9 months left until BAD BOYS AHOY! is released. *g*

Excerpt from HER MAD GRACE:

Rotting.

To Hugh La Coeur’s mind that was the most apt description for the moldering mansion on the hill. Usually the bright white of newly fallen snow brought a peaceful serenity to the landscape. Not so with this property. Even the pristine beauty of winter could not hide the neglect apparent in everything about the place.

He hesitated a moment, taking in the view with a disgusted snort. Ominous clouds roiled above him, but the sky was darkening for another reason–the day was ending. Thoughts of returning the way he’d come, through the snow and without light, forced Hugh to proceed. If his need were less dire, he’d ride on in search of a more hospitable looking home. But he was desperate and the curling smoke rising from the manor’s chimneys told him the place was inhabited. Help was at hand and he couldn’t ignore it, no matter how much he desired to.

He tied his mount, one of his prized carriage bays, to the metal ring protruding from a nearby stone pillar. At one time the pillar had held up the park gate, but not any longer. One side of the gate remained upright, while the other leaned precariously atop the frozen ground.

“Atrocious,” Hugh muttered to his horse, as he edged his way through the opening and started the long walk up the drive to the main house.

He glanced around with morbid fascination. It was easy to imagine how beautiful the property must have been once, a source of pride for its noble occupants. But fate had dealt a cruel blow to the peer and family who owned the place. It had obviously gone without maintenance for many years. Vines, long dead, crawled over the brick exterior. Places where paint had once brightened the façade now peeled and warped from lack of care.

The wind picked up and soft, powdery snow began to swirl around Hugh’s polished Hessians. His hair blew across his forehead, his hat long lost in a ditch. The storm would be upon them soon. His legs lengthened their stride. He would have to hurry.

Reaching the door, Hugh banged the tarnished lion head knocker. The sound echoed eerily and he shook off the shivers. He was an earl, for Christ’s sake! The esteemed, if slightly scandalous, Earl of Montrose, an ancient title which carried a wealth of prestige. His station should place him above such childish fears. But frankly, the place looked haunted and the forgotten air that surrounded the hall filled him with foreboding.

He almost fled, blizzard be damned, when the door creaked open with torturous slowness. A stooped butler, as decrepit as the manse in which he worked, stood in the doorway.

“Aye?” the old man queried in a gravelly voice.

Hugh handed over his card. “Is the lord of the manor at home?”

The butler squinted at the lettering. He lifted the card to an oddly protruding eye, and then dropped his hand with a grunt. The servant gestured wildly behind him. “Ye’ll find ‘im in the cemetery out back.”

Before Hugh could blink, the door was swinging with lightning speed toward his face. Moving with a pugilist’s quick ease, he slipped into the hall before the door slammed shut. The butler turned, bumped into his chest, and shrieked in terror.

Rolling his eyes, Hugh steadied the frail man. “Listen, old chap. My desire to be here is far less than your desire to have me here. I require some assistance. If you provide it, I can be on my way.”

The butler studied him closely with his oversized blue eye. “What ye be needin’, gov’na?”

“You may address me as my lord,” Hugh corrected with a pointed look at his calling card, presently being crushed in the butler’s hand. “What is your name?”

The servant sniffled. “Artemis.”

“Very well, Artemis. Are there any other men about the place?” Hugh glanced around. “Men preferably capable of physical exertion.”

Artemis studied him with blatant suspicion. “’enry. ‘e’s a strapping lad what runs the stables. And Tom, ‘e ‘elps Cook wiv the vittles.”

“Excellent.” Hugh released a sigh of relief. “Would it be possible to find decent horseflesh around here?” Even as he asked, he knew it was asking too much, given the sight of the place.

“O’ course!” the old man cried, affronted. “’er Grace ‘as the finest ‘orses you’ll ever see!”

Hugh stilled, his mind rapidly disseminating the information he’d gathered so far. His Grace lay in the cemetery, which left Her Grace widowed. There weren’t many duchesses, hardly any that were widowed, and only one he was aware of that would claim ownership to a sorry place such as this—

“’Her Mad Grace’?” Of all the damnable luck!

“’ere now!” Artemis complained. “We don’t take kindly to that nonsense ‘round ‘ere!”

Hugh cleared his throat. He was leaving. Now. “Well, I’m certain Her Grace wouldn’t mind at all if I borrowed her-”

“Ye can’t just barge in ‘ere and run off wiv ‘er Grace’s ‘orses.” The old man straightened as best he could. “Ye’ll ‘ave to ask ‘er first!”

“Ask her? Good God, she’s in residence here?” The place wasn’t fit for man or beast, let alone a duchess.

“O’ course. Where else would she be?” Artemis snorted.

Hugh arched a brow. “Where else indeed.”