Spotlight & Giveaway: THAT SUMMER IN BERLIN by Lecia Cornwall

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Lecia Cornwall to HJ!

Hi Lecia and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, THAT SUMMER IN BERLIN!

Please summarize the book for the readers here:

In THAT SUMMER IN BERLIN, Viviane Alden is a young Englishwoman who gets an unexpected opportunity to visit Germany for the Berlin Olympics in the summer of 1936. The Germans are putting on a magnificent show, bigger and better than any previous games. Anti-Semitism and violence have been suspended for the duration of the games, and the Germans are kind, welcoming, and charming hosts. But there’s a lot going on behind the scenes.

While Jesse Owens is winning gold medals at the brand-new Olympic stadium, Hitler is issuing orders that Germany must be ready for war within four years. German factories are secretly making weapons, and concentration camps are being built right outside the city. Some people have their suspicions about what’s happening, but they need proof. It may not too late to stop another war, but soon the Nazis will be too strong to resist.

Working with a British reporter, Viviane is asked to use her skills as a photographer to look past the pageantry of the games and provide evidence of what’s really going on in Germany. She’s perfect for the assignment, she’s an excellent photographer, she’s smart, and bold, and she’s the guest of a high-ranking German family—and who would suspect a pretty tourist is actually on a spy mission? If she succeeds, her pictures could expose Hitler’s true intentions and possibly stop another war. But the Nazis will go to any lengths to protect their secrets, and if she’s caught, or even suspected, the consequences will be deadly.
 
 

Please share your favorite line(s) or quote from this book:

“Fine camera,” he said, noticing it. “Do you know how to use it?”
She pierced him with a rapier-sharp glare. “Yes.”
He held up a hand. “No offense, Miss Alden, but I’ve never met a debutante who was
content behind the camera. They’re usually too busy posing in front of the lens.”
“Met a lot of debs, have you?” She raised the camera to her eye and pointed it at him. “Give us a smile, duckie,” she teased. He continued to regard her soberly, and she took the picture anyway, then turned away, her spine stiff. (page 16)

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• Viviane has a limp from a childhood broken leg. Her father teaches her to swim, so she’ll be strong and graceful in the water if not on land. He tells her the family legend that the very pond they swim in is the true home of the Lady of the Lake and the sword Excalibur from the King Arthur legends. She believes she must live up to that legacy, right wrongs, and protect her father’s heroic reputation.
• Tom Graham has never learned to swim—he rowed at university, but he stays on dry land, a lack that may challenge him someday.
• Viviane’s gregarious stepsisters are loosely based on the real-life Mitford sisters, two of whom adored the Nazis.
• Tom’s character was inspired by a Canadian journalist, Matthew Halton, who reported from Germany in the 1930s, and was one of the most outspoken critics of the Nazi Regime.
• Felix von Schroeder, a brilliant chemist, is part of the family Viviane is visiting, and he was such fun to write! He’s charming, witty, never serious for a moment, and he plagues his mother with his silliness. Still, Felix finds his own unique way of finding success in the Third Reich.

What first attracts your Hero to the Heroine and vice versa?

At first, it appears that Viviane and Tom are complete opposites with nothing in common. He sees Viviane as just another silly, entitled debutante, and she sees Tom as a low-class social climber, using his aristocratic connections to further his career. As they come to know each other better, they realize that they have more in common than they thought. He’s an interesting man, self-made, with a chip on his shoulder, and an excellent reporter. He treats her as an equal, something Viviane doesn’t get from the men of her class, or anyone, really. Viviane is used to being able to read people, to capture their innermost self—an essential skill for a good photographer—but she finds Tom enigmatic. Tom comes to realize that there’s more to Viviane than he thought, and when he discovers her most carefully guarded secret, he realizes it would be a terrible waste if she disappeared into a loveless society marriage just for money and a title. In Germany, he is her contact, the only person Viviane can trust. First, they are uneasy colleagues on a dangerous mission, then friends, and then much more.
 

Did any scene have you blushing, crying or laughing while writing it? And Why?

There is a scene with Tom where the poor man must get into a lake on a friend’s estate and do his best to swim to a small island as part of a wedding tradition. It’s boys being boys, joking and teasing and drinking vintage whisky to toast the groom. But things take a serious turn, and the beginning of a new stage of life is the end of another, and behind the laughter, there’s betrayal and hurt.
 

Readers should read this book….

Sometimes unexpected opportunities can lead us to exactly where we were meant to go if we’re brave enough to accept the challenges. I hope readers will be inspired to be bold and brave in their own life, find their own path and make their dreams a reality. Or, when you’re in dangerous waters, as Dory says in ‘Finding Nemo’, just keep swimming!

