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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NineStar Press | Books2Read

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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