Title: THE TROUBLE WITH DUKES
Author: Grace Burrowes
Series: Windham Brides, #1
On Sale: Dec 20, 2016
Publisher: Forever
“Sexy heroes, strong heroines, intelligent plots, enchanting love stories...Grace Burrowes's romances have them all.” –Mary Balogh, New York Times bestselling author
“THE TROUBLE WITH DUKES has everything Grace Burrowes's many fans have come to adore: a swoonworthy hero, a strong heroine, humor, and passion. Her characters not only know their own hearts, but share them with fearless joy. Grace Burrowes is a romance treasure.” –Tessa Dare, New York Times bestselling author.
This first novel in a new Regency series from USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes is a spinoff of her highly popular Windham series.
THEY CALL HIM THE DUKE OF MURDER...
The gossips whisper that the new Duke of Murdoch is a brute, a murderer, and even worse--a Scot. They say he should never be trusted alone with a woman. But Megan Windham sees in Hamish something different, someone different.
No one was fiercer at war than Hamish MacHugh, though now the soldier faces a whole new battlefield: a London Season. To make his sisters happy, he'll take on any challenge--even letting their friend Miss Windham teach him to waltz. Megan isn't the least bit intimidated by his dark reputation, but Hamish senses that she's fighting battles of her own. For her, he'll become the warrior once more, and for her, he might just lose his heart.
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Q&A
1. Was there a specific part in the book that you had an especially difficult time writing? If so, why?
The middle of a novel is supposed to be the most challenging part to write, but for me, it was working out the ending of The Trouble With Dukes. Hamish and Megan are two fundamentally competent people, but both are lugging around problems that resulted from being too virtuous—too loyal, in Hamish’s case; too trusting, in Megan’s. And yet, I wanted them to realize that being loyal and trusting isn’t an issue in itself—they just had to choose the right people in whom to place their faithfulness and trust…. And that would be each other, of course. How to show that on the page wasn’t immediately obvious to me.
2. Was there any particular research that you did for this book?
I spent some time trying to figure out what exactly formal Highland attire would have been in the 1820s, and that’s a hard question to answer. Fortunately, George IV’s visit to Scotland inspired not only interest in traditional Highland dress, but also a lot of portraiture portraying same. I found more variety than I’d anticipated, including some versions of the kilt that came perilously close to resembling miniskirts!
3. Where do you get your ideas?
From the problems in life I’ve had the hardest time solving, the betrayals that hurt the most. Romance is character-driven fiction, and what drives the characters is usually an unresolved wound. I can’t figure out how to corner a character into facing that wound unless I know what the hurt is. Ergo, personal experience is a useful point of departure. I start by asking myself, “Where and when did it hurt? Why? What would have helped?” and so forth.
4. How much of the book, if any, is inspired by personal experience?
Great minds are thinking alike! I was born cross-eyed, like many babies, but I was severely cross-eyed. The pediatrician told my mother not to worry about it, but she was a mother of six at that point, also a registered nurse. She knew enough to ignore that advice and worry about it. Because Mom was tireless about finding me a competent ophthalmologist, I wore glasses from infancy on. I’m still all but non-functional without glasses now. I know that sense of utter frustration when I can’t find my glasses, and the unease of seeing somebody handle them cavalierly.
5. If you could give your hero and heroine any advice at the start of "THE TROUBLE WITH DUKES", what would you tell them and why?
I would tell them they are deserving of love and loyalty, and to never, never, never give up on their love. Not even on page
337.
EXCERPT
“I don’t
want any damned dukedom, Mr. Anderson,” Hamish MacHugh said softly.
Colin
MacHugh took to studying the door to Neville Anderson’s office, for when Hamish
spoke that quietly, his siblings knew to locate the exits.
The
solicitor’s establishment boasted deep Turkey carpets, oak furniture, and red
velvet curtains. The standish and ink bottles on Anderson’s desk were silver,
the blotter a thick morocco leather. Portraits of well-fed, well-powdered
Englishmen adorned the walls.
