Simeon St. Ange, the Earl of Wesmorlyn, waited for his valet to finish the last detail, the positioning of his jacket cuff to properly display the elegance of his pearl gray gloves, then turned to face his much-younger half-sister, Hannah, as his valet retreated. Her gentle voice, so quiet it was almost a whisper, had hardly echoed in the grand front hall of his London town home. He moved to stand in front of her and gazed down at the pale oval face trustingly turned up to his. “Hannah, you have more courage than you know. Think of our family, stiffen your spine and stand up straight.”

She did as she was told, but the paleness of her face gave away her continuing terror.

“It is a ballroom, not a torture chamber,” he chided.

“B-but there will be so many people, and they will all be looking at me.”

“You must not be so morbidly vain. Some will look, but you will only suffer that for a moment, and then it will pass. Once Countess Charlotte von Wolfram and her brother arrive, all eyes will be on them.”

“That frightens me too,” she said, staring up at him, her almond shaped eyes wide with anxiety. “Aren’t you the least bit anxious, Wes? Countess Charlotte is your future bride. What if you dislike her, or what if she is rude? What if… what if she doesn’t like me?” He smiled, finally understanding her fear. His own anxiety about meeting his German-born fiancée for the first time was well controlled and no one else would ever know his inner turmoil. The Wesmorlyn heirs always married a lady from outside of England; he was following family tradition. Honor your father and your mother, the rules said, and he had always done so, even to following their last wishes by choosing a bride from another land. He would not allow a trembling uncertainty in his gut to undermine this first meeting. He framed Hannah’s delicate face with both of his hands, noting that her usually fly away hair was ruthlessly tamed into a perfectly modest hairstyle befitting her status as a young lady about to enter her first season the next spring. This ball to welcome his bride and her brother in the autumn season of 1795 would be a modest practice for his sister, with the excuse that she was to meet her sister-in-law to be; perhaps in the spring she would not be as nervous and green as the other sixteen-year-old girls.

“Hannah,” he said, patting her cheek. “You are a sweet angel from heaven. How could the countess not like you?”

“I’ve never had a sister,” she said, brightening a little. “Perhaps she will like me a little and we’ll become friends.”

“How could she help but love you?”

Hannah smiled, radiantly, her pale skin glowing like nacre. “Will Lyulph be there?” she said, casually, of their old family friend and neighbor from Cornwall.

“Of course,” Wes said, frowning and noting that she turned away into the shadows as she spoke of him. “He is in London, as you too well know, and did hint for an invitation. How could I refuse?”

“I thought you might say no,” Hannah said, softly, fiddling with her fan. “You are not so close to him now as you once were.”

“Things are different in London, Hannah. In the country our various stations in life do not matter so much, but in town the boundaries must be observed.” He was silent for a moment, observing her, the peachy perfection of her skin, the exquisite flawlessness of the matched pearls around her slender neck. Coupled with her naïveté, her beauty and wealth could draw the wrong kind of attention from predatory males. But had he been unwise to keep her so cloistered from the outside world? Is that why she had such a fixation on Lyulph Randell? He had done what he thought right, and her mother had never objected. Perhaps he should have reversed things… introduced her more to the world and kept her from Lyulph Randell’s company. If there was one man in the world she must not marry, it was him.

“I hope,” he said, watching her open and shut her fan, “that you don’t spend all of your time talking to Lyulph this evening. I would not have even invited him except that I will give him no excuse for feeling slighted. But still, you must not be seen doing any more than briefly acknowledging his presence; you may be polite, say hello, and inquire after his well being, but little more. This ball is for Countess Charlotte and her brother, Count Christoph. Please be polite to them both and do not hide away. I know it’s difficult, but not much will be expected of you; it’s your first appearance at a ball, after all, and you are just now out of full mourning for your poor mother, and so you should be a little reticent. Your modesty and shyness will be seen as becoming in a girl your age. But do not let the ease of Lyulph’s familiarity lead you to spend an inordinate amount of time with him,” he finished, shaking his finger at her.

“I will be correct, Wes, I promise,” she said, her tone satisfactorily submissive. She folded the fan, prettily painted with biblical scenes, and held it still in her gloved hands. “See that you are. As a St. Ange, much is expected of you. It is especially important to make a good impression on our cousin the marchioness, Lady Harroway, for if she likes you she will sponsor your coming out next spring.” He stopped himself from fussing too much, afraid he would make her more nervous than she already was.

She stood away from him. “Am I presentable?”

“Turn,” he said, and examined her as she slowly turned in a complete circle. Her gown was gray and delicate with little ornamentation, but had a tiny cape of gauzy silk falling from her shoulders to below her waist in an unusual style those females born to the St. Ange family had always affected. Her hands were gloved in gray silk that stretched up her slender white arms to above her elbows.

“Nothing is showing?” she asked.

“You look perfectly lovely,” he said.

“I wish mama was here.” She bit her lip, but tears welled in her eyes.

“I know,” he said, and stepped over to her, taking her in his arms and hugging her, the briefest of gestures before turning away to accept his walking stick from the butler. “Your mother would be proud. She loved you very much. But I’m sure she can see you tonight, Hannah.”

