Spotlight: An Inconvenient Duke by Anna Harrington

All's fair in war…and in love…

Marcus Braddock, former general and newly appointed Duke of Hampton, is back from war. Now, not only is he surrounded by the utterly unbearable ton, he's mourning the death of his beloved sister, Elise. Marcus believes his sister's death wasn't an accident, and he's determined to learn the truth—starting with Danielle Williams, his sister's beautiful best friend.Danielle is keeping deadly secrets of her own. She has dedicated her life to a charity that helps abused women—the same charity Elise was working for the night she died. When Danielle's work puts her life in danger, Marcus comes to her rescue. But Danielle may not be the one in need of rescuing…

Excerpt:

Marcus twirled Dani through a circle so unexpectedly that she glanced up at him, startled by the movement.

“Elise was too good of a horsewoman to be thrown from her mare. Certainly not on a morning trot through the park. Especially when the groom said she didn’t go out on horseback at all that morning.” His gaze fixed on hers with a hardness that told her he’d brook no dissembling. “So let’s start over with the truth, shall we?”

“I did tell you the truth! I told you everything that the guards…” As her voice faded, the confusion on her beautiful face melted into anguish.

Her reaction pierced him. She certainly wasn’t pretending the emotions behind that. Not even an actress at the Theatre Royal would have been good enough to fake such raw pain and sorrow.

Fresh guilt assaulted him. Good God, did she truly not know? Had it never occurred to her that Elise’s death hadn’t happened at all the way she’d claimed?

He searched her face for answers. “You didn’t know that she’d left Charlton Place at night, alone, to meet a man?”

“No. Or I would have stopped her.”

Looking at her now, hearing the resolve in her voice, that he very much believed. “And John Porter?”

“I don’t know who he is.”

A bitter taste rose on his tongue. “Was he her lover?”

“No! Elise would never…”

Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced away in embarrassment. Danielle might have blossomed into a woman while he’d been away, but her reluctance to put to words that his sister had taken a lover assured him that she was still innocent. He had no idea why he should care, but he thanked God that some things hadn’t changed.

“Why else would a widow meet up alone with a man at night?”

“Not for that.” Irritation sparked in her eyes that he would assume that of his sister. Despite himself, a warmth blossomed in his chest at her defense of Elise’s reputation. “Not her.”

His fingers tightened around hers as he continued to waltz her around the room. “Are you certain she wasn’t planning to elope?”

She gaped at him, thunderstruck. “What on earth makes you think that?”

“In his note, Porter wrote that everything was set for their vanishing that night.”

She blanched and missed a step. If his arms weren’t around her, she would have stumbled again. She rasped out hoarsely as she hurried back into step with him, “A vanishing?”

The way she repeated that, her haunted expression—Good God. Instantly, his blood froze. “You know more than you’re telling.”

She gave a fierce shake of her head. “I didn’t know about any of this!”

“Did she die on the way to meet him or coming back?” His gaze narrowed, watching her closely as he dared to finally put voice to his fears. “Or did he murder her?”

She gasped, the strangled sound so pained that he flinched. “Murder?” The word came as barely any sound at all on her lips, and she began to tremble, so hard that she nearly shuddered in his arms. “Oh, God…Elise…”

“So I’ll ask again.” He twirled her through a tight circle, one meant to keep her off-balance. “Who is John Porter?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did he mean by their vanishing?”

She fiercely shook her head. “I don’t—”

“And Scepter?”

At that, she halted right there in his arms, smack in the middle of the dance floor, bringing him to a stop with her. For one fleeting heartbeat, he saw fear grip her face, the same fear he’d seen on every man under his command the first time they’d charged into battle.

Then it was gone, and in its place came anger.

“How dare you?” Outrage filled her voice. “This is why you asked me to waltz? Not as an old friend of the family, not even to commiserate together in our grief—this dance was nothing but the battle strategy of a war-hardened general, to keep me from fleeing while you interrogated me!”

“My sister was murdered, and I’m damned well going to find out why.” His own anger flared in response, yet he was aware of the crowded dance floor around them and kept his face carefully inscrutable. “John Porter warned Elise to stay away from Scepter.” He searched her face for answers. “Tell me what you know about them. What is it? Where can I find the people running it?”

