The Secret Life of a Sinful Lady (Preview)

Chapter One

“Keep word, Lysander must starve our sight from lovers’ food till morrow deep midnight!” On stage, Loralie clasped her hands to her breasts and gazed at the mostly empty theatre. Her large, brown eyes were wide with excitement, and her face pinched in anxiety.

Henry—playing Loralie’s forbidden love, Lysander—grasped her arm. “I will, my Hermia!”

With a last, longing look, Loralie lifted her skirts and fled the stage. 

Sitting in the wings, Lady Victoria Sinclair pressed her pencil thoughtfully against her lips. She knew this scene well. Hermia, Loralie’s character, was deeply in love with Lysander. However, their desire to wed was being thwarted by Hermia’s father. Because of some ancient law, Hermia was presented with an impossible choice. She could either be executed for defying her father’s will, spend her life in a nunnery, or wed the man of her father’s choosing. Hermia and Lysander had decided to flee together in this scene. It was all very romantic, or rather, it was supposed to be.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream had never been to Victoria’s taste, but Loralie was such a gifted actress that she could make even the most ill-composed play seem as though it were a masterpiece penned by the Muses themselves. Loralie delivered every expression and word with such earnestness that she left Victoria sometimes breathless. She made for a passionate and likeable Hermia, and Victoria could read every ounce of Hermia’s desperation in Loralie’s voice and face.

Victoria glanced at her open book, filled with small sketches of Loralie’s gestures and notes about how she delivered her lines. She wondered what costume Loralie would wear for this play; thus far, she played Shakespeare’s Hermia as a passionate woman who overflowed with emotion. Victoria drew in a sharp breath of air. In the past productions she had seen of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hermia was clad in gentle colours—white, pink, and lilac—but such delicate hues seemed to be unfitting for such a passionate rendition of the character. On stage, Loralie had worn a white gown, clearly meant to resemble the styles of women in Classical Greek art, but given that Henry had not worn any costume at all, it was clear that there would be some changes before the show opened. It would be interesting to see Loralie’s Hermia clad in a more dramatic colour. Perhaps Charles, the director, would be willing to consider ruby or Pomona green. 

Victoria closed the book and stood. The next two scenes did not involve Loralie, so she would be behind the stage—either waiting for her cue or being fitted into her costume for the production’s opening night. Victoria left the wings quietly so as not to disturb the soliloquy that concluded the end of the scene. Her slippers scarcely made a sound as she walked down the flight of stairs and a long corridor leading to the area behind the stage. When she pushed open the heavy oak door, sound burst into her ears, and Victoria grinned.

Actors talked animatedly, costumers weaved around them with arms laden with heavy fabrics, and the director stood in a corner, gesturing with a copy of the play. It was unmitigated chaos, loud and lively, and Victoria loved all of it.

“Victoria!” Loralie’s bell-like voice swept through the air, heralding the woman’s arrival. 

Victoria turned around. Loralie stood nearby, always so lovely. She was an elegant, slender woman with thick, black hair and warm, autumn-brown eyes. Those were fascinating eyes, too! Victoria did not know how Loralie did it, but in one minute, the actress could look so innocent and doe-like. In the next heartbeat, those same warm eyes could gleam with the malevolence of a seductress who was determined to ruin all men. During their first meeting, Victoria remembered being anxious about approaching such a beautiful woman. Victoria herself was not especially beautiful. Her hair was red-brown, too light in colour to be mysterious and too dark to be fiery. Victoria’s eyes were green but very ordinary. They were a green-brown, like the colour of moss, rather than the emerald favoured by heroines in novels. She had thought that surely a woman like Loralie—so beautiful and talented—would be dismissive of someone as plain as she, but Loralie had proved that her heart was as lovely as her outward appearance.

“Did you like the performance?” Loralie asked.

“You were as amazing as always,” Victoria said. “You might persuade me to feel some sympathy for Hermia.”

Loralie laughed. “Do you not already feel tender towards Hermia?”

