Welcome to the Avon
Addict Release Day Blitz for THE TROUBLE WITH BEING A DUKE by Sophie Barnes. How about that beautiful cover! I
hope you enjoy the excerpt and stick around for the awesome giveaway being
offered by Sophie and Avon Romance. Happy Reading Everyone!
Blurb for THE TROUBLE WITH BEING A DUKE:
Sometimes happily ever
after . . .
Anthony Hurst, Duke of Kingsborough, knows the time has come
for him to produce an heir. But first he must find a bride. When he meets the
most exquisite woman at his masquerade ball, he thinks his search is over . . .
until the breathtaking beauty runs off. With few clues other than her figure,
her scent, and the memory of her kiss, Anthony must find his mystery lady.
. . . needs a little bit
of help.
Isabella Chilcott can scarcely believe it: she is finally at
the Kingsborough Ball. As a child, she dreamed of dancing a waltz here, and
now, thanks to a gorgeous gown she’s found in the attic, Isabella is living her
fairytale fantasy. And she’s waltzing with the Duke of Kingsborough himself!
But she must escape before he discovers her secrets . . . for she is not who
she pretends to be, and falling in love with Prince Charming is the last thing
she can allow herself to do.
* * * * *
Excerpt from THE TROUBLE WITH BEING A DUKE:
“It’s time, Mama,”
Anthony Hurst, the seventh Duke of Kingsborough, said as he strode toward one
of the tall windows in his mother’s bedroom and pulled aside the heavy velvet
curtains, flooding the space with a bright beam of sunshine. Pausing for a
moment, he looked out at the garden. The crocuses were beginning to bloom,
adding a cheerful display of yellow and lilac to the dreary winter landscape.
“Why must you disturb
me?”
Anthony turned at the
sound of his mother’s voice, gritting his teeth at the lifelessness in it. He
hated the morose atmosphere that had swamped Kingsborough Hall for the past
year, and he hated how difficult it was proving to move past it. “It’s been
thirteen months, Mama—that’s long enough.”
His mother, still
dressed in her widow’s weeds, sighed from her seat in the corner, her light
blue eyes squinting in the brightness as he pulled aside yet another curtain.
Black did not suit her—it made her look pallid and brought out the silver
streaks of gray in her hair. She had aged dramatically during the final stage
of her husband’s life. It was almost five years since the first symptom of
illness had surfaced—a lump in the former duke’s armpit. Three physicians had
been consulted, all of them advising immediate surgery, and with no desire to
meet a speedy end, the Duke of Kingsborough had complied.
Anthony knew it had been
a painful procedure, and yet it had only been the first of several. So it had
come as no surprise when his father had eventually called him into his study to
say that he had refused further treatment—but it had still been bloody hard to
hold back the tears in the face of such defeat, knowing without doubt what his
father’s decision had meant.
A month later, however,
the condition hadn’t worsened, and Anthony had begun to hope that perhaps it
never would. But then, as if from one day to the next, his father’s health had
declined with startling rapidity. Nothing could have been worse than looking on
helplessly while a loved one had withered away and died, his body wracked by
pain at every hour of both day and night. Even the memory of it was unbearable.
“Is that all?” His
mother’s tiny voice was weak, forcing a wince from Anthony as he went over to
her and gently took her delicate hand in his. “It seems like an eternity.”
“Mama,” he whispered,
kneeling beside her, his heart aching for the woman who had once been so full
of life. “So much more reason for us to end this.”
Her eyes met his with
the same degree of hopelessness that he too had felt for so long. His father
had always been so strong and healthy—the sort of man that everyone had thought
would outlive them all. Suffering through his deterioration, inheriting his
title and eventually taking his place as duke had been far from easy for
Anthony. It was now more than a year since they had laid him to rest, and
Anthony had decided that it was finally time for all of them to start living
again. With that in mind, he had an idea that he hoped would capture his
mother’s enthusiasm. “We shall host an event,” he announced, in a voice that
sounded too old and serious for his own liking.
“An event?” His mother
looked as if she’d much rather crawl back into bed and draw the covers over her
head than listen to one more word of what he had to say.
