Title: A Highland Hogmanay

Series: Christmas Masquerade, Book Two

Author: Meg Mardell

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/23/2021

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 37700

Genre: Historical holiday, LGBTQIA+, historical, Victorian England, holiday, Christmas, Scottish Highlands, lesbian, wlw, mistaken identity, humorous, family drama, interracial, intercultural, road trip, age gap

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Description

The daughter of an Indian raja and renegade Englishwoman, Sharda Holkar, was gifted with a magnificent dowry but little say in her future. Until now. She must endure one more depressing holiday season with her controlling cousins, then she will be free to begin her emancipated life. But her discovery of a plot to marry her off to the preening son of the house has Sharda wondering if her new start should begin at once. When Sharda meets the intriguing owner of a Highland castle at a Christmas Eve masquerade, she wastes no time in forming a plan—she will escape across the Scottish border! Finella Forbes cannot imagine why a sophisticated heiress like Sharda would even associate with someone who manages a castle for a living, let alone accompany her all the way back to the Highlands in time for the raucous celebration of Hogmanay. But a wealthy buyer is just what Balintore Castle needs. Fin is determined to prove she is just as good an estate manager as her father, but with the negligent lordly owner refusing to do his duty, she needs help fast. When mistaken assumptions jeopardise their initial attraction, Sharda and Fin will need all the mischief and magic of a Highland holiday to discover the true nature of their feelings.