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have in the works?

I have always believed there are three phases to writing a book. The first phase is the Magpie phase, where you are seeking inspiration for the next story you want to tell. Like the bird, you pick up anything shiny, turn it in your beak and see if it inspires you.

The next phase is the Wormhole phase, in which you begin serious research, and get led into a lot of unexpected and interesting places, all fascinating, but some only partly helpful in creating a strong factual foundation to build a story on.

Then there’s the ‘Aha!’ phase, where you finally find that one fact, the spark the plot or theme, or a clear glimpse of the character, that makes the story come together. Then writing can begin!

I’m currently somewhere between the Magpie and Wormhole phases for my next story. Stay tuned!
 

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: 1 physical copy of THAT SUMMER IN BERLIN by Lecia Cornwall

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: What did you dream of doing when you grew up? If you took a different path, what changed or stopped you from choosing that first dream?

 
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Excerpt from That Summer in Berlin:

CHAPTER ONE

South Coast of England
September 1935

There was a storm coming.
Viviane Alden stood on the shore, the round pebbles shifting under her feet. For a moment she clutched the thick robe close to her throat as she stared out across the English Channel. The air was already yellow and heavy, but the dark clouds remained distant, mounded on the horizon over France. The waves were starting to kick up, but for now they were still merely fretful rather than angry.
She could still go back, climb the cliff, and slip into the house before anyone knew she was missing. All was in chaos anyway, with everyone busy preparing for tonight’s party at Halliwell Hall. Now there was a storm she’d gladly miss. Her stepsisters would barely notice her absence, though her mother would certainly fly into a rage if she knew where Viviane was at this moment.
She stayed put, staring out across the water. This day was a sacred annual ritual for her, and her mother was probably still in bed, sipping tea and complaining about having so many things to manage. There was Margaret’s betrothal party tonight, to be followed by her wedding. Julia, her second stepdaughter, was due to make her London debut in the spring, and the fifteen‑year‑old twins, Felicity and Grace, were unruly, inquisitive creatures who thrived on mischief. Fortunately, Miles, her stepson and Lord Rutherford’s heir, was away at Eton, and out from underfoot. There was also Viviane’s own wedding to the Marquess of Medway to plan for.
Except there wasn’t. Not anymore.
Viviane had called Phillip last night and broken it off, though she hadn’t told her mother yet. There’d be time later, of course. Or possibly not, with all that was going on today. The conversation would have to happen eventually—another storm that would need to be weathered— but today was not a day for the kind of news that would lead only to disappointment, arguments, and questions she didn’t want to answer, first from her mother, then her stepsisters. They’d join forces as a unified flock to peck Viviane to pieces over letting a prime catch like Phillip Medway go. Then she’d have to face her stepfather. She raised her chin against the wind. She had her reasons, and it was between her and Phil‑ lip alone.
Today she had other things to think about. Seven years ago, on this very day, at this very hour, Viviane’s entire world had collapsed.
She didn’t cry or turn to look west toward Cornwall and home—her old home, since Kellyn, where her father had died, was lost to her now. She’d been the one to find him that morning, in the lake, and this was how she chose to remember him. What better way to dispel the horror of a drowning than by defying the waters? She was the Lady of the Lake—or of the English Channel, now—and she was an excellent swimmer.
Her mother had forbidden her to go near the water after her father’s death, fearing Viviane would drown, too.
Viviane took a breath, ran down the shingle, and plunged into the icy waves.
The cold water closed around her. It wasn’t like the warm green waters of the Lady’s Lake at Kellyn. The Channel was fast and dangerous, black and salty, like tears. She waited for the water to become benevolent around her body, buoy her up in a loose, cool grip. It was memory and torment and pleasure all in one.
She hadn’t cried on the day of her father’s funeral, or even when her mother had told her that Kellyn, the estate that had been home to the Alden family for hundreds of years, was to be sold because there was no money to pay the exorbitant death duties.
At fourteen, she’d been too young and too shattered to ask questions, and her mother was consumed by her own anguished grief, torn between anger and loss. Did she remember the anniversary? Would she have agreed to this date for Margaret’s betrothal party if she did? In seven years, she’d never mentioned the events of that day, the way she’d found Viviane, white‑faced and silent by the lake, next to the lifeless body of her father, his face turned to the sky, his eyes filled with water and nothing else. Her mother’s anguished screams had scared the birds from the trees.
The waves were kicking up in earnest now, a tantrum against the bully wind. Seabirds swooped, fighting the gathering power of the gale to screech a warning to her.
She ignored them. She wasn’t afraid of the waves or tricky currents, was sure of the strength in her body, the power of her whole, healthy lungs. She’d fallen and broken her left leg as a child, and was left with scars and a permanent limp. She was awkward and clumsy on land, so her father had taught her to rule the water. They swam together like fish, like diving birds, like swans, and then lay on the grassy bank beside the lake to dry in the sun. When he’d caught his breath, and the wheeze and crackle in his damaged lungs eased, he told her tales of King Arthur, the sword Excalibur, the first Sir Alden of Kellyn, and Viviane, the Lady of the Lake. “The Aldens are the true guardians of the great

