlessly on the snowy nights of February. And now the sun had begun to set as early as noon while the snow fell so heavily that one had to bat the stuff out of the way in order to see where one was going. As usual, nobody found this as alarming as Charlie.

“The days are always shorter in winter,” reasoned Mother.

“All this gorgeous snow and not one friend around to throw a ball of it at,” Georgie harrumphed.

Charlie shook his head impatiently after the umpteenth round of this and swore to himself he’d give up while wondering why he bothered at all. But he knew very well why he bothered. He bothered because he believed in every one of his bones that some evil lurked in those snowy black nights, and if he closed his eyes too long, it would come in and snatch away all that he loved. In truth, he had always felt so, but everyone told him not to let his imagination run away with him. Now that the night came so unnaturally early, and what with all the kids he knew drifting away, Charlie couldn’t be satisfied that all his years of fearful expectation were the product of his nervous fancy.

So, night after night he waited, hunched over his favorite encyclopedia volume with a candle and a mug of hot black coffee to keep him awake. Morning after morning, Mother would find him shivering under his blankets and would have to promise him that whatever threat he had perceived was now long gone with the morning sun.

But then came the darkest night of them all.

It was a distinct and almost tangible darkness that made the hair stand up on Charlie’s neck. It jolted him from his reading and compelled him to peek through his curtains where he saw, to his great alarm, nothing. No street lamps, no wandering beam from the distant lighthouse. The moon had turned black, and while he watched, the very stars went out. Soon after, the noise he usually took for granted long into the night was silenced all at once. No carts rolling on cobblestones, no chatter from late shift dock workers, no sea gulls screeching. It was as if some great awful being were cupping its hands over the world to snuff it out. Then Charlie’s lamp sputtered and died, leaving him in blackness with a thundering heart.

What if it’s me? he thought. What if I’ve gotten myself so frightened that all my senses are short-circuiting? Maybe everything is completely fine out there, and I’ve just gone deaf and blind. Oh dear. That isn’t any better at all!

Charlie’s senses were not on the fritz, it turned out, a fact soon proven when he heard the sound of voices coming from his mother’s room next door. Charlie slipped out of bed and, after stumbling about in the darkness, found the wall and pressed his ear to it.

“Yes,” he heard Mother murmur. “That… would be… lovely. Pearl. I… always… loved… that farm… of pearls…”

Farm of pearls? She must be dreaming, Charlie thought. But then he heard a sound that made his breath catch in his throat. It was another voice. A strange, whispering voice only just audible to the sort of person who makes a practice of listening for strange voices.

“See the world, the worldy worldy world,” it hissed in a childish way.

“They should… experience… the world. Shouldn’t… keep them here... all the… time…” Mother yawned.

 “Sleep now. Sleepy sleepy sleep!”

“I… have been… so very tired…”

“Happy! So happy! No need for kiddies!”

Charlie ran to the curtain that divided his half of the room from his sister’s, slipping on the rug in the process. He scrambled to his feet again, ignoring the pain in his undoubtedly bruised knee and hissed, “Georgie! Georgie, wake up! Someone’s in Mother’s room!”

He fumbled for the curtain and pulled it back. In the darkness so absolute, he couldn’t see his sister, but there was no mistaking her snoring. Georgie could have slept through a hurricane, and trying to wake her up always proved a waste of time. But there wasn’t any time to waste, and Charlie knew he couldn’t bury himself in his blankets now.

“Mother!” he shouted, and after much clattering and stumbling and knocking over of things, he made his way to their mother’s room and threw open her door.

When he looked inside, however, he saw no one in the room but Mother. The terrible darkness had lifted. All was illuminated by the hazy glow of the moon now. Through the sheer curtains on Mother’s window, the street lamps kept their usual watch. It seemed then as if all Charlie witnessed before had happened days ago, his memory of it disintegrating like the horror of nightmares by morning.

“Charlie?” Mother mumbled groggily, half sitting. “What’s going on? Are you all right? What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Charlie said, feeling like a fool. “It was just a bad dream.”

Nevertheless, when Charlie returned to his own room, he peeked out his window once more, just to be sure. He saw a policeman idly pacing the boardwalk. A seagull was decimating a crab. A stray cat perched atop a barrel and cleaned its paws. All under the flames of street lamps that dotted the night’s fog like ghost lights. Everything was as it should be.

And yet something caught Charlie’s eye. Standing but a few yards from the apartment house was a very old woman in a dusty, tattered dress, her shaggy hair draping her hunched shoulders. She leaned on a wooden cart full of junk and was accompanied on either side by a pair of what Charlie supposed were small children, though their clothes and hats were so oversized that he couldn’t see their faces. They could’ve been trained monkeys for all he knew.

Charlie was still puzzling over this when he noticed that the old woman was staring right at him. There could be no mistake about it. Their eyes met, and she grinned, showing teeth as gray as her hair. Charlie gasped and pulled his curtains closed.

It’s just some old rag-and-bone woman, he told himself. Isn’t there anything in the world I’m not afraid of?

About the Author

Katy Towell is the creator of the Childrin R Skary website and animated shorts ("The Mockingbird Song," "Ida's Luck," "The Little Girl Who Was Forgotten By Absolutely Everyone (Even The Postman)"). She is also a graphic designer, writer, and illustrator in Portland with dreams of one day being the scary old lady in the house about which all the neighborhood children tell ghost stories.

Connect with Katy at:
Website: scary.com  

Facebook: facebook.com/childrinskary  

Twitter: @katytowell   

Tumblr: katytowell.tumblr.com  

YouTube: youtube.com/katytowell

Pets during the Victorian Era

By: Isabel Roman

During most of history dogs weren't exactly considered pets. I'm sure there were exeptions, but then again, there always are.Dogs were working animals who could get on with the household enough for some friendly play during off hours. But as pets? As with so many things during the 1800s this, too changed. Dogs as pets became not only the fashion but a family dog (as opposed to a working dog) as well.

