Callum: Regency Rockstars

by Sasha Cottman

  “It will be wonderful to escape London. I haven’t travelled anywhere in such a long time. And Jonathan is excited to see the countryside,” added Lavinia.

  “Are you still planning on visiting the family estate before returning to London?” asked Eliza.

  It was odd to think that the Follett family estate in Northamptonshire was no longer her home. Lavinia had taken over much of her old role, leaving Eliza free to work with Callum’s mother on the transition to her new position as Baroness Sharp.

  “Yes, Reid wants to start teaching Jonathan how to ride, while I am eager to meet the estate staff,” replied Lavinia.

  A loud crash followed by a wail of despair came from the ballroom.

  “What was that?” exclaimed Eliza.

  She raced for the door. Lavinia and Amelia close on her heels. Inside the ballroom, all three women stopped in their tracks.

  Kendal sat, head bowed, on the floor next to his priceless Cristofori piano, surrounded by what had once been sheets of music. Every piece of paper had been torn to shreds. The shattered splinters of a piano stool lay against the stonework of the fireplace.

  “Oh, Kendal, what have you done?” Eliza exclaimed.

  When he lifted his head, she gasped and put a hand to her mouth. He had hacked off all his beautiful long, blond hair. Beside him on the floor were a pair of scissors and the remains of what had once been his crowning glory.

  Eliza raced to Kendal’s side. He looked up at her; his eyes were filled with tears. In his hand he held a bottle of whisky; there was barely an inch left in the bottom of it.

  It was just past midday—a rare time for Kendal to be drinking. He was obviously drunk. Whisky fumes hung around him like a miasma.

  Eliza frowned. She couldn’t ever recall having seen him past being tipsy, let alone in his cups. “What on earth is going on?”

  “It’s all over. My life is at an end,” he replied.

  She knelt and gently took the whisky from him. Kendal did not put up a fight. She passed the bottle to Lavinia.

  “Why is your life over? And what happened to all your music—and your hair?” asked Eliza.

  Kendal’s head dropped once more. His shoulders shook as he sobbed. “Who gives a fuck about music? None of it matters. Nothing means anything if I can’t have her in my life. I couldn’t care less if I never played the piano again. Mercy was my muse; without her, the music means nothing.”

  Eliza’s worried gaze shifted from Lavinia to Amelia. They both nodded. The absence of Mercy Wood from Follett House had not gone unnoticed. Her father, Henry Wood, had tuned the piano this morning.

  “Did you and Mercy have a fight?” asked Lavinia.

  “A fight would have been a godsend. I could apologize and fix things if it was as simple as us having a tiff.”

  “Then what is it? What could have ended things between you and made you want to throw away your music?” replied Eliza.

  Kendal sucked in a deep breath. “I went to see her today. She says she doesn’t belong in my world. That she is a piano tuner’s daughter and always will be. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she now says she is going to marry someone else.”

  The love affair between a duke’s second son and the beautiful daughter of a piano tuner had always been doomed.

  Callum had told Eliza he had teased Kendal about Mercy partially in order to stop his friend from falling in love with her. He had secretly hoped that Kendal would see the folly of giving his heart to a woman his family would never accept.

  From the destruction which lay all about the ballroom, it was clear that Callum’s hopes had been in vain.

  Kendal reached out and took hold of Eliza’s hand. “If I cannot have Mercy’s love, I vow to never again play another note of music. I am quitting the group. The Noble Lords tour is cancelled.”

  Turn the page to read the first chapter of Kendal.

  Kendal

  A stupidly early time.

  Putney Heath, London

  * * *

  The early morning mist hung lazily around the tops of the trees. The sun was barely up; , and it would take another hour for Putney Heath to be clear. In a small glade toward the western end of the heath an unmarked, black town carriage stood. While its horses nibbled on soft tufts of grass, two well-dressed gentlemen and three servants stood a few yards away waiting.

