wounded hero

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Spotlight on A Duke at the Door

Who’s afraid of the wild duke?

Alwyn Ap Lewin, Duke of Llewellyn, swears he’ll never shift into his lion Shape for as long as he lives. He spent decades as a captive in a traveling menagerie, and he won’t risk being caged again. But the longer he denies his other half, the more his health declines, and the farther he hides himself away. The denizens of Lowell Close live in fear and suspicion of the mysterious duke—except for lady apothecary Tabitha Barrington.

After traveling the Continent for years, Tabitha is struggling to settle in Lowell Close and the prince regent’s insistence she care for the sullen duke only adds to the tension. By treating him as she would anyone else—and not as though he needs special attention—Tabitha begins to gain the duke’s very reluctant interest. And the more Alwyn sees both Tabitha’s gifts for helping everyone in the village as well as her kind and courageous heart, the more he realizes that he has something to live for after all.

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An excerpt from A DUKE AT THE DOOR

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Note: The word versipellian relates to versipellis, which is Latin for ‘two skins’; it is how the Shapeshifters refer to themselves.

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Lady apothecary Miss Tabitha Barrington sets out to search for healing herbs in the park of her new home, Lowell Hall. Who knows what else she might find…

Once she and Timothy settled in the cottage, Tabitha sent His Grace several notes via eager footmen, of which Lowell had an inordinate amount. She hesitated to knock upon the ducal door, as humble as it was, but if the part of the park she now wandered brought her near to Llewellyn’s sanctuary, then what of it? She had yet to investigate this particular grove—who knew what she would find?

Today, she found a duke.

A rustle in the shrubbery alerted Tabitha to his presence, and the rising sun cast just enough light through the trees to reveal Llewellyn’s shadow. “Your Grace.” Would she curtsy in the middle of a wood? No, she would not. “Good morning.”

His husky voice rumbled from the perimeter. “You ought not to wander without thought to what lurks on this land.”

That would be you, she thought. Lurking. “It is a paradox.” She set down her trug and took stock of the place. “For even though the beings here are dangerous to humans, this may be the safest place on earth. Or one of them. I do not know if this is typical of versipellian culture, to bring together a variety of species to live as one…” She trailed off at the sight of—was that—oh! Digitalis! She slid her shears out of a pocket and reached to stroke the bell of the nearest plant.

“Do not!” the duke very nearly shouted, his vocal cords not equal to the strain.

Tabitha snipped off a stalk of the foxglove before laying it in the trug. “It is only somewhat poisonous.”

“Under prolonged contact, it is more than somewhat.”

“I am taking only one. Two.” She hummed in consideration. “Three at the most.”

“You ought to wear gloves.” His eyesight was all it was vaunted to be if he could tell in this low light.

“They interfere with my perception.”

“Of what.” Another rustle, this time from her right side. Goodness, he was fast.

“The health of the plant, the state of the soil…” She balked at admitting the fanciful notion that she could feel effectiveness or otherwise from what she touched and chose two more blooms.

A rumble of disagreement issued from between the leaves. “Gloves made of lambskin would suit.”

“The porousness of kid would defeat the purpose.” Tabitha set one last stalk into her trug.

“A trowel, then, for the love of Palu.” His Grace moved fully into the glade, dressed this morning like a common laborer, in a formless coat and a muslin shirt hanging outside his trousers.

“A blunt instrument?”

“You may gauge the plant by eye and then touch the soil.”

“Why should I uproot it, if it is not useful?”

“You may return it to its place! With the trowel!”

Tabitha could not stop herself: she smiled at him. How masculine he sounded in that moment, how like a man, exasperated at what he surely thought was feminine obstreperousness. He looked incredulous and irritated and…alive. She’d pat him on the cheek if she didn’t think he’d snarl or run off. Or…or bite her. Instead, she asked, “Who is Palu?” and turned away; he appeared to be discomfited by prolonged observance.

“A Welsh cat of legend, a goddess attached to my homeplace who protects those in her care from danger. What are you going to do with that plant?”

She would ask Timothy if he knew anything about Welsh mythological cats. “It is, of course, helpful for congested hearts. But an Italian apothecary showed me that the merest pinch in chamomile tea is a gentle purgative.”

“I cannot believe even the smallest amount of poison is safe.”

“Neither did I, until I witnessed how effective it was.”

“Witnessed.”

“Yes. Saw the results of its efficacy.”

“Tried it yourself, I wager.” This was delivered in a tone that had a lightness to it, perhaps of laughter?

“I cannot ask anyone to ingest something I would not.” Tabitha was staunch in this viewpoint. “It was enough work earning the trust of others thanks to perceptions of the weakness of my gender.”

“Others.” His voice came from the opposite side of the grove. His nimbleness was truly astonishing. How swift would he be at full strength? “Men.”

“Men, yes. And certain women. Some ladies preferred my counsel to that of a male physician, but many more would hear my advice and then allow a man to negate it. It was a waste of everyone’s time, mine and theirs.”