“Not just any event,
Mama,” he said, determined to make her listen and even more determined to
uncover the woman who lay dormant somewhere beneath her beaten-down exterior.
He knew she was there—somewhere. “It’s the end of
February already, but if we hurry, we can probably manage to arrange a house
party in time for Easter.” He saw that his mother was about to protest and
quickly added, “It could commence with one of your infamous balls.”
She stilled for a moment
as she stared back at him, time stretching out between them until he doubted
she would ever respond. He was trying to think of something to say to break the
silence when he saw her stir, understanding flickering behind her eyes. “We
haven’t had one of those in years, Anthony. Do you really suppose . . .” Her
words trailed off, but not with defeat this time. Anthony couldn’t help but
notice a slight crease upon her brow. She was thinking—quite furiously, judging
from the fact that she was now chewing on her lower lip. Her eyes gradually
sharpened, and she leaned forward in her seat. “Perhaps it will help bring the
family back together.”
Anthony certainly hoped
so.
When his father had
stopped fighting for his life, it had not taken long before his sister Louise
had married and removed herself to her new home. Anthony had not questioned her
motives at the time. She had been of a marriageable age (though perhaps a bit
young), the Earl of Huntley had clearly been in a position to offer her the
standard of living she’d been raised to expect, and Anthony had given the
couple his blessing without much thought on the matter.
The truth of it was,
compared to everything else he’d been faced with at the time—his father’s
imminent demise, the payment of physicians’ bills that kept arriving daily, and
his ever-increasing duties in regard to running the estate—his sister’s hasty
decision to marry had been more of an inconvenience than anything else.
It was not until after
his father had died that he’d wondered if she’d perhaps been looking for a
means of escape, some justifiable reason not to face the devastating truth
looming over them all on a daily basis. Of course she’d visited a number of
times, but she’d given herself a viable excuse to leave whenever she’d had
enough. Anthony couldn’t blame her. There had been times when he had longed to
flee from it all himself.
His brother, Winston,
had been more reliable. He was two years younger than Anthony, had married
Sarah the vicar’s daughter at the age of only twenty, and was now the delighted
father of twin boys. To support his growing family, he ran a small publishing
house that he’d started with the financial support of their father. Of course
there had been those who’d disapproved of a gentleman making such a career
choice, but Winston’s love for books had prevented him from swaying in his
decision, and his father had given his support—a clear sign that he’d
considered his son’s happiness more important than seeking the approval of his
peers and a perfect example of the sort of man he’d been.
Though based in London,
Winston had still managed to make the three-hour journey to Moxley once a week
throughout their father’s illness. But with Papa now gone, Winston was busy
applying himself to the growth of his business, and he didn’t visit Moxley as
often as he had. Anthony understood his brother’s reasoning, of course. He just
missed him. That was all.
“I must speak with Mrs.
Sterling immediately,” his mother suddenly pronounced, startling Anthony out of
his reverie. His eyes focused on her, and he noticed that there was a rather
resolute expression about her eyes.
Anthony blinked. A
moment earlier, she had looked as though a single puff of air would have
overturned her. Now, instead, her back straightened and she gave a firm nod
before pulling her hand away from his and rising to her feet.
This was what he had
hoped for, but he had never imagined how quickly his mother would rally when
faced with a project so large that it would require her immediate attention. To
be honest, he had feared she might feel overwhelmed and that it would only
serve to cripple her even further.
Clearly this was not the
case, for not only had she already rung for her maid but she had also begun
pacing about the room, checking off on her fingers all the items that would
need addressing, all the while complaining about the limited amount of time
Anthony had afforded her to prepare for such a grand event.
“We shall have to send
out invitations immediately,” she gushed between mention of a possible ice
sculpture and her thoughts regarding the flower arrangements that would have to
be ordered.
Anthony’s head began to
hurt, but he was pleased with the result of his plan. What he hadn’t mentioned,
simply because he’d had no desire to excite his mother any further, was that he
intended to use the event as a means to improve his acquaintance with the young
ladies his mother undoubtedly meant to invite. His father’s demise had put
everything into perspective for him, forcing him to realize just how fragile
life could be. He needed an heir, and there was really no better time to start
planning for one.
