His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen Book 4)

by Grace Burrowes

  While we’re waiting for those stories to come out, I thought you might like to read an excerpt from Too Scot to Handle, the second book in the Windham Bride series, which hits the shelves July 2017. I got to write another braw, bonnie Scottish hero in Lord Colin MacHugh, and Miss Anwen Windham is more than a match for him. There are urchins and wastrel lordlings, and of course, Percival and Esther stick the ducal oar in too. Do I have the most fun job in the world or what?

  In September, I’m teaming up with writin’ buddy Theresa Romain to publish a novella duet, The Duke’s Bridle Path, which features a pair of stories set deep in the Regency countryside. Legend says the first person you kiss beneath the full moon on the Duke’s Bridle’s Path will be your one true love. The authors say, “Down, fellas. It’s not going to be that easy….” Heroes, heroines, horses, and happily ever afters… mostly in that order. Excerpt below, and I hope you like it!

  The third Windham Bride story, No Other Duke Will Do, comes out in November, and in October, I’m also teaming up with Carolyn Jewel, Miranda Neville, and Shana Galen for a novella anthology: How to Find a Duke in Ten Days. Haven’t we all been asking that very question?

  If you’d like to stay current with my new releases and sales, you can follow me on Bookbub. For that information plus signings, upcoming projects, and other news, sign up for my newsletter. I’m always happy to connect with readers on Facebook or Twitter as well.

  Happy reading!

  Grace Burrowes

  Read on for an excerpt from Too Scot to Handle!

  Too Scot to Handle

  * * *

  Anwen Windham and Lord Colin MacHugh meet for a dawn ride in Hyde Park, and Anwen’s hat has unfortunately goes missing. Diligent searching behind the hedges reveals something other than a lady’s missing millinery...

  Nothing penetrated Anwen Windham’s awareness except pleasure.

  Pleasure, to be kissed by a man who wasn’t in a hurry, half-drunk, or pleased with himself for appropriating liberties from a woman taken unaware 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 bumbling charms would result in a lifetime of security.

  Pleasure, to feel lovely bodily stirrings as the sun rose, the birds sang, and the morning 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 the boys at the orphanage. Listened and discussed the problem rather than pontificating about not troubling 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 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.

  “Ye must cease, wee Anwen,” Lord Colin said, resting his cheek against her temple. “We must cease, or I’ll have to cast myself into yonder water for the sake of my sanity.”

  “I’m a good swimmer,” Anwen said, peering up at him. “I’d fish you out.” She contemplated dragging a sopping Lord Colin from the Serpentine, his clothes plastered to his body.…

  He kissed her check. “Such a look you’re giving me. If ye’d slap me, I’d take it as a mercy.”

  “I’d rather kiss you again.” And again and again and again. Anwen’s enthusiasm for that undertaking roared through her like a wild fire, bringing light, heat, and energy to every corner of her being.

  “You are a bonfire in disguise,” he said, smoothing a hand over her hair. “An ambush of a woman, and you have all of polite society thinking you’re the quiet one.” He studied her, his hair sticking up on one side. “Am I the only man who knows better, Anwen?”

  She smoothed his hair down, delighting in its texture. Red hair had a mind of its own, and by the dawn’s light, his hair was very red.

  “No, you are not the only one who knows better,” she replied, which had him looking off across the water, his gaze determined.

  “I’m no’ the dallyin’ kind,” he said, taking Anwen’s hand and kissing it. “I was a soldier, and I’m fond of the ladies, but this is…you mustn’t toy with me.”

  Everlasting celestial trumpets. “You think I could toy with you?”

  “When you smile like that, you could break hearts, Miss Anwen Windham. A man wouldn’t see it coming, but then you’d swan off in a cloud of grace and dignity, and too late, he’d realize what he’d missed. He wouldn’t want to admit how foolish he’d been, but in his heart, he’d know: I should ne’er have let her get away. I should have done anything to stay by her side.”

  I am a bonfire in disguise. “You are not the only one who knows my secret. I know better now too, Colin.” She went up on her toes and kissed him. “It’s our secret.”

  Order your copy of Too Scot To Handle!

  And read on for an excerpt from His Grace for the Win, a novella by Grace Burrowes in

  The Duke’s Bridle Path

  * * *

  On some stone tablet Moses had probably left up on Mount Sinai—stone tablets were deuced heavy—the hand of God had written, “Thou shallt not hug a duke, nor shall dukes indulge in any spontaneous hugging either.”