“The healing goddesses of the Celts are fierce. One does not call upon them for aid unless one is willing to be transformed utterly.” The duke had moved again, swifter than thought, and stepped farther into the light. “Ceridwen is one such, and we felines also call upon the Egyptian pantheon, and thus, Sekhmet.”

“How fascinating. So many gods and goddesses to invoke.”

“Gods and goddesses, indifferent to my dilemma—” He cut himself off, visibly appalled at what he had almost admitted.

She would lose him if she pursued that line of thought. “The wolves follow the Romans, whom my brother Timothy says borrowed their pantheon and the terms for the pack hierarchy from the Greeks.”

“Stole them, more like. Although, in truth, many on this island descend from ancient Rome. The wolves will do anything to hold sway.”

“And by the Duke of Lowell doing so, many are safe under his aegis.”

“As you and your brother are safe.” The duke canted his head, assessing her. “You do not strike me as one who seeks safety.”

“Who does not seek safety?”

“One who casually imbibes poison,” he mumbled.

Meet Susanna Allen

Susanna’s latest series, The Shapeshifters of the Beau Monde, also includes A Wolf in Duke’s Clothing, first in the series and A Most Unusual Duke, the beloved middle child.

Writing as Susan Conley, she is the author of two contemporary novels with Irish interest: Drama Queen and The Fidelity Project, both published by Headline UK; That Magic Mischief, a contemporary paranormal romance originally published by Crimson Romance, relaunched with Ally Press in September 2021.

Her memoir, Many Brave Fools: A Story of Addiction, Dysfunction, Codependency… and Horses is published by Trafalgar Square Books and recounts the growth and insights she acquired after having taken up horse riding as an adult, post-divorce.

She was born in New Jersey and is currently resident in Ireland.

Susanna Tweets and Instas and TikToks @SusannaAWriter, Facebooks at https://www.facebook.com/SusannaAWriter, and maintains a presence on BookBub and Goodreads. Follow her, if you are so inclined!

 

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Book blurbs in WIP Wednesday

My work in progress is making great progress! I’ve finished taking in the copy edits from the lovely Reina, given it a final proof, and made some changes to the cover. (It now says The Return of the Mountain King as the series title, for one thing.)

I’ve also rewritten the blurb, and that’s my excerpt for today. Next step, finalise the layout files and put them up in the retailers! Launch date is only a fortnight away.

Ruth Winderfield is miserable in London’s ballrooms, where her family’s wealth and questions over her birth make her a target for the unscrupulous and a pariah to the high-sticklers. Trained as a healer, she is happiest in a sickroom. When a smallpox epidemic traps her at the remote manor of a reclusive lord, the last thing she expects is to find her heart’s desire.

Valentine, Earl of Ashbury, was carried home from war three years ago, unconscious, a broken man. He woke to find his family in ruins, his faithless wife and treacherous brother dead, his family’s two girl children exiled to school. He becomes a near recluse while he spends his days trying to restore the estate, or at least prevent further crumbling.

When an impertinent, bossy female turns up with several sick children, including the two girls, he reluctantly gives them shelter. Unable to stand by and watch the suffering, he begins to help with the nursing, while he falls irrevocably for both girls and the lovely Ruth.

The epidemic over, Ruth and Val part ways, each reluctant to share how they feel without a sign from the other. Ruth returns to her family and the ton. Val begins to build a new life centred on his girls. But danger to Ruth is a clarion call Val cannot ignore. If they can stop the villains determined to destroy them, perhaps the hermit and the healer can mend one another’s hearts.

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Random thoughts on WIP Wednesday

I often have random scenes playing themselves out in my head, not just from the books I’m currently writing but from books I’m not going to write for a while. Do you do that? Share an excerpt in the comments from a scene that’s in your head and not yet on paper.

Mine is from the Redepenning book after next, and it might be the beginning. Or I might begin with a scene from Valeria.

Harry sat drinking a coffee and pretending to read a book while the abyss hovered, a seething mass of black memories, with tendrils of despair ever reaching, and ever having to be beaten back so he could pretend that all was normal.

The abyss, rather than the lingering weakness from his wounds, was the true reason he was still staying at his father’s townhouse instead of finding rooms nearer to the barracks. The need to mimic a well man before Brigadier General Lord Redepenning dragged him from bed every morning, and gave him a motive to keep the darkness at bay for another day.

Lord Henry was on the other side of the library study reading the files and letters sent over from the horse guard. He pretended, too. He and Harry both knew that he worked here rather than his office at the Horse Guard for fear of leaving his eldest son to his own devices, rather than because of the encroachments of age. If neither spoke of it, it did not have to be faced.

”Harry.” An odd note in Father’s voice sparked a thread of interest. Father was holding out to him the letter in his hand. “Tell me what you think of this.”

Harry set down the book and his cup and crossed the room, standing beside the desk to scan the two pages.

He’d not completed the first paragraph before he collapsed into the nearest chair. “A widow? She thinks I’m dead?” A few lines more and he lifted his head, meeting his father’s eyes. “I have a son? Father! I have a son.”

”And, it seems, a wife you acquired in Spain five years ago and never mentioned,” Father replied.