“I don’t know.” The icy look she gave him was one of absolute obstinacy. “And for your sake, General,” she said, her eyes practically glowing, “I wouldn’t tell you even if I did.”

He clenched his jaw. “I need to know what you’re hiding about—”

“Stop!” she ordered hoarsely, pushing herself free of his arms. “Please. Just stop.”

As the other couples continued to dance on around them, the attention of the room fell upon them, and everyone craned their necks to see what was wrong. But Marcus didn’t care that whispers went up at the scene they were making or that Claudia now stood in the doorway, watching them curiously. Danielle Williams knew more than she was admitting. Far more. He wouldn’t stop pressing until he had the entire truth and brought to justice the man responsible.

The waltz ended, and the last notes died with a flourish. When she stepped back, he had no choice except to let her go.

But this conversation was far from over.

Aware of the attention of the crowd still upon them and clearly wanting to lessen the spectacle they were making of themselves, she held out her hand and dropped into a curtsy as if nothing were wrong.

“Your sister was a good woman who dedicated her life to helping those in need,” she said between deep inhalations as she gathered herself enough to put a smile onto her face for the crowd around them. “Keep that memory, and let the rest go. I beg you.”

He took her hand and bowed over it, attempting to appear as if they were simply finishing the waltz. He murmured against her fingers, “I have no intention of letting this go.”

***

Excerpted from An Inconvenient Duke by Anna Harrington. © 2020 by Anna Harrington. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

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About the Author

Anna Harrington is an award-winning author of Regency romance. Anna was nominated for a RITA in 2017 and won the 2016 Maggie Award for Best Historical Romance. The Secret Life of Scoundrels. A lover of all things chocolate and coffee, when she’s not hard at work writing her next book or planning her next series, Anna loves to fly airplanes, go ballroom dancing, or tend her roses. She is an English professor in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

Connect:  https://www.annaharringtonbooks.com/

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Spotlight: Calling on Quinn by Blue Saffire

He's trouble—of the very best kind

Quinn Blackheart is a private investigator, former cop, and no-nonsense, take-charge kind of guy who adores his sprawling Irish family. He likes to check all the boxes, and his niece's gorgeous driving instructor just earned a place at the top of his to-do list. 

Alicia Rhodes has had a tough, chaotic year, and she's ready to put the past behind her and find happiness in the present. When handsome Quinn Blackhart shows up at a driving lesson, she can see he's the very best kind of trouble—but is she game? Now isn't a great time to get involved with a man—even if he's the most romantic, supportive, understanding, magnificent man she's ever met.

So between unfinished business of Alicia's, and a dangerous case threatening the Blackhart family, Quinn is determined to both woo Alicia and keep her safe—which is going to make for one wild, sexy ride.

Excerpt:

Quinn

That lass does my head in. I don’t know how she can annoy the fuck out of me and turn me on so much I forget my own name at the same time. My body wants to go after her, but my mind is telling me to stay put.

My brothers and I have been on rotation to watch over Erin. Ma and Da left a while ago so Ma could shower in her own home and spend time with the babes. Kasey and Molly need their grandma. All of this is a big adjustment for the family. I think we’re all exhausted.

I can’t say the last time my mum didn’t stay overnight here at the hospital, with my da right by her side. I was happy to sit in while they take some time away. However, now my jaw ticks as I watch the swaying hips of the woman who’s been on my mind for a week.

I need to talk to her. That call went all wrong the other night. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m nothing but awkward when it comes to dating. Still, that woman made it a hell of a lot harder to try to ask her out.

I twist my lips into a frown as I watch her walk away. Trenton walks past her in the hallway, turning his head to watch her go by. I release a growl, feeling possessive and irritated.

“Now, that’s a looker.” He whistles when he enters the room.

“Stay here,” I snap at him.

“Wait, what?” he calls after me, but I’m already in motion.

My long legs eat up the floor as I head in the direction Alicia retreated in. I have her in sight as the elevator arrives. She steps in and the doors go to shut. I get there just in time to stick my foot in the way of them closing.

