Cover art by Mitxeren
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He has all he could ask for.
James Lewis, the Earl of Stratford, has precisely what he wants: a quiet existence on his family estate, a thriving horse trade that leaves him plenty of time to work on the final volume of his anonymously published opus, The Maiden Diaries, and a deeply committed albeit unconventional relationship with his stablemaster, Harold Granger. While the shy, awkward earl can barely manage a word in London society, with Harold, he can share anything. He wouldn’t change a thing. Harold Granger knows what he and James risk by loving one another. James’s reputation as an eccentric recluse would be twisted into something far worse if anyone learned he was carrying on an affair with a servant. Worse still if anyone learned that Harold puts the earl on his knees and delivers the welts and bruises James begs for. But when it’s just the two of them, everything feels so perfectly right, and Harold is determined to remain a safe harbour to James no matter what. But a storm is fast approaching. Their determination to protect each other is put to the test when James’s volatile younger brother, Frederick, returns from a decade abroad, nursing grudges from the past. When Frederick stumbles upon James’s secrets, he sees a means to rid himself of his brother and reclaim his own place in society. His scheming forces James and Harold from their idyllic life and into a web of treachery that can only be untangled by the Bucknall Club circle–if the two can let themselves trust these newfound friendships the way they trust each other. A Scandal for Stratford is the sixth book in The Lords of Bucknall Club series, where the Regency meets m/m romance. The Lords of Bucknall Club books can be read as standalones but are best enjoyed in order. |
"I have really enjoyed these books and love the alternate regency world the authors have created where same-sex relationships are accepted. This is a fun group of men and an entertaining series and definitely worth checking out, particularly for historical fans."
- Joyfully Jay
- Joyfully Jay
Buy A Scandal for Stratford here: books2read.com/stratford
An excerpt from A Scandal for Stratford:
The youth was delicate and elegant, his features recalling such symmetry as might have been carved by Michelangelo out of dazzling white marble. He was lithe and narrow, his lovely face framed by dark curls, and there was an innocence to his countenance that, in Slyfeel’s opinion, simply begged to be sullied.
“Am I correct in supposing you are Lord Grantham’s oldest?” he asked.
The youth hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes. My name is Junian Thwaite. And you are, sir?”
Slyfeel smiled, and leaned in, noting the way the boy shuddered at his closeness. “Why, did nobody warn you, my dear? I am Lord Slyfeel, the man who is going to have his cock inside your virginal arse before the night ends.”
-From The Maiden Diaries by Anonymous, Volume 1.
Harold Granger, the only son of a drunken farrier-turned-groom, heir to nothing at all, left the stables at Eavesmore a little after five o’clock. He stopped at his quarters to change clothes, then headed for the small cottage up the hill where James lived. James Lewis, Earl of Stratford, Harold’s employer and long-time friend. And, for the past few years, something much, much more.
The cottage, a little stone affair, sat in the shadow of Eavesmore Manor—what James called “the Gothic monstrosity.” Harold, whose father had served as head groom to the lord and lady of the manor, had always quite liked the house growing up. But he recognised that it held little charm for James. The home stood empty now, except for the servants. Had done for years, ever since James’s parents had died when James was sixteen, leaving the estate in the care of their eldest son. James chose to live in the former groundskeeper’s cottage, and he never set foot in the manor unless he had to.
As he’d expected, Harold found James in his study—a narrow room at the front of the cottage, scarcely larger than a closet. The bedroom across the hall was bigger, but not by much, and featured a lovely, vine-carved four-poster bed that James rarely slept in. The man preferred the ragged armchair in the parlour, or else he napped hunched forward across his desk and woke with ink stains on his cheeks. Harold had even once found him curled on the rug by the fireplace—no fire in the grate, no quilt over him—snoring softly with Harold’s cat drowsing beside him. Harold had woken him gently, lifted him under the knees and shoulders and carried him to the bedroom, scolding softly in his ear while James hooked his arms round Harold’s neck and snored against Harold’s chest.
Harold knew every detail of James’s study. The cracked whitewash of its walls, the shabby sofa with faded pink stripes, the mullioned windows that James himself cleaned so that he would always have a clear view of the rolling hills outside. There was a small wooden desk, unvarnished, and a scalloped back chair that creaked every time James shifted. An inkwell sat upon the desk, ink tracks all down its sides and around its base, and there was a little gold holder for the pheasant quill that had seen better days.
He loved to see his friend working there, hunched over and scribbling madly. Or else slouched in the chair with his legs straight out like a discarded string puppet, reading over what he’d written, the pages held close to his face because his eyes were starting to give him trouble. Or, as was the case just now, gazing out the small westward-facing window at the gentle green slopes and bright blue sky beyond, lost in thought.
Harold let his weight land on a floorboard he knew was creaky, to warn James he was there. He would have been quite content to stand in the doorway for some time, watching James watch the world, but it didn’t feel right to spy on his dearest friend in such a private moment.
James turned slowly toward the doorway and smiled when he saw Harold. He had the sweetest smile. He was neither beautiful nor handsome—some might have called him plain. But even without any extraordinary beauty to recommend him, he seemed to Harold unique in every regard. His thick locks appeared darkest grey rather than brown, and clung close to his head in unruly curls. Silver hairs were interspersed with the dark, though he was only thirty years of age. His eyes were a lovely light hazel, his brows as shapely as a woman’s. His nose was small and straight, a bit wider than average at the bottom. His lips were thin but well-defined, his mouth wonderfully mobile.
