​A New Sweet Regency Release...  Westbury
A Regency Romance - Ballrooms, Cotillions and Almack's...
​Can Miss Georgina Morton surrender her independence and accept the Duke’s love?
 ​
Miss Georgina Morton, at the age of four-and-twenty, with a modest annual income of four hundred pounds, believes she has no need of a husband and can manage quite nicely without one. Yet within a matter of weeks, she’s betrothed to Giles Glentworth, the Sixth Duke of Westbury, and bound for Regency London.
Set in rural Wiltshire and elegant, fast-paced London...a runaway ward, a shooting at midnight, and a visit to fashionable Almack’s, are only a few of the adventures Georgina enjoys while falling for the Corinthian charms of the Duke.


​Exerpt  -  Westbury - Ballrooms, Cotillions and Almack's

     Never before had Georgina been more thankful for all the hours she’d spent in her bedchamber as a young girl, standing in front of the mirror, practising and perfecting the art of delivering the harshest of stares imaginable. Any lesser man than the Marquis would have baulked at her glower, but her unflinching look seemed not to affect him.
     “Had you been more attentive, sir, there would have been no need for you to have pulled so harshly on these reins. You might have ruined their sensitive mouths.”
     “Let me tell you, young Miss, no one has ever dared question me on the treatment of my horses before. You are the first person to do so.”
     Georgina was surprised by the incensed and irate reaction of the Marquis. She’d ruffled his feathers.
     “Really? You astonish me, sir. Perhaps someone ought to have done so before.”
     He adjusted his grip on the reins. “I pride myself on giving my thoroughbreds only the finest. Nothing is of more importance to me than my horses’ wellbeing. They always have the best of everything. The best stables, the best grooms, the best fodder, and I never leave them standing outside in the cold waiting on my pleasure. Never. How dare you say I might have ruined their mouths?”
     Bravely ignoring his outburst, Georgina began gingerly inspecting the horses, searching for any damage that might have been caused. There was none. But that was of no account.
     Although the Marquis had skilfully handled his animals as any Corinthian, it was of no consequence to her. Her hackles were raised, and she was on the warpath. Given half the chance, she was ready to accuse him of anything and everything because of the way he made her feel and because of the telling off he’d given her.
     “Had I not been vigilant, madam, my greys could have floored you, and the world would be minus your beauty.”
     Georgina thought she detected a hint of tightly control sarcasm about this man, but giving him the benefit of the doubt, she decided she might be wrong. There was such an air of condemnation about him that she doubted he would ever have the inclination or the ability to stoop so low in order that he might indulge himself in something as meaningless and trivial as cynicism.
     “I’m realistic enough to know I’m not a beauty, sir. I agree I may have momentarily lost my wits when crossing this road and that I might have been quite inconsiderate to these magnificent horses, but I’m not so stupid as to believe you when you call me a beauty.” Georgina tilted her head proudly in the air. “I must inform you that on more than one occasion I’ve been told my looks are passable, but a beauty I’m not. And never shall be.”
     Giles had regarded her with a measuring look and then he’d laughed in disbelief. “Never before have I paid a woman a compliment and had it thrown back at me. I’m intrigued to know what kind of modest, self-effacing woman I’m talking to.”
     “I’m not self-effacing, sir. I’m only truthful.”
     “Then if you tell me you are not a beauty and inform me that my judgement is to be questioned, I must insist on having a closer look―for my eyes must be deceiving me. Come, step up into the carriage and allow me to inspect you.”
     Giles drew off his gloves and tossed them onto the seat beside him. He reached down a hand to help her up, but with a shake of her head, she refused.
     “Sir, I will not,” she said, affronted. “And you cannot make me.”
     “Don’t fly into high fidgets. If you will not come to me then I shall have to come to you.”
With great agility, the Marquis tossed the reins of his phaeton to his tiger, the small groom who rode behind the carriage, and springing down, approached.
     Even though Georgina trembled at his unexpected nearness, she stood her ground. Squaring her shoulders, she faced him full on, unafraid.
     “I stand corrected,” he said, containing his merriment. “Allow me to revise my assessment.” Placing his fingers beneath her chin, he had tilted her head first sideways then up and down as he inspected her features. “You’re quite right. And I must with great reluctance agree with you. You do indeed have indifferent eyes, and your nose―it is only just passable. But I shall stand by my first impression concerning your lips. They are truly beautiful. So beautiful, that I deem they must be kissed. But perhaps we must save that for another time. Instead, I shall…”
     And before Georgina realised what was happening, the Marquis had captured her hand in his and had raised it to his lips.
     There had been no chance for her to move away or resist.
     Someone amid the crowd of onlookers let out a loud roar of approval, but Georgina, ignoring the shouts of encouragement, began to struggle against the Marquis’s determined grip.
     Her heart beat furiously in her chest. “Unhand me, sir,” she’d said. But the Marquis had paid no heed to her protests.
     Instead, his hold had tightened further, and lifting her into his arms and tossing her carelessly onto the high perch of his phaeton, he’d climbed the steps of the carriage and positioned himself beside her.
     Once again taking control of the reins, he’d asked, “Where to?”
     “I don’t know what you mean,” she’d said, quite vexed.
     “Where are you living? For I’m sure, that if I were to leave you here, you would soon be knocked over again. Or worse. Next time you might manage to get yourself killed.”
     “Thank you,” she’d said between gritted teeth as she tried to maintain her countenance. “But I believe I can find my way home without your assistance.”
     Wriggling on the seat, she removed the gloves upon which she’d been sitting and offered them to him but he completely ignored her activities and comments. With an adroit, dexterous flick of the wrist, he whipped the reins on high and set the horses in motion. Georgina couldn’t help but admire his skill with the ribbons as he controlled the high-steppers. His hands, adorned only with an elaborately embellished sardonyx signet ring on his left hand, were set off to perfection by the brown, white and tan bands of the precious stone, but they looked too soft to have the ability to control such powerful animals. But he could handle them well, and he did―with great expertise.
     “This is not about you being able to find your way, madam. It is about the fact that you’re on the streets of London, unaccompanied. I trust you realise that I might not be available to save your reputation on another occasion such as this.”
     Georgina couldn’t help herself. She scoffed at his remarks.
     “Guff, sir!” she’d said crossly. “That is flimflam and nonsense. You think walking these streets unaccompanied and without my maid has done me harm? Let me inform you that by taking me up in your phaeton, you’ve placed me in a far worse position. I’m here with you―alone. More than likely this jaunt will be the ruin of me.”
     “On the contrary, madam. It’s not every day I permit a female to ride beside me, and I suspect being seen in my company is going to do you a great deal of good.”
     And so it was, that in great style, and accompanied by the Marquis of Glentworth, who was indeed a complete stranger to her, Miss Georgina Morton was dropped unceremoniously at the door of the hired house her parents had leased in Claremont Square.​

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About the Author
​Arabella Sheen is a British author of Contemporary and Regency romance novels.
Born in Mortimer House, a Grade II listed Georgian building in the heart of Clifton Village, Bristol, Arabella believes that having grown up with surroundings and architecture steeped in the history and culture of the 1800’s, she was destined to write about a subject she loves deeply―the Regency era.
One of the many things Arabella has a passion for is reading. And when she's not researching or writing about romance, she is either on her allotment sowing and planting with the seasons, or she is curled on the sofa with a book while pandering to the demands of her attention seeking moggy.
Having lived and worked in the city of Amsterdam in the Netherlands as a theatre nurse for nearly twenty years, she now lives in the South West of England with her family.