Original cover from 1997.
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Brighter Than the Sun had the
working title of THE COLOR OF THE SUN. I had wanted Charles
to say that Ellie's hair was the exact color of the sun at sunset.
In the end, however, I thought it would be more romantic for
him to say it was actually brighter than the sun.
A lot of people have asked me why Robert and Victoria (hero
and heroine of Everything And The Moon)
never made an appearance in SUN. The answer is that the plot
wouldn't allow it. If Victoria had been anywhere in the vicinity,
her sister Ellie would have had the option of moving in with
her, and thus would never have entered a marriage of convenience
with Charles. It would have been a very short book
The berry jam incident is entirely true. In 1988, my father
sustained second-degree burns over 25% of his body, when a pressure
cooker popped open (it was his fault; don't go trashing your
pressure cookers), and scalding hot plum jam exploded across
the room. He was hospitalized for 3 days, but I'm happy to report
he made a complete recovery. Thanks to my dad for providing
me with all the details of the accident. Incidentally, it required
a flotilla of housecleaners to clean the kitchen after the explosion.
Picture a patina of plum, on every surface, in every nook and
cranny.
top
Brighter Than the Sun is second
in a pair of books about the Lyndon sisters. The first is Everything And The Moon.
Brighter Than the Sun is on
the shelves in Russia! To see all of JQ's foreign edition
covers, click here. It's a fun online
tour, with travel snapshots along the way.
Also available in large
print and as an e-book.
top
Kent, England
October 1817
Eleanor Lyndon was minding her
own business when Charles Wycombe, Earl of Billington, fell
-quite literally- into her life.
She was walking along, whistling
a happy tune and keeping her mind busy by trying to estimate
the yearly profit of the East and West Sugar Company (of which
she owned several shares) when to her great surprise, a man
came crashing down from the sky and landed at, or to be more
precise - on her feet.
Further inspection revealed that
the man in question had fallen not from the sky but from a large
oak tree. Ellie, whose life had grown decidedly dull in the
last year or so, would have almost preferred that he had fallen
from the sky. It certainly would have been more exciting than
a mere tree.
She pulled her left foot out
from underneath his shoulder, hiked her skirts above her ankles
to save them from the dirt, and crouched down. "Sir?" she inquired.
"Are you all right?"
All he said was, "Ow."
"Oh, dear," she murmured. "You
haven't broken any bones, have you?"
He didn't say anything, just
let out a long breath. Ellie lurched back when the fumes hit
her. "Sweet heavens," she muttered, "You smell as if you've
imbibed a winery."
"Whishkey," he slurred in response.
"A gennleman drinks whishkey."
"Not this much whiskey," she
retorted. "Only a drunk drinks this much of anything."
He sat up - clearly a difficult
endeavor. "Exactly it," he said, waving his hand through the
air, then wincing when the action made him dizzy. "I'm a bit
drunk, I'm afraid."
Ellie decided to refrain from
further comment on that topic. "Are you certain you're not injured?"
He scratched his reddish-brown
hair and blinked. "My head pounds like the devil."
"I suspect that isn't only from
the fall."
He tried to get up, weaved, and
sat back down. "You're a sharp-tongued lass."
"Yes, I know," she said with
a wry smile. "It's why I'm a longtoothed spinster. Now then,
I can't very well see to your injuries if I don't know what
they are."
"Efficient, too," he murmured.
"An' why are you so certain I've got an injurty, er, injury?"
Ellie looked up into the tree.
The nearest branch which would have supported his weight was
a good fifteen feet up. "I don't see how you could have fallen
so far and not been injured."
He waved her comments aside and
tried to rise again. "Yes, well, we Wycombes are a hardy lot.
It'd take more than a- Sweet merciful Christ!" he howled.
Ellie tried her best not to sound
smug when she said, "An ache? A pain? A sprain, perhaps."
His brown eyes narrowed as he
clutched the trunk of the tree for support. "You are a hard,
cruel woman, Miss whatever your name is, to take such pleasure
in my agony."