 “No,” Victoria replied. “I have very rarely found her to be sympathetic.”

Loralie arched an eyebrow and gestured for Victoria to follow her. “Do tell. I should think that you would find her situation to be … most understandable. Ladies are often asked to marry men they do not wish to.”

“That is true,” Victoria conceded.

Loralie very rarely acknowledged that Victoria was a member of the ton, which was part of why Victoria liked the woman so much. She and her fellow actors gave Victoria the freedom to imagine for just a handful of fleeting hours that the course of her life had not already been largely determined for her.

“But,” Victoria continued, determined not to dampen the joyful magic of the theatre, “I have never felt as though Hermia had any justifiable reason for wanting to flee and elope with Lysander. It is apparent enough why she would not wish to wed Demetrius. He wants to force her into a marriage, and he is not an especially interesting man. But she does not seem to really love Lysander either. The two are so similar that I imagine most theatre-goers have difficulty in differentiating between the two! She says that she does, but there is no real passion!”

“That depends on the actress,” Loralie said. “It is no fault of poor Hermia if she is performed poorly.”

They entered Loralie’s dressing room. She shared it with three other actresses, but at present, they were absent. 

“You play her well,” Victoria said. “I just find it—why is it so difficult to perform passion? Is it William Shakespeare himself, do you think? Perhaps, we hold him in such high esteem that we are afraid that we might be disrespectful if we make his heroines too bold?”

Loralie’s lips twitched into amusement as she deftly removed the white gown. “Shakespeare has bold heroines.”

That was a fair point. Viola in Twelfth Night and Rosalind in As You Like It were both interesting women. They actually participated in the plot rather than being damsels who needed to be rescued. Victoria would have liked to put Queen Titania in their number, but her actions in A Midsummer Night’s Dream largely involved being enchanted to fall in love with a donkey-headed man. It was difficult, then, to consider her especially bold.

“They could be bolder,” Victoria insisted. “He could have been bolder. If you ever doubted that we live in an unjust world, you need look no further than the fact that Shakespeare is so lauded, and poor Marlowe languishes in obscurity.”

Victoria could not remember the last time that the theatre had shown one of Marlowe’s plays. Charles had explained that Marlowe was simply not a popular playwright. He was too brazen and eccentric for the ton and most of their audience. 

Loralie adjusted her blue gown, smoothing the wrinkles. “Surely, you do not think that Marlowe wrote love better than Shakespeare.”

“Marlowe wrote passion,” Victoria replied. “That is something I have never felt from Shakespeare.”

“Do you prefer passion over love?” Loralie asked.

“I have not felt either,” Victoria said, “but I like the thought of passion. Love is too—too lofty, I think. It feels unachievable, but passion is surely present in the breast of every woman. And yet, we are scarcely allowed to express such feelings. If we do, we are hysterical or loud or flawed.”

“Being a lady, I am sure you feel that more acutely than many,” Loralie said. “Sometimes, I envy the ladies of the ton. You have so much that women like me will never have. So much wealth, the power to make changes … and yet that comes at a high cost.”

Being an actress also came at a high cost, especially in the eyes of the ton. Victoria’s stepmother would be horrified to learn that Victoria snuck away to the theatre most nights and even more so to realize that she spent much of her time in the company of an actress.

“I suppose that is why I like the theatre so much. It has the potential to imagine a better world. It lets me escape my own.” Victoria paused, thinking. “Is that selfish?”

Loralie hummed. She looked contemplative, and Victoria suspected some unspoken words were wandering through the woman’s mind. Perhaps Loralie was thinking of her own reality, one where it was supposed that she was forever searching for a wealthy “protector.” Victoria’s stepmother would be furious to realize that she knew the significance of the term protector, too.

“Yes. But I am a firm believer that women should be selfish sometimes,” Loralie said. “If a man wished to use the theatre to escape his own life for some time, no one would criticize him for dreaming.”

“Thank you.”

Loralie inclined her head, acknowledging the show of gratitude. “Would your stepmother notice if you were away for a while longer? The cast intends to meet at the usual tavern. You are welcome to join us.”

