idea-clipart-canstock15210914Last night I went to the monthly meeting of my local RWA chapter. Most of the time we have a speaker come in and give a talk, but a couple of meetings a year we do a more social/interactive thing and these always end up being my favorites. So this meeting was a giant brainstorming party, but we did it like speed dating. What a blast it was. Not only did I get to learn about the writing of some people that I don’t often get to talk to, but I got some help on my next book. 

The cool thing about brainstorming is that you can really do it anywhere and with anyone. Even people who aren’t helpful (often for me this is The Professor) can be helpful in their unhelpfuness – if that makes sense. It’s like you give people your writing problem and then have people throw out ideas and sometimes you just have to pull the weeds to find the pretty flowers. Okay, that’s a terrible metaphor, but often for me, I know when I an idea doesn’t work and it can lead me to the one idea that rings my bell. 


Why, Tom Hiddleston, is that you???

Which brings me to the point of my blog, I need some brainstorming help…here’s my issue, I’m about to start book 2 in a trilogy and I *think* my hero and heroine know each other from the past, but they weren’t romantically involved. She’s older than him and now their paths are going to cross because of his work and something with her late husband. So give me your best ideas for how they know each other…ready, GO!

And just so you can have a little “reward” for all your efforts, here’s my inspiration for my hero, Gabriel. 

Robyn DeHart
Robyn DeHart


Robyn DeHart

IMG_2895So I’m in the midst of a deadline right now and I’m so far behind that I can’t even remember where I’m supposed to be. It’s quite sad. When this happens, sadly all of my creative energy must go to the book itself so today I am sharing random facts about myself, in hopes that you will do the same because y’all I could use a bit of diversion. So please, entertain me with your own random facts…

* I got my hair cut this summer into an inverted bob and this pic doesn’t do it justice, but I love it!
* My nails are always painted
* I think cats are the best animal ever
* My eyes are green, but everyone thinks they’re blue
* I used to be a Diet Coke junkie, but I’m reformed and now drink only water, mostly in the form of La Croix
* I’ve almost been married for 10 years
* I have 2 children, both girls and they’re 6 and 4 and so cute, it’s kinda ridiculous
* I’m the youngest in my family
* I could spend hours looking at organization ideas (and have done that very thing)
* I took American Sign Language in college for my language requirement
* I have a collection of ink wells
* I am addicted to office supplies (as are most other writers that I know)
* I get headaches all the time
* I’m scared of heights, and water critters and I’m terrified of tornadoes
* The Professor watches TV at night in our bedroom and my preferred program for falling asleep is Law & Order (any of the 3 versions)
* I don’t think The Simpsons, Seinfeld or There’s Something  About Mary are funny despite popular opinion
* I love to spend the day snuggled on my couch doing nothing but reading, but I rarely get to indulge in this
* I love Country music, good rock-n-roll and Broadway showtunes
* My happy place is the beach – I don’t even care if it’s an ugly beach as long as there is sand and waves I can listen to
* I hate being late on a deadline, but sometimes there’s no way to prevent it

So tell me some goodies about you, no matter how small or big, I wanna know. 

Misadventures in SeductionI have long been a fan of the contemporary trope of the “wrong bed” – somehow the heroine ends up crawling into the bed of her crush/boyfriend/lover’s brother/friend/etc. and has the best sex of her life and then chaos ensues. It’s a fun trope and it works well in contemporary romance. But I really wanted to try my hand at it in an historical. To have the heroine intentionally seduce someone only to find out (at a much later date) that she crawled into the wrong bed. Oh what fun. And thus was born the final book in my Masquerading Mistresses series, MISADVENTURES IN SEDUCTION

First, can we take a moment and gawk at that gorgeous cover? I mean, it’s soooo pretty. Okay, now that that’s done, let’s get to the good stuff. So my heroine, Prudence, is in a bit of a pickle. She’s responsible for her younger siblings and there are plenty of them. Her brother wants to go off and fight the war, but she’s bound and determined to prevent him from doing that so she’s not alone and providing for their younger siblings. So she strikes a deal with a less than gentlemanly gentleman, her virtue, for her brother’s safety, only she accidentally slips into the Duke of Sutcliffe’s bed. What’s a girl to do?

Harrison lay still in the darkness. A sound had awakened him, and it took him a moment to realize it had been the click of his door unlatching. Someone was in his bedchamber. He reached to the bedside table and retrieved his pistol. He hated these bloody country house parties—they exposed him to too many people. He had only attended so that members of the Seven, the elite group of spies he led, could exchange information without drawing undo attention to themselves. But apparently he hadn’t been discreet enough, because someone was entering his room. He gripped the pistol’s handle and tried to appear as if he were still sleeping.

There was movement by his bed, and he wished he hadn’t allowed the fire to die down to nothing but a handful of coals. It wasn’t chilly in the room, but it was unforgivably dark.