From Victoriana

For a fashionable woman in Victorian England a pet miniature dog was as indispensable as an opera box or presentation at court.  She was nobody without her pet who accompanied her wherever she went, and was fed and housed, according to canine requirements, as daintily as the heir to the title and estates.  In spite of the devotion of mistresses to their dogs, however, it must be admitted that they were extremely fickle in their attachments, as the fashion in lapdogs changed as rapidly as that in gowns and bonnets. 

During one London season, the favorite miniature dog had been the small animal known as the Schipperke, mainly because its hair was short and black. Long-haired dogs in drawing-rooms and boudoirs were found to be incompatible because white hairs on furniture and gowns were absolutely distressing. Even a poodle was found to be a nuisance, and required its own valet or maid to keep it in condition.

 “Lapdog” was the old-fashioned name for the miniature dogs called toys, and quaintly indicated where the line was drawn between household animals. They were dogs small enough to be held in the lap, and they were emphatically pets for the parlor, requiring the care of the lady herself, or of a well-trained maid.

It goes on about which kind of dogs, but I’m sure Labs and German Shepards weren’t allowed. They were outside dogs, not yappers.

Isabel Roman is the pseudonym used by writing team Christine Koehler and Marisa Velez. Their Victorian Druids series has been featured on The Home Shopping Network and is available in bookstores everywhere. Currently they're working on a Prohibition-era series and wondering why time flies so quickly. Visit the Isabel Roman blog!

An Ordinary Day In: The Life of a Victorian Chaperone

By Jennifer Linforth

You know that silly game of placing 'in bed' at the end of any fortune cookie fortune to completely alter its meaning? My husband and I have a game similar to that in terms of our four year old daughter. We call it 'things we don't want to hear on prom night.' Such as when she runs downstairs and says, "I can't get my panties off" or "I'm a naked baby!" or "You're not doing it right" or "May I have it now, please?"

You get the picture....

In imaging my daughter out on prom night I truly wish for Victorian times and the era of the chaperone. These women were usually Aunts, older married or widowed women and were tasked with supervising the innocence of the unwed Victorian lady. Their daily life involved overseeing all their charges did—and made sure no improper conduct occurred during courtship.

Daily the Victorian chaperone had to make sure etiquette was carried out to the utmost degree. They remained with their charges, for a woman was never to go anywhere with a gentleman especially without her mother’s permission and never late at night.

The chaperone may have taught her charge how to flirt with her fan, for that behavior was social acceptable to a degree. Flirting otherwise was not.

A single woman never walked alone. Her chaperone was with her. If she was at a point in courtship where she could walk out with a gentleman--a chaperone saw to it they walked apart and did not have any physical conduct. A gentleman could assist a lady over rough patches of ground but that contact was the only he was truly allowed with a woman not his fiancée.

The chaperone saw to it a proper woman did not ride alone in a closed carriage with a gentleman not her relative. She also saw that she did not receive a man at home if she was alone. The chaperone had to be present and if not her, then another family member.

I certainly think in 2011 society that a chaperone system would meet with wild protest. But what about the Victorian era? Do you think the youth protested it at all in some manner or was it so acceptable they just went with the flow?

Jennifer Linforth expands the classics by continuing The Phantom of the Opera. MADRIGAL and ABENDLIED are available now. Look for future books based on the classics, in addition to her unique historical romances. "Ms. Linforth's prose is phenomenally beautiful and hauntingly breathtaking." ~ Coffee Time Romance

Excerpt Thursday: Zoe Archer

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming back one of our fabulous contributors, Zoe Archer, as she celebrates the release of the third and fourth installments of her "Blades of the Rose" series. REBEL is available now, and STRANGER will hit the shelves on December 7. Both take place in an alternative Victorian era where magic thrives. Join us Sunday when Zoe will be here to talk about both books. I bet she'll be giving away free copies too!

Here's the cover copy for STRANGER:

He protects the world's magic--with his science. But even the best scientists can fall prey to the right chemistry...

LOOKING FOR TROUBLE

Gemma Murphy has a nose for a story--even if the boys in Chicago's newsrooms would rather focus on her chest. So when she runs into a handsome man of mystery discussing how to save the world from fancy-pants Brit conspirators, she's sensing a scoop. Especially when he mentions there's magic involved. Of course, getting him on the record would be easier if he hadn't caught her eavesdropping...

LIGHTING HIS FUSE

Catullus Graves knows what it's like to be shut out: his ancestors were slaves. And he's a genius inventor with appropriately eccentric habits, so even people who love him find him a little odd. But after meeting a certain red-headed scribbler, he's thinking of other types of science. Inconvenient, given that he needs to focus on preventing the end of the world as we know it. But with Gemma's insatiable curiosity sparking Catullus's inventive impulses, they might set off something explosive anyway....

***

From STRANGER:

Catullus now stood upon the prow, watching the ship cleave the gray water as they neared Liverpool. Sailing directly to Southampton hadn't been an option, since the next steamship traveling to that town wouldn't depart New York for two weeks. Far too long a wait with so much at stake. So, he and Astrid and Lesperance booked passage to Liverpool, with the intent to hop immediately on a train heading to the Blades' Southampton headquarters.

Wind and sea spray blew across the prow. Not as cold as those Canadian mountains, but he took pleasure in the soft black cashmere Ulster overcoat he wore, with its handsome cape and velvet collar. Too windy for a hat--but he was alone and so there wasn't a breach of propriety.

Or was alone. Catullus sensed, rather than saw, Gemma Murphy as she stepped onto the prow. His heart gave that peculiar jump it always did whenever he became aware of her. It happened the first time he saw her, at the tatty trading post in the Northwest Territory, and it happened now.

"Don't be an ass," he muttered to himself. She had said quite plainly that what she sought was a story. Nothing more.