Victoria bit the inside of her cheek, trying to determine the risk of her absence being discovered. Usually, she only remained long enough to watch the performances. She had only accepted Loralie’s offer twice for fear of being caught. Her stepmother, Bernadette Sinclair, the Countess of Norwood, was quick and ruthless in correcting Victoria’s errors with pinches, slaps, and birching. These things did not happen often but frequently enough for Victoria to carefully consider even the most minor act of disobedience with more zeal than most likely would.

Besides, there were also chores to consider. Most of the work was completed by her stepmother’s maid-of-all-work, but that still left the mending and some of the cleaning to Victoria. She did not want to remain awake too late in the night, or she would likely not have the enthusiasm for cleaning the following day.

“Henry and I will escort you to your father’s townhouse afterward,” Loralie said. “You will not need to worry about journeying home alone, and we will leave whenever you like. I understand if you do not wish to remain in a tavern until dawn.”

Victoria smiled a little sheepishly. “I think I will join you if it is no inconvenience to you and Henry.”

“None at all,” Loralie said, waving dismissively. “But I should warn you—Charles may well interrogate you about this new play you are writing. He keeps hoping that one of our performances will attract a wealthy patron, and he suspects that a play written by an anonymous lady may be just what we need.”

Victoria laughed. “I regret to inform Charles that my play is nowhere near completion.”

Loralie smiled. “Someday, it will be. It and many others, I have no doubt.”

***

The Raven and the Dove was a tavern just a few streets away from the Jonson Theatre. Victoria’s stepmother would be most displeased if she learned Victoria went to such a place. The tavern was not disreputable per se, but it was a place where the poor of London often went to celebrate, socialize, and forget their woes in the pints of watery ale. The theatre troupe had taken an entire corner to themselves. Loralie sat to Victoria’s left. On her right was Henry—dark-haired, dashing, and already regaling the new, young actress Abigail with some tale about a disastrous pantomime. Charles, the director, was engaged in retrieving a few additional chairs along with James, who managed costuming. Margaret and Jonathan sat together; those two were nearly inseparable. It sounded as though Jonathan was recounting his experience working in the Theatre Royal, which had only recently reopened after being destroyed in a fire.

Rhys placed a tankard of ale before Victoria and grinned. “How is the playwriting, My Lady?”

Rhys was an uncommonly handsome man who loved theatre. Unfortunately, he had little talent for acting, or so he had told Victoria. His contribution to the troupe was managing their financial records and occasionally corresponding with potential patrons. Despite being a clerk, he never missed any practice or performance. 

“Oh! Yes!” Charles exclaimed. The man dropped into a seat, his face reddened from bringing the chairs over and grinned at her. “How is our aspiring Shakespeare?”

“She would prefer to be compared to Marlowe,” Loralie said.

“Marlowe?” James asked. “That is a highly inappropriate aspiration for a young lady to have!”

This remark produced a roar of laughter from the troupe. 

“Yes,” Mary said, glancing at Victoria. “Otherwise, this situation is quite appropriate. Respectable lords’ daughters frequently spend their evenings hidden away in taverns with theatre troupes.”

This drew another round of laughter, which Victoria herself joined in, albeit not without a small pang of guilt. “My stepmother means well,” she said. “It is not her fault that she was born into the ton and taught to be a proper lady from a young age. She only performs as she was taught. If she had not been born into the ton, I am certain that she would not be so dismayed by my company.”

“You were also born into the ton,” Jonathan said. “You do not feel as she does.”

“I was fortunate enough to have a father who encouraged me to follow my heart, regardless of whether society might approve of my behaviour or not,” Victoria said. “He was a rather unique man. Soft, some might say.”

Fair-minded, Victoria had always called him. Unlike many men of the ton, her father had not cared for the usual customs of aristocrats. He had devoted his life to helping the commoner, to providing the means for the poor to be educated, and to ending the slave trade in Britain. 

“God rest his soul,” Loralie said.

“Indeed,” Henry agreed.