The lift makes a dinging sound as it opens wide. Alicia looks up from her phone as I step on. Our eyes lock and I close the distance between us. She drops her head down shyly to break the connection. She has to feel the same thing I feel. This energy that’s charging the tight space between us has a pulse.

The elevator chimes and others begin to crowd on, causing us to move closer together. Alicia tries to take a step back, but my hand shoots out. It lands protectively on her waist, drawing her into me to shield her.

I trap a groan between my lips when her soft curves press against me. She still won’t look up at me, but she doesn’t wiggle out of my hold either. She feels so right this close.

I dip my head to whisper in her ear, “We need to talk.”

She lifts her head to look at me, her lush lips are parted, begging me to kiss them. I’m this close to listening. The lift stops again, allowing more passengers onto the car.

Alicia places her hands on my chest as we’re squished more closely. The look in her eyes tells me I’m not alone in this. She indeed feels it too.

When we reach the lobby, the crowd starts to exit. I maneuver her body in front of mine to cover her as I lead her out. She relaxes into my hold on her waist, causing me to have hope that this won’t be a fight.

As soon as we get off the car, my newfound confidence implodes. A stony-faced Kevin is standing outside the elevator. When he turns his eyes to me, I know my talk with Alicia is going to have to wait.

“We need to talk,” Kevin says gruffly.

“I should be going anyway,” Alicia rushes out.

She tries to take off, but I wrap my fingers around her forearm to stop her forward motion. She turns to look back at me. I grind my teeth against the electric current that zaps straight up my arm.

“This isn’t over. We’ll be having that talk,” I say before releasing her.

“Not such a good idea, but it was nice seeing you again. I’ll keep Erin in my prayers,” she replies softly.

***

Excerpted from Calling on Quinn by Blue Saffire. © 2020 by Blue Saffire. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

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About the Author

As a young girl, Blue’s mother introduced her to the world of love and music through movies, but once she got her hands on books, an author was born. With more than thirty contemporary romance novels and novellas under her belt, she’s now an award-winning, bestselling author. She lives with her husband on Long Island.

Connect: http://bluesaffire.com/

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Spotlight: Before He Vanished by Debra Webb

Twenty-five years ago, Halle Lane’s best friend vanished from their Tennessee town. When a childhood photo brings Liam Hart to Winchester, Halle is certain the man is the same child who vanished. Now Liam seeks out Halle to help him investigate the circumstances of his mysterious past. Can Liam and Halle uncover the truth before a killer buries all traces of the boy Halle loved—and the man he may have become—forever?

Excerpt

The shower was like heaven on earth. Her body had needed the hot water so badly. Her muscles relaxed and she took her time, smoothing the soap over her skin and then shampooing her hair. She was grateful for the toiletry pack that included not only soap, shampoo and the usual, but disposable razors, as well.

By the time she was finished, her bones felt like rubber. She dried herself, slipped on underwear and the nightshirt and then used the hotel dryer to dry her hair. That part took the longest of all. When she exited the steamy bathroom the delicious aromas of room service had her stomach rumbling.

“Oh my God, that smells good.” She rushed to the table where the silver service sat. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I was waiting for you.” He joined her at the table.

Ever the gentleman.

Halle curled her feet under her in her chair while Liam removed the covers from the dishes. Fish, chicken, vegetables. He had ordered all sorts of dishes and they all looked amazing.

“I thought we’d try a little of everything.”

A bottle of white wine as well as a bottle of rosé had her licking her lips.

“I wasn’t sure which one you preferred.” He gestured to the iced-down bottles. “And I didn’t forget dessert.” The final lid revealed a heavenly-looking chocolate cake with fudge icing.

“I may die right now.” She wanted to taste it all.

“Eat first.” He placed a linen napkin over his lap and stuck his fork into a tiny, perfectly roasted potato. She watched him eat and it was the sexiest thing she had ever seen. She didn’t fight it. Surrendered to instinct and that was how they ate. No plates, just taking whatever they wanted with a fork or fingers and devouring. They drank the wine and laughed at stories from their respective childhoods. From all the stories he’d told her, she could not wait to meet his sister, Claire.

