DINNER WITH JAWS

'Tis another day, another DINNER WITH JAWS.

A week without out food has left me famished, weak and ready to dive into the tank. Mayhap, we ought to dine more than once a week?

He he he. Do you hear the maniacal laughter grating over your skin? Aye, you do. I can smell the fear. There's blood in the water.

My victim has arrived ... The lovely Catherine Gayle has volunteered to be my next victim. She pens Regency tales set in jolly 'ol England. Ready for a BITE?

WALLFLOWER
Listen carefully to the whispers in the walls ...

“Devonport,” said the Earl of Glastonbury from across the drawing room of deLancie House. He dragged his fingers along the wiry grey strands of his rather more-long-than-fashionable beard and took his time about continuing, despite Noah’s insistence that he was running far later than he ever desired to be. “I intend to marry your mother.”

Noah deLancie, ninth Marquess of Devonport, regarded the man who had been courting his widowed mother for the better part of a year, and attempted not to show his distress. “Is that so?” he asked, adopting a casual tone. Or attempting to. Perhaps not quite succeeding. He would have to redouble his efforts.

It wasn’t that Glastonbury was wrong for Mother or that the earl would treat her poorly. Far from it, actually.

The older man had revived in the marchioness something that had been missing since before Father’s death more than five years prior. She was enjoying herself, enjoying life again. Her eyes fairly shone in Glastonbury’s presence—something Noah couldn’t say about anyone else in his mother’s life.

He had to be happy for her, on that account.

“Yes, quite so, my good man,” Glastonbury continued. “She has already agreed to it. Indeed, we intend to make the announcement at the Scantlebury ball this evening.”

“Tonight?” Noah half-squeaked. He might have fully squeaked—he couldn’t be certain. Of one thing he was certain, however: he had never before squeaked in his life as a grown man, half or otherwise. He doubted such an occurrence had taken place since he was a green lad and first gaining his adult voice.

Good God. That very night? No wonder Mother had insisted Noah receive the earl, despite the late hour of his visit, which would undoubtedly make for Noah’s (exceedingly) tardy arrival at the very ball in question.

This was highly problematic.

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Let the Blood Bath Commence ...

“Devonport,” said the Earl of Glastonbury from across the drawing room of deLancie House. He dragged his fingers along the wiry grey strands of his rather more- unfashionable long-than-fashionable beard and took his time about continuing, (Continue what, talking, or stroking his beard) despite Noah’s insistence that he was running far later than he ever desired to be. (Running late for what?) “I intend to marry your mother.”

Noah deLancie, ninth Marquess of Devonport, regarded the man who had been courting his widowed mother for the better part of a year, and attempted not to show his distress. “Is that so?” he asked, adopting a casual tone. Or, attempting to. Perhaps not quite succeeding. He would have to redouble his efforts. (How is he not succeeding? Don’t tell me, show me)

It wasn’t that Glastonbury was wrong for Mother or that the earl would treat her poorly. Far from it actually. The older man had revived in the marchioness something that had been missing since before Father’s death more than five years prior . She was enjoying herself, enjoying life again. Her eyes fairly shone in Glastonbury’s presence—something Noah couldn’t say about anyone else in his mother’s life.

He had to be happy for her, on that account.

“Yes, quite so, my good man,” Glastonbury continued. “She has already agreed to it. Indeed, we intend to make the announcement at the Scantlebury ball this evening.”

“Tonight?” Noah half-squeaked. (Would it not be more manly for the fellow to bellow, or shout?) He might have fully squeaked—he couldn’t be certain. Of one thing he was certain, however: he had never before squeaked in his life as a grown man, half or otherwise. He doubted such an occurrence had taken place since he was a green lad and first gaining his adult voice. (Who cares? His squeaking does not move the story along)

Good God. That very night? No wonder Mother had insisted Noah receive the earl, despite the late hour of his visit, which would undoubtedly make for Noah’s (exceedingly - why is this in brackets?) tardy arrival at the very ball in question.

This was highly problematic.

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Technically, Catherine is a wonderful writer. She was the very first person to rip my work to shreds. Thank you, again, for kicking my MS's arse! It needed it, sorely!

Ok, onto your tale. There is nothing whatsoever wrong with the writing, never is. However, that being said, I'm not sure this is a very action packed opening. You want a hook, something to GRAB the readers attention and compel them to read on.

Thus far we only know, who I'm assuming is the hero - his mother is being courted and wed to another man, their all off to a ball, and the hero is not so happy about the whole matter. Since I've not read more, nor do I know where you are going with this tale, or even who the heroine is, its difficult to say what you ought to begin with.

WAIT, hold on, I had a brain fart. Even if this is how you want to begin, why not try something a little more action packed, like this:

“Devonport.”

Noah de Lancie, ninth Marquess of Davenport, rolled his shoulders and turned at the sound of his name.

“Glastonbury,” he drawled, sipping his port, curious about the visitor’s reasons for entering his salon. They were not friends, not even close. “I’ll have to find another butler.” He swirled amber liquid around a crystal glass.

“No need my good man,” replied the earl with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He dragged his fingers along the wiry grey strands of his rather long beard. “It was not his fault I had him incapacitated.” The chill in his voice matched wintry cool eyes.

Noah placed the glass on the mantle and tensed.

The older man advanced further into the room. Noah placed his hands on his hips, assured by the hard presence of his Dueling Pistol (or some other sort of firearm) tucked into his waist. The sudden quiet of his house was unusual.

“Why are you here, Glastonbury?”

A deep chuckle fell from the earl’s lips as he casually unbuttoned his waistcoat. Matching Derringers tucked neatly into a holster. “I thought I might come to call before the Scantlebury ball this evening. I was so anxious for us to speak before the big announcement.”

Noah took a step forward. “What announcement?”

The earl grinned, eyes dancing with mirth. “Why, that I intend to marry your mother of course.”

'Tis me two cents, lass! Everyone else, please do dive right in!