Hello lovely readers!

Let me get straight to the point... I've got a giveaway for you! In celebration of my next release--Daring the Duke--my publisher is giving away 5 copies. You can enter here to win.

Want a little taste of what Tabitha and Arthur have in store for you in this first in a new series? Have an excerpt as well as a giveaway. :)

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Lady Tabitha saw him coming and couldn’t seem to look away. All wide eyes and frozen limbs, she reacted as if a jungle predator stalked toward her instead of a duke. Not even her skirts swung around her ankles. Good. Arthur chuckled. On the inside, of course. He’d savor that look of terror. And he’d let her savor it, too, for a bit longer. He pivoted to the left and strode away from her without a single look back. He kept his attention trained on his goal—the Earl of Abbington and his sister, Martha—even though his neck itched to turn, to give him one last look at her.

Her. Lady Tabitha Hampton. Or Miss Imogen Ichabod. Or Miss Mary Poke. Or, his personal favorite, Miss Priscilla Pickles. He snorted. Infuriating chit. What possessed her to give him a different name each and every time they were introduced? Did she think he really would not notice? Politeness, of course, kept him from saying anything.

At least in front of their hostess.

But if he got her alone on the dancefloor? Oh, he’d have his say then, all right.

And he’d start with three simple words: what, the, and hell. He shook his head. She’d lowered him to cursing. He never cursed. Rakehells and dockhands cursed. Not dukes. But she perplexed him still, after all these weeks.

Perhaps more perplexing than the abundance of names she had introduced herself with, and the why behind it, was the fact that each name represented a moment in which the person introducing her had actually needed an introduction themselves. He had a better idea of the redhead’s identity than every hostess in the ton, it seemed.

Lady Tabitha Hampton, eldest daughter to a marquess with a title older than it was affluent. She had three sisters, no brothers, and this was her first season. At the unfortunate age of seven and twenty. He’d looked into her. Of course he had. He always looked into things he did not understand.

And she was a decided mystery.

One that enraged him as much as it engaged his curiosity.

Did she really think him as high in the instep as all that? Her assumption seemed to be that no matter how many times someone introduced her to him, he would not remember her.

Martha, Countess Wix, stood close by her brother, his best friend, George Moreland, Earl of Abbington. When she noticed Arthur striding toward her, she smiled.

“Martha, I’m in need of your help.” He stopped directly in front of her.

“I do not believe it. You need help? The great Duke of Collingford? Bah.”

Arthur pointed across the room, his finger gesturing as closely as possible to red hair and laughing eyes. “Do you know her?”

George and Martha craned their necks to get a better look, rising up on tiptoes to see over the heads of the revelers.

“I know her friend,” George said, settling back down on his heels. “The brown-haired one. Lady Jane. You know her brother, Viscount Escher.”

The brunette hardly mattered. “But the redhead?”

Martha studied the girl. The correct girl, he hoped. “I think. She’s a Lady Cat or something like that.” She rubbed her forehead and gave a wan smile. “Sebastian has been ill once more, and I find I cannot focus on much other than him.”

George sipped his wine. “I am surprised you still held this ball.” He looked at the ceiling. “Aren’t we keeping your husband awake?”

“Not at all. He fell asleep before I left him this evening. Laudanum. And he insisted the ball go on as planned. The Viscount Wix has not not had a ball in the waning months of the season in over fifty years.”

George whistled. “Impressive.”

Arthur made a mental note to send his personal physician to visit the viscount. The man was pushing fifty, yes, but should not be suffering such ill health. “The woman? The Lady Cat or something?”

Martha’s eyes flew open wide. “Oh yes! She’s new this season. And not particularly popular. It’s difficult to remember all the debutantes’ names.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“Her? With the red hair? And the gown two seasons out of style? I admit she has a lovely face, but Arthur, really. She does not fit your criteria at all.”

George chuckled. “Yes. What were those criteria again? Perfect in form, face, disposition, accomplishments, and pedigree.”

“You do not ask much,” Martha said.

“Indeed, he does not,” George drawled. “Only perfection.”

Martha lifted a studious gaze to her brother. “But who defines perfection?”

George put a thumb and forefinger to his chin and studied the ceiling. “Excellent question, Martha. In my dictionary, perfection is brown hair, brown eyes, a modest but quite lovely bosom—”

“You’re describing your mistress.” Martha slapped George’s shoulder.

George continued, “A little mole at just the right spot on the lady’s as—”

“Please, George,” Arthur said. “Enough.” It wasn’t even his list, even though he must abide by it. He almost snorted. But snorting was undignified. He turned to Martha.

“Will you introduce me, Martha?”

Martha arched a brow. “I would be delighted to.”

George and Martha were correct, of course. Lady Tabitha was the exact opposite of every quality his family wished his future duchess to possess. She’d never meet their approval. But that’s not why he wanted an introduction, so it hardly mattered. He wanted Miss Pickles—ha!—not for marriage but for a spot of revenge. He would make her squirm.

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What happens when Arthur and Tabitha finally meet? Does he get his spot of revenge? Only one way to find out. 😉

On another note, if you were going to give a duke a fake name, what name would you choose?

Daring the Duke is available on October 28, but is available for preorder now!

Happy reading, lovely readers!

Charlie Lane