By the time they were finished, she was feeling a little tipsy. The food was mostly gone and both bottles were drained. She felt more relaxed than she had in decades. They had discussed the day’s events and Burke and Austen—and Derrick. The man was still convinced she had a thing for Derrick. No way. She’d also told him what her mom had to say about any friends from Nashville the Clarks might have had, which was none who ever appeared at their door. She and Liam agreed that was somewhat unusual considering how social the Clarks had been in Winchester.

“You know,” she said, after polishing off the last of the wine in her glass, “I wrote you dozens of letters.”

“Me?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Andy.” Then she stared at him. “No. You. I mean you. Whatever you believe, I know you’re him.”

“Okay.” He laughed, his eyes glittering with the soft sound.

God, his mouth was sexy when he was relaxed. She put her hand to her mouth just to make sure she hadn’t said the words out loud.

“Tell me about the letters,” he prompted.

“I told you what was going on in Winchester. Who was doing what at school. I even put pictures with the letters.” She laughed. Placed her glass on the table. “It was silly, I know. But I wanted to still feel you and that was the only way I could.”

She blinked. He had moved. He was suddenly next to her, on his knees, staring into her eyes, and her breath caught.

“I don’t know if I’m this Andy you loved so much when you were a kid,” he said softly, so softly she shivered, “but I would really like to be the guy you care about now.”

Her heart swelled into her throat. She started to suggest that it was the wine talking, but it wasn’t. The truth was in his eyes. Those blue eyes she knew as well as her own. And despite her wine consumption, she was stone-cold sober as she considered what could happen between them tonight.

“I’m really glad, because I would hate to think I’m in this alone,” she confessed.

He kissed her so sweetly that tears stung her eyes. Then he stood and pulled her into his arms. He carried her to the nearest bed.

No matter what happened tomorrow, she would always cherish this night.

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About the Author

DEBRA WEBB is the award winning, USA Today bestselling author of more than 150 novels, including reader favorites the Faces of Evil, the Colby Agency, and the Shades of Death series. With more than four million books sold in numerous languages and countries, Debra's love of storytelling goes back to her childhood on a farm in Alabama. Visit Debra at www.DebraWebb.com or write to her at PO Box 176, Madison, AL 35758.

Spotlight: Revelations of a Secret Princess by Annie West

To find her precious daughter, stolen from her at birth, Princess Carolina will do anything. Including masquerading as a nanny! Jake Maynard, her daughter’s uncle, is all that’s standing in the way of the reunion Caro has yearned for. If only her body got the message he’s the enemy…Caro knows this powerful billionaire won’t give up the only family he has left. Yet after years of emotional numbness, Jake is reawakening her! He shows Caro a life filled with passion, not protocol, but what will happen when Jake discovers her true identity?

Excerpt

‘Jake, did you say it was St Ancilla Caro went to?’

Reluctantly Jake looked up from his emails. This project grew more complex by the hour and he wasn’t devoting as much time to it as he should. He’d spent the morning with Ariane.

On the other hand, his niece’s ease with him felt like victory. He owed her thawing, in part, to Caro, who’d done an amazing job in a short time. He’d been right to hire her.

Neil sank into the chair on the other side of his desk. His expression was unreadable, yet the fine hairs on the back of Jake’s neck stood to attention.

‘That’s right. What’s happened?’

Jake leaned back in his chair. A tough early life, a stint in the army then years devoted to wheeling and dealing in the turbulent field of international finance meant it took a lot to unnerve him.

‘I tracked down another on our list of potential investors and discovered they were in St Ancilla for a big event.’ Neil passed his tablet across the desk. It displayed a news article. If you could call it real news. Some royal event.

‘So? Wait a few days then make contact.’ 

‘Check out the photo. The second one.’

Jake looked again, scrolling past a photo of a young, formally dressed couple smiling at the camera with all the animation of marionettes. Prince Paul of St Ancilla and Princess Eva of Tarentia, just engaged.

Beneath was a group photo. An ornate balcony on an imposing building, crammed with elegant women and men in heavily decorated dress uniforms.