Hamish
felt as if he’d walked into an ambush, as if these old lords and knights were
smirking down at the fool who’d blundered into their midst. Beyond the office
walls, harnesses jingled to the tune of London happily about its business,
while Hamish’s heart beat with a silent tattoo of dread.
“I am at
your grace’s service,” Anderson murmured, from his side of the massive desk,
“and eager to hear any explanations your grace cares to bestow.”
The
solicitor, who’d been retained by Hamish’s late grandfather decades before
Hamish’s birth, was like a midge. Swat at Anderson, curse him, wave him off,
threaten flame and riot, and he still hovered nearby, relentlessly annoying.
The
French infantry had had the same qualities.
“I am
not a bloody your grace,” Hamish said. Thanks be to the clemency of the
Almighty.
“I do
beg your grace’s—your pardon,” Anderson replied, soft white hands folded on his
blotter. “Your great-great aunt Minerva married the third son of the fifth Duke
of Murdoch and Tingley, and while the English dukedom must, regrettably fall
prey to escheat, the Scottish portion of the title, due to the more, er,
liberal patents common to Scottish nobility, devolves to yourself.”
Devolving
was one of those English undertakings that prettied up a load of shite.
Hamish
rose, and for reasons known only to the English, Anderson popped to his feet as
well.
“Devolve the
peregrinating title to some other poor sod,” Hamish said.
Colin’s staring match with the lintel of Anderson’s
door had acquired the quality of man trying to hold in a fart—or laughter.
“I am sorry, your—sir,” Anderson said, looking about
as sorry as Hamish’s sisters on the way to the milliner’s, “but titles land
where they please, and there they stay. The only way out from under a title is
death, and then your brother here would become duke in your place.”
Colin’s smirk winked out like a candle in a gale.
“What if I die?”
“I believe there are several younger siblings,”
Anderson said, “should death befall you both.”
“But this title is Hamish’s as long as he’s alive,
right?” Colin was not quite as large as Hamish. What little Colin lacked in
height, he made up for in brawn and speed.
“That is correct,” Anderson said, beaming like
headmaster when a dull scholar had finally grasped his first Latin conjugation.
“In the normal course, a celebratory tot would be in order, gentlemen. The
title does bring responsibilities, but your great-great aunt and her late
daughter were excellent businesswomen. I’m delighted to tell you that the Murdoch
holdings prosper.”
Worse and worse. The gleeful wiggle of Anderson’s
eyebrows meant prosper translated
into “made a stinking lot of money, much of which would find its way into a
solicitor’s greedy English paws.”
“If my damned lands prosper, my bachelorhood is
doomed,” Hamish muttered. Directly behind Anderson’s desk hung a picture of
some duke, and the old fellow’s sour expression spoke eloquently to the
disposition a title bestowed on its victim. “I’d sooner face old Boney’s guns
again than be landed, titled, wealthy, and unwed at the beginning of London
season. Colin, we’re for home by week’s end.”
“Fine notion,” Colin said. “Except Edana will kill
you and Rhona will bury what’s left of you. Then the title will hang about my
neck, and I’ll have to dig you up and kill you all over again.”
Siblings were God’s joke on a peace-loving man.
Anderson had retreated behind his desk, as if a mere half ton of oak could
protect a puny English solicitor from a pair of brawling MacHughs.
Clever solicitors might be, canny they were not.
“Then we simply tell no one about this title,” Hamish
said. “We tend to Eddie and Ronnie’s dress shopping, and then we’re away home,
nobody the wiser.”
Dress shopping, Edana had said, as if the only place
in the world to procure fashionable clothing was London. She’d cried, she’d
raged, she’d threatened to run off—until Colin had saddled her horse and
stuffed the saddle bags with provisions.
Then she’d threatened to become an old maid, haunting
her brothers’ households in turn, and Hamish, on pain of death from his younger
brothers, had ordered the traveling coach into service.
“Eddie hasn’t found a man yet, and neither has
Ronnie,” Colin observed. “They’ve been here less than two weeks. We can’t go
home.”
“You can’t,” Hamish countered. “I’m the duke. I must
see to my properties. I’ll be halfway to Yorkshire by tomorrow. I doubt Eddie
and Ronnie will content themselves with Englishmen, but they’re welcome to
torment a few in my absence. A bored woman is a dangerous creature.”