He tried to make himself focus on the movement of the ship through the water, contemplating its propulsion mechanisms and forming in his mind a better means of water displacement. No use. His thoughts scattered like dropped pins when flaming hair flashed in his peripheral vision.

Bracing his arms on the rail, Catullus decided to be bold. He turned his head and looked directly at her.

She stood not two yards away--closer than she had been since the night in his cabin. That night, they had stood close enough for him to see all the delicious freckles that scattered over her satiny skin, close enough to see those freckles disappear beneath the collar of her prim dress, close enough to wonder if those freckles went all the way down her body.

God, don't think of that.

Like him, she now had her forearms resting upon the rail, her ungloved hands clasped, and her face turned into the wind, little caring, as other women might, about the unladylike color in her cheeks called forth by the wind. She stared out to sea, watching the waves and the sea birds drafting beside the ship, a little smile playing upon her soft pink mouth. Something secret amused her.

Him? He told himself he didn't care if she found him amusing, terrifying or wonderful. The division between them was clear. He was a Blade of the Rose on the most important mission ever undertaken. The fate of the world's magic, and freedom, lay in the balance. Pretty redheaded reporters with dazzling blue eyes and luscious figures were entirely, absolutely irrelevant. Dangerous, even.

But he watched her now, just the same. She wore the same serviceable traveling dress, a plain gray cotton that had seen several years of service. So thoroughly was it worn that the fabric, as it blew against her legs, revealed that Gemma Murphy had on a very light petticoat and was most likely not wearing a bustle.

He found himself struggling for breath.

Keep moving upward, he told his eyes. And they obeyed him, moving up to see that the truly magnificent bosom of Miss Murphy was, at present, marginally hidden by a short blue jacket of threadbare appearance. The elbows were faded. She must move her arms quite a bit to get that kind of wear. An active woman.

What he wouldn't do to get that delectable figure and coloring into some decent clothing! Silk, naturally. Greens would flatter her best, but there were also deep, rich blues, luxuriant golds, or even a chocolate brown. And he knew just the dressmaker, too, a Frenchwoman who kept a shop off Oxford Street. Madame Celine would be beside herself for the chance to dress a Pre-Raphaelite vision such as Miss Murphy. And if he could see Gemma Murphy slipping off one of those exquisite gowns, revealing her slender arms, her corset and chemise...or perhaps underneath the gown, she would wear nothing at all....

Catullus shook himself. What the bloody hell did he think he was doing, mentally dressing and undressing a woman he barely knew? A woman who made no secret of her ambition to expose the world of magic Catullus, his family and the Blades had fought so hard to keep hidden.

But instead of marching back to his cabin, as he planned, he simply remained on the prow, close, but not too close, to Miss Murphy.

He glanced over at her sharply, realizing something. Then swore under his breath.

Gemma Murphy blinked in astonishment when Catullus strode over to her. Clearly, she hadn't anticipated him approaching. He said nothing as he pulled off his plush, warm coat and then draped it over her shoulders. The overcoat was far too big for her, naturally, its hem now grazing the deck.

She also did not speak, but stared up at him. Her slim pale hands held the lapels close. Catullus cursed himself again when he saw that she was shivering slightly.

"Don't you have a decent coat to wear?" he demanded, gruff.

"It got lost somewhere between Winnipeg and New York." Her voice, even out here in the hard wind, resounded low and warm, like American bourbon.

"Then get another."

Again, that little smile. "Lately, I haven't had the funds or time to see a dressmaker."

He had the funds, thanks to the Graves family's profitable side-work providing manufacturers with the latest in production technology. And, even though time was in short supply, Catullus had managed to squeeze in an hour with one of Manhattan's best tailors, where he'd purchased this Ulster and three waistcoats. He usually avoided ready-made garments, but an exception had been made in these unusual circumstances. And Catullus didn't patronize bigots, either, but if the color of his skin had bothered the tailor, the color of Catullus' money won out.

"Then perhaps you oughtn't stand out on the coldest part of the ship," he suggested dryly.

Looking up at him with her bright azure eyes, she said, "But I like the view."

Did she mean the sea or him? Damn it, he never could tell when a woman was saying something flirtatious or innocuous. Catullus didn't have his friend Bennett Day's skill with women--nobody did, except Bennett, and now Bennett was happily married and miles away. So all Catullus could do was blush and clear his throat, wondering how to answer.

Flirting was a skill he never mastered, so he plowed onward. "Why do you keep following me?" he asked.

"That's cocky," she answered. "Maybe you keep following me. This isn't such a large ship."

"I've been followed enough know when it happens." And had just as many bids on his life. Though he doubted Miss Murphy would try and stick a knife into his throat, which happened far too regularly.

Her eyes did gleam, though. "Have you been followed before? How many times? By whom? How did you elude them?"

"No one ever forgets you're a reporter, do they?"

Her laugh was even more low and seductive than her voice. "I never do. Why should anyone else?"

True enough. "As I said before," he pressed, "you will get no more from me, nor from Astrid or Lesperance. There is no story."

Good Times: The Great Exhibition of 1851

By Anita Davison

"It is one of the puzzles of his life that with all his [Albert's] conscientious and admirable work and his really great ability he did not make people like him." ~ Bernard Darwin, 1932

Prince Albert was President of the Committee set up to organise the 1851 Exhibition of the Works of Industry of all Nations in the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, London, from 1 May to 15 October 1851. Designed by Joseph Paxton, the Crystal Palace was constructed in Hyde Park. The first of the 1,060 iron columns went up in the autumn of 1850, together with 300,000 panes of glass fixed with over 200 miles of sash bars. Parts of it were high enough to enclose fully grown elm trees. The whole took less than a year to build and when completed, covered about nine acres. It was felt important at the time to show their achievements right alongside those of "less civilized" countries.

