Category Archives: Alyssa Alexander

It’s Release Day! Dukes By The Dozen Is Here!

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Today Is The Day!

The greatest and wonderfulest and marvelous-es-est (?) of anthologies is here! Not that I'm biased or anything.

DUKES BY THE DOZEN is officially available on your e-reader of choice as of 12 midnight.

To celebrate, I'm going to offer you a little sample of Duke In Winter below, my contribution to this anthology. But, first, a bit about it.

Thirteen historical romance authors have banded together to provide you a story for every month of the year, plus an extra month for good measure. A baker's dozen of novellas featuring dukes! Every kind of story is here, from broody dukes to mistletoe to capers and, in my case, a bit of Robin Hood re-imagined.

I hope you enjoy!

Don't forget to add DUKES BY THE DOZEN to your Goodreads Shelf!

DUKE IN WINTER

Impeded by a blinding snowstorm, the Duke of Highrow is determined to find his way home. But when the highwayman demanded he stand and deliver, he didn’t know she would steal his heart.

 

EXCERPT:

 

Hunching his shoulders against the bitter wind, Wulf guided his stallion onto the narrow track between the trees. With luck, he would be standing before his own fire before the storm worsened.

“Stand and deliver!” The shout was sharp beneath the swirling snow, echoing between the silent, naked trees.

Cursing, Wulf lifted his forearm to block the white flakes and studied the shadows dancing between the wind-tossed snow.

The highwayman was not ten feet away, sitting atop a horse in the center of the path. His greatcoat swirled in the wind as he raised his arm, the double-barreled pistol he held appearing small and light.

Though size was not indicative of deadliness. The thief held the weapon as straight and steady as any spymaster Wulf had encountered during the Reign of Terror.

“What shall I deliver?” Wulf pitched his voice above the wind and narrowed his eyes, evaluating risk. He kept a pistol in his saddlebags, but he would never be fast enough to beat his opponent.

Still, he took one hand from the reins and slid it onto his thigh. Easily, he hoped, so it would seem natural and not calculated to move closer to the saddlebags.

“You may deliver whatever valuables you have on your person.” Through the eerie, dim, snow-light and thickening flakes, Wulf could distinguish a cap pulled low and a scarf wrapped around the thief’s face that was substantial enough to fight the wind. “Beginning with the winnings in your pockets, sir.”

“Now, how is it you know about the blunt in my pockets?” Wulf leaned casually on the pommel. Considered his adversary.

“A rich nabob like you, coming from a house party? Of course you have blunt.” The man’s jacket was big enough he might swim in it. A local lad, perhaps, fallen on difficult times.

Or the Honorable Highwayman.

Wulf had yet to make the acquaintance of the local legend, though he had heard a great deal about the highwayman’s ill-gained generosity.

“I don’t particularly care to give up my blunt, even for widows and orphans.” Though he was actually quite willing to forgo his winnings for such a cause. “At least not at the end of a pistol,” he continued, attempting to stall.

Another few inches and Wulf would be able to reach his weapon. He shifted again, setting his hand a little closer to the saddlebag.

Wind rattled the branches above them, so they clacked and creaked like brittle bones. Wulf’s stallion sidestepped, pranced a few paces. Using both hands—unfortunately—Wulf brought the animal under control again.

“Very well, Your Grace.” The pistol notched higher, its barrels seeming to stare at Wulf with two dark, round eyes. “Then I shall wound you with the first shot. Perhaps you shall change your mind.”

“Unlikely.” Still, Wulf had lost the precious inches he’d gained reaching for his own weapon. His stallion was edgy, and the storm swirled around them—and the coins and pound notes in his pocket were not worth the effort.

But by God, it was the principle. He’d not spent years dodging the guillotine in France only to be bested by a highwayman a few miles from his home.

The wind sharpened, howled, and in the momentary silence as it died again, Wulf clearly heard a long-suffering sigh.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

The report was deafening, slicing through the silence of snow and night. The already-spooked stallion reared, pawed the air. Even as Wulf recognized the searing pain in his shoulder for what it was, he understood he would not keep his seat.

“Bloody hell!” he cursed, tumbling through flying snow.

When the ground slammed into the back of his head, everything went black.

* * *

She’d shot him. Actually shot him.

“Damnation.” As the sound of panicked horse hooves faded into the night, Bea looked down at her pistol and let out an irritated huff. “Why did you have to pick now to be slippery?”

Her aim was nearly perfect, and she’d never yet wounded any of her intended prey.

Only frightened them.

