My debut novel, the steamy historical romance A Lady’s Revenge, won the New Jersey chapter of Romance Writers of America’s Golden Leaf Best First Book Award for 2020! A little glimmer of glamor at the end of a hard year. To purchase this fine, award-winning steamy romance, you can find a copy at almost every fine e-book purveyor.

The short take on A Lady’s Revenge:

Yoked by feelings of powerlessness and shame, Lady Lydia, the daughter of an earl, takes up boxing in secret. John Arthur is a former prizefighter turned stockbroker who is trying to become “respectable” for the sake of his sister. Taking on Lady Lydia as a student at the behest of his oldest friend and prizefighter, Bess Abbot proves a bigger challenge than John imagined.

I did a fair amount of research before I started writing this, and continued researching as I wrote it. Are you ready for my soapbox? Here it is:

Collet, John; The Female Bruisers; Museum of London; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/the-female-bruisers-50752

*Women absolutely engaged in boxing during this time period.

*Women absolutely engaged in boxing PRIOR to this time period.

*Women have always been fighters.

In the next blog, I’ll go into the history of it all, but for now, let’s talk about A Lady’s Revenge!

The big theme in this book is female anger. There’s so much to be angry about in the world, and women have always been encouraged to swallow that down and stay small. My heroines are alphas, although that doesn’t mean my heroes are weak by any stretch of the imagination. John Arthur, the counterpart to Lady Lydia, grew up on the street, taking care of his younger sister. John took up boxing not just to defend himself, but to make money. He got an education, did well, became a stockbroker—a profession that was barely more than barroom brawling at the time, and certainly not well respected—so now he has money, but no respect. But all of his obstacles left him with an emotional gift, a way to read people and situations. He understands Lady Lydia’s prickly exterior, her need for boxing, and her need for revenge.

The long take, from the back cover:

Lady Lydia Somerset is an earl’s daughter. At the ripe age of twenty-five, she still wears the lavish gowns and dances the dainty steps of the haute ton as if she were pursuing a husband; but her goals are far more personal. Instead, she pursues her tormentors: the men who bet that taking a girl’s virginity–her virginity–really can cure a brothel’s plague. She has her cousins and sister to aid her, but no one can understand what it feels like to be helpless. Pugilism, England’s manliest pastime, is her only relief. Training in secret with a female boxer keeps her sane, but when her instructor is hired away by one of the men she is seeking to destroy, she is in a bind. Her new teacher, a former prizefighter with a ready joke and a quick wit might do more than just correct her technique.

John Arthur is made of money. A street kid who dazzled with his fists, he now impresses as a miracle worker on the London Stock Exchange. But a man can’t forget a boyhood spent in the gutter. Easy-going and affable, John Arthur knows he shouldn’t tangle with bluebloods. He should be happy with a full belly and coin-filled pockets. But when he meets a woman who finds boxing as vital as he does, his life suddenly gets complicated.

Caught between revenge and finding love with a man who might truly understand her, Lady Lydia must commit to opening her heart or closing it forever.

An Excerpt:

Gold fixtures dripping with beeswax candles adorned the Beckersley ballroom, and hothouse flowers were tucked into every available corner. Most importantly, the champagne was cold—essential to a successful evening. If this were a more proper sort of ball, there would only be ratafia for her to drink, which was just short of intolerable. Private balls were so much more preferable to public ones.

The dowagers and wallflowers sat in the corner watching the young people, passing judgment and making predictions. Agnes made her way over to join their ranks. No doubt they discussed who would be next invited to Almack’s and whose family ought to be slighted. Most of the beau monde was in attendance, notable exceptions being Miss Rose Dorchester and her uncle, Lord Elshire. They probably hadn’t even noticed they’d been snubbed.

Lydia left the company of her parents to join Lady Jane and Lady Agatha Beauclerk, both working their fans in flirtation with gentlemen across the room. As tiresome as the crush of Society could be, at least Jane was amusing to behold. She appeared gilded and light as air, assuming the grace of an innocent—not the calculating, cold-blooded manipulator that Lydia knew her to be.

Lady Isabelle was off in another corner, chatting with the older matrons. No sign of Hackett. The grotesque little man was probably off in some gentleman’s smoking area, hawking his daughter’s virginity. The crush was still milling about. Her family had not arrived early, but neither had anyone else.

Lady Beckersley swept over to the doorway, greeting new guests, escorting them to a group of acquaintances, reveling in her position of power. Lydia froze when she saw Lady Beckersley’s next couple, the young widow Marshall and her escort, the now-familiar Mr. Arthur. He stood tall, his broad shoulders filling out his evening coat in a way that other gentlemen’s didn’t. Fabric should be loose about the arms, as if the coat were as effortlessly genteel as its wearer. Instead, his coat strained on his upper arms, tightening around him as he drew breath. The cut on his nose had healed. All the purpling of his bruises had disappeared; not even a hint of yellow was left.