sword, lass. Don’t ever forget that. It is our duty to be worthy of that honor, to right what wrongs we can and do our best for those who need us most.” He’d rise from the grass, knowing he must get dry and warm and return to the house to take the medicine that helped his lungs, ruined by a gas attack during the war. “A vile and cowardly weapon,” he said. He rarely said more, but she knew when he was in pain by the strain on his face, by the harsh sound of his breathing, the rasps and whistles and hacking coughs. She’d also known that it had been getting worse, and he had more bad days than good.
The whole village—the whole country—had mourned the death of Major Sir Arthur Alden of Kellyn. Soldiers who’d served with him came from all over the country for his funeral. Winston Churchill had been there, and Lloyd George, and the Earl of Rutherford, who would become Mama’s second husband.
Viviane took another deep breath and kicked hard, fought the fierce shove of the waves, pushing back with every stroke. She would never drown. She felt the cold numb her, willing her to let go, to release the air in her straining lungs. Was this what her father had felt in his last moments? She held her breath until her chest ached and dark spots spun before her eyes. Only then did she kick for the surface, using her weaker leg, forcing it to take her upward. She drew a long breath just as a wave crashed over her, and she swallowed half of it, coughing, choking on the burning salt water as it filled her throat.
The storm tide spun her around, stronger now. The distant shore was all but obscured by the rising waves. She was being carried away from the beach, and safety.
She gasped for breath, began to swim, but she was tiring, pushed to her limit, her heart pounding, her scarred leg aching. She willed herself not to give in to panic, to endure, conquer, and be strong the way her father had taught her, but she felt the knife edge of fear.

“Ahoy!” The call was garbled by the water, and she couldn’t tell if it was just the wind or a gull playing tricks on her.
“Ahoy, I say—is that a mermaid?”
Then she saw it, a small sailboat coming toward her, bounding across the waves. The Kipper, Reggie Farraday’s boat. The sail was bowed out‑ ward, glutted to bursting with wild wind, and the wee craft bucked like a rodeo horse. It seemed a miracle that he’d come, good old Reggie, her friend, the boy—and the heir to the earldom—next door.
“Perhaps it’s a selkie,” another voice said, also male, Scots tinged, and unfamiliar. They came alongside and looked over the gunwale at her. She peered up into a pair of eyes as gray as the sea.
“Oho! I know this mermaid!” Reggie grinned, his teeth flashing as white as a gull’s wing as he trimmed the sails to hold the boat still. “Vee! Is that really you? I thought you were forbidden to swim in the sea.”
She sent him a sharp look that belied her predicament and her relief at seeing him. “I’m surprised to see you out here, too, Reggie, what with so much to do before the party tonight,” she replied tartly. “How’s the sailing?”
“There’s a storm coming. We were just heading back, actually.
There’ll be thunder and lightning before the hour’s out.”
“Do you not see those clouds?” Reggie’s companion asked her. She was surprised by the admonition in the stranger’s tone. “Did no one ever tell you it’s dangerous to swim in a tempest?”
Before Viviane could reply, Reggie did. “We’d best take charge. Pull her in, will you, Tom? I’ll hold the boat steady.”
“No need. I can swim back,” Viviane said, stung by the scolding, but a hand reached over the side, the sleeve rolled up and the palm extended. She saw calluses and the smear of something dark on the tip of one finger. She could see his face now, the features even, his expression flat, even as his eyes snapped with irritation.

