Who is Grey's Lady?

By Natasha Blackthorne (Guest Blogger)

Grey’s Lady is the story of a wealthy New York merchant price, Grey Sexton, who falls for a poor but beautiful seductress, Beth McConnell. Yet, for all their social and economic differences, at their most basic level, Beth and Grey are very similar. This story explores how these similarities threaten to tear them apart before love can overcome the fear of being vulnerable.

Both Beth and Grey suffered isolation and emotional neglect in childhood. Grey grew up as a privileged only son, heir to Sexton Shipping, one of the fledgling nation’s largest mercantile fleets. Grey’s father was a stern businessman who did not understand his daydreaming son and held him at a distance. A child in this position might take solace in a closer relationship with his mother. However, Grey’s mother was chronically ill and unable to bear his childish energy. She kept to her chambers and died while he was still quite young. Later at age nineteen, Grey engaged in an emotionally scarring experience with a slightly older woman, something that is not covered in Grey’s Lady. All of these back story issues and more are explored in more depth in the sequel, White Lace and Promises.

In contrast, the focus of Grey’s Lady is on the immediate interaction between two wounded and self-protective people who feel an overpowering attraction to each other but who do not want to admit it to themselves or the other.

I will let my character, Beth, tell her story in her own words:

****

Why should men always have the power of choice when it comes to love? Is it right that we women have no choice but to sit and wait for a man decide to honor us with his declarations–usually uttered in the form of a demand? And all we as women may do is say “yes” or “no” and hope we have made a wise choice. The man still has the power to break his promises and it will be our good name and heart that bears the damage.

My mother fell into an adulterous affair with an unknown man and as a result I was created. Her husband put her out of their house. I would have been borne in the almshouse if not for the kindness of her employer. After my mother’s death, I would have gone to the foundling home without my kindly benefactress. My unknown father also had his power of choice, the choice to abandon me. How fair is it that men have all the power of choice?

Oh, you ask what about the gentlemen? Ha! The gentlemen. They are the very worst.

A gentleman once declared passionate love for me. He said this so ardently, his beautiful brown eyes shone with sincerity. I was young. I was naïve. I believed him. I trusted him and gave my heart wholly into his keeping. And as went my heart, eventually so went my virtue.

Do you what happened next? Surely, I don’t have to tell you. You know how these maudlin stories go. He married someone else. A lady. Someone of his own class. His took his power of choice. He became a respectable family man and I was left being a soiled dove. I had a good cry over it. I may have drank a little too much at his wedding celebration. What a pitiful little fool I was. But I did not wallow in my self-pity for long. So men have needs and desires? Well, I also have needs. I also have desires. Why should men have all the power of choice? Why should they have all the enjoyment in life?

I take my own power of choice now. I chose whom, when and for how long and I select only the most handsome, wealthy, and powerful of gentlemen.

Yes, I know you are asking do I not fear discovery? This is a worry and I take it seriously.

Truly I do. I live with my half-brother and his family now. He is very protective and very touchy about matters of honor. Our mother was not faithful to his father. Now he takes such matters so seriously. Too seriously. If he had his way, I would stay home all the time, working in the backroom of his cobbler shop with one eye on the children. But honestly, though I love my nieces and my half-siblings, life there is dreary. It’s all work, work and more work. Everything is shabby, everything seems to stay gritty and grimy no matter how hard I work to keep things clean. There are always more shoes to repair. I swear my eyes shall go crossed trying to sew by candlelight night after night. I never get enough sleep or time to myself. If I couldn’t go out and seek my adventures, I should go mad. I have my mother’s wild blood in me and my desires can run so high I fear they shall consume me.

I could marry a nice man and he would carry me away from all of this. I would have my own cozy home and hearth. My benefactress has introduced me to a nice young minister and to a nice young but struggling legal clerk and a nice young medical student who trembled all over and went pale when I said good morning to him. I have no interest in nice young men. It’s the wealthy, powerful, arrogant gentlemen who fascinate me. I know they will never desire me for a wife but they shall burn for me. They shall remember me.

How do I protect myself from discovery? I limit my liaisons to one single meeting. I never meet with my gentlemen again, no matter how desperately they implore me. And they do implore me. Though I am poor, the child of adultery by an unknown man and powerless in my society, I have something gentlemen desire. I have beauty, and thanks to my mother’s wild blood, I understand their hot lusts better than the women of their class. I do gain a measure of satisfaction out of leaving them burning for more. Burning for me. No gentleman shall ever forget the one afternoon he spent with me.

