If the mysterious Dark Lady of Shakespeare’s sonnets were given a voice, what secrets would she tell? In A Rose by Any Other Name, astrologer and musician Ruse Rushe reveals the truth behind young Will Shakespeare’s most romantic and ruthless poems—and how their affair revealed forbidden desires of her own.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt. This historical fantasy full of dark magic and tempestuous romance is out now and not to be missed!
My name has only been whispered, heretofore…
England, 1591. Rose Rushe’s passion for life runs deep—she loves mead and music, meddles with astrology, and laughs at her mother’s warnings to guard her reputation. When Rose’s father dies and a noble accuses her and her alluring friend Cecely of witchcraft, they flee to the household of respected alchemists in London. But as their bond deepens, their sanctuary begins to feel more like a cage. To escape, they turn to the occult, secretly casting charms and selling astrological advice in the hopes of building a life together. This thriving underground business leads Rose to fair young noble Henry and playwright Will Shakespeare, and so begins a brief, tempestuous, and powerful romance—one filled with secret longings and deep betrayals.
In this world of dazzling masques and decadent feasts, where the stars decide futures, Rose will write her own fate instead.
EXCERPT
The virginal was of fine quality, more so than I would’ve expected in a brothel. Its legs were intricately carved, its poplar case royal red, overlaid with golden filigree. The inside case was painted with a mural, but the lanternlight was too flickering to see what it depicted. As I tried to think of the right song to play for this occasion, Hughe settled at my feet. Luce brought two candles, setting their holders near the instrument to light the keys. The light revealed the subject of the mural: a nude woman, golden-haired, walking out of the sea. Venus.
It was too perfect to be a coincidence.
I closed my eyes, fingering the lemon balm in my pocket. Regina Caeli, I thought desperately, inspire me. When I opened my eyes, I thought I saw the shadows in the corner of the room moving, but it was only the shadows of customers glancing up from their tables.
I made myself smile at them. Then I heard it, a melody I had never heard before surfacing from deep within me. Dark and seductive, teasing, coquettish. The tune echoed between my ears, leaping and springing with a seductive power. Whether it was my own inspiration or the queen of heaven’s influence, I revelled in it.
I began to play the virginal with my right hand, fingers tickling the keys, improvising a bold harmony with my left. The tune caught my imagination, making me forget everything but the notes and the soft shadows of men’s faces as they watched. Remembering the lyrics I had written for the ill-fated feast, I altered the words to suit this metre:
No cupid, Adonis, no lad nor lady,
Infects my spirit as melody;
This poplar with her saucy jacks
Kisses the Venus inside me—
A series of gasps whispered through the hall. I smiled, proud of myself for scandalizing the audience at a brothel.
When I finished, the room was silent. Both men and courtesans stared. Luce blinked repeatedly, as if she were trying to rouse herself from a stupor. “Who is she?” a man at a front table breathed. “Does she work upstairs too?”
I laughed inwardly, feeling powerful, defiant. My performances had always impressed but never this much. I knew I had performed well enough to convince Luce to arrange an audition for me, and I was certain that if she succeeded, the Master of Revels would hire me.
Applause as I left the dais. I approached Luce and Lisabetta to make the arrangements for my audition. “Was that sufficient?”
Luce filled my goblet. “You know it was.”
“I can play court music too, but I didn’t want to bore your customers.”
“I can see your training, sweet. My grandmother came to England with Catherine of Aragon. As a child, I danced at the court of Henry VIII.”
“You are nothing like your mother,” Lisabetta said.
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it. “When do you think you will have the opportunity to see the Master of Revels?”
“It’s not him I’ll see, but a friend of mine who is still in his favour. I’ll go tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
She smiled. We were discussing the details—the days of the week, the name I would use onstage, Ravenna Notte, I decided, a defiant reference to the nightbird—when I heard a man’s voice behind me.
“Mistress Rushe.”
Luce shook her head. “An admirer already.”
I turned, saw the catlike eyes. The shoulder-length brown hair, the black velvet doublet and white lace collar, the golden flash of earring.
Will Shakespeare.