“Come on, give me your hand,” he said, edging the command with impatience. She had no choice, of course, and he knew it. She took his hand and let him haul her over the side. She landed in the bottom of the boat like a flounder and quickly righted herself. He regarded her with curiosity and male interest. Her swimsuit clung to every curve, and she felt naked under his sharp gaze.
“Hello, darling,” Reggie drawled. “You’re very wet, aren’t you?” He kept hold of the tiller and let her help herself up onto the seat. “Tom Graham, allow me to introduce the Honorable Miss Viviane Alden, a dear old friend of the family, and the woman I hoped I would one day marry, but alas, she is betrothed to a much better man than I.” She sent him a quelling look, but he simply grinned and went on with the introductions. “Tom and Geoffrey were at Cambridge together, which is how he came to be chosen as my brother’s best man. Tom’s also a reporter, working at the London Herald, so watch what you say.” He winked at Viviane, navigating the waves.
“Alden?” Something changed in Tom Graham’s face, a slight tightening of his mouth. He gave a sharpness to her surname, almost an accusation. Had they met? She scanned his face, but he was indeed a stranger. He stared back, his brows furrowing slightly, as if he knew something suspect about her. Or perhaps he did not approve of women swimming. She felt her cheeks flushing despite the cold wind, and she looked away, raised her chin with aristocratic insouciance as she tucked her scarred left leg under her perfect right one. She pulled off her bathing cap, her eyes on the horizon. The wind was icy on her wet skin, and she clamped her teeth together to keep from shivering and wrapped her arms across her chest.
“I say, that breeze is kicking up fierce, isn’t it?” Reggie said, hauling on the tiller as the little skiff bounced on the rising sea. He looked at

Viviane. “You’re cold,” he pronounced. “Tom, lend her your coat, would you?”
For a moment Tom Graham hesitated. “Well come on, old man. Consider it an act of chivalry. I’d give her my own if I was wearing one.” Reggie was clad in a thick sweater. He might have given her that, but his friend was already removing his tweed jacket. He dropped it over her wet shoulders without a word, and without touching her.
“Thank you,” Viviane said stiffly. The garment was warm from his body, and it smelled like shaving soap, and him, she supposed, different from Reggie’s expensive cologne or the scent of tobacco and hair pomade that clung to her stepfather’s clothes. She glanced at Tom Graham and wondered if he was cold without his jacket, but he was staring at the thick clouds barreling over the horizon, his eyes narrowed against the glare, dark hair blowing back from a wide, clear brow, his white shirt molding itself to his lean body. He looked like a pirate, especially when compared to Reggie’s crisp appearance, his clipped hair, thin mustache, and tailored clothing, all of it bought at huge expense to ape the casual ease that Tom Graham had at what was likely a far lesser cost.
She scanned the shoreline, and realized she’d drifted quite a way from the small beach under Wrenwood House, her stepfather’s estate. Goodness, she had been in danger, hadn’t she? She cast a sidelong look at Tom Graham, who was staring at her again, a mix of puzzlement and censure in his sharp eyes. “Drop me back at the cove below Wrenwood,” she said to Reggie. “You’re probably as busy as I am—there’s so much to do before the party tonight.”
Reggie made a face. “Yes, shouldn’t you be home making yourself beautiful? Not that you’re not beautiful now, of course, but my sister has been trying to decide on which frock to wear all week. You’d think she was the bride. What time is Phillip arriving today?”

She lowered her gaze to her puckered fingertips. “He . . . can’t make it.”
She felt Reggie’s eyes on her, knew his brows were rising and he was waiting for her to continue. If they were alone, she might have told him about her broken engagement, but she could hardly do that in front of a stranger, so she looked across the water and stayed silent. The square bulk of Wrenwood came into view, standing firm on the cliff top, its granite face unperturbed by this storm or any other. She realized Reggie was sailing straight past the cove. “Just set me down in Wrenwood Cove, Reggie,” she said again.
He frowned. “If it’s going to storm, I can hardly toss you back into the sea like an undersized flounder. Come back to Halliwell with us, and I’ll drive you to Wrenwood.”
Viviane considered the consequences if she arrived home in Reggie’s car, clad only in her swimming costume and a strange man’s coat.
“I can get back faster if I go the way I came,” she said. She’d climb the cliff path, slip back into the house via the garden, and say that she’d been out doing laps in the swimming pool if anyone saw her.
But Reggie shook his head. “And risk you breaking your neck climbing that cliff path? I think not.”
“I assume she climbed down the path,” Tom said, regarding her as if she were a puzzle to be solved—or a fool, perhaps.
“Did you really?” Reggie asked.
“You know I did. It’s too long to go along the road. I left my robe on the beach, and my camera.” Still, he frowned. “Oh, please, Reggie—I can hardly arrive at Halliwell like this. What will your mother say if she sees me in nothing but my swimsuit and—and a man’s coat? She’ll have a houseful of guests, and she won’t appreciate any unexpected antics today.”
She cast a sideways glance at Tom Graham, saw the interest in his