The room warmed, and she suddenly felt the need for air. Lydia whispered her excuses to her group and made for the terrace. The estate wasn’t much for gardens, which made it a safer and more respectable ballroom for in-the-market young ladies. With no possibility of a clandestine tryst in the shrubbery, no one cared if she took some air alone. She glanced back to see where Mr. Arthur navigated Lady Marshall. He cut a dashing figure, each stride marked by physical self-discipline.

The days since their encounter in her ballroom had left her unsettled. She had behaved indecently, stripped to the waist as she was, only her chemise to cover her. And then she had kissed him. Had they been caught, either a duel or a wedding would be in short order. Or would it? She was already broken. If he knew, then—cold washed over her. He didn’t know, did he? Was that why he kissed her? Sought her out? Because he knew she was already ruined, and therefore could be dallied with?

She viewed him as he and Lady Marshall moved about between couples. He looked around, surveying the crush. No, he couldn’t know. He was just ignorant of the rules, that was all.

Perhaps it was the epitome of irony for her to point out his social missteps. She clearly didn’t abide by every rule, but she did when she was in view of other people. Anyone who called after him might find his card in the salver by the door. Anyone could have seen them on the street when he first accosted her. True, fewer society gossips in Marylebone than in Mayfair, but it didn’t matter. There were rules.

Her transgressions were calculated and necessary. His were blunders. When that realization dawned on him, she had seen for the first time how hard he was trying. He really had come from nothing, and he wanted to not only better himself but also aid his sister, which was an admirable goal. It made her feel bad—something no one seemed to think was possible.

Of course, if it turned out that he knew about her past, she wouldn’t feel bad for him at all, and she would repay him with the nastiness she reserved for Hackett and Denby.

Mr. Arthur matched his pace to his companion’s, keeping step with her but not hurrying her along, as any well-bred man would. There was something in that movement that made it difficult to turn away from him. Like watching a superiorly bred racehorse canter. It wasn’t the act of moving itself, it was being able to marvel at the way the body itself fit together.

Her heavy muslin overgown shuffed and clicked, bead against bead, as she carved her path toward Jane and Agatha. It was an extravagant design, a piece Lydia had commissioned from Madame Vergary last year and had not yet worn. The pearl beadwork along the bodice made the silver dress shimmer as if she were the moon herself.

“Lydia, darling,” her mother called, not so loud as would have been unseemly. Lady Lorian was still a beauty of the ton even though she was married and mother to a grown daughter, and it was no surprise to see her escorted by a gentleman Lydia had never encountered before.

Her mother wore the Grecian style, as so many other women did, but in a more flamboyant fashion, with an extra ruffled layer at the hemline of her dress and a brooch accenting her décolletage at the neckline. Not only was her hair done up in pinned curls, but she also sported a large white feather, pinned at an offset angle.

The man at her side wore a foreign military uniform, crisp dark-blue with a high collar and gold epaulets. The coat came down lower than the military red coats of the British Army, brushing at his calves, and it was also tighter at the waist, giving him even more of an exotic air as he glided across the floor with Lady Lorian. His dark hair was unruly, even more so than was the style amongst English gentlemen.

“Count Denisov, I would like to introduce you to my daughter, Lady Lydia Somerset.” Lady Lorian dropped the count’s arm. “My dear, this is Count Denisov, a lieutenant in the Don Cossack army and a witness to Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo.”

The count bowed at the waist, lower than Lydia expected. In return, she curtsied deeply, showing off the extent of her intricate gown as the candlelight caught the gleam of silver thread and pearl beading.

“Lady Lydia, it is an honor,” the count said, his voice a rich baritone with scarcely an accent. “Word of your beauty precedes you.”

Introductions were made to Jane and Agatha. Again the count bowed, and the ladies curtsied as Lydia’s mother named them. Lydia’s eyes narrowed on the unusual flush in Jane’s cheeks. An easy tell, betraying that Jane was taken with the dashing count. Peculiar, since she was vocally devoted to the weak-chinned Lord Seafield, Agatha’s brother, who had also accepted the invitation to tonight’s event, as Lady Beckersley told all who entered.

The minuet that had opened the dancing finally completed, and the couples promenaded. The next dance would start soon.

Denisov offered his elbow to Lydia, but at that moment, Sebastian came swooping to her side.

“I do hope I’m not late,” Sebastian announced, giving appropriate courtesy to the matrons of the group. “We have a standing appointment.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “My apologies, Count Denisov.”

Her dress clicked and shifted with her movement. She placed her arm on Sebastian’s, feeling the familiar warmth of him, and they promenaded to the dance floor.

“Did I save you, or did I make a hash of things?” Sebastian asked.

“Aid was most appreciated,” Lydia replied.

“What’s the dance? I just arrived.” Sebastian pulled on his sleeves. He seemed out of sorts, which was unusual for him.

“So, you haven’t seen Lord Farley yet?”

“Is he here?” Sebastian feigned indifference.

Lydia smiled. Being with him was so easy. “Since you both are wearing white roses in your buttonholes, I can only assume whatever your quarrel was, you’ve since made up.”

Sebastian returned her smile. “If only you didn’t know so much.”

Here’s a link one more time to grab the story of how Lady Lydia came to boxing-and love.