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.

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.
Listen to Chapter 1 of the audiobook!
ABOUT THE BOOK
Title: THE TROUBLE WITH DUKES
Author: Grace Burrowes
Series: Windham Brides, #1
On Sale: December 20, 2016
Publisher: Forever
Mass Market: $7.99 USD
eBook: $6.99 USD
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RAFFLECOPTER
“The hero of THE TROUBLE WITH
DUKES reminds me of Mary Balogh's charming men, and the heroine brings
to mind Sarah MacLean's intelligent, fiery women... This is a wonderfully
funny, moving romance, not to be missed!” —Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling
author of My American Duchess
“Grace Burrowes writes from the heart--with warmth, humor, and a
generous dash of sensuality, her stories are unputdownable! If you're not
reading Grace Burrowes you're missing the very best in today's Regency
Romance!” —Elizabeth Hoyt, New York Times bestselling author
“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
“THE TROUBLE WITH DUKES
is captivating! It has everything I love in a book--a sexy Scotsman, a charming
heroine, witty banter, plenty of humor, and lots of heart.” —Jennifer Ashley, New York Times bestselling author of The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
The Trouble With Dukes, #1
Too Scot To Handle, #2
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 or her social channels.
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