eyes, as if he wanted to hear more about unexpected antics. She held tight to the lapels of his coat and sent Reggie a warning look, silently commanding him to hold his tongue for once.
“Perhaps she’ll think I rescued you,” Reggie said, flashing a grin. She sharpened her glare. “I wasn’t in any need of rescue,” she lied.
“And there’d be awkward questions if I returned to Wrenwood in your car, soaking wet.”
He sighed. “I suppose this isn’t the day to unleash a scandal. Fine, then, back to the cove with you.” He turned the boat, and she braced herself against the seat as the Kipper skipped over the waves.
“Do you swim often?” Tom Graham asked blandly, as if they were taking afternoon tea and making polite conversation.
“As often as possible,” she replied in the same tone.
“Her mater doesn’t like her to—she thinks it’s dangerous, what with the currents here. I agree, but there’s no stopping Vee,” Reggie said, and winked at her. “She’s as brave as a lion.”
Tom Graham regarded her with flat speculation. She shrugged deeper into the battered tweed of his jacket and changed the subject. “What time is dinner tonight?” she asked Reggie, though she knew the answer.
“Drinks at eight, dinner at nine, dancing till dawn. Is your stepfather back from London?” Reggie asked.
“Not yet. He’s expected this afternoon,” Viviane replied. Tom Graham was looking at her legs—which one, the scarred one or the perfect one? Her belly tensed. She didn’t like exposing her flaw, but there was no way to hide it now. There was no pity or disgust in his flat gaze, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He seemed to have a remarkable way of hiding his thoughts. It left no way in, no way to make sense of him by little telltale details. She was good at that with most people, but not this man. His examination reached her face, and he met

her eyes. She lifted her chin in warning, a dismissal, but he held her gaze, and she was the one who looked away first. “Is Geoffrey home yet?” she asked, her tone bland, at odds with the blush creeping over her cheeks. “I’m collecting him at the station at half past ten. I rather thought under the circumstances he might travel down with your stepfather,” Reggie said, unaware of her discomfiture. She plucked at the edges of Tom’s jacket once again, arranging it, smoothing it, gathering her composure like a shield.
“No, Rutherford has meetings this morning, so he’s driving down later. I understand he and Geoff met for dinner last night. Geoff tele‑ phoned Margaret after, but he wouldn’t tell her a thing other than that the beef was excellent. She had visions of them poring over calendars and agendas, choosing the date for the wedding without her, just so it won’t interfere with government business. They wouldn’t dare set a date without Margaret and both mamas there.”
Reggie laughed. “Poor old Geoff. If he thinks he’s in control of a single thing about his life from here on out, he’ll soon discover he’s wrong—or so I’ve heard from married friends. Tonight should be fun— Geoff will probably thrill the guests by getting down on one knee and presenting a betrothal ring to Margaret at last. My mother will love it—she likes a grand spectacle as much as Geoff does. I wonder which ring he’ll give her? Not great-grandma’s diamond of course—as heir, that’s mine.” He glanced at her own left hand, where Phillip’s grand‑ mother’s magnificent ruby betrothal ring had been until yesterday. Now it was tucked away in her dresser drawer until she could return it to him. “Always nice to see a fine society match, the blissful joining of old money to old estates and like politics,” Tom Graham drawled, a whiff
of disdain in his tone.
She turned, ready to demand to know what he meant by that, but Reggie spoke first. “It’s how it’s always been done in the upper classes,

old chap. Geoffrey is a second son. He needs to marry a woman of for‑ tune, and Lady Margaret is an earl’s daughter with a rather eye‑popping dowry and a small estate in Hampshire from her grandmother.”
Tom looked at Viviane. “And you, Miss Alden? Do you have a dower estate in Hampshire as well? Will you bring a fortune to your husband? I daresay a wealthy marquess like Phillip Medway doesn’t need the cash.” His voice was bland with condescension. He didn’t suggest it might be love, or that she was lovely or witty or charming. How could he? They knew nothing about each other, and yet it appeared he’d al‑ ready decided about her and found her lacking.
She felt her hackles rise. No doubt he thought he was being clever, that she wouldn’t notice the disdain in his comment. Wait. Had she mentioned Phillip by name? She didn’t recall that she had, but Tom Graham seemed to know him. He wasn’t the usual sort Phillip associated with, but then, she’d only recently discovered there were a lot of things she didn’t know about her fiancé—former fiancé. He’d turned out to be full of secrets, and she wondered now if the same was true of Tom Graham. Phillip hid behind a smoke screen of charm, using his good looks, his money, and his title to lure those who might amuse him for a brief time. Phillip was a dazzling creature, but hollow, too easily led astray. And what lay behind Tom Graham’s smoke screen? She stud‑ ied him again, but he was a closed book. It made her suspect that he did not reveal himself to very many people. He stood aloof, apart, even here in a tiny sailboat, elbow to elbow with two other people. She longed to plunge her hands into the pockets of his coat, see what he kept there. She’d like to photograph him, expose him, see what secrets her camera brought out.
Reggie laughed at Tom’s question. “Vee? She has a wee dowry and a few jewels that will come down to her through her mother—the Countess of Rutherford is a duke’s daughter—but she married a poor baron,