Excerpt

A Highland Hogmanay Meg Mardell © 2021 All Rights Reserved “It’s getting quite sticky in here, isn’t it? Don’t these people perspire a lot in their ridiculous costumes? But the fools will insist upon picking characters that require false beards and headwraps and the lot. What do they expect?” Mr Edward Pilkington watched the white-masked Pierrots and Pierrettes rotating around the Mayfair ballroom the same way he looked at everything else—right down his upturned nose. Of course, on this occasion, he might just be stopping his own mask from slipping. “I must say, I consider it in poor taste of Lady Belleville to host such a gaudy entertainment on Christmas Eve. There’s enough blinding décor in every home and shop window without humans dressing like a bunch of tinsel ornaments.” Sharda thought the display of Venetian masks in gold, silver, and red rather complemented the miles of glittering white ribbon their hostess had threaded around her every enormous window and door. But five days of Edward’s persistent company had taught her to neither agree nor disagree with his frequent judgements as both fanned the flames of his perpetual dissatisfaction. “Perhaps you now see, Miss Holkar, the wisdom of my selection of attire. A simple mask and fancywork vest, and perhaps a sash, is really all that is required on these occasions.” “For women as well as men?” Sharda’s costume took its inspiration from the opulent carnival style of Venetian women from the height of that city’s pomp and power two centuries back. Her square-necked black silk gown cut away to a blaze of scarlet underskirt. Tiny stitched-in crystals covered the tight scarlet front bodice as well as her matching silk hat. Jutting out over one eye, the bold topper terminated in a cascade of black feathers that brushed her black half mask. Edward’s mother, one of Sharda’s inexhaustible supply of second and third cousins, had tried to convince her to wear what that lady was pleased to call her “native finery.” But when Sharda had insisted on purchasing a new costume for the ball, Lavinia Pilkington had graciously conceded that the Venetian style looked well on Sharda, for “many ladies of the Italian peninsula are quite of your complexion, my dear.” The lady’s son was equally talented at giving compliments. “A bit of exotic finery is not amiss on a woman. Provided she’s young, of course. There’s nothing more displeasing than an old woman got up like the Queen of Sheba. Now, perhaps I can see if these insolent Turks of footmen have some iced sherbet. You must be awfully hot in all your…” The gentleman gestured to Sharda’s hat. “Er, not that you look to any disadvantage or are…” The gentleman sought in vain for an acceptable substitute for sweating. Sharda suddenly wished she had selected a full mask to hide her private mirth. She should not find it so amusing when Edward remembered, too late, that he was trying to woo her. Though maybe if she did not find the clumsy courtship so funny, she might cry. “Or perhaps you would like to take the air in the garden, Miss Holkar? And escape this dreadful crush.” “They seem to have brought much of the garden in here, Mr Pilkington.” She gratefully caught the crisp scent of the evergreen branches that wrapped every available railing in Lady Belleville’s house. A delicious freshness that made one forget one was in London. “Hmm, yes, quite. But then you don’t have the same animal noises outside, of course. It’s much easier to talk.” She had not noticed the noise of the ballroom impairing his ability to talk in the slightest. But she knew what type of conversation he had in mind. He wasn’t the first young man to try to negotiate her out onto a cool veranda. “Perhaps I would like an ice, Mr Pilkington. If you would be so kind.” “Yes, of course… Though it will be a dreadful ordeal making my way over to the refreshment area now… No matter. I will see that you get your ice…my lady.” Sharda took a few calming inhales of the pine-and-wood-polish scent of the Belleville townhouse. Now she could face Lavinia Pilkington, a spare lady fluffed up with a great deal of feathers, descending upon her beside a very grand person in purple. “Here she is, Lady Belleville. I thought we should have to send some of