  The first of those gentlemen, Lord Owen Morrison, scrubbed his face with the heel of his hand and sighed.

  “Are you certain you are not just happy for the chap to apologize and let bygones be bygones?” he asked.

  Lord Kendal Grant shook his head vehemently. “Not a chance. Some people don’t learn unless the lesson delivered is a harsh one. Hopefully him getting out of bed at sparrow’s fart and then being shot at will teach him something.”

  “I know it has taught me something,” replied Owen.

  Kendal, who had just finished tying his long blonde hair up with a piece of leather, turned and looked at him.

  “And what have you learned Owen?”

  “To hide when you come looking for one of us Noble Lords to be your second in a duel. This is becoming tedious. Another morning, another bloody settling of an argument at gunpoint.”

  Kendal ignored Owen’s complaint. His friend had just set foot in the front door of Follett House after a night of drinking and carousing when Kendal had nabbed him, promptly turned him around and pushed him back outside and into the waiting carriage.

  A footman handed Kendal a rosewood pistol box. He took a moment to run his gloved fingers over the intricate Chinese ivory detailing on the lid before opening it. He gave the two pistols inside a quick once over.

  “Are they loaded?” he asked.

  The footman nodded, then stepped back.

  Another carriage appeared over the nearby rise.

  “For fuck’s sake, he brought a marked carriage,” Kendal muttered as his gaze settled on the blue and gold livery of the conveyance.

  Everyone knew that dueling was illegal. Hence the need for early mornings, quiet locations, and most of all… plain, black carriages. The other party may as well have taken an advertisement out in The Times announcing that he was going to fight a duel this morning.

  “He must have missed the class at Eton when they explained the part about how one should settle matters of honor discreetly,” replied Owen.

  Says the man who failed to turn up for the whole term when they were teaching us about discretion.

  Kendal passed the box of pistols to Owen. “Here make yourself useful.”

  When the other carriage finally drew to a halt Kendal’s party readied themselves, then they waited. And waited. After several more minutes, Kendal angrily huffed and marched over. He rapped loudly on the door.

  “Come on my bloody breakfast is getting cold. Take your shot and then let’s get on with the day.”

  The handle on the door slowly turned, and it fell open. A gentleman still dressed in his formal evening attire tumbled out headfirst and landed with a thud on the ground. Kendal leapt back out of the way.

  Owen, who had followed him over, looked down at the fallen man. “I would say he has had one or two glasses of brandy to give him some Dutch courage.”

  Kendal rolled his eyes. Great, now I’m going to have a drunk aiming his pistol at me.

  “Get up man!” he cried.

  The man swayed as he got to his feet, then staggered back. He waved a finger in Kendal’s direction. “All I said was that without Mozart, Salieri’s career would have meant nothing. Lord Grant, I don’t see how you can possibly take offence.”

  “Blasphemy!” roared Kendal.

  He launched himself at the half-foxed fool, ready to set to him with his fists. Owen raced after Kendal and taking a firm hold of his arm, dragged him away.

  “Let the pistols do the talking,” said Owen.

  Kendal tried to wrestle free of Owen’s grasp, but his friend was too strong.

  “Fucking Mozart. Salieri was a genius long before
that pimple faced little weasel was born. Antonio Salieri taught Beethoven, Liszt, and bloody Schubert!”

  Kendal’s blood pumped through his body at a furious rate; his heart pounded in his chest. The musical philistine deserved to be thrashed, then shot.

  Owen pointed to a spot in the clearing a little way from them. “Kendal be a good chap and go and stand there. Let me get this gentleman ready to handle a pistol, and then you can get about the business of killing one another.”

  Kendal aimed another filthy look in the direction of his adversary before stomping away. His ire was such that he would have quite happily settled for a bare knuckled bout and lived with the bruises. Sod the pistols.

  After both Kendal and his foe were armed with their weapons, Owen, and the other man’s second led them to a spot away from the carriages and the easily spooked horses.

