By His Majesty's Grace

By His Majesty's Grace

by Jennifer Blake

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781459208865
Publisher: MIRA Books
Publication date: 07/26/2011
Series: Three Graces , #1
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 400
Sales rank: 177,221
File size: 689 KB

About the Author

Jennifer Blake has been called the steel magnolia of women's fiction, and a "legend of the genre." She is a seventh-generation Louisianian who married at 15, began writing at 21, sold her first book at 27 in 1970, and gained her first New York Times bestseller more than 20 years ago with Love's Wild Desire in 1977. She has written over 50 books, including Royal Seduction, Fierce Eden, Shameless, Tigress, and her latest release, Garden of Scandal.

A writer of international bestseller status as well, her books have been published in 17 languages for worldwide sales approaching 22 million. She was honored with the position as writer-in-residence for the University of Northeastern Louisiana, and is a charter, and honorary, member of Romance Writers of America.

She has received numerous awards for her work, but among those she values most are the Golden Treasure Award for Lifetime Achievement from Romance Writers of America, induction into the Affaire de Coeur Romance Hall of Fame, and the Frank Waters Award for Excellence in Fiction.

Since 1998, Jennifer and her husband have lived in a lakeside Caribbean-styled retreat in North Louisiana. They often entertain friends and family, especially their four grown children and 13 grandchildren. Always a gardener at heart, she spends much of her free time encouraging her newly planted lawn to bloom with her favorite daylilies and azaleas, and with her transplanted antique roses.

Her love of history and antiques has given rise to her newest hobby, quilting. But evenings find her and her husband lounging on one of the expansive verandas, enjoying café au lait and listening to the gentle lap of waves.

Here, as Jennifer says in her own words, "I write my fantasies of love and adventure in the romantic South. And sometimes, when I sit on the porch with the sunlight falling across the lawn and the smells of magnolia, sweet olive, honeysuckle, and roses wafting on the warm air, I live them."

Read an Excerpt

August 1486 England

Braesford was finally sighted in late afternoon. It stood before them on its hill, a walled keep centered by a pele tower of massive proportions that loomed against the gray north sky. Rooks wheeled and called above the turret, soaring about its corbelled and battlemented walkway. A pennon topped it to show the master was in residence. That sturdy fabric of blue and white fluttered and snapped in the brisk wind as if trying to take flight.

Isabel Milton would have taken flight herself were it not so cowardly.

A trumpet sounded, indicating their permission to enter. Isabel shivered despite the late–summer warmth. Drawing a deep breath, she kicked her palfrey to a slow walk behind her stepbrother, the Earl of Graydon, and his friend Viscount Henley. Their mounted party approached Braesford's thick stone walls with their ragged skirt of huts and small shops, clip–clopping over the dry moat, beneath the portcullis and through the gateway that gave onto a barmkin where the people of the countryside could be protected in time of trouble. Chickens flapped out of their way and a sow and her five piglets ran squealing in high dudgeon. Hounds flowed in a black–and–tan river down the stone steps of the open turret stairway just ahead. They surrounded the arriving party, barking, growling and sniffing around the horses' fetlocks. Lining the way to the turret entrance was an honor guard of men–at–arms, though no host stood ready to receive them.

Isabel, waiting for aid to dismount, stared up at the great central manse attached to the pele tower. This portion was newly built of brick, three stories in height with corner medallions and inset niches holding terra–cotta figures of militant archangels. The ground floor was apparently a service area from which servants emerged to receive the baggage of the arriving party. The great hall, the heart of the structure, was undoubtedly on the second floor with the ladies' solar directly above it, there where mullioned windows reflected the turbulent sky.

What manner of man commanded this fortress, which rose in such rugged yet prosperous splendor? What combination of arrogance and audacity led him to think she, daughter of a nobleman and an heiress in her own right, should wed a mere farmer, no matter how wide his lands or impregnable his home? What rare influence had he with the king that Henry Tudor had commanded it?

A shadow loomed inside the Roman arch of the turret doorway. The broad shape of a man appeared. He stepped out onto the cobblestones. Every eye in the bailey turned to fasten upon him.

Isabel came erect in her saddle as alarm banished her weariness from the long journey. She had been misled, she saw with tight dread in her chest, perhaps through ignorance but more likely from malice. Graydon was fond of such jests.