Then pressure on the mattress as someone crawled in beside him. Soft feminine curves pressed to his bare chest—soft, naked curves. No doubt a servant girl looking for a toss. He sighed in relief and his taut muscles relaxed. She nuzzled closer.

“I’ve been unable to stop thinking about our conversation this evening.”

He knew that voice, and it was most assuredly not a servant. “Prudence?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Shh. This will be easier for me if you let me do the talking.”

Well, she’d better do the talking, because he didn’t understand what the hell she was about. He set the pistol back on the bedside table.

Yes, he found Prudence Hixsby undeniably appealing. How could he not with her intriguing curves, her sharp mind, and her straightforward practicality? She was precisely the sort of woman—maybe even the precise woman—he would court, if he was a man in the position to court a woman.

But there was no place for romance in his life, let alone marriage, and Prudence was not a woman one romanced without the intention of marrying her.

Which was precisely why he’d worked so hard to ignore the attraction he felt for her. Until this very moment, he’d been certain he did such a good job disguising his feelings that she hadn’t a clue that he was attracted to her. Apparently he was less adept at hiding his desire than he’d thought.

“Pru,” he began, his voice so rough he didn’t even sound like himself.

Again she stopped him. “I understand that this isn’t marriage you’re offering. I believe I can accept that. I am old enough and practical enough to know that doing this isn’t going to ruin my chances on the marriage mart.” She drew in a breath, as though she was mustering her courage. Then she pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Please. I want to do this.”

He should have protested. He intended to but, before he could, she crawled atop him, kissed his chin, and then his jaw. Hot, sweet kisses all the way until she reached his mouth.

He had not expected Prudence to seduce him. She seemed so very irritated with him much of the time. Perhaps that was merely her way of flirting.

Her chaste kisses were driving him insane. That and the very unchaste feel of her naked skin against his. He was hard. She wanted him. He sure as hell wanted her.

He rolled her over and kissed her intensely, taking her sweet seduction and setting it afire. 

So what do you think, are there some plot devices more common in contemporaries that you’d like to see in an historical? Or how about the other way around? 

e677b151360b8cf82f761223c1aebdd0I can’t swim. 

Well, that’s not entirely true, I can tread water and kind of propel myself through the water and I’m not afraid of pools (don’t do water with critters except to sit in it), but I can’t like swim swim. You see when I was very little we were members of a local city pool and my mom would take us, my 2 older siblings and I during those long hot summer days. One such day tragedy struck and a little girl actually drowned when her hand got caught in a drain. The event sufficiently traumatized my mother enough that she never put me in swimming lessons. 

I love the water. It would definitely be my exercise preference except for the aforementioned non-existent swimming ability. But I realized this summer that it’s not too late. If I want to learn to swim all I have to do is take lessons. And it just so happens that at my alma-mater and where the Professor teaches they teach swimming lessons. Our girls had them this summer and will continue in the fall and I will be taking one-on-one lessons. I’m really quite excited. It’s kind of a life-long dream of mine to be able to do laps. I have no delusions of being graceful or being able to do much more than the breast stroke, but I don’t care. I just want to learn. 

Who knows, maybe after I learn to swim, I’ll take piano lessons (another life-long dream of mine.)

So how about it, y’all have any life-long dreams you’re pursuing? 

FHSO_Final500I had a book out recently – and I don’t think I’ve shared anything about it yet. So without further ado, let me share 5 fun facts about FOR HER SPY ONLY, the 2nd in my masquerading mistresses series. 

1. This book came from a Christmas blog I wrote. I was supposed to write a scene about characters stranded on Christmas Eve. I fell in love with the characters so much that when it came time to write the second book in my Masquerading Mistresses series, I scrapped my original idea and started with that blog. 

2. Alistair, the hero, has Aspergers. I wanted to write a different type of hero and all of his characteristics rang true for that, but it wasn’t easy incorporating it into the Regency world. 

3. This is my first book (so far) with a kiddo in it. 

4. I named my heroine Winifred because a lady came to my Weight Watchers meeting with that name and I just loved it, I told her I’d use it in a book some day. Oddly enough, she hasn’t been back…

5. And for the fifth thing, I’ll just share an excerpt…hope you love it. 


24th of December 1808, near the coastline of Sussex



Miss Winifred Wilmington pulled her green velvet cloak tighter around her. She exhaled and the puff of air was visible, so cold was it inside the carriage.

“We are going to die in here,” her maid, Polly, wailed.

Winifred rolled her eyes heavenward. “I seriously doubt that,” she said. “It is rather cold, but I suspect someone will be along soon enough and rescue us.”

“I could remind you that it was my suggestion that we leave earlier in the day. Or yesterday,” Polly grumbled. “It is the eve of Christmas, who else is traveling?”