  Owen handed the other second a sword. “Take ten paces that way and then stab the end of the sword into the ground. That shall be your point. I shall do the same in the opposite direction.”

  Kendal removed his scarf and coat, before shrugging out of his jacket. He rolled his shoulders and made a great show of stretching his back. He caught the look of unease on the other man’s face and smiled. He loved the dramatics of the duel preamble.

  His opponent cleared his throat. “Lord Grant, how many duels have you fought?”

  Kendal frowned. He had to think about that for a minute.

  “A few, what about you?” he eventually replied.

  The other man winced. “This is my first, and if I survive it, my last.”

  Most men would shy away from such a reckless hobby, but to Kendal there was a certain appeal about it. The risk of death was a powerful, exhilarating spice, one which he liked to have sprinkled over his life from time to time.

  Owen and the other second returned from establishing the points where the combatants were to stand.

  “Now gentlemen you both understand the rules of the duel. You are to step to your points and when I release this handkerchief you may fire at will. First blood drawn will see the end of the duel and satisfaction being settled,” said Owen.

  Kendal gave a nod and sauntered over to where Owen had placed his sword in the ground. He then turned and waited. His opponent did not appear to be in any great hurry to reach his own point. The poor drunken unfortunate, staggered and fell enough times that his second eventually had to come and help him to his designated spot.

  “Oh, do come on. You only die once!” cried Kendal.

  “Taunting the fool, is not helping things,” replied Owen.

  After his rival eventually managed to stand in one spot long enough for his second to raise his hand and signal his readiness, Kendal gave a nod to Owen.

  Owen pulled a long black silk handkerchief from the pocket of his greatcoat. Kendal took a deep breath. This was the best part of the duel. That moment when you began to wonder if indeed you were about to draw your last breath, if this would beas the day you died. His cock twitched in his trousers, ; for some unknown reason the hint of death always gave him a hard on.

  His mouth went dry, adrenaline pumping through him at a rate of knots. The heavy thump of his heart made him feel light-headed. It was the rush of fear, the high which he craved. It was better than any of the hash infused cigars that his fellow Noble Lord, Callum regularly smoked.

  Owen lifted his arm, twirled the handkerchief above in his head in dramatic fashion, then let it fall.

  The other gentleman raised his pistol and aimed it in the general direction of where Kendal stood. His arm shook so badly, that both Owen and the man’s second took another step back.

  Kendal meanwhile left his arm hanging loosely by his side. He hadn’t even bothered to cock his pistol.

  “Make it a clean shot,” he cried.

  The sound of a bullet whizzed through the air, followed by the thwack of it hitting a not-so nearby tree. He flinched, then took a deep breath, the shot had gone wildly wide.

  He met his opponent’s gaze. The drunken man was still unsteady on his feet. Kendal was now in two minds as to whether the shot had been deliberately sent wide or whether the other gentleman’s aim was terrible. Deciding it was probably the latter, he let go of his disappointment.

  Lifting his pistol, he cocked it, then pointed it squarely at the other man’s face.

  “Mozart was an overindulged mama’s boy who wasted much of his talent creating tiresome and repetitive shit,” he announced.

  He fired the pistol and the bullet nicked the edge of his opponent’s coat. The man instantly dropped like a stone to the ground. His second rushed to his side and began frantically looking for the bullet wound, for blood. Owen strolled over and casually glanced down.

  “He has just fainted. Give him a minute, then take him home. Oh, and get him some clean trousers, ; he appears to have made a mess of himself in those,” he snorted.

  He picked up the dueling pistol and sauntered back to Kendal’s side.

  “I know you get a great thrill from letting them shoot first, but one day you are going to meet someone who does not shoot wide. Then what will you do?” asked Owen.

  Kendal shrugged. “Fucked if I know. Probably die.”

  Kendal coming April 2020.