As she turned away and applied a delicate scrap of lace to her welling eyes, he felt a pang of pity. Hannah’s mother, his father’s second wife, had outlived her husband by many years, but in the autumn of the previous year she had succumbed to a fever. It was then, forced to acknowledge mortality anew, that he accepted what he had known for some time. He must marry and start a family. He was twenty-nine, and life did not last forever. It was up to him to bring to earth the next Earl of Wesmorlyn.

When the Prince of Wales had condescended so far as to suggest he consider marrying a cousin of his new wife, Caroline, Wesmorlyn had cautiously agreed to hear more. Countess Charlotte von Wolfram, suggested to him as an appropriate bride, was a young lady of impeccable lineage and related by birth to many kings and princes. She was intelligent, could speak at least three languages, and had been under the tutelage of an Englishwoman to learn British ways and manners, for her family was looking for an English husband for her. That fact alone, that she had made a study of English ways, appealed to him; she seemed the ideal bride for a man like him, and so he had acquiesced.

He had eschewed the need for a likeness before the engagement. Beauty was not necessary nor even particularly wanted. Modesty, chastity, obedience and good birth were all far more important, and attested to by the girl’s uncle, Count Nikolas von Wolfram. The betrothal, which was firm on his side but conditional on hers, served the purpose of finding him a wife of excellent heritage and foreign birth, and ingratiated the prince to him. He had made the contract, but had specified that the young lady had the right to refuse if she came to England but found she could not go through with it. He would force no woman to uphold a contract in which she had little say, though friends thought him odd and overly nice in his notions of consideration toward the fair sex.

Of course, now that the prince’s marriage was turning out as it was—unhappy and combative, even though the princess was successfully with child—it would not serve Wesmorlyn politically to wed the Countess von Wolfram, but he was never one to evade a commitment once it was made. If she wished the marriage to proceed, he was obligated in every way. He took in a deep breath. He just hoped his future wife would not be the embarrassment to his reputation that Princess Caroline had become to the prince. Raw, bawdy and jocose, forward and disobedient, Caroline was distasteful to Wesmorlyn and even more so to the poor prince, who must nonetheless support his wife until the birth of his heir freed them to live separate lives.

“You look very pleasant, and exactly as you should,” he said to his sister, and patted her shoulder. “But you mustn’t cry; you don’t want to have red, swollen eyes, or people will talk.”

“Thank you, Wes. You are always so kind to me,” Hannah said with a sniff, stiffening her spine and defeating with a great effort the tears that threatened to spill over onto her cheeks.

“And so we are ready to go,” he said. “Will we do, Sam?” he asked, raising his voice.

Semyaza, commonly called Sam, who had appeared while they spoke and stood waiting by the door, nodded solemnly. “It is raining. Be sure that your sister does not get cold.”

“Of course. Her cape, please.”

The tall, solemn visaged Semyaza picked a dove gray cape up from a seat near the door and helped Hannah into it. She looked up at him and he nodded.

“Thank you, Sam,” she said, her voice once again quiet and restrained.

“Shall we go?” Wesmorlyn said, as he took his sister’s arm.

“Luscious…fabulous sensuality.” —The Best Reviews

“A spine-tingling, gothic paranormal tale.” —Romance Reviews Today

Dear Reader,

Sometimes when you write a series, a character that lingers in the shadows will suddenly take center stage and demand a story. It’s not like I didn’t know I was going to use Charlotte von Wolfram, a secondary character in Awaiting the Moon and Awaiting the Night, as the heroine of a book at some point. I did, but I thought that she was going to have to share the spotlight with her brother, Christoph. He is the troubled, tortured fellow who is just beginning to find himself in Awaiting the Night, and I thought that his story would come next. But then Charlotte pouted and demanded that if she was going to England—her Uncle Nikolas was sending her there to meet a potential husband—then she wanted to be the center of attention for once.

Who am I to argue? I’m just the author. I felt sorry for the Earl of Wesmorlyn, her betrothed. He’s a good guy, a little stuffy and proper, but well-meaning and morally centered. What on earth would he make of a tempestuous, unruly female like Charlotte? But… it turns out that he has secrets of his own, and any other woman would let him stay in his tightly closed shell. Charlotte, whirlwind countess and free spirit, demands honesty. But how to handle her? She causes a scandal the very first night she arrives in England and then disappears off the face of the earth. Wesmorlyn is appalled and affronted—a proper lady just does not go wandering through the English countryside in 1795—but, yes, all right, he’s intrigued. She is, after all, beautiful, and seeing her kiss another man did cause a quick spurt of jealousy that he doesn’t care to examine too closely.

So he takes off after her, and the two find that as different as they are, some things bring them together. But will their secrets—and a few shocking revelations—tear them apart forever?

I have to admit that I really like Charlotte. Some heroines are good to the point of blandness, or feisty to the point of being annoying. Charlotte is a mixture, feisty, but also devoted, loyal and caring. She’s a good person, but her headstrong nature, though it takes her into trouble, is tempered by intelligence and a deep need to understand herself. She’s supremely flawed and wonderfully real, and when she falls in love, it will rock her to the core. I hope you enjoy Awaiting the Fire. Charlotte is happy about the outcome, let me tell you! ;-)

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Happy reading!

Donna Lea Simpson

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