Of the 13,000 exhibits, the most popular were those housed in the machinery court where the possibilities of steam power were on display. It was a triumphant success and so many people visited it that they consumed over a million and a half buns. The initial entrance price of five shillings for the first three weeks attracted what the Times called 'the wealthy and the gently and nobly born'. Thomas Cook organised excursions by rail from Yorkshire, which boomed once the shilling entrance fees were introduced at the end of May, with profits totalling £170,000 which allowed for the foundation of public works such as the Albert Hall, the Science Museum, the National History Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum.

By the closure of the exhibition in October, more than six million people passed through the halls, representing about a fifth of the population of Great Britain at the time. The building was divided into a series of courts depicting the history of art and architecture from ancient Egypt through the Renaissance, as well as exhibits from industry and the natural world. Among them were the Jacquard loom, an envelope machine, tools, kitchen appliances, steel-making displays and a reaping machine from the United States.

Major concerts were held in the Palace's huge arched Centre Transept, which also contained the world's largest organ. This Transept also housed a circus and was the scene of daring feats by world famous acts such as the tightrope walker Blondin. A magnificent series of fountains, comprising almost 12,000 individual jets, the largest of which threw water to a height of 250ft. Some 120,000 gallons of water flowed through the system when it was in full play.

Once the Great Exhibition closed, the Crystal Palace was moved to Sydenham Hill in South London and opened by Queen Victoria on June 10th, 1854. The Crystal Palace was destroyed by fire on November 30th 1936.

An account of a visit to the Exhibition by Charlotte Bronte, 1851.

Yesterday I went for the second time to the Crystal Palace. We remained in it about three hours, and I must say I was more struck with it on this occasion than at my first visit. It is a wonderful place--vast, strange, new and impossible to describe.

Its grandeur does not consist in one thing, but in the unique assemblage of all things. Whatever human industry has created you find there, from the great compartments filled with railway engines and boilers, with mill machinery in full work, with splendid carriages of all kinds, with harness of every description, to the glass-covered and velvet-spread stands loaded with the most gorgeous work of the goldsmith and silversmith, and the carefully guarded caskets full of real diamonds and pearls worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.

It may be called a bazaar or a fair, but it is such a bazaar or fair as Eastern genii might have created. It seems as if only magic could have gathered this mass of wealth from all the ends of the earth--as if none but supernatural hands could have arranged it this, with such a blaze and contrast of colours and marvellous power of effect.

The multitude filling the great aisles seems ruled and subdued by some invisible influence. Amongst the thirty thousand souls that peopled it the day I was there not one loud noise was to be heard, not one irregular movement seen; the living tide rolls on quietly, with a deep hum like the sea heard from the distance.

Source: The Brontes' Life and Letters by Clement Shorter (1907)

Excerpt Thursday: Cat Lindler

This week on Excerpt Thursday we're featuring Medallion Press author Cat Lindler's adventure romance STARLIGHT & PROMISES, set in 1891 Tasmania. How exciting! Please join us on Sunday when Cat will be here to answer questions and give away a signed copy. Here's the blurb:

During a voyage to an uncharted isle in the Furneaux Islands near Tasmania, Lord Richard Colchester finds a living saber-toothed tiger, an animal believed to have been extinct for over ten thousand years. His discovery will astonish the world...that is, if he ever makes it back to England.

When Lady Samantha learns that her Uncle Richard has disappeared under suspicious circumstances, she enlists the help of Professor Christian Badia, a noted zoologist and animal tracker who specializes in wild cats. Not only does she intend to organize the expedition, she plans to join in the treacherous search.

Christian is a hot-tempered man and a notorious recluse, so the last scenario Samantha anticipates is a romantic interlude. But she is drawn unexpectedly into a world of physical passion, and she soon realizes this enigmatic man is her soul mate. When Christian embarks Tasmania abruptly, leaving Samantha behind, she fears she may forever lose her newfound love.

Unable to sit idly by and wait for his return, Samantha launches her own investigation—and finds herself in grave danger. Will Christian find her...before it's too late?

***

"Lindler writes in a smooth style, providing evocative descriptions and compelling historical details as well as a satisfying surprise ending." ~ Publisher's Weekly

"The passionate couple and engrossing storyline will stay in your heart for some time" ~ Romantic Times

***

"Conditions, then. First, you'll pay all the expenses incurred."

"That was my intention."

"Next, Lord Stanbury and I will share authorship on any publications resulting from the expedition."

"I agree," she said, surprised his conditions were so reasonable. "Uncle Richard should have no difficulty with coauthorship." The tension lifted from her shoulders.

He grinned like the hare confronting the tortoise prior to the race, his teeth flashing in his tanned face. "Fine. Now for the difficult one. This is to be my expedition. I'll take sole charge, make all the plans, and give all the orders." When she started to speak, he cut her off. "I'll brook no opposition on this. I'm familiar with that part of the world. It's primitive and dangerous, infested with sea pirates, criminals, headhunters, and cannibals. In assuming responsibility for the expedition's safety, I'll tolerate no interference or challenges to my authority."

She controlled her voice with difficulty. "I understand. I realize you have the superior experience. I shall follow your orders." Surely that could not be too difficult. Step here; do not step there; hide behind this tree…

"You had better. You can travel with us to Tasmania. I have friends there who run a respectable boardinghouse. I'll send reports to you when I can."

"No!" She jumped up, and her cup of tea went flying. It splashed across his breeches. "You go too far. I must go to the island with you."

He stood just as abruptly, cursed, pulled himself up to his full height. His cup dropped on the side table with a clatter. The liquid remaining in the cup sloshed out and spilled onto the table. With a handkerchief drawn from his coat, he brushed at the scalding tea on his leg. "You will not!"

"I will!"

His eyes narrowed, darkened. "Not!"

"How will you find the island without me?"

"You will inform me of its location before we reach Tasmania."

Her mouth quirked into a wide smile. Slowly and distinctly, she said, "No…I…will…not."