‘And?’ Jake had no interest in aristocracy. He did business with them but his personal experiences with them hadn’t been happy. First had been the entitled foreigner who’d lured his mother away, on condition she abandon her kids. Then just months ago, his own girlfriend suggested he put Ariane in an orphanage rather than bother with her. Both had been uncaring of anyone else, expecting the world to revolve around them.

‘Look closely. The one in blue.’

Jake frowned. Several of those uniforms were blue, plus a blonde in ice blue and…

He stared. It couldn’t be.

Of course it couldn’t. The woman in the deep blue dress was a vibrant redhead, not a brunette. Yet Jake felt adrenaline burst into his blood with a jolt.

He zoomed in on the woman, amazed at the likeness.

‘Princess Carolina of St Ancilla. The King’s eldest child.’ Neil’s voice was flat with suppressed excitement.

‘Princess Carolina?’ Carolina. Caro.

No. It was impossible. Mere coincidence.

Yet the buzz in Jake’s bloodstream didn’t abate.

‘Yes, but she’s not his heir. Her younger brother is. Carolina isn’t in the limelight these days. She lives 

fairly quietly in the north of the island though she’s very active in a number of charities, especially relating to children.’

Jake peered at the woman. She was a ringer for Caro, except for the clothes and hair. And the royal connections.

‘Maybe our Caro is a distant relative.’

Our Caro? His choice of words made her sound—

‘There’s more.’ Neil took the device and opened another page, handing it back. With his usual efficiency he’d collated a precis on the woman.

The Princess had a string of names, had been born almost twenty-five years ago and lost her mother early.

Her father had remarried when she was two and she had three half-brothers. She’d studied in the US but didn’t finish her degree. There’d been a scandal. He read headlines about wild parties and drug use. Jake wasn’t surprised. Most of Fiona’s privileged friends preferred parties to work. What did surprise him was that after returning to St Ancilla, Princess Carolina had all but dropped off the radar. She didn’t live in the palace, merely appearing in the press at charity events or major royal celebrations like this, her half-brother’s engagement.

He scrolled lower, studying the shots Neil had collected. Stiff and formal on the same balcony with her family when she was a little girl. Again in her teens, looking almost gawky despite her expensive clothes and with her flame-colored hair now turning auburn, her head turned towards her father, her expression curiously closed. A shot of her with one of her brothers, both smiling for the camera but neither looking happy. 

Jake began to feel almost sorry for her. Had the wild partying been rebellion after an unhappy childhood?

Then he scrolled lower and his breath caught.

This photo was different. Candid. He doubted she knew it had been taken. She wore casual clothes, her hair in a ponytail and she was in a crowd with other young people. At a party, by the look of it. She was half turned away, looking over her shoulder, but there was no mistaking the warmth in her expression as she smiled at someone beyond the camera. Her eyes, a remarkable deep violet, glowed. She glowed. Jake felt the impact of her joy judder through him.

He swallowed, mesmerized by those eyes. They were so like Ariane’s that for a moment everything, his pulse and his breathing, seemed to stop. He’d always thought the color rare. Maybe not so on St Ancilla.

He touched the screen, enlarged the photo and then his breath really did stop.

There, on the back of her shoulder next to the strap of her top, was a small birthmark shaped like a comma.

Jake had seen that mark three nights ago.

It had peeked out beneath the strap of a grey camisole when he’d held Caro in his arms. 

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About the Author

About ANNIE WEST: Annie has devoted her life to an intensive study of charismatic heroes who cause the best kind of trouble in the lives of their heroines. As a sideline she researches locations for romance, from vibrant cities to desert encampments and fairytale castles. Annie lives in eastern Australia with her hero husband, between sandy beaches and gorgeous wine country. She finds writing the perfect excuse to postpone housework. To contact her or join her newsletter, visit www.annie-west.com 

Spotlight: The Grace Kelly Dress by Brenda Janowitz

Two years after Grace Kelly’s royal wedding, her iconic dress is still all the rage in Paris—and one replica, and the secrets it carries, will inspire three generations of women to forge their own paths in life and in love.

