LIKE STARS
Release date: November 14th
Released From MLRPress
An Edwardian
Christmas For All!
I’m Selina Kray, a
first-time author whose new book, Like Stars, is out now from MLR Press and all
fine eBook vendors. A huge thank you to N.J. for hosting me today!
My historical M/M
romance, Like Stars, is set in the Edwardian era, so for a
Christmas dinner scene, I had to do a bit of research. It was a time when the
commercialization of Christmas really took hold, where the businesses that had
been founded during the industrial revolution learned to monetize the holidays.
Prince Albert and Charles Dickens’ enthusiasm for the holiday helped popularize
it. Toys and decorations flooded the market like never before, but, curiously,
the season’s biggest mascot had not yet found universal acclaim:
“Father
Christmas had been a figure in English history since medieval times. He
represents the Christmas spirit of goodwill, but he did not bring gifts. He
came from Odin and wore a blue-hooded cloak and white beard, and had an
evergreen wreath around his head. St Nicholas, the Christian saint, visited
Dutch children on Christmas Eve and left toys and candy in their straw-filled
clogs. If the children were bad a birch rod would be left instead of sweets. By
Edwardian times, Father Christmas and St. Nicholas had merged together, and
Father Christmas was pictured in a red suit and brought gifts to good children
who hung up their stockings on Christmas Eve.” [Source Link]
For the upper
classes, Christmas was yet another chance to flaunt their wealth, with lavish
decorations, opulent gifts, and of course a feast fit for the King—if he
happened to pop round for a visit. The usual nuts, fruits, cookies, and minced
pies were prepared for nibbling, while Christmas dinner itself could sometimes
be a 14-course affair, which might include oyster soup; vegetables in aspic;
duck liver terrine; and a roast bird stuffed with apples, chestnuts, and pork.
The piece de resistance was a flaming plum pudding, though some also served a
Buche de Noel. With lots of fruitcake. In England, as everywhere, you can never
have too many desserts.
The Edwardians were
also known for playing games at Christmas, some family-friendly, some
decidedly… not. One of the most famous is Snapdragon. Some brandy is poured
into a large bowl, sprinkled with raisins, then set aflame. The aim of the game
is to pick out the raisins without, say, lighting your cuff on fire. Nothing
says Christmas like a second-degree burn!
In Like Stars, the Christmas festivities prove even
more hazardous to one character’s well-being. A few months earlier, Nathaniel
Thredgold returned to Ravensworth Hall to reclaim his place as heir to the
estate and family fortune. Only problem is, he was supposed to have died in the
war eight years earlier. Some members of his family believe his story, and some
think he’s an imposter. His youngest brother Frederick falls squarely in the
latter camp, and he decides Christmas dinner is the perfect place to prove
Nathaniel a fraud once and for all. Even Nathaniel’s long-lost lover, Wesley
Douglas, isn’t certain it’s really him. There’s only one sure way to prove his
identity—reveal their boyhood affair—but that way leads to the gallows.
No matter how
you’re celebrating this holiday season, I wish you a very merry one, indeed!
-Selina
BLURB:
What if your true love walked
back into your life five years after his death?
Nathaniel Thredgold has finally
returned from the war. Or has he? His lover, Wesley Douglas, isn’t sure. Wesley
must put aside his engagement, his disbelief, and his anger to give his
professional opinion. The truth about their relationship isn’t an option. But
is this stranger really the Ravensworth heir and Wesley’s long-lost love? When
your heart’s at stake, there’s no room for doubt.
Set in the Edwardian era, Like
Stars is a tale of mysterious identities, scandalous family secrets, and lovers
in a dangerous time.
EXCERPT:
Summer, 1907
Dr. Wesley
Douglas' entire world unraveled and re-spun itself the instant he saw the
hooded man looming in the doorway of the Raven's Claw Inn. It was not his
custom to stare so openly, but neither was he accustomed to seeing a ghost with
the face of his long-dead lover under the midday sun. Haggard as the grim
reaper himself, his face half-concealed by the drape of his long black hood,
this specter from his past stole down the side alley that led to the main road.