Ellie coughed to cover up a giggle.
"Mr. Whosis, I must protest and point out that I tried to tend
to your injuries, but you insisted you didn't have any."
He scowled in a very boyish sort
of way and sat back down. "That's Lord Whosis," he muttered,
but his voice lacked true ire.
"Very well, my lord,"
she said, hoping that she hadn't irritated him overmuch. A peer
of the realm held much more power than a vicar's daughter, and
he could do much to make her life miserable if he so chose.
She gave up all hope of keeping her dress clean and sat down
in the dirt. "Which ankle pains you, my lord?"
He pointed to his right ankle
and then grimaced when she lifted it in her hands and inspected
for broken bones. After a moment's examination, she looked up
and said in her most polite voice, "I am going to have to remove
your boot, my lord. Would that be permissible?"
"I liked you better when you
were spitting fire," he muttered. Ellie liked herself better
that way, too. She smiled. "Have you a knife?"
He snorted. "If you think I'm
going to put a weapon in your hands..."
"Very well. I suppose I could
just pull the boot off." She cocked her head and pretended to
ponder the matter. "It might hurt just a bit when it gets stuck
on your hideously swollen ankle, but as you pointed out, you
come from hardy stock, and a man should be able to take a little
pain."
"What the devil are you taking
about?" Ellie started to pull at his boot. Not hard - she could
never be that cruel. Just enough to demonstrate that the boot
wasn't coming off his foot through ordinary means.
"Youch!" he yelled, and Ellie
wished she hadn't tried to teach him a lesson, because she ended
up with a face full of whiskey fumes.
"How much did you drink?" she
demanded, choking for air.
"Not nearly enough," he groaned.
"They haven't invented a drink strong enough-"
"Oh, come now," Ellie snapped.
"I'm not that bad."
To her surprise, he laughed.
"Sweetheart," he said in a tone that told her clear as day that
his usual occupation was rake, "you're the least bad thing that
has happened to me in months."
Ellie felt an odd sort of tingling
on the back of her neck at his clumsy compliment. Thankful that
her large bonnet hid her blush, she focused her attention back
on his ankle. "Have you changed your mind about my cutting your
boot?"
His answer was a knife in her
palm. "I always knew there was some reason I carried one of
these things around. I just never knew what it was until today."
The knife was a bit dull, and
soon Ellie was gritting her teeth as she sawed through his boot.
She looked up from her task for a moment. "Just let me know
if I-"
"Ow!"
"-poke you," she finished. "I'm
dreadfully sorry."
"It is astonishing," he said,
his voice liberally laced with irony, "how much sorrow I hear
in your voice."
Ellie caught another giggle in
her throat.
"Oh for the love of God," he
muttered. "Just laugh. Lord knows my life is laughable."
Ellie, whose own life had descended
into the miserable ever since her widower father had announced
his intention to marry the village of Bellfield's biggest busybody,
felt a pang of empathy. She didn't know what it was that had
prompted this remarkably handsome and well-heeled lord to go
out and get himself blindingly drunk, but whatever it was, she
felt for him. She stopped her work on his boot for a moment,
leveled her dark blue eyes at his face, and said, "My name is
Miss Eleanor Lyndon."
His eyes warmed. "Thank you for
sharing that pertinent piece of information, Miss Lyndon. It
isn't every day I allow a strange woman to saw off my boots."
"It isn't every day I nearly
get knocked to the ground by men falling from trees. Strange
men," she added for emphasis.
"Ah yes, I should introduce myself,
I s'pose." He cocked his head in a manner that reminded Ellie
that he was still more than a touch inebriated. "Charles Wycombe
at your service, Miss Lyndon. Earl of Billington." Then he muttered,
"Much as that's worth."
Ellie stared at him unblinkingly.
Billington? He was one of the county's most eligible bachelors.