The master of Braesford was no mere farmer.

He was, instead, a warrior.

Randall Braesford was imposing in his height, with broad shoulders made wider by the cut of his doublet. The strong musculature of his flanks and legs was closely defined by dark gray hose and high boots of the same color. His hair was black, glinting in the pale sunlight with the iridescence of a raven's feathered helmet, and worn evenly cropped just above his shoulders. His eyes were the dark silver–gray of tempered steel; his features, though well cast, were made somber by the firm set of his mouth under a straight Roman nose. Garbed in the refined colors of black, white and gray, he had not the faintest hint of court dandy about him, no trace of damask or embroidery, no wide–brimmed headgear set with plumes. His hat was simple, of gray wool with an upturned brim cut in crenellations like a castle wall. From the belt at his lean waist hung his knife for use at table, a fine damascene blade marked by a hilt and scabbard with tracings of silver over its black enamel.

It was no wonder he was a close companion to the king, she thought in fuming ire. They were two of a kind, Henry VII and Sir Rand Braesford. Though one was fair and the other dark, both were grave of feature and mien, forbidding in their strength and obvious determination to bend fortune to their will and their pleasure.

At her side, Viscount Henley, a veritable giant of a man on the downside of forty, with sandy hair and the battered countenance of those who made a pastime of war and jousting, swung down from his courser. He turned toward Isabel as if to assist her dismount.

"Stay," Rand Braesford called in the firm command of those accustomed to being obeyed. He advanced upon her, his stride unhurried, his gaze keen. "The privilege is mine, I believe."

An odd paralysis gripped Isabel while a hollow sensation invaded her midsection. She could not look away from Braesford's dark eyes, not even when he paused beside her. They were so very black, with shimmering depths that beckoned yet defended against penetration. Anything could be hidden there, anything at all.

"My lady?"

The low rumble of his voice had a vibrant undertone that seemed to echo inside her. It was as intimate and as possessive as his mode of address. My lady. Not milady, but my lady.

His lady. And why not? Soon she would be his indeed.

Aware, abruptly, that she was staring, she veiled her gaze with her lashes, unhooked her knee from her pommel and turned more fully toward him. He reached for her waist with hard hands, lifting her from the saddle as she leaned to rest her gloved hands on his broad shoulders. He braced with his feet set, drawing her against him so she slid slowly down his long length until the skirt of her riding gown was drawn up and crushed between them and her booted toes barely touched the ground.

Her breath caught in her chest. Her future husband had no softness about him anywhere. His body was so unyielding from his chest to his knees that it was more like steel armor than living flesh. The sensation was particularly evident in the area below his waist. She jerked a little in his grasp, her eyes wide and fingers clenched on his shoulders, as she recognized that heated firmness against the softness of her lower belly.

He cared not at all that she knew, or so it seemed. His appraisal was intent behind the thick screen of his lashes, which seemed to permit her the same right of inspection. His eyes, she saw, carried a gleam in their depths like honed and polished silver, and thick brows made dark slashes above them. Lines radiated from the corners, perhaps from laughter but more likely from staring out over far distances. His jaw was square and his chin centered by a shallow cleft. The firm yet well–molded contours of his mouth hinted at a sensual nature held steadfastly in check.

"Well, Braesford," her stepbrother said with the rasp of annoyance in his voice.

"Graydon," the master of the manse said over his shoulder in acknowledgment. "I bid you welcome to Braesford Hall. And would do so with more ceremony if not so impatient to greet my bride."

The words were pleasant enough, but carried an unmistakable note of irony. Did Braesford refer, most daringly, to his appreciation for her as a woman? Did he mean he was otherwise barely pleased to make her acquaintance, or was it something more between the two men?

This knight and her stepbrother had known each other during the Lancastrian invasion of the previous summer that had ended at Bosworth Field. Braesford had earned his spurs there, becoming Sir Randall Braesford. It was he who had found the golden circlet lost by the usurper, Richard III, and handed it to Lord Stanley so Henry Tudor might be crowned on the battlefield. Graydon, by contrast, had come away from Bosworth with nothing except the new king's displeasure ringing in his ears for his delay in bringing up his men. Braesford no doubt knew that her stepbrother had waited until he was sure where victory would fall before lending support to Henry's cause.