“Would that the world had more men like him,” Charles said, sombrely raising his tankard. “To the late Lord Norwood.”

Tankards clinked, and Victoria took a large drink of the ale. She tried not to let her feelings about her father overwhelm her. Sometimes, she felt his loss just a little too strongly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

It had been seven years since her father died, but she still felt his absence so acutely. Even though her stepmother and all her father’s relations seemed to have ended their grieving, Victoria found herself still trapped in the past. Her father’s absence was like a physical weight pressing on her. She would have given anything just to have one more day with him, to tell him how much she loved him, and to ask what she was supposed to do. Her father had been such a good man, and Victoria felt as though she were not nearly as noble as he. She wanted to do good and to make him proud, but she had no notion of how.

“He would be proud that you still embody everything he believed in,” Charles said. “You will have to show us pages of your play soon, My Lady. I am certain that it is a true work of art.”

“Perhaps, some day,” Victoria said. “If it is, will you perform it?”

“Without a doubt!”

Victoria smiled and took another sip of ale. She let herself bask in the goodwill of the theatre troupe, always so encouraging and lively. Oh, it would be so wonderful to join them and be a part of the troupe, not their devoted observer! The theatre was where she belonged, the only place she belonged, and someday, she hoped it would be her home.

Chapter Two

There were few men that Lady Bernadette Sinclair disliked less than Edward Morgan, the favourite solicitor of her late husband. Morgan was a young man who looked perpetually disheveled and spoke about the law with far more enthusiasm than was appropriate for any living being, even a lawyer. Bernadette had expressed her concerns when Lord Norwood first introduced her to the man, but he dismissed them all. What did it matter if Morgan was a little unkempt? He was a brilliant attorney, knowledgeable about chancery and common law. Besides, the man was passionate about his occupation, and Lord Norwood had admired that kind of enthusiasm.

“I think it would be best if Lady Victoria were to join us,” Morgan said. “Perhaps I ought to visit another time.”

Bernadette forced a pleasant smile. “I understand your feelings on the matter, Mr Morgan. However, I see no need to delay. I will be certain to recount our meeting to Victoria once she returns.”

Morgan did not need to know that Bernadette had chosen to meet at this time specifically because it was when Victoria and the maid-of-all-work often went to the market. Although Bernadette had not yet seen her late husband’s will, Lord Norwood had doubtlessly left Victoria a sizable fortune. The less Victoria knew about that, the better.

“I see,” Morgan replied.

Bernadette felt a hot inkling of irritation. She was a lady. This man was a solicitor, not even a gentleman. His father was not even a gentleman. “You sound as though you question my judgement, Mr Morgan.”

He smoothed the will over the table and glanced at her, his blue eyes guileless. “No. I apologize if I gave you that impression. It is only that I am accustomed to communicating directly with my clients, and I—”

“And I am Victoria’s guardian,” Bernadette interrupted. “I am your client, and I will look after my stepdaughter’s interests. I will not have you trying to influence her in any way.”

At that, Morgan said nothing. Bernadette knew that Morgan was as moral as any man could be. He would not try to influence Victoria. Bernadette also knew that he would not wish to argue with a lady.

“Very well,” he said. “Victoria will soon be of age, and her father’s wishes were for me to speak to you—and her—when that time came. He has set some things in place to secure Victoria’s future.”

“Of course,” Bernadette replied.

“Are you acquainted with Lord Anthony McCallister, the Duke of Bachester?”

“Yes,” Bernadette said. “My Lord’s business partner. I believe that we met on a few different occasions.”

She could not recall any specific meetings, though. Bernadette had never been particularly interested in Lord Norwood’s business ventures. She had made her appearances, as expected, so everyone could see that Lord Norwood was wed to a beautiful young woman. But otherwise, she and her husband’s business associates lived in entirely different worlds.