So eligible that even she'd heard of him, and she wasn't on
anybody's list of eligible young ladies. Rumor had it that he
was even more wealthy than her sister Victoria's new husband,
the Earl of Macclesfield. Ellie couldn't personally vouch for
that, as she hadn't seen his personal finance ledgers, and she
made it a point never to speculate on financial matters without
hard evidence. But she did know that the Billington estate was
vast and ancient.
And it was a good twenty miles
away. "What are you doing here in Bellfield?" she blurted out.
"Just visiting my old childhood
haunts."
Ellie motioned toward the branches
above them with her head.
"Your favorite tree?"
"Used to climb it all the time
with Macclesfield."
Ellie finished her work on the
boot and put the knife down. "Robert?" she asked.
Charles looked suspicious and
a bit protective. "You're on a first name basis with him? He's
recently married."
"Yes. To my sister."
"The world grows smaller by the
second," he murmured. "I'm honored to make your acquaintance."
"You might rethink that sentiment
in a moment," Ellie remarked. With a gentle touch, she slid
his swollen foot from his boot.
Charles looked down at his mangled
boot with a pained expression. "I suppose my ankle is more important,"
he said wistfully. But he didn't sound as if he meant it.
Ellie expertly prodded his ankle.
"I don't think you've broken any bones, but you've a nasty sprain."
"You sound experienced at this
sort of thing."
"I come to the rescue of any
wounded animal," she said, arching her brows. "Dogs, cats, birds."
"Men," he finished for her.
"No," she said pertly. "You're
the first. But I cannot imagine that you'd be that much different
from a dog."
"Your fangs are showing, Miss
Lyndon."
"Are they?" she asked, reaching
up to touch her face. "I shall have to remember to retract them."
Charles burst out laughing. "You,
Miss Lyndon, are a treasure."
"That's what I keep telling everyone,"
she said with a shrug and a wicked smile, "but no one seems
to believe me. Now then, I fear you will require a cane for
several days. Possibly a week. Have you one at your disposal?"
"Right now?"
"I meant at home, but..." Ellie's
words trailed off as she looked around her. She spied a long
stick several yards away and scrambled to her feet.
"This should do," she said, picking
it up and handing it to him. "Do you need assistance getting
to your feet?" He grinned wolfishly as he swayed toward her.
"Any excuse to be in your arms, my dear Miss Lyndon."
Ellie knew she should be affronted,
but he was trying so hard to be charming, and devil take it,
he was succeeding. Handily. She stepped around to his back and
put her hands under his arms. "I warn you, I'm not very gentle."
"Now why doesn't that surprise
me?"
"On the count of three, then.
Are you ready?"
"That depends, I suppose,
on-"
"One, two... three!" With
a grunt and a heave, Ellie pulled the earl to his feet. It wasn't
an easy task. He outweighed her by a good four stone and was
drunk, to boot. His knees buckled, and Ellie only just managed
to keep herself from cursing as she planted her feet and braced
them. Then he started to topple over in the other direction,
and she had to scoot to his front to keep him from falling.
"Now that feels nice," he murmured
as his chest pressed up against hers.
"Lord Billington, I must insist
that you use your cane."
"On you?" He sounded intrigued
by the notion.
"To walk!" she fairly yelled.
He flinched at the noise, then
shook his head. "It's the oddest thing," he murmured, "but I
have the most appalling urge to kiss you."
For once, Ellie was speechless.
He chewed thoughtfully on his
lower lip. "I think I just might do it."
That was enough to spur her into
motion, and she jumped to the side, sending him sprawling on
the ground.
"Good God, woman!" he yelled.
"What did you do that for?"
"You were going to kiss me."
He rubbed his head, which had
hit the tree trunk. "The prospect was that terrifying?"
Ellie blinked. "Not terrifying,
exactly."
"Please don't say repulsive,"
he grumbled. "I really couldn't bear it."
She exhaled and held out a conciliatory
hand. "I'm terribly sorry for dropping you, my lord."
"Once again, your face is a picture
of sorrow."
Ellie fought the urge to stamp
her foot. "I meant it this time. Do you accept my apology?"