your splendid footmen in search.” “That might have proved difficult. I have my own runaway to locate, Mrs Pilkington. My wretched nephew.” Lavinia trilled a nervous laugh, unable to tell if this was a joke. “This is my young friend, Miss Sharda Holkar, who is staying the holidays with us. Sharda, meet Lady Belleville.” “I do like your hat, Miss Holkar. You need a bit of height for such a topper. I, alas, have always extended out rather than up. I do envy women who can carry off such plumage. You are enjoying the ball?” “Yes, indeed, ma’am.” “And you’ve been dancing?” “Not yet.” “Oh dear, I do like young people to dance.” “Do not worry, your ladyship. I am sure my son Edward will do the honours soon.” “Excellent. Now, you must excuse me, for I hear my dear husband’s growl even now. I should make at least a half-hearted attempt to save my guests from his best Scrooge impersonation, should I not?” Sharda and her cousin each dipped a curtsy—Lavinia’s embarrassingly low—to their hostess as she moved back into the crowd like the prow of a ship easily carving a path through lesser crafts. Sharda was left stranded on an island of two. “I do hope you truly intend to dance as you promised Lady Belleville. And what did you think of her ladyship? Quite a superior person, I think, but Edward says she wears too many jewels for true breeding. I only wish I had such a problem! Whatever is taking Edward so long, do you think?” Lavinia had a fidgety manner that made it impossible to relax in her company. After nearly a week as her guest, Sharda was almost as high-strung as her hostess. The prospect of enduring even another five minutes with this wearisome woman was unbearable. Especially as her only reward would be to eat a melted ice and then dance in Edward Pilkington’s sticky grip. “He promised me he would return very soon. Perhaps I might wait for him in the garden, Mrs Pilkington?” Lavinia’s eyes glittered behind her feathered mask. “Ah, yes, that would be an excellent idea. It is far too noisy and hot in here.” “Should you like to come with me, cousin?” “Oh, no. No, no. I declare I see my dear friend Mrs, er…Bamtree just over there. But you go right ahead, my dear.” Sharda needed no further encouragement.

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Meet the Author

Meg moved from the US to England because she fell in love with the Victorians’ peculiar blend of glamour and grime. After a decade of exploring historical excesses in a prim scholarly fashion, she realized that fiction is the best way to delve into that period’s great female-focused and LGBT+ stories. Weaned on the high-seas romances of the 1990s, Meg’s lost none of her love for cross-dressing cabin boys but any tolerance for boorish heroes. She’s delighted to now have a whole raft of quirky and queer characters to cheer for on their quest for Happily Ever After. She frequently breaks off writing for an Earl Grey tea (milk not lemon). She’s trying to learn Polish and Portuguese at the same time. She plans to escape Brexit Britain.

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Title: Miss Claus

Author: J.R. Hart

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/02/2021

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Female

Length: 57500

Genre: Fantasy, LGBTQIA+, seasonal, family drama, trans, grey ace, Santa Claus, North Pole, father/daughter relationship, engagement

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Description

Kris Claus has spent her entire life preparing to become the next Santa Claus. After all, she’s Santa’s daughter, so she’s certain to be next in line for the title. She’s gotten the degrees, served as his assistant… nothing can stop her. Well, nothing except her lawyer ex, who is trying to sneak his way into the title by bringing up an archaic gender law that says women can’t be Santa. Steeped in small-town politics and a rivalry for the ages, Kris won’t stop until she’s gotten what she’s fought for her whole life, but she won’t give up who she really is — a proud woman — to reach her dreams. When a letter from a transgender girl down South reminds her of herself as a child, Kris knows exactly what’s at stake, not just for her own dreams, but for the dreams of girls everywhere.