The thought had crossed Winifred’s mind as well, but she certainly wouldn’t put voice to it. “Holmes went to search for help. Certainly he will find someone to assist us.”

There was no need to panic, as that would solve nothing. Therein lie the significant difference between herself and her longtime maid. Winifred was nothing if not practical. It was a skill she had learned out of necessity. One did not get jilted at the altar without adjusting one’s expectations of life and other people. In any case, she was somewhat concerned about being stranded in this frigid carriage all night, though she was hopeful that someone would come along to save them.

Polly sat up. “Do you hear that?”

Polly was so apt at creating drama, no doubt the woman thought she heard wolves outside. “What?” Winifred asked.

“A carriage is coming,” Polly said.

Winifred strained her ears, and certainly enough it did sound as if wheels were drawing nearer. Hope bloomed in her chest. The wheels rumbled and the horse hooves clattered louder and louder until they were upon them before they rolled to a stop.

“As long as it’s not a highwayman, I suppose we can consider ourselves rescued,” Winifred said.

Polly gasped, her hand going to her throat. “A highwayman!”

A male voice sounded outside the carriage, obviously speaking with his party unless Holmes had found this particular someone to salvage them.

There came a rap at the door. Winifred leaned forward and opened it.

A tall gentleman stood there in a great coat with a top hat perched upon his head. He held a cane in his hand. “Madams,” he said, the timber in his voice deep and rich.

A chill skirted over Winifred’s arms despite the cloak encasing her body. “Good evening, sir,” she said. “I hope my driver, Holmes, didn’t get you out of bed to rescue us.”

“I beg your pardon, I know no such man. I came upon your rig by happenstance.”

“Well, then, I should thank you for stopping to assist us. Can our carriage be repaired?”

“I do not know, nor am I inclined to look,” he said.

That wasn’t very gentlemanly of him. She opened her mouth to tell him precisely that—

“I will offer you a ride,” he said before she could comment.

Winifred considered his words. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would do. “Yes, my grandmother’s estate is not far from here. We would very much appreciate it.”

“No,” he said.

She started to thank him for his hospitality and then his words sank in. “I beg your pardon? Did you or did you not offer us a ride?”

“To where I am going. I am not a coach for hire.” He tapped his cane against his chest.

She had the childlike urge to mock him, but thought better of it. Her options for getting out of this predicament were rather limited, so she best mind her manners.

“In the morning, you may have the carriage take you to your destination,” he continued. “But in this weather, I am going nowhere else.”

“And where is it that you’re going?” Winifred asked.

“Coventry Hall,” he said.

Nerves prickled at her neck, standing the little hairs on end. “You are?” Winifred asked.

“Alistair Devlin, Marquess of Coventry,” he said with only a shadow of a bow.

“Oh good heavens,” Polly said, finally breaking her silence. She shook her head violently. “Miss Wilmington, we mustn’t go with him. We can wait for Holmes.”

“Don’t be rude, Polly.”

“Yes, don’t be rude, Polly,” he repeated. “I don’t believe you’ll have any other options tonight.” His shoulders rose in a slight shrug. “Though you could certainly choose to stay here and freeze,” he said. “I have made the offer.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

“Miss Wilmington, you know what they say of him,” Polly said once he was out of earshot. She gripped Winifred’s arm tightly. “Mary, who works for Lord Garrick, says she knows the housekeeper that used to work at Coventry. He is a killer,” she whispered. “Murdered his own wife, tossed her right off a cliff, they say.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” But of course Winifred had also heard those rumors and plenty more when it came to the Marquess of Coventry. He had a most interesting reputation. Of course the fact that he rarely, if ever, was seen in London, only fueled said rumors.

Unfortunately the man was right. The odds of someone else coming along to rescue them were very slim. “It is a good offer,” Winifred said. “Our only offer, as it were.”

“He could be dangerous,” Polly warned.

“He is a peer of the realm. Rumor or not, there is a code of etiquette.” When Polly looked unconvinced, Winifred continued. “Consider that being tossed off a cliff should result in a rather quick death, whereas freezing in this carriage would be slow and painful, I suspect.”

Polly closed her eyes and shook her head as if warding off the image.

“Excuse me, I should like to get down please,” Winifred called out. Nerves fluttered in the pit of her stomach, though it could have been the chill from the opened carriage door. Several breaths passed before a footman appeared to assist her to the ground. “Oh, you must be one of the marquess’s men. Thank you.”

The man nodded, but said nothing. The snow swirled around her, soft as a whisper, covering her face and sticking to her eyelashes. She put her hands in her muff and walked quickly toward the other carriage.

Polly raced up to meet her. “Miss Wilmington, think of your reputation.”

“Don’t be silly. I am a spinster who was jilted. Besides, my reputation has already been damaged. Furthermore, my reputation certainly won’t matter if I freeze to death, now will it?”

