I’m so happy to be starting a new week. I didn’t write last week, mainly because I had to travel down to Devon for three days for the day job. However, my washing machine also broke, as did my boiler, and my return journey was abysmal thanks to the building Storm Babet. But you know what, those are irritations, and I should be grateful they were easy to resolve.
This week, I’ll be posting three blog posts for you lucky people. On Wednesday, I’ll be posting my monthly history topic which should have been published last week (I apologise for being late). I’ll be writing about a Georgian woman called Ann Duck for Black History Month in the UK. On Friday, you can look forward to a scene that will be deleted from my latest work.
As usual on a Monday, it’s time for another Bianca Babbles post. October in the UK (and other countries) is also Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
Did you know?
According to research and support charity, Breast Cancer Now:
- Breast cancer is the most common cancer in the UK with 1 woman diagnosed every 10 minutes.
- Around 55,000 women and 400 men are diagnosed with breast cancer every year in the UK.
- 1 in 7 women in the UK will develop breast cancer in their lifetime.
BUT:
- Breast cancer survival is improving and has doubled in the past 40 years in the UK because of a combination of improvements in treatment and care, earlier detection through screening and a focus on targets, including faster diagnosis.
- An estimated 600,000 people are alive in the UK after a diagnosis of breast cancer. They predict this will rise to 1.2 million in 2030.
I signed up for the Austen Tea Party anthology as a small contribution to help the invaluable work in the fight against breast cancer across the globe.
As of 6th October, Austen Tea Party had sold 644 copies and 23,105 KENP (Kindle Edition Normalised Pages – the number of pages read by Kindle Unlimited subscribers). I’m proud to have joined twenty-six other historical romance authors to help raise funds for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.
Blurb
Take care not to spill the tea (literally) while we share the latest on-dit (aka dish the dirt) about the Ton, who is courting, and who has been compromised in this collection of Austen-inspired romance stories.
Join us for a turn around the room in stories from USA Today best-selling and award-winning romance authors curated by the New Romance Café featuring cameos from some of Jane’s most memorable characters (and some we’d like to forget). ALL proceeds go to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.
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Look out for my short story, Jilted, featuring the beloved gossip and meddler, Mrs Jennings, from Sense and Sensibility.
Blurb
Lord Asher Mandeville is heartbroken when his childhood love, Miss Tabitha Rowe, jilts him only weeks before their wedding.
Asher refuses to accept Tabitha’s rejection and chases after his betrothed to demand an explanation.
Tabitha is determined to escape him, but Asher’s shattered heart will accept nothing but her return, and he will do whatever it takes to get her back.
Excerpt from Jilted
He pulled on the reins outside the Rowes’ townhouse on Bruton Street. The three-story terrace bathed in an eerie glow from the streetlamps. After jumping from his horse, he tied the reins around the nearest lamppost before he clambered up the stone steps and hammered on the glossy-painted front door.
Eventually, a bleary-eyed footman opened the door a crack and peeked out. “Lord Mandeville?”
“I wish to speak to my betrothed.”
“I do not understand.” The servant blinked. “Miss Rowe is abed.”
“Open the door!” He roared, unable to contain the fire within him.
The footman paled but stood aside and allowed him entrance.
“Wake her up!” he demanded. At least Tabitha was not out enjoying herself now she believed she was rid of him. He should have visited her when she claimed a headache this morning. When she had taken ill when they were children, he had brought her gifts and sat with her. Why had he not followed his instincts and come to her? Because you are a viscount now and you cannot neglect your duties.
“What is going on?” A croaky voice came from the staircase. Tabitha’s father descended the red-carpeted steps one at a time. His fingers gripped the banister, and the skin around his knuckles blanched.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, but I wish to speak to Tabitha.”
The older man frowned at the grandfather clock across the hall. “What can you have to say to her at this time of night?”
Did her father not know? Perhaps he had imagined the whole thing. He pressed a palm against his waistcoat pocket. It was not a fantasy. The ring dug into his flesh rather than encircling Tabitha’s finger where it belonged. “We are betrothed.” She may have freed him of his obligation to marry, but he refused to be released. “I must speak to her on a matter that cannot wait.”
“Is it serious?”
“If it were not, I would never have dared to disturb you.” Asher rested his hands on his hips.
Mr Rowe addressed the footman. “Send a maid to wake Tabitha.”
The servant, still blinking, closed the front door and headed to the back of the house.
“May I ask what matter is so serious that you need to speak to my daughter in the middle of the night?”
Had she told no one? What had happened to the brave, outspoken girl who had chased him across the fields when they were children? “It is a personal matter between me and Tabitha.”
“I see.” The man wrapped his maroon silk banyan tighter and tugged on the sash.
A maid appeared at the top of the steps. Her cap sat lopsided on her messy hair, and she wrung her wrinkled apron in her hands. After darting a glance Asher’s way, she scurried down the stairs and whispered in her master’s ear.
Mr Rowe’s eyes widened.
Bloody hell!
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