Today is a special day for me. Mr. Asahel de Grijs, otherwise known as Grey to his friends, is coming to my favorite bookseller to give a lecture on privateering. He is a New York man, the owner of Sexton Shipping which has a fleet of over forty sea going vessels. He is rumored to be the wealthiest gentleman in America. I know this is not true. I know exactly who is the wealthiest man in America. But Mr. Sexton is among the top three wealthiest men in our nation. He is also politically connected and quite powerful. He would be the brightest feather in my cap. I think I shall wear my shabbiest dress because it is always more thrilling when these gentlemen cannot resist the tattered, poor little bastard girl. They are slaves to their own greed for beauty.

I don’t really deride gentlemen for their focus on beauty. I appreciate a handsome face and well-made masculine form. Well, if Mr. Sexton’s physicality matches his other attributes, then I shall be entertaining a gentleman today. In private. In his carriage. But only for today. Afterwards, he shall burn for me. He will never forget me.

****

The entire first chapter of Grey’s Lady is available here (for 18+ ONLY).

To Purchase White Lace and Promises: http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=1476

Watch the trailer for Grey's Lady,

Who is Natasha?

Emotional. Evocative. Erotic. Historical Romance from the Georgian and Regency Eras, set in both England and America. Whether they are bold or shy, my heroines' strong desires and deep emotions drive the plot—and drive their heroes to the point of no return.

I have always been a daydreamer who told myself stories of love and romance set in other times and places for my own pleasure. Eventually my story worlds became so real, they demanded to be brought out of my imagination and onto the page. It gives me great joy to finally share them with you. I hope you enjoy my story world.

I am married to my own hero and we share our life with a very quirky calico cat. I have a BA in History and I love to read, both romance and scholarly history and I listen to a variety of music from classical to reggae. But mostly I am hard at work researching and writing my next story.

Find Natasha: Author Site | Blog | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon | Shelfari | Facebook |

Monsoon Fever: Excerpt

In their first years together, Priscilla and Jonathan enjoyed a marriage based as much on physical passion as on love. However, the travails of business and the tribulations of the Great War have taken their toll. When Jon's father dies in faraway India, the couple travels to the father's isolated Assamese tea plantation to settle his affairs.

Anil Kumar, a charismatic Indian lawyer who arrives on business, enchants both Priscilla and Jon with his god-like beauty and charm. In separate incidents, each of them succumbs to Anil's lustful attentions. Will the illicit desires excited by the handsome Indian be the final stroke that destroys their marriage? Or the route to saving it?

***

The bathroom was simple, Asian-style, a tiled area with a drain rather than a tub. Lalida had left an ample supply of hot water, filling every bucket and ewer in the house. Cold water came directly from the rain-fed cistern on the roof.

Quickly, before she could think too much about what she was doing, Priscilla stripped off her clothes and kicked them into a corner. She grabbed one of the pitchers of hot water and poured it over her head. Dirt sluiced out of her hair in muddy rivulets and swirled down the drain. The warmth soothed her aching muscles but made her scratches and blisters sting. She picked up a bar of her precious English lavender soap and began smoothing the suds over her breasts and belly. She lingered over the task, savouring the silkiness of her own skin under her fingertips.

The two men watched her, transfixed. Jon's mouth hung open as if he didn't believe what he was seeing, but at the same time his trousers were distended by a huge erection. Anil's lips were parted, his tongue-tip playing unconsciously at the corners. She could see that he was hungry to taste her. For long moments, though, neither man moved.

Her soapy hands slipped easily into the cleft between her thighs. It seemed so natural, to slide her slippery fingers along her folds and stroke the juicy bud of flesh that set her trembling. She had done this so many times; she knew instinctively the path to her own pleasure. No one had ever watched her, of course. Instead of inhibiting her, though, her audience stirred her to new peaks of excitement.

No longer was her self-pleasuring lonely and sterile. Now she was sharing it with the man -- the men -- that she loved and desired. As she climbed higher, she could see her own arousal reflected in their faces. Neither moved to expose his cock, not yet, but she knew that would come soon.

She rubbed harder, plunging three fingers into her depths while vigorously thumbing her clit. With her other hand, she pinched her soapy nipples, sending sharp bolts of sensation straight to her sex. She moaned, closer every instant to her final release. With her eyes closed, she could still feel their lustful gaze, hear their harsh breathing.