Graydon, in keeping with his dead father before him, preferred always to be on the winning side. Right was of little importance.

"A brave man, you are, to lay hands on my sister. I'd think you'd want her shriven first."

Isabel stiffened at the suggestion. Her future husband did not spare her stepbrother so much as a glance. "Why would I do that? " he asked.

"The curse, Braesford. The curse of the Three Graces of Graydon."

"I have no fear of curses." Rand Braesford's eyes lighted with silvery amusement as he smiled into hers. "It will be done with, betimes, when we are duly wed and bedded."

"So that's the way of it, is it?" Graydon gave a coarse laugh. "Tonight, I make no doubt, as soon as you have the contract in hand."

"The sooner, the better," Braesford agreed with deliberation. Setting Isabel on her feet, he placed her hand upon his arm and turned to lead her into the manse.

It was a moment before she could force her limbs to move. She walked with her head high and features impassive, leaving behind the winks and quiet guffaws of the Graydon and Braesford men–at–arms with the disdain they merited. Inside, her mind was in shivering chaos. She had thought to have more time, had expected a few days of rest before she need submit to a husband. In a week, or possibly two, reprieve could easily appear. It was years since any man had dared brave the curse of the Three Graces, so long that she had come to depend on its protection. Why should Braesford be the one to defeat it?

He meant to prove it false by a swift home strike. It was possible he would succeed.

Turning to look back, Isabel instinctively sought the familiar face of her serving woman, Gwynne. One of her stepbrother's men–at–arms had helped her from her mule and she was now directing the unloading of their baggage. That Gwynne had heard the exchange along with everyone else seemed clear from the concern in her wise old eyes that followed her and her future husband. An instant of communication passed between them, not an unusual thing as the woman had been her mother's body servant and had helped bring her and her sisters into the world. Bolstered by Gwynne's silent support, Isabel faced forward again.

The curse was a fabrication if Braesford but knew it, a thin defense created from superstition, coincidence and daring. It had been Isabel's inspiration, begun in hope of some small protection for her two younger sisters that she had helped rear after their mother died. To guard them in all ways had been her most fierce purpose since the three of them had been left with a brutish, uncaring stepfather. She had feared Cate and Marguerite, so lovely and tenderly nubile, would be bedded immediately at fourteen, the age of legal marriage following betrothals made in their cradles. By fate and God's mercy, the three of them had, between them, escaped from ten or twelve such marital arrangements without being joined in formal wedlock or losing their maidenheads. Disease, accident and the fortunes of internecine warfare had taken the lives of their prospective grooms one by one. A malignant fate surely had them in its keeping—or so Isabel had suggested to all who would listen.

Mere whispers of it had served well enough for three or four years.

Then Leon, King Henry's handsome Master of Revels, who had traveled with him from France the year before, had taken up the tale out of mischief not unmixed with kindness. Well, and for the challenge of seeing how many credulous English nobles he could persuade to believe it. Dear Gwynne had helped it along among the serving wenches and menservants at Westminster Palace. The supposed curse had become akin to holy writ, a universally believed truth that death or disaster must overcome any man who attempted a loveless union with any one of the Three Graces of Graydon—as Leon had styled them in token of the classical Roman fervor sweeping the court just now.

It had been a most convenient tale, regardless of the notoriety attached to it. As the eldest of the Graces, Isabel had been grateful for its protection. She had enjoyed the freedom it allowed, the endless days of peace with no one to order her except a stepbrother who was seldom at home. To be stripped of it through such an obvious misalliance as the one before her would be near unbearable. Yet how was she to prevent it?

The arm beneath the slashed sleeve of her future husband was as hard as the stone of his keep walls. Her fingers trembled a little on the dark wool that covered it, and she gripped tighter in the effort to still them. Did this man have none of the superstitious fear that ran rampant through those who prayed most mightily before every altar in the kingdom? Or was it only that he, like Henry VII, had known the Master of Revels in France?

Braesford glanced down at her with the lift of an inquiring brow. "You are cold, Lady Isabel?"