"Damn it, Sam," he said on an explosive breath. He threw the soaked handkerchief to the floor. "Have you any notion of what you're saying?" Raking a hand through his hair, disheveling it, he stalked away, pacing across the room, his large form seeming to dwarf the space. "The South Seas are treacherous enough for armed men, much less pampered society ladies. I've already mentioned the unsavory human elements we will meet: not might, but . In all likelihood, we'll encounter spiders the size of dinner plates and centipedes over a foot long, whose bite can cause your arm or leg to swell to four times its normal size." He paused, skewering her with his gaze. "Snakes, too. Have you ever heard of the two-step viper?"

"No, but it sounds interesting. What color is it?"

"What color is it?" he sputtered, rumpling his hair again. "This is no joking matter. Its venom is lethal, killing before the victim can take two steps. Even the plants, deceptively beautiful, harbor poisonous spines or sap that strips skin from flesh. And were that not enough, the men I hire will be no gentlemen. You would have no privacy. I cannot afford to make a mistake and risk lives because I'm distracted by playing nurse to you."

Samantha returned his stare. "I have no need of a nurse. I'm far from being a child. I have no fear of your flesh-stripping plants nor two-stepping snakes and headhunting cannibals. I'm not a helpless, pampered female, but a modern woman. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself in any situation. In fact, I have a reputation as a well-respected amateur herpetologist. I accompanied Uncle Richard on many such expeditions." Her conscience thumped her a bit at the lies. Small lies, but lies nonetheless. "I will not give you the island's location. I shall obey you in all else, but I must go with you. This is my expedition. I have to find Uncle Richard."

Excerpt Thursday: Leanna Renee Hieber

This week on Excerpt Thursday we're featuring a taste of Leanna Renee Hieber's ghostly Victorian-set romance THE STRANGELY BEAUTIFUL TALE OF MISS PERCY PARKER. Join us on Sunday when Leanna will stop by to answer questions and give away a free copy! Don't miss it!

What fortune awaited sweet, timid Percy Parker at Athens Academy? Considering how few of Queen Victoria's Londoners knew of it, the great Romanesque fortress was dreadfully imposing, and little could Percy guess what lay inside. She had never met the powerful and mysterious Professor Alexi Rychman, knew nothing of the growing shadow, the Ripper and other supernatural terrors against which his coterie stood guard. She knew simply that she was different, haunted, with her snow-white hair, pearlescent skin and uncanny gifts. But this arched stone doorway offered a portal to a new life, an education far from the convent--and an invitation to an intimate yet dangerous dance at the threshold of life and death....

***

London, England
1888

A young woman, the likes of which London had never seen, alighted from a carriage near Bloomsbury and gazed at the grand facade before her. Breathless at the sight of the Romanesque fortress of red sandstone that was to be her new home, she ascended the front steps beneath the portico with a carpetbag in tow. One slender, gloved hand heaved open the great arched door; Miss Percy Parker paused then stepped inside.

The foyer of Athens Academy held a few milling young men, papers and books in hand. Their jaws fell in turn. In the diffuse light cast by a single chandelier they saw a petite, unmistakable apparition. Dark blue glasses kept eerie, ice blue eyes from unsettling those stares that she nervously returned. Much of her snow-white skin was hidden from view by a scarf draped around her head and bosom, but only a mask could have hidden the ghostly pallor of her fine-featured face.

The sudden tinkling of a chandelier crystal broke the thick silence. Percy's gaze flickered up to behold a young man, equally pale as herself, floating amid the gas flames. The transparent spirit wafted down to meet her. It was clear from the stares of the young men of solid mass, rudely focused on Percy, that they were oblivious. She herself acknowledged the ghost only subtly, lest she be thought distract as well as deformed.

The spectral schoolboy spoke in a soft Scots brogue. "You'd best give up your pretensions, miss. You'll never be one of them. And you're certainly not one of us. What the devil are you?"

Percy met the spirit's hollow gaze. Behind her glasses, her opalescent eyes flared with defiance as she asked the room, her voice sweet and timid, "Could someone be so kind as to direct me to the headmistress's office?" A gaping, living individual pointed to a hallway on her left, so she offered him a "Thank you, sir," and fled, eager to escape all curiosity. The only sounds that followed were the rustling layers of her sky blue taffeta skirts and the echo of her booted footfalls down the hall.

HEADMISTRESS THOMPSON was scribed boldly across a large wooden door. Percy took a moment to catch her breath before knocking.

She soon found herself in an office filled to overflowing with books. A sharp voice bade her sit, and she was promptly engulfed in a leather armchair. Across the desk sat a severe woman dressed primly in grey wool. Middle-aged and thin, she had a pinched nose and high cheekbones that gave her a birdlike quality, tight lips twisted in a half frown. Brown hair was piled atop her head, save one misbehaving lock at her temple.

Blue-grey eyes pierced Percy's obscuring glasses. "Miss Parker, we've received word that you're an uncommonly bright girl. I'm sure you're well aware that your previous governance, unsure what to do with you, supposed you'd best be sent somewhere else. Becoming a sister did not suit you?"

Percy had no time to wonder if this was sardonic or understanding, for the headmistress continued: "Your reverend mother made many inquiries before stumbling across our quiet little bastion. Considering your particular circumstances, I accepted you despite your age of eighteen. You're older than many who attend here. I'm sure I needn't tell you, Miss Parker, that at your age most women do not think it advantageous to remain...academic. I hope you know enough of the world outside convent walls to understand." Headmistress Thompson's sharp eyes suddenly softened and something mysterious twinkled there. "We must acknowledge the limitations of our world, Miss Parker. I, of course, chose to run an institution rather than a household."