All at once, Jon groaned. Priscilla's eyes flew open. He had unbuttoned his trousers. His cock jutted out, pale as ivory, the helmet purple with blood. He gripped his length with both hands, jerking away desperately. A grimace distorted his sweet mouth; he seemed almost to be in pain.

He worked his cock faster and harder, his eyes never leaving her soapy form. She picked up his rhythm, her fingers probing and twisting, her thumb mashing her clit against her pubic bone. She was close, and so was he. She squatted, opening her thighs wide and burying both hands in the sloppy, soapy cavern between them. Jon groaned again at the sight of the sight of her lewd posture.

They were locked in a race toward completion, each urging the other on. Priscilla tottered on the brink, humping her hands, watching her husband ravage his beautiful blood-engorged cock. Energy whipped back and forth between them, circling, strengthening. Nothing existed but their two bodies, straining toward ecstasy.

A half-strangled cry from Anil drew their attention. He had freed his cock as well. He stroked the thick rod of tawny flesh gently, far from the desperation of climax, or so it seemed. Yet as they watched, his cock contracted, pulsed and sprayed viscous ribbons of cum all over his delicate brown fingers.

The sight was simultaneously beautiful and obscene. Priscilla ground herself against her hands, hurling her body into an orgasm that tore through her like a hurricane. Even as she quivered in the retreating gusts of pleasure, she heard Jon yell and knew that he was spewing his seed across the floor.

The next thing she knew, Jon was beside her, helping her to stand. He clutched her soapy form to his now-naked body and sealed her lips with his. Joy ballooned in her chest. It had been so long since she'd felt his decisive mouth or tasted his familiar flavour. She rubbed her breasts against him, smearing herself with his dirt. His rigid nipples poked at her chest. Below, she could feel his cock stiffening again, nudging into the gap between her thighs.

She opened her legs and tilted her pelvis toward him, inviting his entry. Then, all at once, a torrent of warm water poured down on their heads. They broke their kiss, sputtering in the surprise flood. Before they could respond, another bucketful drenched them.

"Anil!" Priscilla turned to find that the native was behind them. He too had shed his clothes. As she watched, he raised a pitcher and poured its contents over his own head.

The shower slicked his dark locks against his skull, emphasising the fine planes of his countenance. Rivulets coursed over his muscled shoulders and down his hairless chest. His skin looked oiled, cinnamon-hued and buttery smooth. Only in his groin did hair grow, in wild black tangles completely different from the golden fur at the base of Jonathan's cock.

Priscilla's palms itched with the need to caress that silky, dark skin, to mould Anil's flat breasts and flick her thumbs across his chocolate-hued nipples. She saw herself kneeling in the puddle at his feet, swallowing his majestic penis. The urge to turn image into reality was overwhelming. Did she dare to act on her desire?

She glanced back at Jon. He too seemed transfixed by the sight of Anil's glorious nakedness. His cock was fully erect once again. It twitched slightly, in rhythm perhaps with his racing pulse. His hands were clenched at his sides, but as Priscilla watched, he relaxed and began stroking himself. His cock swelled further. She willed him to look away from Anil and meet her gaze, with its unspoken question. He must have felt her thoughts. Their eyes locked, and for a moment Priscilla felt the old connection that they'd had at first, the sense that everything was understood. He nodded slightly, a half-smile playing on his lips.

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Location, Location

By Erastes (Guest Author)

Thank you, Lisabet for giving me a space to blog today. I hope you all had a good day yesterday, whatever you celebrate or believe and my best wishes for 2010!

I'd like to talk about locations today, and why, to me, they are every bit as important in my books as the characters. Ruth Sims once said, about my first novel, "Standish":

One of the characters in Standish does nothing--doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't think. And yet this character controls emotions and actions and passions just by existing. It is a house called Standish. Like the Rochester mansion in "Jane Eyre" or the cliffs in "Wuthering Heights" Standish is a place so important to the story that it almost takes on life.

I'm very happy that Ruth saw this in the book, because really, the book was just as much about the house as it was a love story between two men.

Standish as depicted on the cover of the book is an actual place -- a ruin as you can see, by the tree growing on the roof! It burned down in the 1930's -- but still an imposing and beautiful house. Witley Court in Worcestershire is no more than a shell, but the façade was so gorgeous that I fell in love with it and wanted it to be "Standish."