"It appears," he said,
raising his eyebrows," that you might do me bodily harm if I
do not."
"Ungracious prig," she muttered.
"I am trying to apologize."
"And I," he emphasized, "am trying
to accept."
He reached out and took her gloved
hand. She pulled him to his feet again, stepping out of his
reach once he had steadied himself on his makeshift cane.
"I will escort you to Bellfield,"
Ellie said. "It isn't terribly far. Will you be able to get
home from there?"
"I left my curricle at
the Bee and Thistle," he replied.
She cleared her throat. "I would
appreciate it if you would behave with gentility and discretion.
I may be a spinster, but I do have a reputation to protect."
He sent a sideways look in her
direction. "I'm considered something of a blackguard, I'm afraid."
"I know."
"Your reputation was probably
shredded the moment I landed on top of you."
"For heavens' sake, you fell
out of a tree!"
"Yes, of course, but you
did put your bare hands on my bare ankle."
"It was for the noblest
of reasons."
"Frankly, I thought kissing you
seemed rather noble, but you appeared to disagree."
Her mouth settled into a grim
line. "That is exactly the sort of flippant remark I am talking
about. I know that I shouldn't, but I do care what people think
of me, and I have to live here for the rest of my life."
"Do you?" he asked. "How sad."
"That isn't funny."
"It wasn't meant to be."
She sighed impatiently. "Contrive
to behave yourself when we reach Bellfield. Please?"
He leaned on his stick and swept
into a courtly bow. "I try never to disappoint a lady."
"Will you stop!" she said, grabbing
him by the elbow and pulling him upright. "You're going to knock
yourself over."
"Why, Miss Lyndon, I do believe
you are beginning to care for me."
Her answer was a marginally ladylike
grunt.With fisted hands, she began to march toward town. Charles
hobbled behind her, smiling all the way. She was walking much
more quickly than he, however, and the space between them grew
until he was forced to call out her name.
Ellie turned around.
Charles offered her what he hoped
was an appealing smile. "I cannot keep up with you, I'm afraid."
He held out his hands in a gesture of supplication and then
promptly lost his balance. Ellie rushed forward to straighten
him.
"You are a walking disaster,"
she muttered, keeping her hand on his elbow.
"A limping disaster," he corrected.
"And I cannot-" He lifted his free hand to his mouth to cover
an inebriated burp. "I cannot limp quickly."
She let out a long-suffering
sigh. "Here. You can lean on my shoulder. Together we should
be able to get you into town."
Charles grinned and slid his
arm over her shoulder. She was small, but she was a sturdy little
thing, so he decided to test the waters by leaning on her a
little more closely. She stiffened, then let out another loud
sigh.
Slowly they moved toward town.
Charles felt himself leaning on her more and more. Whether his
incompetence was due to his sprain or his drunkenness he didn't
know. She felt warm and strong and soft all at once next to
him, and he didn't much care how he had gotten himself into
this fix -- he just resolved to enjoy it while it lasted. Each
step pressed the side of her breast up against his ribs, and
he was finding that to be a most pleasant sensation indeed.
"It's a beautiful day, don't
you think?" he inquired, thinking he ought to make conversation.
"Yes," Ellie agreed, stumbling
slightly under the weight of him. "But it is growing late. Is
there no way you can move a little bit faster?"
"Even I," Charles said with an
expansive wave of his hand, "am not such a cad that I would
feign lameness merely to enjoy the attentions of a beautiful
lady."
"Will you stop waving your arm
about! We're losing our balance."
Charles wasn't sure why, and
maybe it was just because he was still decidedly un-sober, but
he liked the sound of the word "we" from her lips. There was
something about this Miss Lyndon that made him glad she was
on his side. Not that he thought she would make a vicious enemy,
just that she seemed loyal, levelheaded, and fair. And she had
a wicked sense of humor. Just the sort of person a man would
want standing beside him when the going got rough.
He turned his face toward hers.
"You smell nice," he said.
"What?" she screeched.
