Coffee Pot Book Tour: Emma Lombard / Discerning Grace
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The Blurb
As the first full-length novel in The White Sails
Series, DISCERNING GRACE captures the spirit of an independent woman whose
feminine lens blows the ordered patriarchal decks of a 19th century tall ship
to smithereens.
Wilful Grace Baxter, will not marry old Lord Silverton with
his salivary incontinence and dead-mouse stink. Discovering she is a pawn in an
arrangement between slobbery Silverton and her calculating father, Grace is
devastated when Silverton reveals his true callous nature.
Refusing this fate, Grace resolves to stow away. Heading to
the docks, disguised as a lad to ease her escape, she encounters smooth-talking
naval recruiter, Gilly, who lures her aboard HMS Discerning with promises of
freedom and exploration in South America.
When Grace's big mouth lands her bare-bottomed over a
cannon for insubordination, her identity is exposed. The captain wants her back
in London but his orders, to chart the icy archipelago of Tierra del Fuego,
forbid it. Lieutenant Seamus Fitzwilliam gallantly offers to take Grace off the
fretting captain's hands by placing her under his protection.
Grace must now win over the crew she betrayed with her
secret, while managing her feelings towards her taciturn protector, whose
obstinate chivalry stifles her new-found independence. But when Grace
disregards Lieutenant Fitzwilliam's warnings about the dangers of the
unexplored archipelago, it costs a friend his life and she realises she is not
as free as she believes.
The Excerpt
A deep-throated rumble of laughter drew Grace’s eyes
across the crowded drawing room and over to Uncle Farfar. Heading over to him,
she admired the double row of gold buttons on his blue naval coat glinting in
the luminescence of the gilt chandelier above. The crystal beads cast a
sprinkling of starlight around the room. The evening had a distinctly tropical
aura, with wide-fronded palms and vines spilling from all corners in a
waterfall of greenery. Mother’s décor was fanciful and faux.
Uncle Farfar
beckoned a young man, the single epaulette on his right shoulder announcing
that he was a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
“Ah,
Fitzwilliam. Just in time,” beamed Uncle Farfar, his face flushed with
pleasure. Uncle Farfar was actually Admiral Arthur Jameson Baxter, highly
decorated for his successful engagement in Admiral Nelson’s campaign at the
Battle of Trafalgar. He had lovingly endured the childhood
nickname Grace had bestowed upon him when she was eighteen months old and
unable to pronounce his name, Uncle Arthur. He had not escaped the deep
weathering of a man who had spent his life at sea, and though his face was much
rounder these days, he still had a kindness in his eyes.
Centring
himself between Grace and the new arrival, Uncle Farfar said, “Lieutenant
Seamus Fitzwilliam, may I introduce you to Miss Grace Baxter, my niece and the
delight of my life.”
Grace smiled
politely, admiring the shades of gold shimmering across Fitzwilliam’s
smoothed-back hair, caught tidily in a black silk ribbon at his graceful nape.
“The pleasure
is all mine, Miss Baxter,” said Fitzwilliam, formally kissing her hand.
“Lieutenant.”
Grace took her hand back, fingers curling, and Fitzwilliam clasped his own
behind his back.
Uncle Farfar’s
sharp eyes flicked across the room, and his cordiality shrivelled. “God save
us, see who approaches? Lord Silverton.”
Lord Silverton
appeared closer to a hundred years old, despite him only being in his early
fifties. He was also a childless widower of renowned wealth and lineage. His
bulging midriff announced no shortage of good food. He had been a mysterious
figure on the outskirts of Grace’s life since she could remember, but no number
of years had lessened her discomfort around him.
“Your servant,
madam,” drawled Silverton, bowing stiffly.
Grace dipped
her head in greeting, lowering her gaze from Silverton’s beady eyes to the
neatly tied cravat at the base of his bulbous, waggling chin. How could any
respectable lady willingly draw herself to the attention of this crusty,
timeworn creature?
“Your gown is
simply delightful, Miss Baxter,” said Silverton. “Reminds me of the gossamer
wings of a dragonfly.” Silverton’s obtrusive stare only blackened Uncle
Farfar’s mood further. Oblivious, Silverton droned on, “Fascinating creatures!
Dragonfly rituals of courtship may appear romantic to those inclined to observe
the world through rose-coloured spectacles, but the amazing show of flips and
spirals is usually the female trying to escape the boorish behaviour of the
males.”
“I cannot
possibly imagine how that feels,”
Grace muttered, peering impassively around the crowded room. Fitzwilliam’s
quick, dry cough sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Grace studied him from
the corner of her eye. His face betrayed nothing.
Just then, the
butler rang the bell.
Silverton’s
beady eyes fixed on Grace. “Would you care to dine with me this evening, Miss
Baxter?”
Uncle Farfar
cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, Silverton, I’d appreciate my niece’s
company this evening.”
Uncle Farfar
drew Grace away before Silverton could say anything more and ushered her into
the dining room. Fitzwilliam followed two steps behind with his allotted dinner
companion, Miss Pettigrew. Her petite hand curled in his elbow, and her coifed
black hair barely met his shoulder. Grace had made her acquaintance only once
before and realised with a sinking heart that she was in for an evening of
little to no conversation with the demure creature, should she be stuck beside
her. The stretched table was laid with the snowiest of linen and set with such
precision that even the King of England would have been pressed to find fault.
Uncle Farfar
waved at the empty chairs. “Would you care to sit between Lieutenant
Fitzwilliam and me, Grace dear? You might need to give me a kick under the
table if we bore you with too much naval chatter.”
Grace sank
into her chair. “Nonsense, Uncle. I do so enjoy your tales.”
Fitzwilliam
waited for Miss Pettigrew to be seated as she gave him a simpering smile. A
wave of relief washed over Grace at not being stuck with Silverton for the
evening.
Uncle Farfar
clearly had the same thoughts, and he chuckled, “At least you’re squirrelled
with us, away from that pompous windbag.”
Grace peered
down the long table, her eyes narrowing as she caught Silverton’s beady eyes,
grey as a wolf’s pelt, roaming freely across her décolletage. She scratched
absentmindedly at the fine lace edging around the low neck of her lavender
gown, aware that her unladylike fidgeting would likely irk Father at some point
in the evening. But it could not be helped. Lace was so wretchedly itchy.
Fitzwilliam
pulled in his chair and nodded at Captain Steven Fincham sitting stiffly
opposite him like a squat Napoleonic figure. Dark
circles beneath Fincham’s bleary, bloodshot eyes gave Grace the impression that
he was in poor health, suffering from the crapulous effects of intoxication, or
both.
With the soup course over, Grace eyed the line of
footmen entering with platters laden with succulent roast lamb. The thin slices
were perfectly browned on the outside with just a peek of pink inside. Her
stomach grumbled at the rich, buttery scent of the potatoes being served onto
her plate. She intended to enjoy every mouthful. At the sound of cutlery
pinging on glass, Grace turned her attention to her father, Lord Flint, who
rose with his wine glass raised.
“As you know, my dear wife’s partiality to dinner
parties ensures they happen with alarming regularity.” A polite smattering of
laughter rippled around the table. “But tonight, we have two guests who deserve
our well wishes.” Father inclined his bewigged head at Fincham. “Captain Fincham
and Lieutenant Fitzwilliam will soon be leaving England’s fair shores to expand
our great nation’s knowledge of the world.” His crystal cut glass glimmered in
the candlelight. “To a safe and prosperous journey, gentlemen.”
I know after that, you're going to want to read this book. Below is a link to Amazon US and a universal buy link for other outlets.
Thank you so much for hosting today's blog tour stop.
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