Bea contemplated the man sprawled on the ground as snow began to blanket his greatcoat. She couldn’t leave him here. Unconscious, wounded, and without a horse, since his had gone running off into the trees.

He was also the Duke of Highrow—a boy she’d known. A man she didn’t.

“Damnation,” she said again, as she saw the stains on the snow. Blood. She didn’t need sunlight to recognize the dark drops dotting the ground.

A Duke-a-licious Sample

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On April 16 (next Tuesday, woo hoo!) DUKES BY THE DOZEN will be live! And to whet your appetite, I’ve got a little sneak peek from of one of the novellas in the anthology. I’ve been sharing on them on my Facebook Page, and playing along in our Dukes By The Dozen Facebook group as well. If you haven’t, be sure to join us for information on giveaways coming up in the next few days!

In the meantime, read below for an excerpt from DEAR DUKE, by Anna Harrington!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2GdQPHB

Barnes & Noble: https://bit.ly/2RUkaPQ

Kobo: https://bit.ly/2Gp6SVs

iBooks: https://apple.co/2TSGiLi

Dear Duke

Anna Harrington

October

John, Duke of Monmouth, has no idea that the anonymous pen pal who has stolen his heart is the same woman standing between him and his new canal…

 

Good God, he was nervous! Surrounded by a sea of masked guests inside Bishopswood’s ballroom, John tugged once more at the sleeves of his black kerseymere jacket.

He nearly laughed at himself. When had he ever been nervous about a woman before in his life? In his younger days, he’d bedded more women than he could remember, sharing in all kinds of pleasures with down-to-earth women from the markets, inns, and villages. In more recent years, he’d been too busy with his business to spend much time in pursuit of the women of the gentility that his new money brought him into contact with. Since he’d inherited, though, it was society ladies who vied to capture his attention, those women who were more than eager to raise their skirts for a wealthy duke. He rejected those ladies outright, knowing he’d find no pleasure in them, because they wanted to be with the title and not with the man.

But the woman who pinned those notes to the tree knew nothing about his title or his status as one of England’s most powerful men. He suspected that she wouldn’t care even if she did. At least he hoped she wouldn’t, preferring the true man he was. God knew how much he liked her.

If she were half as beautiful in person as she was in her letters, he feared that she might also capture his heart.

He snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, more so he could continue to take glances toward the top of the stairs over the rim than for the drink itself. His eyes hadn’t strayed far from the landing all night, although how he would know her when she arrived, costumed and hidden behind her mask, he had no idea. He only prayed that he would. And that she would come at all. When he’d returned to the tree to seek her response, the invitation was gone, but she’d left no reply. Nor did she write even once during the past week.

Since then, he’d kicked himself repeatedly that he’d pressed her to meet, fearing he’d gone too far. Would he ever hear from her again?

Quashing his worry, he watched as the parade of new arrivals appeared on the landing and handed their invitations to the Master of Ceremonies, who announced them based upon their costume. Tonight was a true masquerade, with all identities hidden until the midnight unmasking. He’d insisted on it. For a few precious hours he wanted to be nothing more than one of the crowd, so that he could enjoy the party himself before they set upon him like locusts in their rush to curry his favor. Most of all, he wanted time to enjoy the company of the woman who had written all those letters.

He had no idea what his secret authoress would look like or what costume she’d wear. If she’d appear at all. But he knew he’d feel her presence when she arrived, the way old sailors felt oncoming storms.

White flashed at the top of the stairs. His gaze darted to the landing—

Her.

A low tingle rose inside him as he watched her give her invitation to the Master of Ceremonies. His breath hitched with nervous anticipation despite a soft chuckle to himself as her name was announced. Lady Swan. A graceful, gliding vision in white silk and feathers, one in perfect opposition to the black clothes of his panther, of her softness and elegance to his hardness.

Meeting her gaze across the room, he held out his hand toward her in invitation, as if she were only a few feet from him rather than across the grand ballroom. The party faded away around them until it was only the two of them. No one else in the room mattered.

She drew in a nervous breath, her slender shoulders stiff. Then a smile spread beneath her white satin half-mask, and she moved on, gliding down the remaining stairs and into the crowd which parted around her as she came to him.

Wordlessly, she slipped her trembling hand into his. He raised it to his lips, unable to resist this small kiss, then led her forward to the dance floor, to take her into his arms and twirl her into the waltz.

The Truths I Have Yet To Learn

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I recently turned forty. It’s made me suddenly aware of time and age and maturity (or immaturity).

I certainly don’t mean that I am mature. Heaven forbid.