Percy couldn't help but smile, drawn in by the headmistress's conspiratorial turn, as if the woman considered herself unique by lifestyle inasmuch as Percy was unique by fate. But the woman's amiability soon vanished. "We expect academic excellence in all subjects, Miss Parker. Your reverend mother proclaimed you quite proficient in several languages, with particularly keen knowledge of Latin, Hebrew and Greek. Would you consider yourself proficient?"

"I have no wish to flatter myself--"

"Honesty will suffice."

"I'm f-fluent in several tongues," Percy stammered. "I'm fondest of Greek. I know French, German, Spanish and Italian well. I dabble in Russian, Arabic, Gaelic...as well as a few ancient and obscure dialects."

"Interesting." The headmistress absently tapped the desk with her pen. "Do you attribute your affinity for foreign tongues to mere interest and diligence?"

Percy thought a moment. "This may sound very strange..."

"It may shock you how little I find strange, Miss Parker," the headmistress replied.

Greatest Hits: Life in Victorian Prisons

By Jennifer Linforth

That last pint was not a good idea.

He stared at his unraveled cravat and the ruby stains marring his vest. Flexing his hand made the wounds on his swollen knuckles split and pour fresh blood.

Yes...he definitely regretted that last drink.

The doors of 'her majesty's carriage' slammed shut in his face. Within minutes it rumbled down the cobbled road, jostling its newest prisoner. There was nothing he could do now but reflect on his foolish temper. His life was pulled down the road toward inevitable change. And changed roared around him like a hungry lion the instant he set foot on the grounds of his new home.

Bathed in water not unlike mutton broth, the newest prisoner of Kirkwood Goal began his new life with humiliation. Where was his valet now, he wondered, as his privacy was raped by men scrutinizing his naked body for distinguishing marks. His anger flared when his hair, once tangled by a woman's fair fingers, was cut to the scalp. His bloody vest and cravat were removed and bundled up, his breeches and waistcoat replaced by ill-fitting uniforms. The boots he once took such pride in were sold to a dealer and replaced by ones heavier than lead. (He tried to guess the weight. 14 pounds seemed accurate.)

He caught his reflection in a dusty window. Who he had been before was of little importance. The markings on his uniform designated his standing in the hierarchy now. He was a convict. Gone were the days of climbing social ladders in salons and country balls. Here social isolation was his dance partner. All too often he would see the dark interior of separate confinement or be forced to adhere to the strict silence rule. All because he tried to garner a bit of humanity and speak to a fellow convict.

He would find ways to break the unearthly silence imposed upon him. He tapped messages on the walls or water pipes. The chapel he found was ripe with opportunity. He was a quick student, learning to use hymns (meaningless to him before) to his advantage. Emphasizing the first word of each line then quickly dropping to a lower tone, he could carry on a conversation with his neighbor. The longer the hymn, the longer the conversation he could murmur between lines. Sign language useful as well. The isolation was a forlorn hope. Man was not designed to live alone...

Morning noon and night his belly rumbled for the succulent soups, roasts and puddings his crime denied him. Three-quarters of a pint of cocoa was his breakfast, a sludge of flaked cocoa mixed with molasses. Dinner was four ounces of meat, a half-pint of soup and one pound of potatoes. Supper: a pint of gruel sweetened with molasses with one and a quarter pounds of bread and salt.

Tired and hungry, he retreats to sleep. But the silks of his pillow are gone and the down that warmed him is a distant memory. Nothing is so aptly designed to depress than his prison cell. Thirteen by seven feet (4 by 2 meters) and nine feet high, only a tiny window offers a glimpse of freedom. But standing on a stool to look out was a punishable offence.

He was cold in the winter, hot in the summer and his eyes constantly fighting the poorly lit conditions. Why not just go blind? Maybe he would not be reminded of this hell. His isolated room seemed private, but the spy hole in the door made him uncertain as to if whether he was being watched or not.

Perhaps he could sleep? Wake up and this nightmare would be over? The year was 1865, a few months previous a new Prison Act was initiated bringing with it the hard plank bed. Part of a severe regime introduced where punishment and deterrence took precedence over reform. Not that he thought he needed reform.

When morning dawned and he choked down the cocoa, a question was poised. Was this labor he faced meant to encourage fulfillment in honest work, or break him body and spirit?

The tread wheel was an ominous beast. He would climb the wheel as if trying to summit an endless mountain. As the wheel fell way beneath his feet, he was forced to lift his body into the next step.

All this for grinding corn? He thought not.

If not at the wheel he would be at the crank, turning a handle until his shoulders ached. There was no harder or more degrading work. He would do his work, eat his meals, live in silence and fight for a small scrap of interaction with the other convicts. Prison officers were products of their own draconian regulations. They lived in a powder keg, where one spark could set off a symbiotic relationship between guards and convict. Each could make the other's life difficult.

And life would be difficult.

Staring down at calloused hands in a sweat soaked uniform, isolated, angry and questioning his "reform"...he definitely regretted that last pint.

Greatest Hits: Victorian Medievalism

By Sandra Schwab

It's not quite clear exactly whose fault it was. It might have been James MacPherson and his Ossian books, or Thomas Percy and his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, all published in the 1760s (though to be fair, these publications were at first much more popular and influential on the continent). It might have been Horace Walpole and all the other writers of gothic novels. It might have been the antiquarians who started to become interested in medieval life and medieval objects in the late 18th century.

Sir Walter Scott, whose historical novels filled with knights, adventure and romance (Ivanhoe anybody?), certainly has to shoulder a large part of the blame.


Whoever or whatever it was: from the late 18th century onwards the British rediscovered the Middle Ages--with a vengeance! At first it was all quite innocent: one enjoyed a gothic novel or two; an old ballad, perhaps; if you were rich, you might have fancied putting some fake ruins in your gardens, or why not have your country estate remodelled in the neo-gothic style? Add to that portraits of people in (fake) armour and other sort of medieval clothing, and the odd collector of medieval knick-knack.

The two black-and-white drawings are from Punch.