Excerpt

Kris had seen her father speak countless times in this same setting, and in similar ones, like pep talks at the factory or town square summer celebrations. But none of his speeches were as exciting as this one, the Honor of Christmas speech that took place every December 21. This was the big one, the important talk everyone came out to see. Stationed in the front row, here before anyone else, was her mother. She smiled and gave Kris a small wave, and Kris made a heart shape with her hands. Her mother was wildly supportive of her, and as much as Kris knew it had to be killing her not to make a sweep of the room and ensure everything was just so, she stayed seated, allowing Kris’s efforts to shine. The faith she had in Kris’s planning ability—or at least, the way she didn’t try to correct any tiny errors—warmed Kris’s heart. Instead, she stayed in place, looking regal in her velvet suit-dress. She was certain Ian had custom-made it in a complementary silver as soon as Kris had suggested blue and silver to The Council for approval. She glanced up at the silver aisle they’d made minutes before, watching The Council’s members shuffle in. Mrs. Hazel Butterquil, always punctual, entered in her velvety cape that she always refused to hang on one of the cloakroom hangers because “that would ruin the majesty of it, wouldn’t it, dear?” Kris couldn’t help but smile. Mrs. Butterquil was a sweetheart, and she had buttery-soft hands every time they greeted each other before a meeting. Behind her, her husband filed in, cap in his hands and bald head gleaming in the twinkle lights. He was demure and calm behind his wife. She took her seat at the council table, and he sat in the front row, always supportive of her. Kris had dinner at their home on many evenings, usually listening to her father calm Mrs. Butterquil, who thrived on tradition and needed her father’s reassurance that most changes approved by The Council would be mild. Moments later, Ian Napperly, the town tailor and youngest member of the council, short and slender, with sleek brown hair slicked back with pomade, filed in and took his seat next to her. Kris couldn’t hear their conversation from across the room where she stood, but she could imagine the quiet pleasantries they exchanged. Mrs. Butterquil pulled a small baggie from her purse and passed it to him, almost under the table, but not out of sight. Kris’s mouth watered. Homemade kettle corn! She was jealous. Mrs. Butterquil always made homemade kettle corn for her favorite people. Kris had been the lucky recipient several times, but today Ian was bestowed with that special honor, and she found herself longing for the sweet, salty flavor. A handful of other council members shuffled in behind them. Carin smiled and waved timidly at Kris, and Kris waved back, wishing she knew her better. She was a new addition, and Kris had heard her speak up a few times, but mostly, Carin was on the quiet side. Her short blonde bob waggled slightly when she returned Mrs. Butterquil’s greeting. She was so lovely though. Kris marveled at how The Council had changed over the years, as some members retired and ceded their seats to others in the town. Eleven members in total paraded past, and Kris waved at the ones she liked best. She shouldn’t have been playing favorites, but she couldn’t help it. Tailing them all, Mark Crinkle—the senior one—stepped along, heavy footsteps thudding behind the rest of them. He situated himself in his seat and leaned across Ian to talk to Mrs. Butterquil. As he removed his scarf, his beard was brushed out of place, moving right back where it had been when he leaned back in his seat again. Kris gave him a small wave, and he gave her a quick, curt nod in return. Mark Crinkle, Sr. was so different from his son, more stern and solid, but regal in a way that almost but didn’t quite read as arrogant. Mark Jr. was easier to be around. He was a pleasant, happy man with slender fingers and long limbs, gangly and lean. He walked like a baby giraffe, sometimes stumbling over his own feet like he didn’t have full control over himself. However, he and Kris looked like polar opposites, she short and chubby—she greatly preferred chubby to “round,” or the other terms people sometimes used to describe her father—and him so tall and thin. He stood across the stage from her, beaming as she flashed him a wide grin. Megan leaned over to her. “Stop flirting,” she teased. “I can’t help it!” Kris grabbed her arm tightly. “He’s so handsome!” “I see the thrill hasn’t worn off yet.” The thrill really hadn’t worn off. A month out from their engagement and she still got butterflies every time she saw him. That, or when she caught sight of the beautiful ring on her finger, the soft curls of silver around a central, teardrop stone. He was her dream match. The humor wasn’t lost on her that soon she’d be Mrs. Crinkle. As in, Kris Crinkle. Close to Kringle, but not quite spot-on. But then Mark grew still and stood up taller, and he stopped winking and waving. A hush fell over the room, with parents ushering their children back into their seats, and the sound of people unwrapping cough drops or gum grew quiet too. Santa entering made everyone more reverent, quiet, and calm. Kris beamed at the sight of her dad walking up the silver carpet, his shiny black boots leaving no trace of dirt, barely even an indentation in the thick pile as he made his way across the floor. Mark Sr. stood up and walked to the podium. “Now presenting, for his annual Christmas speech, Mr. Santa Claus.” From here, Kris could see her mother’s face light up at the sight of Mr. Claus, the love radiating off her. There was something so inspiring about their connection, their constant companionship to each other even after all these decades together. He shuffled back to his seat just in time for Santa to step behind the wooden podium, brighter with the addition of the garland and some carefully placed baubles. “Hello, everyone,” Santa began. “And a very, very Merry Christmas to each of you.”