***
“Come, gentle night,
come, loving, black-brow’d night, give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, take
him and—”
“Stop that right now,”
Isabella’s mother warned as she lifted her gaze from her embroidery—a new set
of pillowcases that the butcher’s wife had ordered, with flowering vines
trailing along the edges.
Isabella was supposed to
have been practicing her cutwork, but she was finding the process incredibly
tedious and had paused to read a little instead. She had just gotten started on
her favorite passage when her mother had cut her off as usual—at the exact same
point. “But it’s the most romantic thing ever written, Mama.” Isabella should
have known better than to goad her mother like this, but she could not help
it—it was much too easy.
“Romantic?” Her mother
frowned, her mouth scrunched in a manner that warned Isabella of the derision
that lay ahead. “You are aware that the hero and heroine both die
because of some ridiculous misunderstanding, are you not?”
“Of course, but —”
“Not to mention that the
passage you’re presently reciting starts not only with Juliet considering her
dear heart’s demise but the prospect of having him chopped up and—”
“Cut up, Mama—into
little stars, so that—”
“Honestly.” Her mother
shook her head as she returned her attention to the rose petal she was stabbing
with her needle, as if it had been Shakespeare himself and she meant to make
him pay for subjecting her to his play. “I’ve never understood why anyone would
think it romantic for a young couple to kill themselves in the name of love.”
Isabella stifled a grin
as she set the book aside and reached for her cutwork. “I do believe you’re the
only person I know who can criticize the loveliest play ever written as if Mr.
Shakespeare had penned it with the sole purpose of offending you. Considering
how much you love Papa, I would have thought you’d be more romantically
inclined, yet I’m beginning to wonder if you even know what romance is.” She
said it in jest, but when she looked up, her mother’s eyes had widened and her
jaw had gone slack. “I’m sorry,” Isabella quickly muttered. “I didn’t mean to
upset you.”
Her mother took a deep
breath, held it, and then released it very slowly before bowing her head once
more to her work. “No,” she said. “I don’t suppose you did.”
Drat it all, Isabella
thought as she drew her needle through the piece of white linen she was
holding. It had been neat and crisp when she’d started on it, but it had long
since taken on the appearance of a crumpled rag. She shook her head at her
carelessness—not in regard to the fabric but because of her mother. She’d
unintentionally hurt her feelings, and not for the first time. She really ought
to have learned her lesson by now. Glancing at the book she’d been reading, she
made a mental note not to bring it into her mother’s presence ever again. It
only resulted in trouble.
She let out a small
sigh. All she wanted was a confidante—someone with whom to share her dreams of
true love and a happily ever after. In spite of what she’d said, she knew that
her parents were happy. It was obvious from the way they looked at each other
and the manner in which they addressed each other with cheerful smiles.
Isabella wished for
that, but she also wished for more—she wished for magic. Lord knew she had
spent hours on end, dreaming about meeting a gallant stranger—a prince,
perhaps—who would declare his undying love for her before carrying her off to
his castle on a magnificent white stallion . . . or perhaps in a golden
carriage similar to the one she’d imagined Cendrillon riding in the fairy tale
she’d loved so dearly as a child.
“Isabella?”
Isabella blinked,
realizing her mother must have been telling her something that required her
attention. “Sorry, Mama, my thoughts were elsewhere. You were saying?”
Her mother frowned. “I
know how fond you are of Romeo and Juliet. I didn’t mean to mock it in any
way, it’s just . . . while I do appreciate Shakespeare’s talent, his notion of
romance is, in my opinion, lacking—at least in this instance.” Tying off a
thread, she folded the pillowcase and placed it in her embroidery basket.
“Sacrificing yourself for the sake of love is not romantic, Isabella—it’s rash,
thoughtless, and completely meaningless. Real romance comes from small and
selfless gestures, from private moments spent in one another’s company or a
shared kiss when no one else is looking. It’s showing the person you care about
that they’re just as important to you as you are to yourself, if not more so.
Most importantly, it’s what tells them that you love them, without the need for
words.”