And she was fun to torture. Had
he remembered to add that to his list of attributes? It was
always good to surround oneself with people who could take a
bit of teasing. He schooled his face into an innocent mask.
"You smell nice," he said again.
"That is not the sort of thing
a gentleman says to a lady," she said primly.
"I'm drunk," he said with an
unrepentant shrug. "I don't know what I'm saying."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"I have a feeling you know exactly what you're saying."
"Why, Miss Lyndon, are you accusing
me of trying to seduce you?"
He didn't think it possible,
but she turned an even deeper shade of crimson. He wished he
could see the color of her hair under that monstrous bonnet,
but her eyebrows were blond, and they stood out comically against
her blush.
"Stop twisting my words."
"You twist words very nicely
yourself, Miss Lyndon." When she didn't say anything, he added,
"That was a compliment."
She trudged along the dirt road,
pulling him with her. "You baffle me, my lord."
Charles smiled, thinking that
it was great fun to baffle Miss Eleanor Lyndon. He fell silent
for a few minutes, and then, as they rounded a corner, asked,
"Are we almost there yet?"
"A little more than halfway,
I should think." Ellie squinted at the horizon, watching the
sun sink ever lower. "Oh, dear. It is growing late. Papa will
have my head."
"I swear on my father's grave-"
Charles was trying to sound serious, but he hiccupped.
Ellie turned toward him so quickly
that her nose bumped into his shoulder. "Whatever are you talking
about, my lord?"
"I was trying-hic-to swear to
you that I am not-hic-deliberately trying to slow you down."
The corners of her lips twitched.
"I don't know why I believe you," she said, "but I do."
"It might be because my
ankle looks like an overripe pear," he joked.
"No," she said thoughtfully,
"I think you're just a nicer person than you'd like people to
believe."
He scoffed. "I am far from-hic-nice."
"I'll wager you give your entire
staff extra wages at Christmas."
Much to his irritation, he blushed.
"A-ha!" she cried out triumphantly.
"You do!"
"It breeds loyalty," he mumbled.
"It gives them money to
buy presents for their families," she said softly.
He grunted and turned his head
away from her. "Lovely sunset, don't you think, Miss Lyndon?"
"A bit clumsy as changes of subject
go," she said with a knowing grin, "but yes, it is quite."
"It's rather amazing," he continued,
"how many different colors make up the sunset. I see orange,
and pink, and peach. Oh, and a touch of saffron right over there."
He pointed off to the southwest. "And the truly remarkable thing
of it is that it'll all be different tomorrow."
"Are you an artist?" Ellie asked.
"No," he said. "I just
like the sunset."
"Bellfield is just around the
corner," she said.
"Is it?"
"You sound disappointed."
"Don't really want to go home,
I suppose," he replied. He sighed, thinking about what was waiting
for him there. A pile of stones that made up Wycombe Abbey.
A pile of stones that cost a bloody fortune to keep up. A fortune
that would slip through his fingers in less than a month thanks
to his meddling father.
One would think that George Wycombe's
hold on the pursestrings would have loosened with death, but
no, he still found a way to keep his hands firmly around his
son's neck from the grave. Charles swore under his breath as
he thought about how apt that image was. He certainly felt like
he was being strangled.
In precisely fifteen days, he
would turn thirty.In precisely fifteen days, every last unentailed
scrap of his inheritance would be snatched away from him. Unless-
Miss Lyndon coughed and rubbed
a piece of dust from her eye. Charles looked at her with renewed
interest. Unless - he thought slowly, not wanting his still
somewhat groggy brain to miss any important details - unless
sometime in these next twenty-four days, he managed to find
himself a wife.
Miss Lyndon steered him onto
Bellfield's High Street and pointed south. "The Bee and Thistle
is just over there. I don't see your curricle. Is it 'round
back?"
She had a nice voice, Charles
thought. She had a nice voice, and a nice brain, and a nice
wit, and although he still didn't know what color her hair was,
she had a nice set of eyebrows. And she felt damned nice with
his weight pressed up against her.