Vee’s father, for love. Isn’t that so, sweetheart? Viviane may not be nearly as well‑endowed as her stepsisters, but she’s a prize in her own right. There’s no one to compare with Viviane.”
“I didn’t think anyone in the aristocracy married for love. It must have been quite extraordinary,” Tom drawled.
Reggie chuckled. “It’s not entirely unheard of, or against the rules. Geoffrey and Margaret would say they’re in love. They look it, if you ask me, all starry‑eyed and sticky. It’s quite sickening. Of course, a match between one of Lord Rutherford’s daughters and a son of Lord Deerbourne’s was always seen as inevitable. We’re neighbors. It keeps the land in the family, so to speak. In the Middle Ages we would have been betrothed at birth, a joining of noble houses, something as expected and comfortable as a favorite tweed coat, say,” Reggie said, nodding at Tom Graham’s jacket draped over Viviane’s slender body. “I suppose they once expected me to marry Margaret, the heir and the eldest daughter, but she and Geoffrey were meant to be, as they say in the movies. There are three other Rutherford beauties to choose from,” he teased, though Viviane knew he had no interest in any of her step-sisters. “How about you, Graham? Ever been in love, or married?”
“No, just infatuated a time or two,” he replied. Viviane wished he’d go on, but he didn’t elaborate.
Reggie chuckled. “Well, if you’re fortunate, you’ll find a lady like Vee, who’s fair of face, devilish clever, and the daughter of a war hero to boot.”
“A war hero,” Tom Graham echoed softly, his tone flat.
Viviane raised her chin. “My father was Major Sir Arthur Alden of Kellyn.” It pleased her to see that her father’s name brought a spark of recognition to his gaze. He looked her over again.
“Have you heard of him, Tom? He fought at Sainte Courcelle and a host of other places. Viviane can list them if you like,” Reggie said.

Tom looked away. “No need. I’ve heard of him. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Order,” Tom said.
“Yes,” Viviane said, surprised.
“My uncle was one of the men under his command. Sergeant Archie Graham.” He stared at her with a slight frown but said nothing else. She had the distinct feeling that he didn’t approve. She bristled. What kind of person didn’t approve of a war hero?
“Here’s the cove,” Reggie said before she could ask. He put in as close to the shore as he dared, and Tom dropped the anchor. “I suppose you want me to carry you ashore and see you safe home,” Reggie said. He glanced at his wristwatch. “Blast it—I won’t have time to go home and change before Geoffrey’s train arrives. It’ll be tight as it is.”
“Don’t worry—I can wade in from here,” Viviane said, gripping the gunwale, ready to drop over the side.
Tom moved as well, removing his socks and shoes. “I don’t have any‑ where to be. I’ll escort her up the cliff,” he said. “Go on, Farraday, meet your train. I can walk back to Halliwell.”
“It’s three miles!” Reggie said.
Tom shrugged. “I used to walk four miles to visit my gran when I was a lad.” He leaped over the side into the water, which came to his hips, and didn’t even flinch at the cold. “Do you need a hand?” he asked, turning to offer her one. She wondered if he’d carry her to shore if she demanded it. Something in his expression warned her not to.
“I’m fine.” She ignored his hand and dropped into the water beside him. The water came all the way to her waist. “I can also climb the path on my own.”
He smiled acidly. “I don’t doubt you can. I can assure you I haven’t a chivalrous bone in my body.”
“What does that mean?” She waded out of the water onto the pebbled shore, and he followed.

