Tuesday, June 19, 2012
THE MUSE is part of the Love Letters line published by The Wild Rose Press. The hero, Blaine Hobson, was a secondary character in my novel, IMPETUOUS. I had such a hard time keeping him from taking over that book that I ended up sending him off to France for a good portion of the book. At that point, I knew I’d have to write his story which led to THE MUSE.
Noted poet Blaine Hobson counts the Prince Regent among his patrons. But ever since the socialite he wished to marry took her life, he has been unable to compose a single line of poetry. With a sonnet commissioned by the Regent due in a few weeks, Blaine spends his time alternating between trying to write...and wishing he had the courage to join his beloved in the grave.
Raised in an orphanage with her sister, seamstress Emma Tompkins lives with the guilt of her sibling’s death. Accidently finding a suicide note penned by Blaine, she resolves to keep him alive at all costs. Vigilant, she returns each day, pushing her way into his home--and losing her heart.
Can Blaine forget his beloved and return the affections of the seamstress? Or once finished with his work, will he cast Emma out of his life forever?
The wind picked up, causing the skeletal tree branches to scratch against the sky. Leaves skittered along the ground, crackling like sheaves of paper as they shuffled against the gutter. Clouds raced across the sky, obscuring the moon more and more often.
Emma looked up at the inky darkness. No stars in sight. She didn’t consider herself to be superstitious, yet she had hoped to send a wish to one of the stars watching over the night. She needed reassurance that she’d done the right thing leaving Mr. Hobson alone. The guilt of Penny’s death nearly crushed her. She wasn’t certain she could withstand another death on her conscience. Not when she could have done something, anything to stop it.
She quickened her pace at the sound of footsteps behind her, scanning the darkness as she hurried along. There was no one about. She tightened her grip on the front of her cloak, trying to hold it closed against the harsh wind. The thin garment did little to keep out the cold.
She glanced behind her as she passed an alley, careful to give it a wide berth. Lazarus had told her of men who pulled women unfortunate enough to be out alone into alleys only to sell them later to a procurer for some of the worst brothels in London. Why hadn’t she remembered that before setting out?