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Danger on WIP Wednesday

This week, I’m inviting your excerpts about moments when danger brings your couple closer or drives them apart. I tend to write romantic suspense, at least in my novels, so my heroes and heroines often face physical danger. But I’d be delighted to see excerpts about other types of risk: scandal, embarrassment, parental disapproval, misunderstanding.

Mine is from The Realm of Silence, and was written yesterday. I hope to have the first draft finished by mid-December, but am not yet predicting a release date in case my plans turn to custard.

Susan startled awake at the sound of a crash, followed by more crashes and bangs. The sound of a fight? She would swear it was within the house, and not far away. She lit a candle, steadying her hand so it didn’t shake in her hurry, and dragged a robe over her night dress. The sound of a shot had her racing to the door. Another crash, definitely just the other side of the wall she faced, the one between the rooms of the house and Hamish’s apartment.

Candles approached her from the servants’ stairs, McMurdo with the housekeeper, Mrs Anderson, behind him, and further up the stair two of the footmen.

“Mrs Anderson, fetch me the key to Mr Cunningham’s apartment. The shot came from there,” Susan commanded, and the housekeeper hurried back up the stairs to her room.

The locked door was a little further down the hall. Before Mrs Anderson could return, it opened, and Hamish put his head out into the hall, blinking a little at the sight of Susan and the three men hurrying towards him.

“Send someone to fetch a doctor, Cousin. Lord Rutledge has been shot.”

For a moment, Susan felt a rushing in her head and the world swam, but she took a deep breath. No time for nonsense. “He is not…?”

Hamish looked surprised at the half-question. “A glancing shot. He is not badly hurt, he says.” He disappeared back into the apartment, leaving the door open behind him.

He says. So he is not dead. She gave the order for the doctor and hurried after Hamish.

Gil was sitting on the edge of his bed, being helped into a pair of trousers. Susan hastily averted her eyes and turned her back, but not before seeing a pair of long muscular legs marred on the left by a ropy scar. The man had clearly been naked when he was shot. Did he sleep that way? The brief glimpse she’d had of his masculine equipment was etched into her brain.

“Susan, you should not be here,” Hamish fussed.

Susan ignored him. “Where are you hurt, Gil?”

“You can look if you wish, now that I have my trousers on.” She would also ignore the infernal man’s amusement at her embarrassment, especially when he went on to assure her, “It’s just a scrape. It knocked me backwards for a moment, or I would have had him.”

“Let me look.” The wound was clear, even in the candle light and from across the room. The bullet had struck the fleshy part of his upper arm, which seeped a trail of blood down towards Gil’s elbow.

Gil stood as she approached, and Hamish stepped in her way.

“We should wait for the doctor, cousin Susan,” he insisted. “And it is most inappropriate for you to be in a gentleman’s bed chamber.”

Susan had no time for such nonsense. “Gil, sit down before you fall down. This is no time to fuss about propriety, Hamish.”

She moved her cousin to one side, and examined the arm Gil presented for her inspection. “Hmm. Yes. It seems to have missed anything vital, but the bullet is still in the wound and will need to be removed. What happened?”

“I could do with a brandy. And some more clothes,” Gil prevaricated.

Hamish clearly sympathised, since he gave the order to the manservant. “Pass Lord Rutledge his robe, Mendles, and then fetch him some brandy.” The manservant obeyed, fetching a brightly coloured banyan from where it lay on a chair.

Susan capitulated, reflecting that Gil’s naked chest a few inches from her face was not conducive to focus.

“Oh very well.” She stopped Mendles before he could hurry out of the room. “I’ll need a clean cloth to cover the wound before that robe goes over his shoulder.” She turned back to Gil. “My sister-in-law Ella swears keeping wounds clean reduces the risk of infection. It is fortunate you were unclothed when he shot you, Rutledge. No dirty pieces of cloth in the wound.”

Gil managed a facsimile of a smile. “My manservant would be offended to hear you imply my clothing is unclean, Susan.”

Mendles passed her a pad made from clean handkerchiefs and then several strips of linen to bind it in place, and Susan bent to the work.

“There,” she said, after several moments. “That should be comfortable enough until the doctor arrives. Do you feel well enough to tell us what happened?”

Gill shrugged. “Not much to tell. I woke to find someone searching through my satchel. I called out, and he turned a gun on me. He wanted the note from the girls; the one they left at Newcastle. I told him I had thrown it away, but he didn’t believe me. He said he’d shoot me if I didn’t hand it over.”

Susan made her displeasure heard on a huff of air, which Gil correctly interpreted.

“I didn’t tell him you had it, Susan, and I’m glad he was the sort of idiot that thinks men can’t trust women, because if he’d tried your room first…”

Susan was having none of such typical wrong-headed male gallantry. “I would have given him the note and would be perfectly well. I suppose you tried to assail him, you foolish man. And him with a gun.”

“A weedy idiot with a big voice, so frightened that his hand shook.” Gil’s voice was laden with scorn. “Of course, I lunged for him. I was as like to get shot by mistake, the way he was trembling. But he pulled the trigger and had better aim than I’d calculated.”

Susan blinked back tears, and could not resist taking Gil’s hand. “Foolishness,” she told him, her voice soft.