“His son Lord Thomas McCallister is five-and-twenty years of age,” Morgan said. “A bachelor with, as you might imagine, a vast fortune to his name. It was Lord Norwood’s wish that he and Lady Victoria should wed, and the late Lord Bedford agreed to the arrangement. At their marriage, the late Lord Bedford and Lord Norwood’s fortunes both will transfer to the current Lord Bedford, so he will have the means to care for both Lady Victoria and yourself.”

A coldness seeped into Bernadette, sinking all the way to her bones. She hoped that she had misheard Morgan, but she doubted it. “And myself?” 

“Indeed,” Morgan replied. “Lord Norwood felt that Lady Victoria might be unable to manage such a vast fortune at such a tender age, so he thought it best for that fortune to be placed into the hands of someone with more worldly experience.”

“And am I not someone with more worldly experience?” Bernadette asked. “Have I not cared for his beloved daughter and managed the household for years without aid?”

“I do not doubt that you can manage your household, My Lady,” Morgan said. “I am only explaining my lord’s reasoning.”

“And what has he left me, then?”

“He left you this beautiful home,” Morgan replied, “and the means to sustain yourself and Victoria for years. He also wished that I express his appreciation towards you for your wonderful care of Victoria, and he had faith that his daughter and her husband would show you the same level of devotion.”

Bernadette’s chest grew tight. The same level of devotion was not the comforting prospect that Morgan likely assumed it would be. It was not her fault! A headstrong young lady like Victoria had needed a firm hand; her father had been too idealistic and forgiving. Victoria had needed to learn that the world was a cruel and heartless place, especially for a woman, and so Bernadette had taught her that! How could anyone blame her for that? They should not!

Oh, but they would. Bernadette straightened her spine and silently cursed this bumbling, ridiculous attorney. She had no doubt that this disgustingly moral man would not be bought either. The courts of London were full of corruption. Everyone knew it. And Lord Norwood just had to find the one morally scrupulous lawyer of the lot, of course.

“That is it, then? I have no guarantee of anything,” Bernadette said.

“Your daughter’s love,” Morgan said, “and Lord Bedford’s good sense.”

She had never wanted so badly to strike a man in her life. Bernadette took a deep breath. “And let us suppose that the marriage does not go through,” she said. “Victoria cherishes her freedom. Perhaps, she will not wish to marry Lord Bedford. I do not know if I have the heart to force her.”

“Lord Norwood thought of that, also,” Morgan said. “If Lady Victoria does not wish to wed Lord Bedford, Lord Norwood requested that his fortune—half of the collective earnings from his business with the late Lord Bedford—would be entrusted into your care with the expectation that you would ensure Lady Victoria maintains an appropriate standard of living.”

Bernadette grasped onto that small, flickering light of hope like a condemned woman. “I see.”

“Lord Norwood thought that Lady Victoria might find a love match,” Morgan said, “but given that he could predict neither the character nor the stature of such a man, he felt that you would be the best candidate for ensuring both his daughter’s welfare and your own.”

“Of course, Mr Morgan. Unless a reliable man is involved, I am the best candidate,” she said dryly.

Morgan blinked, looking vaguely taken aback. “I am certain that was not my lord’s intent.”

Oh, but it was! As progressive a man as Lord Norwood had been, he was still a man. 

Morgan cleared his throat. “There are some additional stipulations.”

“And those are?”

“Lord Bedford and Lady Victoria must be wed within two months of her introduction to the ton, which must happen this month,” Morgan said. “Lord Norwood’s desire was that you allow Lady Victoria to attend as many balls and soirees as she wants to ensure that she and Lord Bedford are well-acquainted and, therefore, able to make an informed choice about a potential marriage.”

That was an unfortunate complication. Bernadette would be unable to simply insist on Victoria remaining in the townhouse in the hopes of keeping her away from Lord Bedford, and surely, that would be the simplest solution. If Bernadette could persuade Victoria to marry someone else, anyone else, Bernadette would inherit her husband’s fortune.

“Of course,” Bernadette said. “I would not dream of doing otherwise. Every young lady must have a proper season. I remember my own quite fondly.”