But I am suddenly aware of the passage of time in a way I was not before, even more so as I just attended a retirement party for friends I could not believe were old enough to retire. That places me just that much closer to retirement as well—a revelation I was unprepared for. Time runs away from you, I suppose.

In my twenties I barely noticed time. I married, played, worked, traveled, played more. Every day was like the next—a cacophony of fun and work and pleasure.

My thirties were concerned with diapers and bottles, daycare and elementary schools, homework and the inevitable chauffeuring to sports events. And writing. I was on maternity leave when I turned thirty, and decided it was time to be a writer or let the dream die. In the words of my wonderful mother, “Shit or get off the pot.”

Now I am forty. “The days are long,” they say. “The years are short.” I look back and wonder what happened to both.

Here I am, wondering what I’ve learned between the ages of twenty and forty. Part of me says nothing.

My awful temper still runs away from me, wreaking verbal havoc. I still have infinite patience for those in need, but none for those who are blinded by hatred or too stupid to look beyond the end of their nose. I have some of the same insecurities—though I have thankfully graduated from others. I still like to have the last word in an argument, which I am trying hard to overcome.

And, dammit, I’m still scared of the dark. Too much imagination for me to get over that one!

What have I learned, then?

Enjoy every single day. Because you don’t know if you have 20,000 days gifted to you, or 30,000 days. And that’s a 27 year difference.

Family is the base of your life, but friends will fulfill you.

Children bring joy and sorrow in equal measure.

Dreams can, and do, come true—if you apply a lot of elbow grease.

You are never as smart (or beautiful or wonderful or talented) as you think you are.

If you blink, a decade will pass.

Listen to your spouse so that when they are gone, you have their voice in your head.

Take joy in the sunny days, as they are few in the winter.

Just because you don’t love your job every day, doesn’t mean it’s a bad job.

Your children will leave you before you are ready.

A spouse is not a crutch or a person to lose yourself in. A spouse is a partner.

Sometimes, life just plain old sucks, so make lemonade out of those lemons.

Don’t whine. It’s unbecoming and annoying.

It’s a lot easier to lose weight at twenty than it is at forty.

Wrinkles just happen. I don’t know how, but one day, you just wake up with them.

Loved ones leave you before you are ready, so appreciate them while they are here.

There is more of course. More life lessons that I can’t even put into words. And I wonder, how much more will I know at sixty? Or eighty? What other truths will I discover going forward?

I also wonder what lessons others have learned. No two lives are the same, and we can never fully understand what other people have lived through, as we cannot be in their shoes.

So I ask you, what have you learned in your life?

__

Photo: newleaf01 [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)]

Duke-A-Licious Book Coming Your Way

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I have the very great honor (and pleasure!) of joining 12 other authors to bring you DUKES BY THE DOZEN, an anthology of a baker’s dozen of romance shorts. There is one for every month, beginning with me (eep!) in January, and ending with another January story.

That’s 13 months, 13 stories, 13 authors. But only one price, my lovelies. One book.

Collaboration is amazing and inspiring–even more so when your collaborators are kind and generous and giving. I know some industries are cutthroat, and so are some people, whatever the industry. But the authors I have been working with on the anthology are amazing in offering time, advice, and encouragement–all done with good cheer. There is a special camaraderie in the romance industry that I love.There is an amazing wealth of knowledge and sharing among the ladies (and men!) in my industry.

I wouldn’t go anywhere else.

Luckily, I was asked to participate in this anthology. The goal was short love stories, which gave me the ability to finally use an idea I’d been stewing on, but wasn’t sure could support a full novel–a female highwayman who robs the hero.

I had backstory, initial conflict, and knew the characters. I could see the scene play out like a movie. But I needed more for a full novel. When the opportunity for a short arrived, I knew exactly how Bea and Wulf’s first meet would play out. It was already nearly fully formed in my mind, so all I had to do was set fingers to keyboard.

And so love began.

The beauty of a novella or short is that not every issue needs to be resolved. The HEA can be an HFN (Happy For Now). Of course, my love story hints that it will be forever, but I don’t need to resolve family issues or external conflict.

I can focus on character and love, which is what I did in Duke In Winter. At the end of the story, you know they will be fine. That it will be forever, even if it they don’t make all the final plans.

Dukes by the Dozen releases on April 16! I hope you enjoy Bea and Wulf, as well as the rest of the stories. You can read more below!

A Duke for All Seasons!