“I shall not ride with that man,” Polly said with a firm nod of her head.

“Suit yourself, you can wait for Holmes. Do try to stay warm,” Winifred said.

“If you go with him, I shall resign,” Polly warned.

“Don’t bother, I shall simply dismiss you,” Winifred said.

Polly made a growling noise, yet still followed behind. “I shall come with you to keep you safe, but I refuse to ride inside with him.”

“Do whatever you wish. I am riding inside where it promises to be nice and cozy.”

And with that a gloved hand reached out of the carriage door. She took a deep breath, placed her hand in his, and climbed into the carriage. A lantern hung from a hook, illuminating the interior. She took a seat on the plush bench across from the marquess. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“I instructed my footman to stay and wait for your driver.”

He certainly did not appear to be murderous. Not that she had any notion of what a murderer might do or say.

“Your maid, she is going to ride outside?” he asked.

“She’s a stubborn lot,” Winifred said.

“You sacked her,” he said.

“Third time this week.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Polly and I have plenty of disagreements.”

He nodded, then picked up the book that had been sitting on the seat next to him. The carriage lurched forward.

She eyed her unlikely travel companion. He wasn’t a friendly sort; formidable was more what she’d consider him. He was tall and lean and imposing, but younger than she had expected. She’d heard of the Marquess of Coventry, but had never before seen him. His reputation in London was notorious. He could not be more than thirty. His cane leaned against the bench next to him, and his gloved hand held onto the gold knob on top. An ugly scar slashed across his left cheek, leading up to his eye.

He looked up from his reading as if he sensed her perusal. His eyes were a startling shade of green, like the first bloom of spring after a blistering winter.

“My name is Winifred Wilmington,” she said dumbly.

“Indeed,” he said, then went back to his reading.

She felt her brow furrow. “What are you reading?” she asked.

“Shakespeare. As You Like It,” he said.

She was quiet for a moment, trying to recall if she’d read that particular play. It seemed she must have, but she couldn’t recall a single thing about it.

“You know I am not afraid of you,” she said. Her mother used to chastise her about her chattiness, but Winifred had a tendency to talk when she was nervous. And the marquess’s silence had her quite addled. “I don’t think it’s very intelligent to believe everything you hear about a person.”

“I see,” he said, not bothering to look up from his book.

“Oh yes, people are quite spiteful with the rumors they spread.” She forced herself to stop talking as she was about to tell him a particularly nasty rumor, but that would be gossiping. She knew she became chatty when she was nervous, and she certainly did not need to say something she would later regret. And she knew the sting of being on the other end of those rumors. When Theodore had left her standing alone with the priest and the church full of onlookers, people had made all sorts of conclusions.

“What is it that people say about me?” he asked, again not looking up from his book.

She studied him for a moment, trying to gauge if he was toying with her. He must know what people said. Even the servants gossiped about him.

He looked up at her and once again she was caught in those unusual eyes. His right brow rose expectedly.

She swallowed. “That you murdered your wife.” Her voice came out weak.

“But you do not believe that,” he said.

“No, I do not.” She shook her head. “You are obviously a responsible and kind gentleman.”

You do not know me,” he said. He set his book aside. His glove gripped the gold knob on his cane.

“No, but you stopped to assist a stranded lady. That says volumes about your character, my lord,” she said, quite pleased with her logic.

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “How do you know I’m not taking you to my castle to ravish you?”

She sucked in her breath. His words should have driven fear into her heart. They should have made her second-guess climbing into this carriage with him. Instead she became acutely aware of how she must look with her traveling cloak and bonnet. She resisted the urge to pat her hair.

“Are you? Going to ravish me, that is?” she couldn’t help asking. No man had ever been so forthcoming with her, and the effect was rather intoxicating.

He crooked his finger at her, beckoning her forward.

Curiosity gripped her. She leaned toward him. He had lovely eyes, mossy green with long lashes.

He grabbed her by the chin and pulled her closer, then caught her mouth in a kiss. So shocked by the touch, her lips parted, giving him a brazen invitation to deepen the kiss. His lips were soft and unfamiliar, yet seductive, intoxicating. Her eyes fluttered closed and her hands gripped the fabric of his great coat around his shoulders. And then the kiss was over, ending as quickly and abruptly as it had begun. He leaned back in his seat and she was left in the middle of the carriage with her eyes closed, no doubt looking very much the goose.

“You should not be so trusting,” he said.

He was right. Of course he was right. Yet, she felt no fear with him, even at the liberty he had just taken. She felt only curiosity and something that was probably desire, at the very least attraction and intrigue. “You never answered my question,” she shot back once she’d regained her senses.

“Which was?”

“If you were intending to ravish me once we arrived at your castle?”

His lips quirked up in a half smile. “I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”


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