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Meet the Author

J R Hart is a queer 30-something novelist passionate about telling romantic and erotic stories about LGBT+ characters. When J R isn’t writing, you can find her at the science museum with her son, cheering for her favorite soccer team, or at The Bean Coffee Co plotting her next work. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @jrhartauthor, or on her website at jrhartauthor.com.

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Title: The Mad Monk and the Christmas Pie

Author: Mark Lesney

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/26/2021

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 105700

Genre: Historical Holiday, LGBTQIA+, performance arts, humor, mystery, cleric, con artist, medium, murder

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Description

Nineteenth-century New York was hardly the place for Alexander Collier, a ne’er do-well actor and ex-con, to make a living. So, teaming up with the so-called “Mad Monk” for a safe home and a little chicanery seemed a necessary compromise if he was going to survive. Alexander joins Brother Sebastian—a renegade Trappist monk-cum-spiritualist—in his crusade to protect the religious treasures of history from private greed. Brother Sebastian uses his “powers” as a heavenly medium to trick Robber Barons and wealthy members of society into doing good and turning over priceless artifacts. But where guile does not suffice, a little housebreaking, pickpocketing, and theft by the monk’s misfit crew of servants and rogues can turn the tide—at least until treachery leads to a Christmas murder and an unexpected romance.

Excerpt

The Mad Monk and the Christmas Pie Mark Lesney © 2021 All Rights Reserved New York City, August 1897 If I had known Stephen was going to try to kill me, I might have practiced my fencing more often. For some reason, my nemesis was now darting at me like a fiend, his sword slashing. These weren’t our choreographed moves—he was out for blood. He’d warned me he was going to kill me if I didn’t stop smiling at his wife or talking to her beyond the confines of rehearsals and the stage. But how could I take him seriously? I knew he never loved her, not really in the manner of husband and wife, for the very same reason I was not a credible threat to what passed for their wedded bliss. I liked Sarah, and she appreciated me. She was one of the few people with wit in the company, so why would I listen to her fool of a husband and break off our budding friendship? But my nonchalance in the face of his threats was finally going to get me killed—or at least would wind up killing my career. I dodged and parried across the stage, nearly slipping on the smooth wooden planking in front of the floor lamps; it was too soon for me to die, both in real life and the play. Stephen’s face was wild, his eyes wide with fury, though the stark menace in his gaze was somewhat spoiled by the almost comic beard, spirit-glued beneath his real mustache. As he thrust at me with his sword, I froze for a moment in panic, then barely dodged away. The blade was conspicuously missing the guard on its tip—the nubbed cover that was supposed to keep me from getting skewered. My blade, of course, was useless as a weapon, except for parrying. I had intended no mayhem, so I hadn’t even dreamed of removing the protective sheath. I did my best to try to disarm him, even though he was so much better than me at swordplay, having practiced it incessantly like a little boy with a new hobby. I’d watched him in mild disdain at how seriously he took it up with our trainer. Though more likely, he wanted to gain proficiency for the chance to engage in another sort of swordplay with our German fencing teacher. Herr Heimrich admittedly had excellent form—especially in white tights. I’d admired them both as they leaped about in the gymnasium, not realizing that all the while Stephen was practicing how to kill me. ***** “God, look at them. I’d almost give Karl a tumble myself,” Sarah had breathed out softly, watching her husband and the fencing instructor in action just two short days ago before our opening. She’d held one hand to her eyes, squinting beneath her chestnut-colored bangs at their quite impressive dance. Both of us were half blinded by the rays of the early morning sun pouring through the arched windows of the fancy gymnasium. The theater management had rented it to hold both our fencing and our dancing lessons. Sarah pursed her small, delicately pink, and slightly greasy lips. She was nibbling on a buttered crusted roll. Karl had a nice behind. A perfectly normal, nice, masculine backside, well complemented by the muscular torso above it, the square-jawed manliness of his face, and the dark black of his close-cropped hair. But Stephen? Greek sculptors might have been at a loss carving such a perfect set of nether quarters out of marble. And Stephen knew it, always choosing pants a size too small, consciously outlining those firm and perfectly formed buttocks. They were not too big to make them feminine, and unlike too many men, they were not so flat as to seem not there at all. He was modestly endowed from the front, as outlined by the slightly noticeable bulge. But then again, his was the perfect Greek mean in all his physical aspects. And though Greeks had gods, not angels, Stephen would have been an ideal naked subject for a Michelangelo to have brought worshipful religious beauty into light. His golden hair in the sun’s rays through the window was a halo that put my yellow hair to straw in comparison. Had he been a slightly less flamboyant actor, there would have been no one who could have kept him from the highest temples of the stage. But sadly for the world, and more so for his wife, that perfect ass of Stephen’s was also mounted on the perfect ass. A man whose wit was brilliant, but pointed like a surgeon’s knife, one who operated on the psyches of the people around him without the benefit of chloroform. Or perhaps he was more like a fishmonger, filleting the souls of his victims, like poor Sarah, one right after the other. But damned that grace and beauty as he slashed and danced in whirling swordsmanship like a master. Or the lead male in a perfectly choreographed ballet, which in truth was what this was, a set of moves destined to awe and captivate an audience far more significant than his poor wife and me. “It is a marvelous rear end, I must admit,” said Sarah. And I had the grace to blush. She must have been following my thoughts…and gaze. “But I truly fell in love with him because of his eyes. And I still melt when he looks at me in a certain way. And I tell myself he always