And then that smile. Sweet, soft, and wistful. A smile that stole Harold’s breath every time he saw it. He recalled how it felt to trace his thumb along James’s lips just as they began to curve upward. He wished he could cross the room right now, pull the man to his feet, and try it.
“Is it five already?” James stretched. His arms were long and thin, his middle compact, a bit soft, giving way to lean, muscular legs. A somewhat peculiar build that Harold adored. And his clothes—rumpled, out of fashion. A linen shirt and plain brown waistcoat, old buckskins with the knees worn thin. A neckcloth tucked round itself rather than properly tied. Quite simply, there was no other person in the world Harold would rather lay eyes upon in any given moment than James Lewis.
The youth was delicate and elegant, his features recalling such symmetry as might have been carved by Michelangelo out of dazzling white marble. He was lithe and narrow, his lovely face framed by dark curls, and there was an innocence to his countenance that, in Slyfeel’s opinion, simply begged to be sullied.
“Am I correct in supposing you are Lord Grantham’s oldest?” he asked.
The youth hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes. My name is Junian Thwaite. And you are, sir?”
Slyfeel smiled, and leaned in, noting the way the boy shuddered at his closeness. “Why, did nobody warn you, my dear? I am Lord Slyfeel, the man who is going to have his cock inside your virginal arse before the night ends.”
-From The Maiden Diaries by Anonymous, Volume 1.
Harold Granger, the only son of a drunken farrier-turned-groom, heir to nothing at all, left the stables at Eavesmore a little after five o’clock. He stopped at his quarters to change clothes, then headed for the small cottage up the hill where James lived. James Lewis, Earl of Stratford, Harold’s employer and long-time friend. And, for the past few years, something much, much more.
The cottage, a little stone affair, sat in the shadow of Eavesmore Manor—what James called “the Gothic monstrosity.” Harold, whose father had served as head groom to the lord and lady of the manor, had always quite liked the house growing up. But he recognised that it held little charm for James. The home stood empty now, except for the servants. Had done for years, ever since James’s parents had died when James was sixteen, leaving the estate in the care of their eldest son. James chose to live in the former groundskeeper’s cottage, and he never set foot in the manor unless he had to.
As he’d expected, Harold found James in his study—a narrow room at the front of the cottage, scarcely larger than a closet. The bedroom across the hall was bigger, but not by much, and featured a lovely, vine-carved four-poster bed that James rarely slept in. The man preferred the ragged armchair in the parlour, or else he napped hunched forward across his desk and woke with ink stains on his cheeks. Harold had even once found him curled on the rug by the fireplace—no fire in the grate, no quilt over him—snoring softly with Harold’s cat drowsing beside him. Harold had woken him gently, lifted him under the knees and shoulders and carried him to the bedroom, scolding softly in his ear while James hooked his arms round Harold’s neck and snored against Harold’s chest.
Harold knew every detail of James’s study. The cracked whitewash of its walls, the shabby sofa with faded pink stripes, the mullioned windows that James himself cleaned so that he would always have a clear view of the rolling hills outside. There was a small wooden desk, unvarnished, and a scalloped back chair that creaked every time James shifted. An inkwell sat upon the desk, ink tracks all down its sides and around its base, and there was a little gold holder for the pheasant quill that had seen better days.
He loved to see his friend working there, hunched over and scribbling madly. Or else slouched in the chair with his legs straight out like a discarded string puppet, reading over what he’d written, the pages held close to his face because his eyes were starting to give him trouble. Or, as was the case just now, gazing out the small westward-facing window at the gentle green slopes and bright blue sky beyond, lost in thought.
Harold let his weight land on a floorboard he knew was creaky, to warn James he was there. He would have been quite content to stand in the doorway for some time, watching James watch the world, but it didn’t feel right to spy on his dearest friend in such a private moment.
James turned slowly toward the doorway and smiled when he saw Harold. He had the sweetest smile. He was neither beautiful nor handsome—some might have called him plain. But even without any extraordinary beauty to recommend him, he seemed to Harold unique in every regard. His thick locks appeared darkest grey rather than brown, and clung close to his head in unruly curls. Silver hairs were interspersed with the dark, though he was only thirty years of age. His eyes were a lovely light hazel, his brows as shapely as a woman’s. His nose was small and straight, a bit wider than average at the bottom. His lips were thin but well-defined, his mouth wonderfully mobile.
And then that smile. Sweet, soft, and wistful. A smile that stole Harold’s breath every time he saw it. He recalled how it felt to trace his thumb along James’s lips just as they began to curve upward. He wished he could cross the room right now, pull the man to his feet, and try it.
“Is it five already?” James stretched. His arms were long and thin, his middle compact, a bit soft, giving way to lean, muscular legs. A somewhat peculiar build that Harold adored. And his clothes—rumpled, out of fashion. A linen shirt and plain brown waistcoat, old buckskins with the knees worn thin. A neckcloth tucked round itself rather than properly tied. Quite simply, there was no other person in the world Harold would rather lay eyes upon in any given moment than James Lewis.