Unless I can find a place that I can really associate with, I find it difficult to write. The novel I've just finished, Mere Mortals, a Victorian Gothic set on the Norfolk Broads, is actually set in a fictional location--an island that does not exist called "Bittern's Reach"--but the Broad that the island is located in does exist, and that's Horsey Mere. I was originally going to set the story on Dartmoor, but I felt that Dartmoor had been done to death with mystery stories and if I wanted a mysterious and isolated location, one where it was going to be difficult for my poor protagonists to leave, I couldn't do better than using the landscape of the Norfolk Broads, which is on my doorstep--and much easier to research!

The house on the island, while important, doesn't hold the same iconic status as Standish - it's based on this house--Oxburgh Hall. But I needed something imposing with priests holes, and something inaccessible. Oxburgh Hall is entirely moated, so it was easy to bung it on an island and make it impossible for my protagonists to escape from.

mwahahahaha!!!

I know that many writing pundits say that one shouldn't start a book with description, or weather, but I disagree. It's often the location, or the weather that creates a built-in conflict in my books. In Standish it was the fact of the house's existence that created the core conflict, Rafe owned it, and Ambrose coveted it because his family used to own it and felt wronged. In Frost Fair, it's the weather--the mini-ice age of 1814--that pits itself against the protagonists. Without the weather I don't think the book would have worked as well, it made things vastly uncomfortable for Gideon, as he struggled to keep his business afloat, and yet it also created a great business opportunity when the Frost Fair started on the frozen Thames and hundreds of stalls were opened up on the ice.

I just can't see the story having as much conflict if it had been a summer's tale.

Finally, there's no easier conflict than setting your story in a war. I'd always wanted to do a book about the English Civil War, as there are woefully few novels set in this period, and only one other gay novel that I know of, As Meat Loves Salt by Maria McAnn. I chose the setting for the beginning of Transgressions to be the village where the first major battle of the war was held. The village: Kineton. The battle. Edgehill.

What I found fascinating was that contemporary reports of the day tell of the local people coming from miles around to watch the battle, and this is at the same time unbelievable, and yet totally understandable. These were people who had not known of a conflict on English soil for hundreds of years. The battle took a good while to stage--the armies had to be marched into position, passing through towns and villages before choosing a location to fight--and so like a circus passing through town--it created a lot of interest. Everyone would have known about it and human nature being what it is it was natural there would be curiosity. Families made a day trip of it, packing picnics and spending the day on the view points around the valley. I doubt very much they knew what they were about to see. I can only imagine how horrific the sight of men and horses being blown apart by cannon could be, and I tried to instil this into the chapter where David and Jonathan sneak off after church on 23rd October 1642 and watch the bloody scene.

I visited both Edgehill and Kineton while researching for Transgressions and found both places almost untouched by time. There's an ugly and unprepossessing monument at the battle site but other than that, when you look down onto the river plain, it's hard to believe that anything happened here.

And that's what I love about historical fiction, is that you can touch these places and bring their hidden pasts, back to life. So many things have been lost and forgotten. When I visited Mistley to research the Witchfinder section of Transgressions, I visited The Thorn, the pub where the infamous Matthew Hopkins, self proclaimed Witchfinder General, had his base of operations and was desperately disappointed.

Any mention of Mistley's infamous resident has been expunged from The Thorn, and now it's just another gastro-pub/restaurant. Diners who sit down to their char-grilled rosemary brochette of chicken liver & smoked streaky bacon on homemade sourdough toast have no idea of the murky history of the area.

Which is a shame, I think!

What am I working on now? Another book where location is part of the story. It's a novella set in Lombardy, northern Italy, in the latter years of the peace between the two world wars. Set high up in the idyllic Italian hills is a remote and glamorous hotel--filled with ex-pat English, the retired colonels, the ladies with their companions. And it's here where my protagonist, Guy, finds himself after drifting across Europe, still mourning the loss of his lover in England several years before. And it's here, in the rarified air and the beautiful peace, that he meets a scientist and his "assistant" - the beautiful Louis - and all three lives are changed forever.

So that's me--hope you enjoyed a mini-tour through my mind and why I have to feel "grounded" with a sense of place, just as much as I must know who my protagonists are.

What's your favourite location for a novel? Does place matter to you?