Paris, 1958: Rose, a seamstress at a fashionable atelier, has been entrusted with sewing a Grace Kelly—look-alike gown for a wealthy bride-to-be. But when, against better judgment, she finds herself falling in love with the bride’s handsome brother, Rose must make an impossible choice, one that could put all she’s worked for at risk: love, security and of course, the dress.

Sixty years later, tech CEO Rachel, who goes by the childhood nickname “Rocky,” has inherited the dress for her upcoming wedding in New York City. But there’s just one problem: Rocky doesn’t want to wear it. A family heirloom dating back to the 1950s, the dress just isn’t her. Rocky knows this admission will break her mother Joan’s heart. But what she doesn’t know is why Joan insists on the dress—or the heartbreaking secret that changed her mother’s life decades before, as she herself prepared to wear it.

As the lives of these three women come together in surprising ways, the revelation of the dress’s history collides with long-buried family heartaches. And in the lead-up to Rocky’s wedding, they’ll have to confront the past before they can embrace the beautiful possibilities of the future.

Excerpt

The mother of the bride, as a bride herselfLong Island, 1982

She loved the dress. She loved the veil that went with it, too, though she wasn’t sure if it could be salvaged. It was showing signs of age, its edges curling and tinged with brown. But that wouldn’t dull her excitement.

Today was the day she would be trying on her mother’s wedding dress. Even though Joanie had tried it on countless times as a child—it was a favorite rainy-day activity with her mother—today felt different. She was engaged, just like she’d dreamed about ever since she could remember. When she tried the dress on this time, it was for keeps. She was completely in love with the dress.

“Let me help you get it on,” Joanie’s mother said, her French accent coming through. It was always more pronounced when she was feeling emotional. With her American friends, Joanie noticed, her mother always tried to sound “American,” softening her accent and using American expressions. But when they were alone, she could be herself. Let her guard down. Joanie knew exactly who her mother was, and she loved her for it.

Her mother handed Joanie a pair of white cotton gloves and then put on her own set. The first step in trying the dress on, always, so that the oils in their hands wouldn’t defile the fabric. She laid the large box on her bed and nodded her head at her husband, her signal to give them privacy. The door closed to Joanie’s childhood bedroom, and she and her mother were alone.

The white cotton gloves were cool and smooth on her skin. Joanie opened the box slowly. So slowly. It was sealed with a special plastic that was supposed to keep it airtight so that the dress would not oxidize and turn yellow. She and her mother laughed as they struggled to set the dress free. The last time she tried the dress on was the summer before her sister died. It was after Michele’s death that her mother brought the dress into the city so that it might be cleaned properly and preserved for just this day. At the time, Joanie hadn’t understood the connection between her sister’s sudden death and her mother’s tight grip on family heirlooms, but now, a year into her psychology degree at NYC University, she understood. It was so hard to hold on to things that were important to you, things that mattered, and preserving her wedding dress, this memory, was her mother’s way of taking control of something. It was something she could save.

The dress was just as beautiful as she’d remembered. Crafted from rose point lace, the same lace used on Grace Kelly’s iconic wedding dress, it was delicate and classic and chic and a million other things Joanie couldn’t even articulate.

“Go on,” her mother said, holding the first part of the dress—the bodice with the attached underbodice, skirt support, and slip—out for her to take. As a child, it had thrilled Joanie to no end that the wedding dress her mother wore was actually made up of four separate pieces. It was like a secret that a bride could have on her special day, something that no one else knew.

“I couldn’t,” Joanie said, hands at her side. Knowing how carefully preserved the dress had been, what the dress had meant to her mother, it was hard for Joanie to touch it. She didn’t want to get it dirty, sully its memory. “It’s just so beautiful.”

“It’s yours now,” her mother said, smiling warmly. “The dress belongs to you. Put it on.”

Joanie kicked off her ballerina flats, and her mother helped her ease the bodice on. Joanie stood at attention as her mother snapped the skirt into place, and wrapped the cummerbund around her waist. Joanie held her hands high above her head, not wanting to get in the way of her mother’s expert hands, hands that knew exactly where to go, fingers that knew exactly what to do.

