Lady Penelope Bridgeman has been working to solve problems
of the mind, since her husband's tragic death. She has
committed herself to work mainly with soldiers who have
fought in Waterloo and other battles and who now suffer
mental anguish,
phobias, and fear. Her expertise, brings the family of
the Marquess of Bromwich asking for her help. She is
familiar with the Marquess, for she was married to his
cousin. She sets out to the mental home he has been put
into and she begins to help him with his problems. The
director of the Mad house is not happy with her
interference and will go to great lengths to get rid of her.
Gabriel Devereaux, Marquess of Bromwich is surprised to see
Penelope visiting him at the Mad house, the woman he fell
in love with before the war. He has loved her from the
first time he set eyes on her, when she was dancing with
her husband, (Gabriel's cousin) at a ball. But he was
happy for his cousin and could do nothing about the love he
felt for her. Penelope has her hands full when Gabriel
agrees for her to help him, but she's very surprised and
scared after seeing Gabriel's unexpected crazy episodes.
With all her experience she has never seen anyone have
bouts of anger and aggression as Gabriel has.
Gabriel knows that he is not fit for any women, especially
Penelope, the woman of his dreams, so he tries to turn her
away, but Penelope is bent on making him well
again. They feel drawn together as time goes by, but
the director of the Mad house is giving her a lot of
trouble, he wants her out of the home and on her way, so he
can administer his belief's and medicines to Gabriel. For
a woman back in that era to have more knowledge then any
man was not appreciated at all. Penelope will stop at
nothing to help Gabriel in any way she can, even if it
means prison for her.
SWEET MADNESS is an excellent read. I love Heather Snow's
books! SWEET MADNESS is a total package, wonderful, well
written characters, and an excellent romantic story.
Ever since her husband's sudden and tragic death, Lady
Penelope Bridgeman has committed herself to studying the
maladies of the mind, particularly the trauma of soldiers
of the Napoleonic Wars. It is this expertise that brings
the Marquess of Bromwich's family to her door.
Gabriel Devereaux's unexpected and unpredictable episodes
are unlike any Penelope has studied. The once proud soldier
has been left shaken and withdrawn, but Penelope manages to
build a fragile trust between them. Strangely, Gabriel
seems completely lucid when not in the grips of his mania,
and during the calm bouts between, she is surprised by how
much she is drawn to him.
Despite his own growing feelings, Gabriel knows that he is
fit for no one and is determined to keep Penelope away from
his descent into madness. But even though she knows
firsthand the folly of loving a broken man, Penelope cannot
stop herself from trying to save him, no matter the cost.
Excerpt
An excerpt from Chapter Thirteen, shortly after Gabriel
has agreed to try one of Penelope's forms of therapy...
"I know that I said I was willing to do anything you
suggested, but how exactly is this supposed to help?"
Gabriel asked, eyeing Penelope skeptically.
It was mid–afternoon the following day and the two
of them were alone in Somerton Park's long gallery. The
massive high–ceilinged room was dotted with
comfortable–looking tufted benches, chaise lounges, a
walnut pianoforte and the occasional overstuffed chair. A
fire crackled in the massive hearth, centered along the
interior wall. The other side of the room boasted tall
windows separated by scarcely a yard between them, and every
available patch of wall space was covered with colorful
portraits and landscapes in gilt frames of varying shapes
and sizes.
But the only canvas that interested him at the moment was
the blank one on the easel in front of him.
Penelope grinned at him as she removed the lid from a
cylindrical earthenware container about the size of a large
pumpkin.
"When I first started visiting the soldiers at the
hospital, I really had no idea how to reach them." Dipping
her hand into the pot, she withdrew a walnut–sized
pouch and shook droplets of water from it until it stopped
dripping. "Oftentimes we would just talk about our lives and
interests. When they discovered I was an artist," she said,
taking a pin and piercing the pouch, "they asked to see some
of my work."
Red paint oozed out of the tiny hole she'd made, and the
crisp tang of linseed oil reached his nose. Pen squeezed a
dollop onto a wooden palette and then plugged the hole with
a tack before placing the bladder of paint back into her
container.
"After some great discussions of art, the men wanted a
demonstration, so I did some painting for them." She
withdrew another bladder and pricked it, this time eliciting
a bright green. "Then I encouraged them to try, and over a
period of weeks, I discovered some interesting things."
Green was replaced by yellow. "I already knew, you see,
that the very act of painting made me feel better. I'd been
pouring out my emotions onto the canvas since I'd picked up
my first paintbrush. Thankfully"—she flashed him an
eye–rolling grin—"the melodramatic canvases of
my youth have long since been destroyed."
Blue paint now joined the others on the wood. "Anyway, as
the men created their own works, I started noticing
symbolism in some. Others were able to externalize their
emotions through their art, and once they were on the
canvas, separate themselves from the feelings enough to talk
about them." Purple joined the mix. "And for some, painting
simply improved their moods enough to make it through their
day."
He crossed his arms and lowered his chin. "You expect me
to . . . paint my feelings?"
She smiled and added another color to the palette. "I
have a theory that the mere act of creating puts us in a
place of positive emotion. Sometimes we can gain insight
simply by observing what we've created. And I believe that
sometimes the artistic process can bring feelings to the
forefront for us to see, even when it is not our intention.
Once we can view those feelings objectively, we are free to
abolish them as we see fit." One last dollop, white this
time, and she placed the lid back on her pot.
Setting the palette on the table near the easel, she
reached for brushes, fanning the sable hairs with her
fingers. "Liliana wants me to prepare a paper on my
findings, though if I did, I expect it would be laughed out
of the Royal Society before they even read the title.
Imagine me, trying to pretend that I'm brilliant."
He looked at her, gathering art supplies and speaking
passionately about the ways she'd discovered to relieve
others' suffering—men like him. Didn't she see that
she was brilliant? But even more, she was compassionate and
kind. All of the intelligence in the world would be
fruitless without those higher qualities that Penelope had
in abundance.
But that seemed too deep for the moment, so he just
repeated dryly, "You expect me to paint my feelings."
She pursed her lips, but the corners of her mouth tipped
up in a smile despite her efforts to look stern. "It might
do you good to try, you know."
He snorted, uncrossing his arms and stepping closer to
the easel. "I haven't an artistic bone in my body."
Pen slipped a smock over her dress. "Everyone has a spark
of creativity within them," she protested.
"Not me. I am utterly unimaginative, I assure you."
She raised a blond brow as she tied her strings. "I'm
certain we could find something to inspire you."
Gabriel's breath caught in his throat. Pen had already
turned her attention to readying her brushes and wasn't
looking at him at all. He knew she hadn't meant her words to
imply anything, but as he watched her graceful movements, he
thought, You, Pen. You could inspire me to do whatever you
wanted. He'd paint if she desired it. He'd burst into song.
Hell, he'd build her a bloody temple with his bare hands if
she wished it, chiseling every stone himself. With a spoon.
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