Finally, I’m exceedingly pleased to be able to offer you a sneak peek from the second Windham Bride story, Too Scot to Handle, which doesn’t come out until July 2017. How will we manage to wait that long, when Lord Colin MacHugh is not known for his patience?
We will read many, many excellent romances, that’s how! If you want the latest on all my releases, sales, signings, and other adventures (yes, I’m planning another Scotland With Grace tour in 2017), sign up for my newsletter, follow me on Twitter, or like my Facebook page.
Happy reading!
Grace Burrowes
The Trouble With Dukes by Grace Burrowes (Dec. 20, 2016)
Confirmed spinster Megan Windham has offered to teach the Duke of Murdoch how to waltz…
“A couple usually converses during a waltz,” Megan said, as she and the duke started on another circle of the music parlor. “How do you find London, that sort of thing?”
Murdoch’s sense of rhythm was faultless, but he’d apparently misplaced the ability to smile—at all.
“Find London? You go down the Great North Road until you can’t go any farther, then you follow the noise and stink. Can’t miss it. I prefer the drover’s routes myself. The inns are humble, but honest.”
Megan’s mother was Welsh, so a thick leavening of Celtic intonation was easily decipherable to her. She switched to Gaelic, as she occasionally did with family.
“I meant, does London appeal to you?”
Nothing had broken His Grace’s concentration thus far. For dozens of turns about the room, despite Westhaven’s and St. Just’s adventuresome maneuvers with Murdoch’s sisters, and Valentine’s increasingly daring tempo, the duke had become only more confident of his waltzing.
One simple question had him stumbling.
And when a large fellow stumbled, and tried to right himself by grabbing onto a surprised and not very large woman, and that woman stumbled…
Down they went, though Megan landed on His Grace, an agreeably solid and warm place to find herself. His sporran had twisted itself to his hip, and his arms remained about her.
“Miss Megan,” Lady Edana cried. “Are you all right? Hamish turn loose of her, for pity’s sake, you’ll wrinkle her skirts, and break her bones, and tramp on her hems, and get up, you can’t simply lie there, a great lummoxing lump of a brother.”
“Get up now,” Lady Rhona chorused. “Oh, please do get up, and promise you’ll never attempt to waltz in public again. Wellington might be at her grace’s ball, or the king. Oh, Ham, get up.”
His Grace could not get up as long as Megan luxuriated in the novel pleasure of lying atop him.
“I’m fine,” she said, kneeling back after enjoying two more instants of Murdoch’s abundant warmth and muscle. Westhaven hauled her to her feet by virtue of a hand under each elbow, glowering at her as if she’d purposely yanked fifteen stone of Scottish duke to the floor.
St. Just extended a hand to Murdoch and pulled him upright, but not fast enough to hide a flash of muscular thigh from Megan’s view, not fast enough by half.
The duke righted his sporran, bowed, and came up… smiling. “Miss Meggie, my apologies for hauling you top over teakettle. You speak the Gaelic.”
All the rainbows in Wales, all the Christmas punch brewed at the Windham family seat, couldn’t approach His Grace’s smile for sheer, charming glee. That smile dazzled, intrigued, promised… oh, that smile was quite the weapon against a woman’s dignity.
Megan fired off a shy, answering volley of the same artillery. “My mother is Welsh, and I enjoy languages. Welsh and Gaelic aren’t that different to the ear.”
“Nobody speaks the Gaelic in an English ballroom,” Murdoch said. “Not since the Forty-Five, probably not ever.” He made it sound like a great feat of courage, not a simple courtesy to a newcomer.
St. Just and Westhaven watched this exchange like a pair of oversized pantry mousers placing bets on the fate of a fugitive canary.
Bother the glowering pair of them.
Nobody smiled at Megan Windham the way Murdoch was smiling. Even without her glasses, she could see the warmth and approval in his eyes, see all the acceptance and admiration a woman could endure from one man.