But then somebody got it into his head that these outward trappings were simply not enough. No, on top of these one ought to revive the spirit of the Middle Ages, the great ideals of "the days of old when knights were bold" (or at least what were thought to be the ideals of the knights of old)--in one word: CHIVALRY. As a result of this, the ideal of masculinity radically changed in the course of the 19th century: a man had to be tough, brave, show no sign of cowardice, save / protect women and children, and meet death without flinching.

The Victorian Age saw an immense production of history books, ballads, novels, music and paintings that celebrated this chivalric ideal and thus taught it to whole generations of boys and young men. It proved to be so influential that at the beginning of the 20th century the founder of the boyscout movement, Baden-Powell, claimed that the boyscouts were the modern descendants of the knights of old:

You Patrol Leaders and Scouts are therefore very like the knights and their retainers, especially if you keep your honour ever before you in the first place, and do your best to help other people [...] Your motto is, 'Be Prepared' to do this, and the motto of the knights was a similar one, 'Be Always Ready.'

The knights of old were particularly attentive in respect and courtesy to women. When walking with a lady or child, a Scout should always have her on his left side, so that his right is free to protect her.

(Both quotations are from an abridged version of Scouting for Boys, which was first published in 1908.)

Protect her from what? we might ask. For even in the early 20th century it wasn't all that likely that a dragon would hide behind some bushes in the park, waiting to snatch a tasty little woman. As you can see from this example, the medieval revival and the romanticized version of the Middle Ages offered the opportunity to glorify old genderroles--this became particularly important towards the end of the century when these old genderroles came under increasing attack and women started to demand more rights.

St. George and Princess Sabra
(Whom he has saved from the ghastly dragon)
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Literature & Education: Victorian Educators For Girls

By Anita Davison

During a childhood spent in North London, local folklore decreed that I grew up familiar with the rhyme:
Miss Buss and Miss Beale,
Cupid's darts do not feel.
How different from us,
Miss Beale and Miss Buss
Intended as uncomplimentary, Miss Frances Buss and Miss Dorothea Beale were both famous headmistresses of controversial girls' schools and proponents of the Womens' Suffrage movement.

Miss Beale became head of Cheltenham Ladies' College and founded St Hilda's College, Oxford, while Frances Mary Buss opened the North London Collegiate School for Ladies.

Born in London in 1827, Frances Buss was sent to a unremarkable private school in Aldersgate "...to get me out of the way". Sent to another private school in Hampstead, at the age of fourteen, she was teaching there, and by sixteen she was occasionally left in charge of the school.

In April 1850, when Francess was twenty three, she founded the North London Collegiate School in Camden Street, London. Thirty-five daughters of gentlemen and respectable tradesmen assembled on the opening day to receive an education which included Latin, French, and Natural science. German, Italian, and music were extras, taught with thought and observation rather than learning by rote. The school's success was immediate and by December, the school had 115 paying fees of between 9 and 12 guineas a year.

At this time there were no public examinations for girls, but in 1863 Miss Emily Davies, a contemporary of Dorothea Beale, prevailed upon the Cambridge authorities to allow girls to take the Local examinations unofficially. With only six weeks notice, 84 candidates sat the examination; of these 25 were from the North London Collegiate School, 15 of whom passed. In an age where girls were considered too weak to cope with study, none of the girls who took the examinations displayed the signs of physical strain their critics insisted would occur.

As a result of this experiment, girls were soon admitted to the examinations on the same terms as boys except that, "to avoid the supposed evils of emulation", their names, unlike the boys, were not published.

In order to gain public recognition for her school and girls' schools in general, Miss Buss gave evidence to the Schools Enquiry Commission that her pupils were mostly upper middle-class, but any girls of good character were admitted.

By 1865 the school had 200 day girls, with a few boarders, but was still run as a private, family concern, with her father Robert William Buss teaching Art and her brother Septimus Buss teaching Scripture. Discipline was strict, with talking apparently the main evil and breaches of the many rules taken seriously. The staff and pupils felt themselves to be pioneers in a great campaign against sex discrimination in education. Many former pupils testified not only to her discipline but also to her kindliness and generosity.

In 1870 Miss Buss turned her flourishing private venture into a public grammar school for girls. Miss Buss encouraged gymnastics, swimming, skating, hockey, and athletics. Her new building incorporated the first gymnasium designed for a girls' school and obtained the use of the St. Pancras baths. She instigated a school sports day, and in the interests of dress reform organized a tug-of-war between girls who wore stays and those who did not; the latter won. Miss Buss had little time for fainting girls, for whom she recommended the cold water treatment. She also encouraged the more usual accomplishments such as art, music, needlework, cookery, and handicrafts.

In 1929, the school acquired 'Canons', an estate that once boasted one of the finest Georgian houses in England belonging to the first Duke of Chandos and where George Frederick Handel was the composer-in-residence. The original house was dismantled and demolished 1760, but the colonnade now adorns the front of The National Gallery in Trafalgar Square.

By June 1940, the school was established and had 650 pupils by the end of the war. The 1760 villa which replaced the Duke of Chandos' mansion was decorated for the first time, and tennis courts and games fields were laid out. By 1964 there were 860 girls in the school, and many famous women are amongst its alumni.

Miss Buss was also a suffragette, participating in the Kensington Society, a woman's discussion society, and the London Suffrage Committee. She continued as Headmistress of the School for the rest of her life and died on Christmas Eve 1894.

Guest Author: Emily Bryan

Our guest blogger today is Emily Bryan! Though she writes light-hearted romps for Leisure Books now, some of you may remember this award-winning author from her Diana Groe titles. Her newest release is VEXING THE VISCOUNT.

***

Daisy Drake is leading a double life! By day, she's Lucian Beaumont's unwanted assistant and by night, she masquerades as the masked courtesan, Blanche La Tour, a Frenchwoman who agreed to give Lucian lessons in sensual love! There's only one problem. Daisy speaks fluent French and can read ancient Latin without moving her lips, but she doesn't know the first thing about the pleasures of the flesh!