comes home, eventually, no matter how far he strays. To me.” “He’d be a fool not to,” I said chivalrously. “Yes. Especially since Stephen’s such an utter idiot with money. I hold the purse strings, after all. It’s so hard to keep up paying for his clothes, though, his port, his cigars, and his expensive gifts to agonizingly winsome younger men.” “Men throw themselves at you all the time. Or try to,” I countered. “And sadly, no one interests me but Stephen. The one I can’t have.” I was slightly embarrassed and looked back down at the men in their dance below us. It was hard not to admire the lunge and thrust between the two of them, both shining in the sunlight in their fencing uniforms. I sighed, knowing my practice bout was next. I was more sturdily built than either of them and much too tall to manage such elegance with a blade. And frankly, I was not at all motivated to exert myself to such tremendous efforts just to look good in a play. Acting was a necessity for me, not a grand ambition as it was for Stephen. Sarah sighed. “Part of me would almost take Karl to bed for the fun of showing Stephen he couldn’t have just any handsome man he blinked his lashes at. There are still men who prefer women in this world,” she said, popping the last bite of the roll into her mouth. “Though I never seem to meet them,” she finished after a moment’s chewing. “And sometimes I wish I’d married one.” She was staring directly into my eyes, and I had to look away. She knew full well what I was about, and this was just uncomfortable. The whole conversation was. “It’s a wonder Stephen never took a fancy to you, Alex. Though I suppose it’s understandable. You’re too threatening to him.” “Threatening! I’m nothing but a bit player, and he’s one of the twin lights of the modern theater. A younger Jack Gilman…” “Don’t let Jack hear you say that or Stephen either.” She laughed. “No, you threaten him in so many ways. You’re almost as handsome as Stephen in your way. Even though your nose is a little crooked, no one can see that from the stage. And you’re a bit less pretty. But then, you don’t try to be good-looking as hard as Stephen does. Don’t you hate what he does with his mustache? That wax! “You’ve lived a real life. A hard life. Not cushioned in a world of make-believe like Stephen. You’ve been out West. You’re an ex-Pinkerton, a former jailbird, a salesman, and everything in-between. You’ve experienced twice the life Stephen has if even half your stories are true, and it shows in everything about you. There’s no pretense. Stephen is all pretense. He’s just an actor. That’s why he hates you. Why he’s jealous.” “Well, my stories as you call them are all true, though perhaps a tad less glamorous than I make them out to be when I’m drunk. But I’m certainly trying my damnedest to be an actor now. And surely even he can see how little a threat I am in that department!” “Language, Alexander,” she corrected me automatically. “I love Stephen with my whole heart and soul, but at his worst, he’s a vain little coward and a bit of a bully. And sometimes a spoiled brat! And you show him up by not paying the slightest bit of attention to his boundless wealth of charm.” I wisely laughed at what she said as if it were a joke. I was too curious for my own good then. I asked, “Have you and Stephen ever managed to fulfill your marriage vows?” The idea was so foreign to my nature I couldn’t imagine someone like Stephen, someone like me… “Oh yes, and that’s the terrible thing. It’s the endless chain binding me, giving me belief. And hope. “Because I am the only woman Stephen ever managed to make love to, however rarely he manages it, and however drunk he has to be. I don’t know what makes me special in his eyes. I only know that I long for those nights when he embraces me with wild passion and then falls into misery like a frightened child clinging to me when we are through. I can’t break free. Because, I guess, at heart, I don’t really want to.” I shuddered and wondered why she was telling me all this. I had asked without really expecting an answer, but a joking dismissal. It was a horribly private thing to bring up. But then I often wondered what it was about me that made people pour out their confidences. They’d air their dirty laundry as if I were some papist clergyman in a confessional. Perhaps it was my sympathetic face. Or maybe it was because one thing I had learned in life was one should never judge. At least not out loud. “I’m such a fool, Alexander, a terrible fool. Because I do love him. I love him so much I—” She turned to me, smiled sadly, and reached out to squeeze my hand for comfort. I put my other hand on hers and pressed gently. Then I turned to look down and saw the fencers had paused, separated for a moment from their dance, resting and drinking water scooped up in ladles from a bucket. Stephen was staring at me now while elegantly dabbing delicate beads of sweat from his perfect forehead with a small white towel. And if he were indeed the living sculpture of a god, I knew right then I would be dead, a lightning bolt tearing through my brain from the hatred he was beaming at me. I quickly released Sarah’s hand, and the hatred in his gaze spread to a nasty smirk upon his lips and whispered words I couldn’t hear from where I sat, but ones I knew didn’t bode me any good. And yet, the man was beautiful, even in his mask of jealousy and hatred as Lucifer must have been, still angelic as he fell from heaven’s heights while cursing God. I should have heeded the warning then.

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Meet the Author

Mark Lesney is a single gay man of a certain age, living with the obligatory cat. His only fiction credential before “Interview with the Kevin” is a semi-comic steampunk M/M romance novelette, “The Golden Goose,” published in the “Steamed Up” anthology, sadly now out of print. His non-fiction writing credits, however, are extensive. Currently, he is the managing editor of two medical newspapers, for which he also writes routinely. For over 6 years, his science and history articles appeared monthly in two newsmagazines, for which he was a writer/editor at the American Chemical Society. His credits also include science articles published in Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact. He has a PhD in plant pathology and a second PhD in the history of science. He has worked as a research scientist and university professor. But his love has always been reading and writing fiction—with science fiction/fantasy, mystery, paranormal romance, and historicals all grappling for his affections. He is now determined to pursue that dream intensely.

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