Romantic Friday Writers Challenge No 19 - Bouquet!

This week I've selected a snippet from a previously published novel: paired down to fit within word count of 400 max. 

Brief: An awful lot of drama, angst and stark realisation between a bride and groom has preceded this snip, and things are not going according to plan for the big day. There is so much more to this piece, what with the bride's mum convinced the wedding is definitely off and already repacking wedding gifts, while the man of the house is convinced the florist's box is a peace offering from the bridegroom. I guess one could say it's a steamy hunt'n shoot'n rom-com, and believe it, the fires of lust are stoked big time when the cast attend a hunting weekend in the West Country. 

398 words: code MPA.

The florist’s box lay on the kitchen table, and it was just like Suzanne to be late down for breakfast when such as this sitting and awaiting her personal attention. Were they from Phil? Was the wedding on again? Temptation kept eating away at Geraldine, and about to prise the lid enough to peep inside Suzanne burst through the door.

     Nuance of guilt etched on her face Geraldine stepped back from the table, declared, “For you, according to the florist’s delivery girl.”

    The suspense was unbearable, as Suzanne unravelled the ribbon and finally opened the box. “Wow,” she said, leaning forward, “and scented as well.”

    “Twenty-four,” exclaimed Geraldine. My goodness, they must have cost . . .” She sensed air of trepidation: a little envelope now between fingers as Suzanne extricated a card from within. “Well?”

    “I’ll stand them in water for a while,” said her daughter, heading for the sink with the box, “and arrange them after breakfast.”

    Geraldine then knew Suzanne had no intention of revealing the identity of the sender, and it was obvious the wedding presents would have to be returned. She angled her head and strained her eyes to read the card:

Nelson. 11 a.m.

       

Two minutes to eleven. She was early when she had intended to be a few minutes late rather than appear too keen to meet him. There was no denying a spark had ignited mutual flames of desire, each knowing they would end up meeting like this. She kept walking, and spied him, his back to her as he scanned the square: one hand in grey suit pocket and rolled up magazine in free hand. He could hardly turn up in full dress cavalry uniform, as much as she would have liked that.

    Talk dark and handsome her mother had said, and will make for a dashing best man. If only she knew how true those words. Once the intended best man, he now had the bride all to himself. The bridegroom was no better, and on a date with a stable girl.  

    Her heart double somersaulted as Nick swung round and glanced her way, for he immediately came striding across from his vantage point beneath Nelson’s column. Face lit with a smile, his hazel eyes laughed as he slipped one hand inside her unbuttoned coat and drew her close: his lingering kiss a silent hello.

To see entries by other participants go here.     

     

‘If I Could Be Anyone, I’d Be" - Watching Willow Watts Launch Party.

Wawies.com - Glitters

A fancy dress book launch party. What could be better than that.  And, our gracious host Marilyn Monroe aka Talli Roland is handing out virtual bubbly at this very mo. Excuse me while I reach for a champers flute and wish her all the luck in the world with Watching Willow Watts.  

So, who did I come as?

If I could magic myself into Keira Knightley I'd be a very happy bunny. You see, I'm passionate about historical romances. In particular swashbuckling romances, and Keira has had some plum roles in the field of historical movies, not least The Duchess. Not only that, she's starred opposite some really dishy men! 

If ever my historicals could be made into movies, well, she'd make for an excellent Emerald Lady Penhavean in Her Favoured Captain, and perfection for Diamonta Whitaker in The Highwayman's Mistress.     

To see who else is at the book launch party, pop along to the main party room

Romantic Friday Writers Challenge/Blogfest - Lunch Date!

The image below is The Savoy, London.

This Flash-Fiction piece is written first-person POV, not a POV I normally indulge.

394 words: MPA.

This was ridiculous. A lunch date with a stranger, and someone who had the audacity to send roses by florist first thing in the morning with card. Albeit invitation to lunch, then sends a car to pick up his date, swish maybe, but what sort of man does that? What sort of man writes words like that?

   The car stopped, a concierge stepped forward to open the car door. It was only lunch, what could happen over lunch?  

    Hardly before setting foot inside a waiter stepped forward, asked, “Ms Stevens?” And, without awaiting reply, further said, “This way, please.”

   Oh my.

   He got to his feet, blue eyes sparkling, hair as dark as night, his towering height daunting. “Good to see you again.”

   “Do I know you?”

   “Not exactly but I owe you an apology.” He gestured to the seat opposite his.

   “For what?”

   “For that unexpected shower you received yesterday evening.”

   “Oh, so you’re puddle man. Of course, I should have recognised the car.” How was it possible for a man to smile as he was smiling, and not have every woman in the restaurant at his feet?  It was good to sit down before falling to the floor in swoons. “What I mean is  . . .”