  Reid

  * * *

  Regency Rockstars

  * * *

  1816

  * * *

  The war against Napoleon has been won. For those nobles who fought at the battle of Waterloo, the rewards have come freely from the scandalous women of London high society.

  Reid Follett, Owen Morrison, Callum Sharp and Kendal Grant have had unfettered access to the charms of every lady who takes their fancy. They have had their pick of any woman they wish to bed.

  Until now…

  With the war having been over for a year, the luster of being celebrated war heroes is beginning to fade. When a group of hot, supremely talented Italian musicians arrive in London and begin to tear up the social scene, the English lords suddenly find themselves having to fight to keep the sexual favors of the wild women of the ton.

  But Reid, Owen, Callum and Kendal are determined to defend their territory and decide to take the Italians on at their own game. The Noble Lords quartet is born.

  What follows is everything that makes Rockstar Romance so great. Outrageous egos, shocking scandals, and of course wicked sex. And somewhere in the heart of it all is the music.

  The Regency Rockstars series is a new twist on Historical Romance and Rockstar Romance.

  Stories of war-scarred English lords who are bad boy musicians and the women who dare to love them.

  London 1816

  Something was seriously amiss with Reid Follett’s plan. He clenched his fists tightly and swore under his breath. The Follett Plan, as he had privately dubbed it, was ironclad, infallible. A plan so cunning and cocksure he should have letters patent taken out on it.

  Upon arriving at whichever party, ball, or private soiree he had decided to attend that evening, he would hand over his coat to a footman. Next, he would seek out the closest tray of drinks and avail himself of the largest glass of brandy. With drink in hand, he would then take a slow turn about the room, greeting various guests and, of course, the party host as he went.

  A small chat here, a welcome kiss there. All the while, his gaze would be roaming the room, searching. His primal brain would note which of the haute ton’s sexually promiscuous women were in attendance. Like a stallion seeking out mares in heat, his lustful instincts would soon find the right one.

  Brief flirtatious glances would be exchanged, encouraging smiles given. He would never be so crass as to make a cold, direct approach. Women were always keen to bed him.

  After making his way over to the lady of his choosing, the full seduction would begin. It required little effort on his part. He was Lord Reid Follett, hero of the Battle of Waterloo. The Follett Plan had never let him down.

  Until now.

  Across the room, he sighted
his prey. Lord Keating’s wife. She batted her eyelids at him and flicked open her fan.

  Here we go. About bloody time.

  His cock twitched at the prospect of some hard bed action. Lady Keating was one of his regulars.

  A quick glance around the room and he spied Lord Keating sidling up to someone else’s wife. Reid did prefer to wait until the husband of his lust object was not in sight before making his move. A jealous spouse could make for an ugly scene.

  He took a step toward Lady Keating, a charming greeting ready for her. As he approached, she blinked slowly, then turned her head.

  A soft smile appeared on her lips as she greeted another guest—a tall, dark-haired gentleman who immediately bowed low to her. When he placed a kiss on Lady Keating’s hand, she all but melted for him.

  “Shit,” muttered Reid.

  As he passed by Lady Keating and her gentleman friend, Reid caught the lilt of an Italian accent.

  “Tesoro mio, Lady Keating. It means ‘my treasure,’ which you truly are. Would you like to take a turn about the garden with me?”

  Reid saw red. The Italian had beaten him to the prize.

  He was still trying to calm his temper when from out of the crowded gathering he spied his friend approaching. He nodded in greeting. “Owen.”

  Lord Morrison was Owen to his closest associates and the numerous women he had bedded. The list of ladies in London who could refer to him by his first name was long and illustrious.

  “You look ready to do bloody murder,” said Owen.

  “If I could find a loaded pistol I would do just that. I had Lord Keating’s wife lined up for some bed sport. She had given me all the right signals, even did some of that fancy fan work just to make sure I got the message. But no sooner had I taken a single step in her direction, than one of those bloody Italians stepped in and snapped her up,” Reid replied.