The Duke’s Suspicion by Susanna Craig (release: Dec. 18, 2018)
An
English war hero must unlock the secrets of an Irish beauty’s heart . . .
Named for the heather in her native Ireland, botanist Erica Burke dreams of travel—somewhere she won’t be scorned for her scientific interests. Instead, a storm strands her with cool and commanding Major Tristan Laurens, the Duke of Raynham.
An unexpected heir, Tristan is torn between his duties as an intelligence officer and his responsibilities as a duke. A brief return to England to set his affairs in order is extended by bad weather and worse news—someone is after the military secrets he keeps. Could the culprit be his unconventional Irish guest? He needs to see her journal to be sure, and he’ll do what he must to get his hands on it . . . even indulge in a dangerous intimacy with a woman he has no business wanting.
Named for the heather in her native Ireland, botanist Erica Burke dreams of travel—somewhere she won’t be scorned for her scientific interests. Instead, a storm strands her with cool and commanding Major Tristan Laurens, the Duke of Raynham.
An unexpected heir, Tristan is torn between his duties as an intelligence officer and his responsibilities as a duke. A brief return to England to set his affairs in order is extended by bad weather and worse news—someone is after the military secrets he keeps. Could the culprit be his unconventional Irish guest? He needs to see her journal to be sure, and he’ll do what he must to get his hands on it . . . even indulge in a dangerous intimacy with a woman he has no business wanting.
Erica guards
her journal as fiercely as she guards her heart, fearing to reveal a side of
herself a man like Tristan could never understand. But though she makes
Tristan’s task infernally difficult, falling in love may be all too easy . . .
“At
the risk of repeating myself, Miss Burke, what in God’s name are you doing?”
Erica
gripped a little piece of scrollwork so hard she feared it would snap off in
her fingers. “Your Grace.” She closed her eyes, muttered a fierce, swift
prayer, then jerked her chin a notch higher than its proper place to meet his
gaze.
And
promptly wished she hadn’t.
Even
before the rebellion, she had not been the sort of woman to be taken in by a
man in a red coat. A military uniform was all trickery, the sartorial
equivalent of smoke and mirrors. The gold epaulets were designed to make his
shoulders appear broader. The cutaway of the coat, to make his legs look
longer.
Yet
she had the distinct impression that his tailor had found no need to embellish
on what nature had given Tristan Laurens.
Worst
of all were those tight white knee breeches, which drew the eye to places a
proper lady’s eye ought not to be drawn. And proved once and for all she was
not a proper lady.
She
squeezed her eyes shut once more. What was she thinking? He was a British
soldier. That scarlet wool ought to make her think of nothing but the blood of
thousands of her countrymen, shed in a futile bid for freedom.
“Miss
Burke?”
She
opened her eyes, lifting them only enough to focus on his high-shine black
boots. “I beg your pardon. I—I was looking for… I’ll just go—”
The
boots took two deliberate steps toward her, one for each word. “Go where?”
Why
on earth had she imagined she would find her journal in his private chambers?
“To—to look elsewhere?” She hated that note of doubt in her own voice. The
satchel had contained important papers, and a duke surely had a study or an
office or some other room where the business of the estate was conducted. But
she would just as surely get lost trying to find it. Who knew which wing it
might be in?
“I
think not.”
Her
chin jerked up again, seemingly of its own accord. “I beg your pardon?”
“I
would not wish to impede your search, Miss Burke. Whatever it is you may be
seeking.” Something, not quite humor, glimmered in his eyes, though it did not
displace their usual dark intensity. “But I fear you are in some distress.” Now
his gaze darted over her before coming to rest on some piece of furniture
behind her. Was that a flush of color across his cheeks? “Hence, I presume,
your…dishabille.”
Oh,
no.
She’d been distracted. But she couldn’t possibly have rushed from her room
without…
As
she clutched her arms instinctively across her chest, she felt the sides of the
dressing gown gaping open. The braided silk cord designed to hold the garment
closed had worked its way loose. She was standing in the private quarters of a
gentleman with her shift on display.
About
the author:
A love affair with historical romances led Susanna Craig to a degree
(okay, three degrees) in literature and a career as an English professor. When
she’s not teaching or writing academic essays about Jane Austen and her
contemporaries, she enjoys putting her fascination with words and knowledge of
the period to better use: writing Regency-era romances she hopes readers will
find both smart and sexy. She makes her home among the rolling hills of
Kentucky horse country, along with her historian husband, their unstoppable
little girl, and a genuinely grumpy cat.
website: http://www.susannacraig.com
newsletter: http://eepurl.com/cl16wr
Social media links:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SusannaMCraig
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/susannacraig
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