The sight was so unexpected, so breath-stealing, that Wesley nearly plowed into
an overhanging sign as he turned to follow him.
He shut his
eyes for a second, indulging in a violent and hopefully unseen shiver. Cursing
under his breath at his susceptibility, he steered his horse around the man,
then veered into an about-face confrontation. Rallying his senses, Wesley
looked again, staring flagrantly at the man's few discernible features,
scrutinizing every visible curve and slope of his visage for confirmation of
the dour-clothed stranger's identity. When a lone, dark eye flickered into
view, Wesley's heart leapt in his chest.
His shock was
such that he dropped his horse's reins. Bracer reared, his flailing hoofs
threatening the sheep that clotted the street like blow-off tufts from a cotton
field. If Wesley had not been suffering some form of spook-induced paralysis,
he might have flown off his horse and chased the scoundrel down. He might have
gripped him by his collar and spat in his face. He might have struck at him
with little more than his long-kindling agony and a riding crop. As it was, he
could only gawk at what must be a ghost.
If it were a
commonplace occurrence to encounter Nathaniel Thredgold's ghost whilst
traversing the small, shadowy lane between the dressmaker's and the inn, Wesley
might have patronized the area more frequently. As it was, the herd of ornery
sheep stationed themselves, with airs of glowering intimidation, before the
butcher's shop, thus blocking all traffic, equine and otherwise, on the high
street. This was not an uncommon occurrence in the picturesque yet somnambulant
village of Haversham, a close-knit and somewhat cloistered community in the
wilds of Derbyshire. Nestled a touch too snugly between two towering hills,
village life flowed at the same pace as the current of the tranquil river that
arced around it to the east.
With shaking
hands, Wesley gripped Bracer's reins and heeled into his flanks, urging the
horse to vault over several clusters of sheep, who baaed indignantly. Soon, he
was galloping down the country roads at such velocity that wind blew through
his hair, even on a stagnant midsummer day. It was only once they jumped the
stone fence into the courtyard of his cottage home that he dared draw breath,
dared let his shock overtake him, dared wonder what manner of mischief now
stalked the path to Ravensworth Hall.
By the time he
shucked his boots and crept through the side door, Wesley was a good way to
composing himself. The unseasonable humidity, never welcome to one of his fair
complexion, had made him so woozy that he had fallen victim to fanciful
imaginings of the most pedantic and fruitless sort. What, after all, had he
truly seen of the man? A veiled visage? A lurching step? A sallow cheek, its
edges darkened by the drape of his hood? No scientist of merit could form a
concrete notion, let alone a hypothesis, based on such scant evidence. Servant
to logic and rational thought that he was, he could only conclude that, once
again, his damnable emotions had colluded to deceive him, to make real what he
very well knew could not be.
A dry,
strangled cough from the parlor broke his reverie; he took a moment to further
scold himself, then sought out the patient he had ordered home some three hours
ago. Beatrice, alas, was exactly where he had left her, bundled up to her red,
flaky nose on the divan, a bowl of steaming, cheese cloth-covered water cradled
on her lap. With a sigh, Wesley dropped his saddle bag, then moved into her
line of vision. Bea met his stern look with a defiant one, which would have
been almost comical, given her puffy pallor, if his ride home had been without
incident. With a huff of annoyance, he plucked a recently used thermometer from
the side table and studied the mercury line. Dissatisfied, he gave it a violent
shake, then plunged it back under her tongue before she could protest.
"I pray
you've cancelled the remainder of my appointments?" Bea nodded, scowling.
"Very well. Another hour's rest, and then I must insist upon escorting you
home."
When she opened
her mouth to protest, the thermometer fell out, rescued from a fiery bath by
the cheese cloth. "I mean to spend the night on the ward, Wesley."