“You’d leave tomorrow?” Colin slugged Hamish on the
arm, hard. Anderson flinched, while Hamish picked up his walking stick and
headed for the door.
“Your pugilism needs work, little brother. I’ve
neglected your education.”
“You can’t leave me alone here with Eddie and
Ronnie.” Colin had switched to the Gaelic, a fine language for keeping family
business from nosy solicitors. “I’m only one man, and there’s two of them.
They’ll be making ropes of the bedsheets, selling your good cigars to other
young ladies again, and investigating the charms of the damned Englishmen
mincing about in the park. Who knows what other titles their indiscriminate
choice of husband might inflict on your grandchildren.”
Hamish had not objected to the cigar selling scheme.
He’d objected to his sisters stealing from him rather than sharing the proceeds
with their own dear brother. He also objected to the notion of grandchildren
when he’d yet to take a wife.
“I’ll blame you
if we end up with English brothers-in-law, wee Colin.” Hamish smiled evilly,
though he counted a particular few Englishmen among his friends.
A staring match ensued, with Colin trying to look
fierce—he had the family red hair and blue eyes, after all—and mostly looking
worried. Colin was soft-hearted where the ladies were concerned, and that fact
was all that cheered Hamish on an otherwise daunting morning.
Hope rose, like the clarion call of the pipes through
the smoke and noise the battlefield: While Eddie and Ronnie inspected the
English peacocks strutting about Mayfair, Hamish might find a peahen willing to
take advantage of Colin’s affectionate nature.
Given Colin’s lusty inclinations, the union would be
productive inside a year, and the whole sorry business of a ducal succession
would be taken care of.
Hamish’s fist connected with his brother’s shoulder,
sending Colin staggering back a few steps, muttering in Gaelic about goats and
testicles.
“I’ll bide here in the muck pit of civilization,”
Hamish said, in English, “until Eddie
and Ronnie have their fripperies, but Anderson, I’m warning you. Nobody is to
learn of this dukedom business. Not a soul, or I’ll know which English
solicitor needs to make St. Peter’s acquaintance posthaste. Ye ken?”
Anderson nodded, his gaze fixed on Hamish’s right
hand. “You will receive correspondence, sir.”
Hamish’s hand hurt and his head was starting to
throb. “Try being honest, man. I was in the army. I know all about correspondence. By correspondence, you
mean a bloody snowstorm of paper, official documents, and sealed instruments.”
Hamish knew about death too, and about sorrow. The
part of him hoping to marry Colin off in the next month—and Eddie and Ronnie
too—grappled with the vast sorrow of homesickness, and the unease of remaining
for even another day among the scented dandies and false smiles of polite
society.
“Very good, your grace. Of course you’re right. A
snowstorm, some of which will be from the College of Arms, some from your
peers, some of condolence, all of which my office would be happy—”
Hamish waved Anderson to silence, and as if Hamish
were one of those Hindoo snake pipers, the solicitor’s gaze followed the motion
of his hand.
“The official documents can’t be helped,” Hamish
said, “but letters of condolence needn’t concern anybody. You’re not to say a
word,” he reminded Anderson. “Not a peep, not a yes-your-grace, not a hint of
an insinuation is to pass your lips.”
Anderson was still nodding vigorously when Hamish
shoved Colin through the door.
Though, of course, the news was all over Town by
morning.
Grace Burrowes grew up in central Pennsylvania and is the sixth out of seven children. She discovered romance novels when in junior high (back when there was such a thing), and has been reading them voraciously ever since. Grace has a bachelor's degree in political science, a bachelor of music in music history, (both from Pennsylvania State University); a master's degree in conflict transformation from Eastern Mennonite University; and a juris doctor from the National Law Center at the George Washington University. Grace writes Georgian, Regency, Scottish Victorian, and contemporary romances in both novella and novel lengths. She's a member of Romance Writers of America, and enjoys giving workshops and speaking at writers' conferences. She also loves to hear from her readers, and can be reached through her website,www.graceburrowes.com.
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