Isabella stared at her
mother, suddenly feeling she wasn’t entirely the person Isabella had always
thought her to be. There was a more sensitive side to her than Isabella had
ever imagined, or perhaps it was just that this was the first time her mother
had ever talked openly about her own thoughts on the subject of romance. Of
course Isabella knew that her mother wasn’t a cynic when it came to matters of
the heart, for her devotion to her husband bordered on the ridiculous. It was
just that her mother did not understand why anyone would choose to write poetry
rather than tell the person in question how they actually felt about them, and
the idea that any lady might enjoy a piece of music written in her honor seemed
silly to her—or at least that was what she’d once said.
Isabella was about to
question her mother about the most romantic thing her father had ever done, but
just as she opened her mouth, her mother rose to her feet and said, “You’d
better ready yourself in time for Mr. Roberts’s visit. You know he’s never
late.”
It was true. Timothy
Roberts was the most predictable man Isabella had ever known. Not that this was
necessarily a bad thing—after all, Marjorie, their maid-of-all-work, always
knew precisely when to put the pie in the oven so it would be ready in time for
his visit. And he had been visiting a lot lately. Every Sunday
afternoon at precisely three’ o clock, for an entire year.
There was very little
doubt about his intentions at this point (though he had yet to propose), and
Isabella’s parents were overjoyed. Her father, who’d arranged the whole thing,
was quite proud of himself for securing such a fine match for his daughter. He
should have been too, for while they were bordering on a state of
impoverishment, Mr. Roberts was a wealthy man who’d struck up a business
specializing in luxury carriages.
Isabella’s father had
worked in his employ for the past five years, test-driving each vehicle before
it was delivered to the client, and while Isabella wasn’t entirely sure of what
her father might have told Mr. Roberts about her, the man had one day appeared
for tea, and had continued to do so since.
With a sigh, Isabella
gathered up her things, feeling not the least bit enthusiastic about Mr.
Roberts’s impending visit. Not because she didn’t like him (it was difficult to
form an opinion due to his reserve), and certainly not because he had done
anything to offend or upset her. On the contrary, he was always the perfect
gentleman, adhering to etiquette in the most stringent manner possible.
No, the problem was far
simpler than that—she just did not love him, and what was worse, she had long
since come to realize that she never would.
* * * * *
About the Author:
Born in Denmark, SOPHIE
BARNES spent her youth traveling with her parents to wonderful places all
around the world. She’s lived in five different countries, on three different
continents, and speaks Danish, English, French, Spanish and Romanian. She has studied
design in Paris and New York and has a bachelor’s degree from Parson’s School
of design, but most impressive of all - she’s been married to the same man
three times - in three different countries and in three different
dresses.
While living in Africa, Sophie turned to her lifelong passion: writing. When
she’s not busy dreaming up her next romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time
with her family, swimming, cooking, gardening, watching romantic comedies and,
of course, reading. She currently lives on the East Coast.
Visit Sophie Barne’s website and follow her on Facebook and Twitter.
Giveaway: anyone
leaving a comment is entered to win one of three (3) prizes for this blog tour (all
commenters on ANY of the stops are eligible).
Two (2) runner ups will
get a signed copy of LADY ALEXANDRA’S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE, and one lucky winner
will get 1 “gold” filigree masquerade mask, 1 golden silk scarf, 1 crystal
beaded necklace, 1 Victorian style soap-box and soap, 1 signed copy of TROUBLE
WITH BEING THE DUKE, 3 book marks, 3 magnets, 1 tote bag, and a digital book
bundle including: HOW MISS RUTHERFORD GOT HER GROOVE BACK, LADY ALEXANDRA’S
EXCELLENT ADVENTURE, & FIVE GOLDEN RINGS.
*** that’s some prize package, huh?
Please use the Rafflecopter to enter. Good Luck and Happy Reading Everyone.
If you’d like to visit the other stops on the Avon Addict Blog Tour click HERE.
THE TROUBLE WITH BEING A
DUKE, an At The Kingsborough Ball novel by Sophie Barnes, Avon Romance, available
now in print and ebook formats at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobobooks.
***click on links or cover below for purchasing information.
When I wasn’t creating
imaginary scenarios, I had my nose stuck in books, reading across genres and
there was one thing I loved more than the escapism—the fact a story can touch
me so deeply, like I was experiencing everything along with my characters. I
knew from early on this was something I wanted to do for others.
