MISS SIMPKINS’ SCHOOL: FLORA
by Raven McAllan
Miss Simpkins' School. Where seduction's the game, and success is the aim. Let your classes commence.
Ex mistress to an Earl, who better than Molly Simpkins to show Flora how to ensure she gets what she needs from her marriage?
Flora's intended has an idea she doesn't agree with. Angus thinks she should be happy to live at their Scottish estate while he spends his time in London. It may be the way of the ton, but it isn't going to be Flora's way. This is her chance to show Angus what he'd miss if he leaves her alone. There's only one thing—she doesn't know how.
Luckily Miss Simpkins does.
Remember Remember, no not the 5th of November…your WIP is not the only thing in your life. (even thought it feel like it at times) And I've just realized to those of you across the pond you will now think I've lost the plot. But, November 5th is to celebrate a plot. The Gunpowder plot. When many, many, years ago (1605 to be exact) Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. (He failed in his dream we won't in ours.)
So to get back to the plot here. WIP and life. They have to mesh. For a while I lived slept, spent every waking minute writing, and it annoyed the hell out of my family. I had to get a happy medium. It's hard when your characters are bombarding you, not to listen and type away furiously. Writing is my hobby as well as my job. After all if they enjoy watching TV why shouldn't I write. Both are as anti-social as each other.
But two wrongs don't make a right, and I realized I was becoming a bore. No conversation, no interaction…a bore. Hmm. I sat and had a think. No laptop during the evening except in very special circumstances. I rejoined the interactive world of conversation.
It's hard, especially if there's things I have to do regarding my books. Although I often do read up on stuff if DH is watching something on the TV. You have to explain that this is a two way street. It's give and take on both sides. I try to set aside four hours every day to work. Sometimes it's more, sometimes less. I've learned not to beat myself up over it. If I set myself deadlines I stress. But again if I don't have a deadline, I procrastinate.
When we go on holiday, I write for an hour in the morning before anyone else is up, and I find long haul flights brilliant for adding to the wordage. (And gaining new readers). At home I start the minute the door closes on Dh going to work.
It hasn't been easy, tempering all this and getting a good work/non work ratio. I'm not sure if I've succeeded or not. I do get frustrated and annoyed at times, especially when I'm asked to do stuff during the day because, "you're at home with time on your hands". Or even worse, "you don't work so you can do x or y". (Not my husband) I've bitten my tongue several times.
Now if the characters are demanding my attention and I can't ignore them, I'll just say so, go into the study and sort them out. DH will appear with a glass of wine, and go back to his TV program.
We're getting there!
Fraser had been told he was cold and heartless by many a person, but he knew it wasn't true. He had proper affection for anyone he bedded, and truth be told, abhorred the way men married and still went elsewhere other than their wife for satisfaction. It may be the way of the ton, but it wasn't his way. Once wed, he intended to be faithful to his wife, and she to him. So why, he mused as he washed and tugged a banyan over his head, had he spouted such rubbish to Flora? Just because her brother said she understood and accepted life was thus?
I'm an idiot. First for not telling her how I feel, and second for not showing her. Third for not explaining how I wanted our life to be, and fourth—he winced at one particular bruise inflicted in Jackson's Boxing Salon—fourth for not dodging that blow from Carruthers.
Fraser shook his head at his folly, and went back into the sitting room adjacent to his bedchamber. Newton, his valet, had left port and brandy on a side table next to the fire that still burned in the grate. He poured a modest amount of brandy into a snifter. He had a lot of thinking to do, and needed a clear head. Fraser slumped into a chair and rested his chin on his chest with his brandy glass held loosely between his fingers. How could he persuade Flora to be open and tell him how she felt, especially when he hadn't given her the same courtesy? It was a dilemma, and one he couldn’t fathom out how to solve. He closed his eyes the better to think.
It was an unexpected noise that woke him. Fraser could have sworn he'd not dropped off, but the clock on the mantle gave lie to that supposition. Over two hours had passed, and the coals in the grate barely glowed. He shivered, his bare feet were chilled, and the thin banyan was scarcely enough to warm the rest of him. At least he hadn't spilled his port. He took a hefty swallow and put the almost empty glass down, before he stood up and made sure the fire was safe. There was no point in rekindling it, and at this hour, no point in doing anything other than going to bed. He had an early morning appointment to ride in the park with Flora, and he had hoped to talk to her about putting the announcement of their marriage in the newspaper. Now he knew he couldn't do that before he'd explained what he really wanted, and seen if she agreed. If she didn't, then John, the succession, and the ton could go and hang. His mind made up, Fraser doused the lamp, and made his way to his bedchamber. The curtains were open as h
e preferred and there was enough moonlight to see by that a candle wasn't needed.
There was also enough moonlight to see his bed was occupied.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Raven lives in Scotland, along with her husband and their two cats—their children having flown the nest—surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings in her books.
She is used to sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to say nothing of the scourge of Scotland—the midge.
Her very understanding, and long-suffering DH, is used to his questions unanswered, the dust bunnies greeting him as he walks through the door, and rescuing burned offerings from the Aga. (And passing her a glass of wine as she types furiously.)
Why Raven? EASY!
The Raven is the harbinger of change. My Raven was around a lot after I sent Wallflowers Don't Wilt off to Breathless Press. And then, I was offered a contract. Thanks Raven.
I live in Scotland. McAllan is a variation of the name of the BEST single malt in Scotland.
What else could I pick?
So O.K. It's a pen name, but one with deep meaning for me. I hope you enjoy reading Raven's books.
Why don't you drop me a note and say Hi?
Looking forward to meeting you.
The author will award prizes as follows:
· A $10 Breathless Press GC to one randomly drawn commenter
· 5 eBooks from Breathless Press (publisher's choice) to one randomly drawn commenter
· 2 eBooks from Breathless Press (publisher's choice) to one randomly drawn commenter
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