   “I’m a git, a bolshy git for sending you roses, and for writing words that should only be said face-to-face.”

   “I was a little surprised at the words written and almost didn’t take up your offer, but curiosity got the better of me.”

   “I thought it might,” he said, settling to his seat. “So, am I out of line asking you out on a date?”

   “Is that what it is?”

   “I figured a lunch date might score more points than a dinner date. You strike me as too shrewd to be easily led.”

   “Fair assessment, so what’s on the menu?” 

   His expression said it all. He was pushing boundaries, treading unknown territory in true spirit of an adventurer, a man of daring-do. So, it was a must ask. “How did you acquire my name and address?”    

   A chuckle. “Cut and thrust why don’t you.” Another chuckle. “I just knew you’d be a challenge.”

   “Well?”

   A romancer’s hand across the table, fingers toying fingers, teasing the senses, a big grin on face. “Let’s just say I’d like to get to know you better. Shall we menu?”

       

To see entries by other participants go here.

Platform-Building Campaign - Flash Fiction.

If you're here looking for Lady Gwen's Judge & Jury Blogest, it's directly below this Challenge.

Here we go with the first challenge set by Rachael Harrie. 

Mine's a contemporary piece!

The door swung open, as though beckoning her to greet the morn. Raw scent of man replaced by salty air drifted through her cliff-top cottage. He was gone, but he’d be back. They always came back if she wanted them to. 

   How strange, though, that the sound of the sea crashing on the cliffs seemed closer than usual, almost surreal, as though swirling beneath her. True enough, pilot officer Brett Master’s had made the ground move all right, and maybe this time she might hang around longer than just for the weekend. 

   She smiled, the local lovesick barmaid leapt to mind, whom, according to village gossip a bit of a witch on the side. Funny really, the silly girl had cast an evil eye in their direction and mouthed some whispered curse as they’d made to leave. They’d naturally laughed and left the pub arms about each other.

   She stretched cat-like, languidly slid from the bed and walked naked toward the door.

   The lawn, the road . . . What?

   The ground had moved: moved for real.

   Shiiiiiit.

   She stood there, nothing beneath but swirling water, and Brett gone for good, no doubt about it.

   The cottage was teetering on the edge of the cliff, and suddenly the door swung shut behind her.  

   

To see entries by other participants go here.

Judge & Jury Blogfest!

This blogfest is hosted by the lovely Lady Gwen.

For this blogfest I've snatched two snippets from my latest historical romance novella:

The Highwayman's Mistress.

As you will gather there's a highwayman on the loose, and while Diamonta has it in mind Francois - her beloved -  might be a highwayman, doubt suddenly enters play! So, who do you think might be the robbing culprit who very nearly caused a Duchess to fall vagary to the faints, or is this a devious author's red-herring?   

“Diamonta, Diamonta,” squealed Leohne. “Mother has just returned from town, and you will never believe what has happened.”

    “Oh do stop dramatising and just tell me.”

    “Well, it seems a highwayman was shot today.”

   Her heart lurched. “Our highwayman?”

   “No one knows for sure. He was shot on the London road not far beyond Malmesbury.”

   “Killed?”  Oh God, please, let it not be Francois.

   “No, not dead. He escaped, but it was said he near fell from his horse so it was thought he was badly wounded.”

   Sense of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed her. She dared not stand, dared not display any sense of concern as to the highwayman’s welfare, yet her need to know finite details of the man’s escape a must.    “Who shot him, and which way did he go?”

   “In this direction, I suppose, because mother said a horseman rode past her carriage at the gallop and barely keeping to his saddle. It wasn’t until she reached town she discovered what had occurred a few miles ahead of her.”

   Oh Francois, what have you done?

   “Diamonta, are you all right, you’ve turned as white as the sheets on our beds.”

   “I have a bit of head pain, and need to go and lie down for a while.”

♥♥♥

The grand masked ball at its peak she noted her mother now in conversation with Lady Fortnum and barely a glance in their direction. About to ask Richard a leading question about Francois, he declared in hushed tone, “I think I’m bleeding.”   

   “Bleeding?”

   “I have a wound in my shoulder, and I swear blood is running down my arm.”

   She instinctively glanced the length of his arm to hand, and indeed his fingers were blooded and blood dripping to the floor. “Oh Lord.” She snatched his lace-trimmed kerchief from his sleeve, and discreetly wrapped it around his hand to cover his blooded fingers.  “Just keep walking toward the garden doors.”

   “Damn fool, I’ve been such a damn fool,” he said, as they hurried out into the cool night air, stars in abundance and as yet no moon. “We can go round to the stables and perhaps slip back into the house unseen.”

   As they hurriedly made their way around the house aided by light casting through windows, she asked, “How did you come by this injury?”

To see entries by other participants go here.