“Nobody ends the waltz by falling on his partner,” Westhaven snapped. “Lord Valentine, if you would oblige. The duke is in want of practice, assuming Cousin Megan is none the worse for her tumble.”
Megan had tumbled hopelessly, right into a pair of bottomless blue eyes, a pair of strong arms, and… those thighs. Ye manly waltzing gods.
“I’m fine,” Megan said, putting her hand on Murdoch’s shoulder. She was apparently becoming a proficient liar, because having seen his great, beaming benevolence of a smile, she might never be fine again….
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Read on for a special sneak peek from Duke of Pleasure by Elizabeth Hoyt (November 29, 2016)
Bold. Brave. Brutally handsome. Hugh Fitzroy, the Duke of Kyle, is the king's secret weapon. Sent to defeat the notorious Lords of Chaos, he is ambushed in a London alley-and rescued by an unlikely ally: a masked stranger with the unmistakable curves of a woman….
* * *
Now once there were a White Kingdom and a Black Kingdom that had been at war since time began.…
—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon
January 1742
London, England
Hugh Fitzroy, the Duke of Kyle, did not want to die tonight, for three very good reasons.
It was half past midnight as he eyed the toughs slinking out of the shadows up ahead in the cold alley near Covent Garden. He moved the bottle of fine Viennese wine from his right arm to his left and drew his sword. He’d dined with the Habsburg ambassador earlier this evening, and the wine was a gift.
Firstly , Kit, his elder son—and, formally, the Earl of Staffin—was only seven. Far too young to be orphaned and inherit the dukedom.
Next to Hugh was a linkboy with a lantern. The boy was frozen, his lantern a small pool of light in the narrow alley. The youth’s eyes were wide and frightened. He couldn’t be more than fourteen. Hugh glanced over his shoulder. Several men were bearing down on them from the entrance to the alley. He and the linkboy were trapped.
Secondly , Peter, his younger son, was still suffering nightmares from the death of his mother only five months before. What would his father’s death so soon after his mother’s do to the boy?
They might be common footpads. Unlikely, though. Footpads usually worked in smaller numbers, were not this organized, and were after money, not death.
Assassins, then.
And thirdly, His Majesty had recently assigned Hugh an important job: destroy the Lords of Chaos. On the whole, Hugh liked to finish his jobs. Brought a nice sense of completion at the end of the day, if nothing else.
Right, then.
“If you can, run,” Hugh said to the linkboy. “They’re after me, not you.”
Then he pivoted and attacked the closest group—the three men behind them.
Their leader, a big fellow, raised a club.
Hugh slashed him across the throat. The leader went down in a spray of scarlet. But his second was already bringing his own club down in a bone-jarring blow to Hugh’s left shoulder. Hugh juggled the bottle of wine, seized it again, and kicked the man in the balls. The second doubled over and stumbled against the third. Hugh punched over the man’s head and into the face of the third.
There were running footsteps from behind Hugh.
He spun to face the other end of the alley and another attacker.
Caught the descending knife with his blade and slid his sword into the hand holding the knife.
A howling scream, and the knife clattered to the icy cobblestones in a splatter of blood.
The knife man lowered his head and charged like an enraged bull.
Hugh flattened all six foot four inches of himself against the filthy alley wall, stuck out his foot, and tripped Charging Bull into the
three men he’d already dealt with.
The linkboy, who had been cowering against the opposite wall, took the opportunity to squirm through the constricted space between the assailants and run away.
Which left them all in darkness, save for the light of the half moon.
Hugh grinned.
He didn’t have to worry about hitting his compatriots in the dark.
He rushed the man next in line after the Bull. They’d picked a nice alley, his attackers. No way out—save the ends—but in such close quarters he had a small advantage: no matter how many men were against him, the alley was so cramped that only two could come at him at a time. The rest were simply bottled up behind the others, twiddling their thumbs.