"Merely weary," she said through stiff lips, "though the wind was somewhat chill for summer, especially during the last few leagues."

"I apologize, but you will grow used to our rough weather in time," he replied with grave courtesy.


"You think, mayhap, to escape it." He led her into the tower, keeping his back to the curving wall as they mounted the narrow, winding treads so she might retain the support of his arm.

"I would not say that, but neither do I look forward to a long life spent at Braesford."

"I trust you may change your mind before the night is done."

She gave him a swift upward glance, searching the dark implacability of his eyes. He really meant to bed her before the evening was over. It was his right under canon law that recognized an official betrothal to be as binding as vows before a priest. Her heart stumbled in her chest before continuing with a more frantic beat. There must be some escape, though she could not think what it might be.

The staircase emerged in the great hall, a cavernous room with dark stone walls hung with banners and studded by stag horns. A dais lay at one end with musicians' gallery above it, and trestle tables were spaced in a double row down its length. The mellow fragrance of fresh rushes mixed with lavender and cedar hung in the air from the newly laid carpet of them that softened the stone floor. Overlaying these was the wafting scent of wood smoke from the fire that burned low on the hearth of the huge fireplace against one wall, taking the dampness from the air. As they entered, menservants were already laying linen cloths for the company.

"You will wish to retire to your chamber before the feasting begins," Braesford said as he surveyed the progress in the hall through narrowed eyes, then glanced back at the male company crowding in behind them. "I'll see you to it."