"You will
not. Your mother and aunt are far more capable, not to mention eager to coddle
you."
"More
capable than a medical doctor?"
"At
coddling, yes." He snatched up the thermometer and stuck it back in her
mouth. "I might remind you that a doctor's office is supposed to be free
of sickness, that we take a care not to infect further illness on our patients."
Unimpressed,
Bea spat the thermometer out again.
"As I
might remind you that Mother and Auntie would gladly concede the right to
coddle me if it meant you showed sign of the devotion you oft proclaim, but, to
their minds, regularly fail to demonstrate."
Wesley
swallowed a grunt of irritation, then collapsed onto the far end of the divan,
narrowly avoiding her toes. He considered this a moment, then glared in her
direction. "Do I truly, or is this a ploy to evade their questions,
nagging or otherwise?"
Bea frowned.
"It is a ploy. But only because they have been so relentlessly inquisitive
of late. You promised them a wedding."
"And I
mean to deliver one. You know very well it has only been a year since I repaid
the last of my father's debts. If we are to live comfortably, then the lavish
wedding they expect will have to wait a while longer. A state of affairs that
is not helped by your languishing in the patients' ward when ill."
Beatrice
sighed, which brought on another hacking fit. Wesley sprang to his feet,
fetching the cup of tea that cooled on the side table. A few sips calmed her
throat. He rubbed soothing circles into her back; she straightened to
accommodate him. He wished he could offer her his shoulder. It was of great
comfort to him that they did care for each other, even if their impending
marriage was one of the utmost convenience.
"It is
just such a trial to endure them, even when well," she griped. "If I
had known they meant to drape me from head to foot in ribbons and lace, then I
would have agreed to flee to the continent and elope."
"You must
allow them their fun, if only in the name of preserving the illusion of our
romance. Though I can imagine the effort it requires when feeling poorly.
Still, we cannot take advantage of their laxity in chaperoning us. That, too,
discourages local nobles from calling on my services."
"Aye,"
Beatrice acknowledged, though she looked the more miserable for it.
His aggravation
having fled with the rise of his sympathy, Wesley found himself more amenable
than before to compromise.
"I shall
fetch them here," he concluded, with a pet to her blanketed head, "so
long as you swear to confine yourself to this parlor and the guest quarters for
the better part of a week. That, I trust, will give us both ample opportunity
to demonstrate our boundless affections, and I will bear some of the endless
questions in your stead. Does that suit you?"
"Infinitely
well," Beatrice smiled, her relief and exhaustion plain. She reached for a
clean handkerchief then, using it as a barrier against infection, and clasped
his hand.
Once again,
Wesley found himself grateful for the friendship between them, one that not
only permitted their strange, face-saving partnership, but was also of immense
comfort to him in times of doubt and strife. Sensing her fatigue, he tucked her
into the divan, then set about boiling more tea. Though he craved a moment's
introspection, a private examination of the day's events would have to wait on
meddling law-mothers and flu-waylaid fiancees.
Author
Bio:
Selina Kray is the nom de plume
of an author and English editor. Professionally, she has covered all the artsy-fartsy
bases, having worked in a book store, at a cinema, in children’s television and
in television distribution, up to her latest incarnation as a subtitle editor
and grammar nerd (though she may have always been a grammar nerd). A
self-proclaimed geek and pop culture junkie who sometimes manages to pry
herself away from the review sites and gossip blogs to write fiction of
her own, she is a voracious consumer of art with both a capital and a
lowercase “A”.
Having long ago realized that
she was the Salieri to the lit world’s Mozarts, she has embraced her love
of erotica with intricate plots, complex characters, and lots of heart. Whether
she has achieved this goal is for you, gentle readers, to decide. At present,
she is hard at work on future novels at home in Montreal, Quebec, with her wee
corgi serving as both foot-warmer and in-house critic.
Find Selina Here
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