Good thing she has the real Blanch La Tour's very explicit memoirs for guidance.

Lucian Beaumont, Viscount Rutland, longs to see his family's standing returned to its glory days, before his father lost their fortune. And he thinks he can manage it, if he can only discover the hiding place of an ancient Roman payroll. Daisy never forgot her girlhood fascination with Lucian, even though his father has a score to settle with her uncle. Now that they're all grown up, she's determined to help the viscount find his Roman treasure.

Whether he wants her help or not!

***

Your Diana Groe books were set in the Dark Ages in Scandinavia, Ireland and Constantinople. What was it like to write your Emily Bryan tales in a more conventional setting?

First, thanks for inviting me here to Unusual Historicals! Actually, I haven't succumbed to the pressure to write a true Regency (1790-1829, if you take the extended Regency view of things). My DISTRACTING THE DUCHESS (which was just nominated for a Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award for BEST HISTORICAL K.I.S.S.) is set in 1851, early in the reign of Queen Victoria. PLEASURING THE PIRATE takes place in 1720, firmly in the Georgian era. And my newest release, VEXING THE VISCOUNT, is actually two intertwined stories--one in London of 1731 and the other Londinium of 405 AD, Roman Britain. I may eventually write in the Regency era, but there is something in me that rebels against the expected. I'm guessing that's a chord that rings true with you here at Unusual Historicals.

Still, there is a difference in tone between your Diana Groe and Emily Bryan books?

Absolutely. My Diana Groe books are dramatic epics. The Emily Bryan stories are funnier and, 'scuse me while I blush, sexier.

I loved writing about my big hairy Vikings and they are doing very well in the European market. My Diana Groe books have been translated into German, Dutch, Italian and Russian. For who knows what reason, they were less well received in the American market.

When my debut title MAIDENSONG came out in 2006, New York Times bestseller Bobbi Smith gave me this advice: "Stay published." If I need to shift my focus to a little more accessible time period to accomplish that, I'm happy to do it. VEXING THE VISCOUNT is my 6th title with Leisure Books.

But just because I'm setting my Emily Bryan books in a time that's familiar to more readers, that doesn't mean they are "usual" historicals. I work to make my characters out of the ordinary. VEXING THE VISCOUNT's heroine Daisy Drake was raised by a pirate and now as an adult, her mentor is a former courtesan (and Daisy's inspiration when she decides to masquerade as a "woman of pleasure"). My hero Lucian is not your typical Regency rake. In fact, he's a virgin (but an incredibly quick study!)

Now that you write in a time period more readers know something about, has that changed how you research your stories?

Not really. I had to be just as thorough for my Viking stories as for my Victorian and Georgian. The historical readership is very sophisticated. The main difference is that there is so much more information for me to wade through for the more recent time periods. Writers can't use every bit of research we uncover. We have to cherry-pick the most evocative tidbits to suggest our setting and let our readers bring something to the experience. Since they have so much to bring to my Emily Bryan settings that means my details have to be doubly fresh in order to have impact.

You mentioned that VEXING THE VISCOUNT is really two intertwined stories. Tell us more about that.

The two stories are tied by virtue of place.

Lucian discovers some Roman ruins on his father's failing estate along with clues to the location of a lost Roman payroll. Daisy has the funds necessary to help him, but because of his father's grudge against Daisy's uncle, Lucian refuses. So she masquerades as Blanche la Tour, a French courtesan who offers to give him "lessons in love" in exchange for a partnership in his venture--oh! and he must accept Blanche's agent, who is of course, Daisy! They search for the treasure together and along the way, thwart a Jacobite plot and discover love they never expected.

The secondary story, which takes place in 405 AD is the romance between Caius Meritus, the ancient thief, and a Celtic slave girl named Deirdre. It explains why the missing payroll went missing in the first place.

The two stories converge on a mist-shrouded Druid island.

In many ways, VEXING THE VISCOUNT is a melding of my two writing styles. Daisy and Lucian's story is all Emily Bryan--full of froth and fun. Caius and Deirdre's tale is much darker, as befits a darker time--pure Diana Groe.

VEXING THE VISCOUNT is in bookstores now, but what's next for you?

Coming September 29th, A CHRISTMAS BALL will hit the shelves. I'll be joined by USA Today bestseller Jennifer Ashley and exciting new author Alissa Johnson for a holiday anthology. All our characters are attending the same Christmas Ball on December 19, 1822 (I know, I know, it's Regency, but technically it's two years after the Prince of Wales became George IV, so if you're a purist, the Regency is over!)

At any rate, my heroine is not the typical Regency lady. She's "born-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-blanket" plain Jane Tate. Every party worthy of the name needs at least one party crasher!

Where can readers find out more about you and your books?

There are excerpts of all my books on my websites and I've just started a joint webhunt with Night Owl Romance and several other authors. Please visit my website to learn how to enter to win a boatload of goodies. I love hearing from readers, so please pop by my blog. I still maintain a website for my Diana Groe books as well. All my books are still in print and most are available electronically for those who prefer ebooks.

Readers can buy VEXING THE VISCOUNT at their local bookstore or online at Amazon or B&N.com.

Is there anything you'd like ask Unusual Historical's readers?

Yes! I'm seeing a trend of adding paranormal elements in historicals--mythical beings, magic, alternate histories. What do you think? Do you like this cross-genre trend or would you prefer we "stick to the facts, ma'am"?

Please leave a comment or question because I'm pleased to be able to give away a VEXING THE VISCOUNT to one lucky commenter!

Thanks again for having me, Unusual Historicals!

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You heard the lady! Free book! Answer her question or leave another of your own. I'm curious about your take on the paranormal historical trend too! A winner will be drawn next Sunday, so good luck! Thanks for stopping by, Emily!