Hugh slashed the man and shouldered past him. Got a blow upside the head for his trouble and saw stars.
Hugh shook his head and elbowed the next—hard—in the face, and kicked the third in the belly. Suddenly he could see the light at the end of the alley.
Hugh knew men who felt that gentlemen should never run from a fight. Of course many of these same men had never been in a real fight.
Besides, he had those three very good reasons.
Actually, now that he thought of it, there was a fourth reason he did not want to die tonight.
Hugh ran to the end of the alley, his bottle of fine Viennese wine cradled in the crook of his left arm, his sword in the other fist. The cobblestones were iced over and his momentum was such that he slid into the lit street.
Where he found another half-dozen men bearing down on him from his left.
Bloody hell.
Fourthly , he hadn’t had a woman in his bed in over nine months, and to die in such a drought would be a particularly unkind blow from fate, goddamn it.
Hugh nearly dropped the blasted wine as he scrambled to turn to the right. He could hear the men he’d left in the alley rallying even as he sprinted straight into the worst part of London: the stews of St Giles. They were right on his heels, a veritable army of assassins. The streets here were narrow, ill lit, and cobbled badly, if at all. If he fell because of ice or a missing cobblestone, he’d never get up again.
He turned down a smaller alley and then immediately down another.
Behind him he heard a shout. Christ, if they split up, they would corner him again.
He hadn’t enough of a lead, even if a man of his size could easily hide in a place like St Giles. Hugh glanced up as he entered a small courtyard, the buildings on all four sides leaning in. Overhead the moon was veiled in clouds, and it almost looked as if a boy were silhouetted, jumping from one rooftop to another…
Which…
Was insane.
Think. If he could circle and come back the way he’d entered St Giles, he could slip their noose.
A narrow passage.
Another cramped courtyard.
Ah, Christ.
They were already here, blocking the two other exits.
Hugh spun, but the passage he’d just run from was crowded with more men, almost a dozen in all.
Well.
He put his back to the only wall left to him and straightened.
He rather wished he’d tasted the wine. He was fond of Viennese wine.
A tall man in a ragged brown coat and a filthy red neckcloth stepped forward. Hugh half-expected him to make some sort of a speech, he looked that full of himself. Instead he drew a knife the size of a man’s forearm, grinned, and licked the blade.
Oh, for—
Hugh didn’t wait for whatever other disgusting preliminaries Knife Licker might feel were appropriate to the occasion. He stepped forward and smashed the bottle of very fine Viennese wine over the man’s head.
Then they were on him.
He slashed and felt the jolt to his arm as he hit flesh.
Swung and raked the sword across another’s face.
Staggered as two men slammed into him.
Another hit him hard in the jaw.
And then someone clubbed him behind the knees.
He fell to his knees on the icy ground, growling like a bleeding, baited bear.
Raised an arm to defend his head…
And…
Someone dropped from the sky right in front of him.
Facing his attackers.
Darting, wheeling, spinning.
Defending him so gracefully.
With two swords.
Hugh staggered upright again, blinking blood out of his eyes—when had he been cut?
And saw—a boy? No, a slight man in a grotesque half mask, motley, floppy hat, and boots, battling fiercely with his attackers. Hugh just had time to think: Insane, before his defender was thrown back against him.
Hugh caught the man and had another thought, which was: Tits?
And then he set the woman—most definitely a woman although in a man’s clothing—on her feet and put his back to hers and fought as if their lives depended on it.
Which they did.
There were still eight or so of the attackers left, and although they weren’t trained, they were determined. Hugh slashed and punched and kicked, while his feminine savior danced an elegant dance of death with her swords. When he smashed the butt of his sword into the skull of one of the last men, the remaining two looked at each other, picked up a third, and took to their heels.
Panting, Hugh glanced around the courtyard. It was strewn with groaning men, most still very much alive, though not dangerous at the moment.