“It means I need my coat back. Unlike Reggie or Geoffrey or you— it’s the only one I happen to have with me.”
“Oh.” She looked at the coat she still clung to, mostly wet now. She shrugged out of it and handed it to him, and he folded it over his arm and let it drip. His wet trousers clung to long, lean legs and she realized he was quite tall.
Reggie hauled up the anchor and waved. “See you at Halliwell this evening, Vee. Luncheon is at one thirty, Graham. Don’t dawdle.”
Viviane was aware of Tom Graham’s eyes on her as she picked up her robe. She pulled the thick garment around her and belted it tightly, then shoved her feet into her shoes and turned toward the path. He’d perched on a rock to put on his own sensible leather brogues, not bothering with his socks. He’d get blisters if he walked three miles without them, but it wasn’t her concern.
She picked up her Leica and slung it over her shoulder.
“Fine camera,” he said, noticing it. “Do you know how to use it?” She pierced him with a rapier‑sharp glare. “Yes. My father taught me.”
He held up a hand. “No offense. I’ve never met a debutante who was content behind the camera. They’re usually too busy posing in front of the lens.”
“Met a lot of debs, have you?” She raised the camera to her eye, her hand cupped under the lens, and pointed it at him. “Give us a smile, duckie,” she teased.
He continued to regard her soberly, and she took the photo anyway, then turned to lead the way up the cliff path, her spine stiff.
“You must have been quite young when your father died,” Tom said behind her. “My uncle and some of his mates traveled to Cornwall for his funeral. Took a day off work for it.”
She recalled the soldiers who came to pay their respects, and the families of the men he’d saved. The tiny church had been full. Her

mother had been confined to bed, too grief‑stricken to rise even for the funeral. Viviane had been there alone, just fourteen, accompanied by the housekeeper and her husband. “Thank you,” she said to Tom Graham now, not knowing what else to say.
“Gas is an insidious weapon.”
“You seem to know the whole story.” She didn’t want to talk about her father, not today, not with a stranger who hadn’t known the man behind the heroic tale, what the war had cost him, what it had cost her.
“I’m a journalist,” Tom Graham said. “I tend to be curious. My uncle told me about your father, how he was what the ordinary men called a good soldier, even if—” He paused, and she stopped in the middle of the path and turned on him. The sloping ground of the path meant they were at eye level.
“Even if what?”
He looked away. “Even if most of your class made rather careless officers—the ones who said they won the war and came home to marry for money and land in a desperate attempt to hold on to power.”
“My class,” she murmured, repeating his assessment of her. She was hardly an aristocrat.
“I know Phillip Medway, your fiancé. A marquess, a duke’s son and heir. Your class, Marchioness.”
She didn’t reply. It had been less than twenty‑four hours since she’d broken her engagement. A stranger, and a journalist, was not the first person she intended to tell.
“And just how do you happen to know Phillip?” “We rowed together at Cambridge.”
She paused. She turned sharply, glanced at him over her shoulder, and stumbled. Did he share Phillip’s politics as well? He caught her elbow, steadied her. “Careful, your ladyship.”

She pulled away, ignoring the steep drop inches from the narrow path. “I am not your ladyship.”
“Yet.”
“Jealous?” she shot back at him.
He frowned and stared at her, nose to nose. He didn’t step back. There was no deference to her class or her sex. Up close, there was a corona of copper around the pupils of his gray eyes, and he had impossibly long, dark lashes.
“Now what does that mean? Are you fishing for a compliment? Must every man find himself at your feet? Reggie is certainly smitten. Of course, he’ll be a mere earl, not a duke, and as his father is in the pink of health, he’ll have to wait a long while for his title.”
Of all the rudeness! She turned away and kept walking, faster now. “You’re wrong about me, Mr. Graham.”
“Am I? Reggie said if you weren’t betrothed to Medway, then he’d marry you.”
“He was teasing—it’s an old joke between us. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Even if it’s the kind of love one might hold for a cousin, or an old friend, surely it’s better than—”
She let out a sharp cry of understanding that rivaled the squawk of the wheeling gulls. “Oh, I see. You are jealous then, but not of me. Did Phillip once steal the affections of a lady you had hopes of? One of your ‘infatuations’? He’s a notorious poacher.”
He blinked at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “You have sharp claws, Miss Alden. That’s a rather telling supposition—is that why Reggie has been left pining for you? Did Phil‑ lip poach you away from him? It’s your turn to be wrong. I wonder what your father would think of your marrying a man like Medway. What would the major say?”

Be true to your heart, your principles, stand for what’s right, even if it goes against the tide. She heard her father’s advice in her mind. It was one of the reasons she’d broken her engagement to Phillip, but she wasn’t about to admit that to a man who imagined he understood her heart and her morals and motives. Tom Graham had decided he had the right to judge her choice, her class, her whole life after knowing her less than an hour.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him it wasn’t his business, but she didn’t want to argue with an opinionated stranger. Not today.
She turned and took the last few strides to the top of the cliff, reached the grassy ledge. “I know the way from here. You can go,” she said imperiously, pointing toward Halliwell. He ignored the dis‑ missal.
“Is it a love match between your stepsister and Geoffrey? For his part, Geoff seems quite smitten.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “Are you always so protective of your friends, or do you merely have a penchant for giving matrimonial advice? Do you pen advice to the lovelorn for the Herald?”
A half smile creased his cheeks, as if he appreciated her jab. “No. I simply have a great need to right the wrongs of this world, I suppose. That’s why I became a journalist.”
She understood. It was why she took photographs. People lied. The camera did not.
“Yes, Margaret loves Geoffrey,” she said, answering his question.
It wasn’t like that between herself and Phillip. He was precisely the kind of suitor who’d delight any social‑minded mama, especially hers, a prime catch. He was rich, handsome, and his title was ancient and lofty. Viviane had been flattered by his attention, his charm, and his interest. She’d wondered from the start why he’d chosen her when he could have any other debutante, ladies with grand titles and vast for‑