She had met Lord Norwood, a wealthy widower, during her first season. She had liked him, too. Bernadette was not so foolish as to believe that love really existed, but mutual amicability was enough. She assumed they would be husband and wife for a long time. She would want for nothing and give her husband the proper male heir that he so desired. To Bernadette, her life seemed to be just what a young lady ought to hope for. Her future was secure, or it had been. When Lord Norwood died just a year later, Bernadette had been genuinely distraught. She was a young widow, burdened with a daughter who was not her own, and although her husband’s money had left her with the means to survive, his death brought other difficulties. 

The ton expected her to wed another man. They expected her to be a doting mother, and Bernadette had realized only then that she did not want to be a mother. She did not have a maternal nature. She was not patient or kind-hearted, and being forced into the role of mother and widow so young was the greatest injustice she had ever endured. 

“Do you have any questions about the terms of the contract?” Morgan asked.

“No, I think you have made yourself clear.”

This foolish solicitor was beginning to give her a migraine. As soon as Victoria was wed to any man except Lord Bedford, Bernadette would be a wealthy widow once again. Even better, she would no longer be responsible for this child that was not hers. Victoria’s husband would see to her survival. Who cared if that was not the life that Lord Norwood would have wished for his only daughter? It would be the life that best suited Bernadette, whom Lord Norwood had not seen fit to care for after his death.

Her husband loved his daughter more than her. Now, Bernadette wondered if he had ever loved her at all. Had she just been a means to an end? A way to find a mother for his child? Perhaps their marriage—which for her had been a friendship with enough money to survive—had only ever been a matter of convenience for him.

“Very well. If you or Lady Victoria have any concerns, you are always welcome to call on my services. Lord Norwood entrusted me with ensuring that Lady Victoria has a peaceful life, and I take that responsibility very seriously.”

“Thank you, but I am sure that will not be necessary.”

As soon as Bernadette had the inheritance that was rightfully hers, she would do business with any man save this one. 

She stood, and Morgan hastened to his feet. He folded the will and stowed it in his jacket pocket. “Thank you for your time, My Lady.”

“Elizabeth will escort you to the door.”

Morgan bowed and left, accompanied by the parlour maid. Once the man was gone, Bernadette rubbed her temples, trying to force away the slowly growing pressure. The situation was vexing, but she had faced greater difficulties before. This would be difficult but manageable. 

Bernadette curled her hands into fists and took a steadying breath. It surely would not be that difficult to ensure that Victoria married another man. There were many in the ton, each more handsome than the last. Besides, Victoria was young and foolish, so full of youthful impulsivity and extravagant dreams. It would be simple to coax her into making a bad choice, especially if she did not know what the stakes were.

---

“The Secret Life of a Sinful Lady” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Among the ton’s desires behind masks of propriety, fiery Victoria Sinclair treads a delicate line between duty and desire. By day she follows the rigid expectations of aristocracy but by night she surrenders to her true passion: theatre, where she spins scandalous tales of spirited heroines and irresistible rakes. Yet, when her family’s and the elite’s norms force her into an arranged marriage with an unknown Lord, she finds herself trapped in a game of lost dreams and hidden passions. When she realises that her betroth knows her secret…

Will she dare to confess the truth and surrender to his seduction?

The wicked Thomas McCallister, Lord Bedford, returns from Ireland to devastating news burdened by the weight of his father’s will. He must wed Victoria or risk losing his fortune. Yet, meeting her accidentally unaware of her identity, sparks a burning flame within his soul. Determined to win her heart on his terms, he pursues the mysterious playwrighter, but dark forces conspire to get him and his growing feelings down.

Will he manage to steal her flaming kiss behind the theatre’s lights?

As their worlds collide, Victoria and Thomas find themselves drawn to each other in a tempest of passion and longing. However, a malevolent lady has moved all the strings of their budding romance, playing her own game. With secrets and doubt swirling around them, will Victoria and Thomas defy the odds and forge a future together? Will their own flaming love lead to a happy ending or it will the curtains close before the big finale?

“The Secret Life of a Sinful Lady” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!