Amazon |  Barnes & Noble | iTunes

Kobo & Google Play Coming Soon

What’s better than a dashing duke? A dozen of them! In this case, a baker’s dozen—thirteen of your favorite historical romance authors have come together to bring you more than a dozen tantalizing novellas, with one per month, for a year’s worth of never-before-released romances.

 

January – The Duke in Winter by Alyssa Alexander — When the highwayman demanded the Duke of Highrow stand and deliver, he didn’t know she would steal his heart.

 

February – The Difference One Duke Makes by Elizabeth Essex — Miss Penelope Pease is what every bright young thing never wants to be—ruined, thanks to an ill-conceived flirtation with the late Duke of Warwick. But ruined suits the new duke, his brother, Commander Marcus Beecham just fine—because after a career in the Royal Navy, he’s rather ruined himself. All it takes is one frosty night for two imperfect people to make the perfect February valentine.

 

March – Discovering the Duke by Madeline Martin — Reunited at a house party after a lackluster start to their marriage, the Duke of Stedton attempts to win his Duchess’ heart. Will a sizzling wager be enough to melt the frost between them, or will it truly remain the coldest winter in London?

 

April – The Duke and the April Flowers by Grace Burrowes — The Duke of Clonmere must marry one of the Earl of Falmouth’s three giggling younger daughters, but Lady Iris—Falmouth’s oldest, who is not at all inclined to giggling—catches Clonmere’s eye, and his heart!

 

May – Love Letters from a Duke by Gina Conkle — The Duke of Richland needs a proper duchess, but he wants his thoroughly fun, entirely inappropriate neighbor, Mrs. Charlotte Chatham. She’s widowed, older, and if the whispers prove true—barren.

 

June – Her Perfect Duke by Ella Quinn — Still suffering over the loss of his wife and child, Giles, Duke of Kendal sees Lady Thalia Trevor at a market and is instantly smitten. There is only one problem. She is already betrothed to another man. Will she defy her powerful father to marry him?

 

July – How to Ditch a Duke by May McGoldrick — Lady Taylor Fleming is an heiress with a suitor on her tail. Her step-by-step plan to ditch him is simple. But there is nothing simple about Franz Aurech, Duke of Bamberg. When Taylor tries to escape to sanctuary in the Highlands, her plans become complicated when the duke arrives at her door and her loyal allies desert her. But even with the best laid plans, things can go awry…

 

August – To Tempt A Highland Duke by Bronwen Evans — — Widowed Lady Flora Grafton must be dreaming…Dougray Firth, the Duke of Monreith, the man who once pledged her his heart and then stood by and allowed her to marry another, has just proposed.  While her head screams yes, her heart is more guarded. Why, after eight years, this sudden interest? When she learns the truth… can she trust Dougray to love her enough this time?

 

September – Duke in Search of a Duchess by Jennifer Ashley — The meticulous Duke of Ashford is dismayed when his children inform him they’ve asked the young widow next door to find Ashford a new wife. Ashford can’t think of a more appalling assistant than Helena Courtland, gossipy busybody he steadfastly avoids. But Helena sweeps into his home and his life before he can stop her, turning Ash’s precisely ordered world into a chaotic whirlwind.

 

October – Dear Duke by Anna Harrington — When the new Duke of Monmouth, decides to put through a canal, he isn’t prepared for an old mill owner and his stubborn—but beautiful—daughter to stand in his way. War is declared, and the only person who seems to understand him is the anonymous pen pal to whom he’s been pouring out his heart, a woman not at all who she seems…

 

November – Must Love Duke by Heather Snow — Lady Emmaline Paulson is destined to land a duke—at least that has been the expectation since she was a cherub faced babe. But she has no wish to live her life in a gilded cage, always on display. Besides, she already has her Duke—an adorable Cavalier King Charles spaniel pup she rescued from the Serpentine with the help of a handsome stranger. Maxwell Granville, heir to the Duke of Albemarle, wasn’t fishing for love—or fair maidens trying to save drowning puppies—that November afternoon. But that’s precisely what he found, IF he can convince Emmaline that her Duke isn’t the only duke she wants in her life…

 

December – The Mistletoe Duke by Sabrina York — The Duchess of Devon can’t think of a better way to tempt her widowed son into marrying again, than to throw a Christmas Ball. And there simply must be mistletoe everywhere! But it’s not until Jonathan meets his mother’s humble companion under the mistletoe, that fireworks erupt.