He peered at the masked woman. She was tiny, barely reaching his shoulder. How was it she’d saved him from certain, ignoble death? But she had. She surely had.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff. He cleared his throat. “I—”
She grinned, a quicksilver flash, and put her left hand on the back of his neck to pull his head down.
And then she kissed him.
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Too Scot to Handle — Windham Brides, Book Two (Summer 2017)
Lord Colin MacHugh and Miss Anwen Windham share an interest in a certain Home for Wayward Urchins. After a morning gallop in the park, they tarry on a bench, discussing the children, and touching on a few other topics…
Anwen unpinned her hat, or whatever the thing was. A toque, maybe. Her wild gallop had set it slightly askew.
“You think the boys will consider working in the garden a reward?” she asked. “I thought house servants ranked above the outdoor servants?”
Colin took her hat from her, examining the collection of pheasant feathers and silk roses that had probably cost a footman’s monthly wages.
“I think we do best that which we enjoy most.” He enjoyed kissing and that which often followed kissing exceedingly. “If a boy is to spend his entire life at a job, it had better be a job that he has some aptitude for. Let the fellow with a passion for horses work in the mews, and the fussy young man who delights in a perfectly starched cravat become a valet. It’s all honorable work.”
He was being a Scottish commoner with that sentiment.
“That’s sensible,” Anwen said. “Sense is what the orphanage needs. Not good intentions, or idle talk. Common sense. What are you doing with my—Lord Colin?”
He’d pitched the thing with feathers into the bushes five yards off, so it hung from an obliging branch of the nearest maple.
“Come,” he said, taking her by the hand. “The squirrels have no need of such fetching millinery, and the grooms are busy with the horses.”
“Right,” Anwen said, rising. “Enough serious talk, for now. I’m full of ideas, and can’t wait to put them into action.”
“Exactly so,” Colin said, leading her into the deep shade beneath the tree. “Time to put a few well chosen ideas into action.”
Also a few foolish ones.
He made sure they were safe from view, drew the lady into his arms, and kissed her, as a snippet of her earlier words settled into his imagination. She’d said he’d given her hope.
She’d give
n him hope too.
* * *
Nothing penetrated Anwen’s awareness except pleasure.
Pleasure, to be kissed by a man who wasn’t in a hurry, half-drunk, and all pleased with himself for being brave enough to appropriate liberties from a woman taken unawares by his boldness.
Pleasure, to kiss Lord Colin back. To do more than stand still, enduring the fumblings of a misguided fortune hunter who hoped a display of his practiced charms might result a lifetime of security.
Pleasure, to feel lovely bodily stirrings as the sun rose, the birds sang, and the quiet of the park reverberated with the potential of a new, wonderful day.
And beneath those delightful, if predictable pleasures, yet more joy, unique to Anwen.
Lord Colin had bluntly pronounced her slight stature an advantage in the saddle—how marvelous!—and what a novel perspective.
He’d listened to her maundering on about Tom, Joe, John, and Dickie. Listened and discussed the situation rather than pontificating about her pretty head, and he’d offered solutions.
He’d taken care that this kiss be private, and thus unhurried.
Anwen liked the unhurried part exceedingly. Lord Colin held her not as if she were frail and fragile, but as if she were too precious to let go. His arms were secure about her, and he’d tucked in close enough that she could revel in his manly contours—broad chest, flat belly, and hard, hard thighs, such as an accomplished equestrian would have.
Soft lips, though. Gentle, entreating, teasing…
Anwen teased him back, getting a taste of peppermint for her boldness, and then a taste of him.
“Great day in the morning,” he whispered right at her ear. “I won’t be able to sit my horse if you do that again with your tongue.”
She did it again, and again, until the kiss involved his leg insinuated among the folds and froths of her riding habit, her fingers toying with the hair at his nape, and her heart, beating faster than it had at the conclusion of their race.
The Virtues of Christmas Page 22