  The consequence for this trespass was so well understood that nobody—not dear Ada, not Lord Ramsdale in his cups, not Philippe’s mistresses, back when he’d had bothered to keep mistresses—had dared transgress on Philippe’s person once the title had befallen him.

  Harriet Talbot dared. She alone failed to heed that stone tablet, ever, and thus with her, Philippe was free to pretend the rules didn’t apply to him.

  She was a fierce hugger, wrapping him in a long, tight embrace that conveyed welcome, reproach for his absence, protectiveness, and—as a postscript noted by Philippe’s unruly male nature—a surprising abundance of curves.

  Harriet was unselfconscious about those curves, which was to be expected when she and Philippe had known each other for more than twenty years.

  “You do not approve of Lord Dudley,” Philippe said. “Did he insult one of your horses?”

  “He’ll ruin one my horses,” Harriet replied, taking a seat on the saddle room’s sofa.

  Philippe didn’t have to ask permission to sit in her company, she didn’t ring for tea in a frantic haste—there being no bell pulls in horse barns, thank the heavenly intercessors—nor tug her décolletage down with all the discretion of a fishmonger hawking a load of haddock.

  “Then why sell Dudley the beast in the first place?” Philippe did not particularly care about the horse, but Harriet did. She cared about horses to the exclusion of all else, or so Philippe sometimes thought.

  He’d never seen her hug a horse, though.

  “I will sell my darling Utopia,” Harriet said, “because his lordship has coin and needed a mount for a lady, and Papa has horses to sell and needs that coin.”

  Never had the Creator fashioned a more average female than Harry Talbot. She was medium height, brown-haired, blue-eyed, a touch on the sturdy side, and without significant airs or gr
aces. She did not, to Philippe’s knowledge, sing beautifully, excel at the pianoforte, paint lovely watercolors, or embroider wonderfully.

  She smelled of horses, told the truth, and hugged him on sight, and to perdition with beautiful, excellent, lovely, and wonderful.

  “Do you have reason to believe the lady who will ride the horse is incompetent in the saddle?” Philippe asked.

  “I have no idea, but his lordship is a terrible rider. All force and power, no thought for the horse, no sense of how to manage his own weight. He rides by shouting orders at the horse and demanding blind obedience.”

  Women criticized faithless lovers with less bitterness than Harriet expressed toward Dudley’s riding.

  “He might return the horse,” Philippe said. “He might pass the horse on to the lady after all.”

  “I live in hope,” Harry said, sounding anything but hopeful. “How are you?”

  To anybody else, Philippe could have offered platitudes about the joys of the Berkshire countryside at harvest, the pleasure of rural quiet after London’s madness.

  This was Harriet. “Coming home at this time of year is both sad and difficult, but here is where I must be. At least I get to see you.”

  “Papa will invite you to dinner.”

  This was a warning of some sort. “And I will accept.”

  “You need not. Papa will understand.”

  Philippe hated that Harriet would understand. “I’ll even bring along Lord Ramsdale, because you are one of few people who can coax him to smile.”

  “The earl is a very agreeable gentleman.” Harriet affected a pious tone, at odds with the laughter in her gaze.

  “The earl is a trial to anybody of refined sensibilities. How is your father?”

  They chatted comfortably, until the wheels of Lord Dudley’s phaeton crunched on the gravel drive beyond the saddle room’s windows, and the snap of his whip punctuated the early afternoon quiet.

  The sound caused Harriet to close her eyes and bunch her habit in her fists. “If his lordship isn’t careful, some obliging horse will send him into a ditch headfirst.”

  “He’s also prone to dueling and drinking,” Philippe said. “But put him from your thoughts for the nonce, and take me to see your papa.”

  “Of course,” Harriet said, popping to her feet. She never minced, swanned, or sashayed. She marched about, intent on goals and tasks, and had no time for a man’s assistance.

  And yet, some assistance was apparently needed. The roses growing next to the porch were long overdue for pruning, the mirror above the sideboard in the manor’s foyer was dusty, the carpets showing wear. Harriet’s habit was at least four years out of fashion, but then, Harriet had never paid fashion any heed.

  Philippe was shocked to see how much Jackson Talbot had aged in little over a year. Talbot still had the lean height of a steeplechase jockey, his grip was strong, and his voice boomed. Not until Harriet had withdrawn to see about the evening meal did Philippe notice the cane Talbot had hooked over the arm of his chair.

  “You’re good to look in on us,” Talbot said. “Good to look in on me.”

  “I’m paying a call on a pair of people whose company I honestly enjoy,” Philippe said. “Harriet looks to be thriving.”