tunes. He was pleasant company, made her laugh, and yet he offered a kind of freedom during their courtship that gave her hope. She imagined that it would be a thoroughly modern match, an equal partnership, and Phillip would allow her to live her life as she pleased, to take photographs and use her position as a marchioness to do good. She would allow him to pursue his interests as well, and together they’d change the world for the better. They’d share like ideals, friendship, and a loving regard if not a passionate romance, and it would be enough.
Or so she’d thought.
But Phillip didn’t want that kind of wife. They had nothing in common, especially politics. In return for a life of luxury and privilege, she’d be expected to remain faceless and mute unless required and stay out of his limelight. His life and ambitions would go on. Hers would end. For most women, it would have been enough, but she had other plans.
The wind gusted, flicking at Viviane’s hair and the folds of her robe, and the first drops of rain spattered in the dust of the path.
“Here’s the storm,” he said in an I‑told‑you‑so tone. She decided that Tom Graham was a man who liked to be right, especially against someone of a higher class, and a woman he quite obviously didn’t like, no matter who her father was or what friends they had in common. “And just look at those waves—you might have been swept away and drowned if you’d stayed out in that,” he said.
Drowned. She felt her very skin recoil. He didn’t know everything about her father, then—or if he did, he was cruel indeed. She raised her chin, gave him a look of lofty superiority.
“You’d best hurry along. You’re sure to get wet on your way back to Halliwell,” she said in her best to‑the‑manor‑born tone.
He raised one brow. “I’m already wet, and it’s little more than a pro‑ longed squall, and it won’t last the day. It will blow itself out by tea‑ time,” he said. He didn’t touch his forelock, or bow, or mark her in any

way as his social superior. He simply turned and walked away, his stride long, easy, and infuriatingly confident. Mannerless.
“Mr. Graham,” she called, and waited for him to turn. She squared her shoulders and looked along her nose the way her mother or her stepsisters looked at an insolent footman.
“Thank you for the loan of your coat. I do hope the salt comes out. Have your valet—oh, wait. Do you have a valet? Of course you don’t. I hope you weren’t planning to wear it to dinner this evening. You are invited to dinner, are you not?” His jaw tightened. She’ d hit a nerve.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I am indeed, Miss Alden, and I assure you I will be appropriately costumed for the grand show.”
“Glad to hear it. It won’t do to embarrass your betters. That’s not the way for a climber like you to get ahead.” She didn’t wait for his reply. Instead, she pivoted on her heel and began to cross the lawn.
“And I will never drown,” she muttered to herself through gritted teeth. “Never.”

Excerpted from THAT SUMMER IN BERLIN by Lecia Cornwall, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2022

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

German power is rising again, threatening a war that will be even worse than the last one. The English aristocracy turns to an age-old institution to stave off war and strengthen political bonds—marriage. Debutantes flock to Germany, including Viviane Alden. On holiday with her sister during the 1936 Berlin Olympics, Viviane’s true purpose is more clandestine. While many in England want to appease Hitler, others seek to prove Germany is rearming. But they need evidence, and photographs to tell the tale, and Viviane is a genius with her trusty Leica. And who would suspect a pretty, young tourist taking holiday snaps of being a spy?

Viviane expects to find hatred and injustice, but during the Olympics, with the world watching, Germany is on its best behavior, graciously welcoming tourists to a festival of peace and goodwill. But first impressions can be deceiving, and it’s up to Viviane and the journalist she’s paired with—a daring man with a guarded heart—to reveal the truth.

But others have their own reasons for befriending Viviane, and her adventure takes a darker turn. Suddenly Viviane finds herself caught in a web of far more deadly games—and closer than she ever imagined to the brink of war.
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Meet the Author:

Lecia Cornwall, the acclaimed author of numerous historical novels, lives and writes in the beautiful foothills of the Canadian Rockies with four cats and a wild and crazy ninety-pound chocolate Lab named Andy. She has two grown children and one very patient husband. When she is not writing, Lecia is a dedicated volunteer at the Museum of the Highwood in High River, Alberta.
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