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By His Majesty's Grace 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 11 reviews.
JRLTN More than 1 year ago
I've been a Jennifer Blake fan for years. I read all of her Masters at Arms series even though I don't particulary care for that setting or time period. I love historical romance but prefer English royal court intrigues and Scottish clan skirmishes. I was delighted when I discovered this release is set in the midst of Henry VII's reign. As always, Ms. Blake weaves a wonderful tale but this book puts life as well as love on the line. I've got 50 pages to go and I still don't know who's pulling the strings on this one! A great read - I've already got the second installment on my nightstand ready to go!
LASR_Reviews More than 1 year ago
In fifteenth century England, Isabel Milton's patience and God-given wits had been her only weapons to keep her two younger sisters and herself safe after the death of their father. Her fabrication of The Curse of the Three Graces of Graydon had served them well for a long time, especially after Leon, the court entertainer, had romanticized it in song. However, as a ward of the king, Isabel's curse seems to have finally failed. By decree of the king, she is wed to Sir Randall Braesford, a longtime friend and defender of the king. Even though Randall (Rand) is the illegitimate son of the deceased and disgraced Braesford, the king gives all Braesford's holdings to Rand as a reward for his service as a fierce warrior and a friend. The legitimate son of Braesford William McConnell feels these holdings are rightfully his even though his father was a traitor to the king and stripped of his holdings. Rand is beset on all sides. Not only must he deal with the treachery of the king's advisors, he must deal with his vindictive half-brother and with Isabel's devious step-brother the Earl of Graydon and his less-than-honorable friend Henley who wants Isabel and her wealth for himself. In spite of all his good deeds and his loyalty to the king, Rand ends up in prison. He has no illusions about how things will most likely end, but it is doubly hard since he has reveled in the passion he aroused in the lovely Isabel. With his expert foreplay and gentleness, her defenses slipped away and her uninhibited and oh-so-eager desire to share love with him had transported both of them to ecstasy again and again until he was ordered from his bed. Taken to the Tower by none other than his half-brother and Isabel's step-brother, Rand is almost fatalistic in his submission to the will of God and the king, but Isabel feels a deadly fury about the injustice and is even more furious about those who have pushed the king into taking such action. Something that is hers has been taken and she wants it back. Using her aforementioned wits and every connection she has with those who have the king's ear, Isabel, with the help of Rand's squire David, sets about to outsmart and outmaneuver those who would have Rand hanged and destroy her chance at a life of happiness. While her husband rages that she is just like the lady spider he watches in his prison cell that weaves her webs in obedience to her own caprice in defiance of her mate, Isobel, free to make her own decisions for the first time in her life, sets out on a mission full of intrigue and secrets that makes for adrenaline-pumping reading. She is a heroine after my own heart-one smart lady! By His Majesty's Grace is brimming full of mind-shattering love scenes, clandestine chicanery, court intrigues, and undercurrents of women's ways and means of swaying the outcome of events that men set in motion in their never-ending struggle for power. Jennifer Blake's masterful character development, her ability to weave history into the characters' lives and her fantastic plotting and love scenes make By His Majesty's Grace memorable-a tale sizzling with strong emotions. The outcome Ms. Blake brings about is "tinglingly" good. Originally posted at The Long and Short of It Romance Reviews
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This series is great! I don't usually read Jennifer Blake, but I will start now! This series was very well written with enough facts mixed in to make it really interesting for any history buffs. Great job....
epicrat More than 1 year ago
Those who court any of the 3 Grace sisters also court Death, so goes the rumored family curse. Lady Isabel thought herself safe from unwanted suitors until King Henry VII gives her away to Earl Rand Braesford as a reward for his loyalty. Blessings seem to be raining upon Rand it seems - the king's high favor, a well-dowried marriage, and a most beautiful wife. As the couple start to warm up to each other, they are torn apart again as Rand gets arrested for murder and thrown into the Tower. Will Isabel and Rand's love manage to conquer the curse - or will Death win this round? By His Majesty's Grace spent more time on historical than romance, or so it seemed to me, like a historical fiction with sexy times sprinkled throughout - instead of the other way around. I had glimpsed at the connection between Isabel and Rand when they first meet each other, but lost sight of their passion and personality as the story became immersed in court intrigue. I am used to reading Regency romance, so I was curious to see how things heated up during the Tudor era. A little awkward at times when it came to passion (a few creative "strutted" descriptions that I had to pause and wonder about). I did find it rather cute to learn how the color of clothing can be used to indicate one's affection.
kopsahl More than 1 year ago
Isabel Milton has met her match in Sir Randall Braesford. The curse of The Three Graces of Graydon is not going to save her this time. Even though the previous five attempts on marrying her off has failed with disease, accident or warfare, Braesford fears nothing. On the day of their nuptials, unfortunately, Braesford's half-brother William McConnell shows up to arrest him on the charge of murder of Juliette d'Amboise's, Henry VII's mistress, baby girl. Braesford knows that the charges are false and most likely a set-up on behalf of his half-brother who is jealous of him and upset that Henry VIII awarded his lands to Braesford. After returning to London, Henry VIII still insists that the marriage happen. Isabel has no choice and is wedded and bedded before she knows it. At first she is opposed to all of it but as time goes on she finds that she does love this big brute. Now she needs to clear his name for her sake and his head because now the charges have changed to not only the death of the child but also the deather of Juliette. Isabel's main suspects are her step-brother, Earl of Graydon, and Braesford's half-brother, William McConnell. But to prove it she will have to be brave and try to get in the good graces of Margaret Beaufort, King Henry VII's mother. Blake does a wonderful job with making us feel like we are right there in the action but at times it was too much. I found myself skimming over a lot of the descriptions trying to get the heart of the story. All in all a good romance read but not one that I would say is a must read.
harstan More than 1 year ago
In 1486 England King Henry VII orders heiress Lady Isabel Milton to marry farmer Rand Braesford. Isabel is taken aback on two fronts. First four suitors have died while courting her so many believe she is a curse so why the royal decree; second she finds it difficult to accept the monarch would choose someone outside of his inner aristocratic circle. She soon realizes her mistake re her fiancé as he is a veteran soldier loyal to the king and given Braesford and her as his reward. Isabel feels rather good about her marital status when Braesford is arrested on a murder charge. However, she quickly reconsiders her position of once a warrior always a warrior as she looks back at his kindness towards everyone. Isabel investigates the homicide in order to liberate her betrothed from the Tower and rid herself of the curse by marrying her intended. The oldest sister of the cursed Three Graces of Graydon, Isabel is a fascinating protagonist who changes her mind about her intended as he may be the one to overcome her "affliction" with the cure of love. The story line is action-packed yet makes the early Tudor era come alive. Although the two lead characters are too perfect (Candide would have said they belong in Eldorado as the "best of all possible worlds"), fans will enjoy their duet as the heroine believes Rand is innocent of the crime and risks her life to prove it when she could have let him be executed. Harriet Klausner
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