  She looked… she looked like Harriet. Busy, healthy, pretty if a man took the time to notice, and dear. That dearness was more precious than Philippe wanted to admit. He’d come home because duty required it of him, but seeing Harriet made the trial endurable.

  “Harriet is doing the work of three men,” Talbot said, “and she thinks because my eyesight is going that I don’t notice. I notice, damn the girl, but she doesn’t listen any better than her mother did.”

  That was another difference. Talbot’s eyes, always startlingly blue against his weathered features, had faded, the left more than the right. Talbot held his head at a slight angle, and his desk had been moved closer to the window.

  “Women are prone to worrying,” Philippe said.

  “Now that is an eternal verity, sir. Harriet will fret over that mare, for example, though Lord Dudley’s no more ham-handed than many of his ilk. Will you have time to join us for dinner before you must away back to London?”

  “Of course. I’ve brought Ramsdale along, lest he fall foul of the matchmakers while my back is turned.”

  “Man knows how to sit a horse, meaning no disrespect.”

  This birching of Philippe’s conscience was as predictable as Harriet’s outdated fashions, but far less endearing. “Talbot, don’t start.”

  “Hah. You may play the duke on any other stage, but I know what it costs you to eschew the saddle. You were a natural, just like your brother. You’d pick it back up in no time.”

  “All my brother’s natural talent didn’t keep him from falling to his death, did it?” The silence became awkward, then bitter, then guilty. “I’m sorry, Talbot. I know you mean well. I’ll be going, and if you send an invitation over to the Hall, expect me to be on better behavior when I accept it. I can’t vouch for Ramsdale’s deportment, but Harriet seems to enjoy keeping him in line.”

  Perhaps Harriet was sweet on Ramsdale. She liked big, dumb beasts. Ramsdale might have agreed to this frolic in the countryside because he was interested in Talbot’s daughter.

  Ramsdale was devious like that, very good at keeping his own counsel—and he rode like demon.

  “No need to get in all in a lather,” Talbot said. “Young people are idiots. My Dora always said so. Let’s say dinner on Tuesday.”

  He braced his hands on the blotter as if to push to his feet, and that too, was a change.

  Not for the better. “No need to get up,” Philippe said. “Bargaining with Dudley was doubtless tiring. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Until Tuesday,” Talbot said, settling back into his chair. “And do bring along the earl. He’s the only man I know who can make Harriet blush.”

  Talbot shuffled a stack of papers as if putting them in date order, while Philippe took himself back to the front door. A sense of betrayal followed him, of having found a childhood haven collapsing in on itself. He’d always been happy in the Talbot household, had always felt like himself, not like the ducal spare, and then—heaven help him—the heir.

  Harriet emerged from the corridor that led to the kitchen, a riding crop in her hand. “You’re going already?”

  Was she relieved, disappointed, or neither? “I have orders to return on Tuesday evening with Ramsdale in tow. Where are you off to?”

  “I have another pair of two-year-olds to work in hand. I’ll walk you out.”

  Philippe retrieved his hat from the sideboard. “You train them yourself?” When had this started?

  “The lads have enough to do, and Lord Dudley’s visit put us behind. The horses like routine, and I like the horses.”

  She pulled driving gloves out of her pocket, and eyed the horse waiting for her in the arena as Philippe walked with her down the drive. Already, she was assessing the beast’s mood, taking in details of his grooming.

  Philippe hadn’t seen Harriet for more than year, had scanned every letter from Ada for details regarding the Talbots, and had missed Harriet more than was comfortable.

  She paused with him by the gate to the arena. “You walked over?”

  “Of course. Most of the distance is along the bridle path, and Berkshire has no prettier walk.”

  “Well, then, have a pleasant ramble home. I’ll look forward to seeing you on Tuesday.”

  She was eager to get back to work, clearly. Eager to spend the next hour marching around in the sand, her side pressed to the sweaty flank of a pea-brained, flatulent horse.

  Of whom, Philippe was unreasonably jealous.

  The least Philippe could do was give Harriet something to think about between now and Tuesday besides horses. He leaned close, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and lingered long enough to whisper.

  “Until next we meet, don’t work too hard.” Up close, she smelled not of horse, bu
t of roses, and surprise.

  Her gloved hand went to her cheek. “Until Tuesday, Your Grace.”

  Now here was a cheering bit of news: Ramsdale was not the only fellow who could make Harriet Talbot blush. Philippe offered a bow and a tip of his hat, and went jaunting on his way.

  Order your copy of The Duke’s Bridle Path!