 

January – Dueling with the Duke by Eileen Dreyer — When Adam Marrick, Duke of Rothray, shows up on Georgie Grace’s doorstep in rural Dorset, she thinks it is to acquaint himself with his cousin James’s widow and child. Instead the duke brings the news that Georgie’s four-year-old daughter Lilly Charlotte, whom James’s family disowned, has inherited a Scottish duchy. Unfortunately, the news has also brought danger to her door.

Ravioli In Paris, Or The Beauty In Front Of You

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I was doing some research this weekend, as authors constantly do. I needed to be in Paris, so I Google Mapped myself there.

As I was virtually walking down various streets, I came across the Rue de Rivoli. It caught my eye because I was in Paris in April 2016 and walked down that street. I giggled at the time. It reminded me of ravioli, and I thought how funny it was to have a Ravioli Street in Paris.

Then I remembered my actual walk down that street. I traveled it multiple times, as it borders some of the typical areas a tourist would visit. My first stroll down the rue was when I went to the Louvre, discovered it was closed on Tuesdays (why Tuesday?) so I couldn’t visit.

Me, upon discovery that the Louvre was closed.

 

It was the best thing that could have happened. Instead, I wandered through the Jardin des Tuileries, then over the Seine by way of the Passerelle Léopold Sédar Senghor footbridge, with its lovers’ locks clasped onto the railings.

Gentleman napping in the gardens.

Lover’s locks

 

 

 

During my second walk down the Rue de Rivoli, I was headed toward a fashion exhibit at the Musée des Arts Decoratifs. The museum is in the same building as the Louvre, though you can reach it from a separate entrance. The exhibit celebrated clothing from 1700 to the present day, and of course, I couldn’t resist.

 

 

But then I remembered something more from that day.

I was headed more or less west along the side of the building that houses the museums. Basically, from the back to the front, where you can enter the courtyard and see the huge glass pyramid.

Along that long, decorative wall of the old palace were tall windows, the rooms beyond hidden by curtains. In between, at odd intervals, were huge, ornate double doors.

And when I say huge, I mean huge. If you walk down the road using the map above, you will see the doors on your left, and the little tiny people in front of them.

For some reason, I loved the doors. I did not know where they lead to, but I could see soldiers spilling out in defense when the building was first a fortress, or later, those doors being thrown wide open for a ball during the days of the kings. Even guards during the French Revolution, when it first became a museum to display national treasures.

 

I remember I stopped walking and stared at those beautiful doors. Imagining. Dreaming.

A Frenchwoman—gorgeous, confident, and with heeled boots I would have killed for—continued to clip past me as I stood there. Dangling from her hand was a shopping bag, the square paper type you would find at a clothing store. She had an amazing leather jacket, neat and trim, over skin tight jeans, and long brown hair that reached nearly to her waist. In other words, I felt very much the silly American tourist in my sneakers and striped coat from Old Navy beside that lovely woman.

Still, as she passed, I pulled out my digital Nikon and snapped a picture of the doors. I was fascinated by their size, by the ornate face carved above and the designs embedded in them. Each dip and curve and exquisite carving was something out of the past that simply does not exist today. This is workmanship of the most delicate, intricate, talented kind. Created by artisans long forgotten, and probably not even fully appreciated at the time.

So many changes since then, I mused. The world is not the same. Art is not the same. This timeless, gorgeous piece of work sits here on the edge of a busy road, and no one sees it. Residents and tourists walk by, day after day, with their shopping bags or their briefcases or their cameras, and so many never notice the utter beauty, the history, right there beside them.

It made me sad to realize it. To know that the people who pass these doors everyday, or even tourists ready for a new experience, don’t actually see it.

I turned away, tucked my camera back in my bag, and continued toward the museum. A little heavier of heart.

Then I stopped again. Because the gorgeous woman with the high-heeled boots and the shopping bag was standing in front of the next set of doors. I remember specifically the way her head tipped back, because of the lovely fall of thick, straight, brown hair. Me and my thin, chin length bob were totes jelly.

She was looking at the doors. Not snapping a picture with her phone, not talking to anyone. She was just looking.

Was she seeing them for the first time, having passed by a hundred times before? Did she notice me, the silly tourist snapping a picture of the first door, and did it make her wonder about the next one? Does she understand the rich, wonderful history of her culture and country can be defined by that very door?

I do believe that if I had not stopped to study and imagine and dream at the first set of doors, she would not have stopped to look at the second set. And if she paused to look, she likely had never noticed the doors before.

Perhaps, with my small moment of wondering and dreaming, I was able to help someone see beauty that lives only a few steps away from their daily life.

And perhaps, by watching her, I learned to see the beauty that lives only a few steps away from my own life.