“You ready in there, Birdie?” her father yelled from the hallway, impatient, his French accent just as strong as the day he left France. Joanie always loved how her father had a special nickname for her mother. When they first married, he would call her mother GracieBird, a nickname of Grace Kelly’s, because of the Grace Kelly–inspired wedding gown she wore on their wedding day. Eventually, it was shortened to Bird, and then over time, it became Birdie. What would Joanie’s fiancé call her?

Joanie inspected her reflection in the mirror. Her shoulder-length blond hair, recently permed, looked messy. Her pink eye shadow, which had always seemed so grown-up on her sister, made her appear tired and puffy-eyed. But the dress? The dress was perfect.

Her mother opened the door slowly, and her father’s face came into view. His expression softened as he saw his daughter in the wedding dress. She walked out into the hallway, towards him, and she could see a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

She turned to her mother, about to tell her that Daddy was crying, when she saw that her mother, too, had teared up. Joanie couldn’t help it—seeing her mother and father cry, she began to cry as well. She could never keep a dry eye when someone else was crying, least of all her parents, ex-pats from Europe who hardly ever cried.

Michele’s presence floated in the air like a haze, but no one would say it. No one dared mention that she would have worn the dress first. Should have worn the dress first.

“And look at us,” her mother said, her hands reaching out and grabbing for her husband and daughter. “All of us crying like little babies.”

All three embraced—carefully, of course, so as not to ruin the dress.

Her father kissed the top of her head. “Give us a twirl.”

Joanie obliged. The dress moved gracefully as she spun. Joanie curtsied, and her father gently took her hand and kissed it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” her mother said, her voice a song.

“What?” Joanie asked absentmindedly, while staring at her reflection in the mirror. She knew the first thing she’d change—the sleeves. The dress needed big, voluminous sleeves, just like Princess Diana had worn on her wedding day.

“Or I should say who you’re thinking about,” her mother said, a gentle tease.

“Who?” Joanie asked, under her breath, twirling from side to side in front of the mirror, watching the dress move.

“Your fiancé,” her mother said, furrowing her brow. “Remember him?”

“For sure,” Joanie said, spinning around to face her mother. “My fiancé. Yes. I knew that. And, yes. I was.” But the truth was, she had completely forgotten.

Excerpted from The Grace Kelly Dress by Brenda Janowitz. Copyright © 2020 by Brenda Janowitz. Published by Graydon House Books. 

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About the Author

Brenda Janowitz is the author of five novels, including The Dinner Party and Recipe for a Happy Life. She is the Books Correspondent for PopSugar. Brenda's work has also appeared in The New York Times, USA Today, The Washington Post, Salon, Redbook, and the New York Post. She lives in New York.

Connect:

Author website: http://www.brendajanowitz.com/

Facebook: @BrendaJanowitz

Twitter: @BrendaJanowitz

Instagram: @brendajanowitzwriter

GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/241404.Brenda_Janowitz

Spotlight: The Henna Artist by Alka Joshi

After fleeing an arranged marriage as a fifteen year old to an abusive older man, Lakshmi Shastri steals away alone from her rural village to Jaipur. Here, against odds, she carves out a living for herself as a henna artist, and friend and confidante to wealthy, upper caste women. Surviving by her wits and talents, she shares her knowledge and keeps their secrets in a delicate balancing act amid the changing 1950s social mores brought about by Indian Independence. Vulnerable to opinion and innuedo, at any point her intentions might be misunderstood, and she could fall prey to a damaged reputation or worse. Still Lakshmi manages to save to build a house with the dream of bringing her aging parents here to live with her and redeem herself in their eyes. Then one day her ex-husband arrives in town seeking her out with a girl in tow, a sister she did not know she had. Her sister is both passionate and reckless by nature, and all of a sudden the caution that Lakshmi has carefully cultivated is threatened, along with her livelihood. But she preseveres, and in doing so manages to lift up the others around her with her success.

Lakshmi's tenacity and spirit see her join the ranks of other brave women of historical fiction, such as Farough Farrokhzad in Jasmin Darznik's Song of a Captive Bird.With gorgeous prose and urgent themes, the novel will captivate readers of Shobha Rao's Girls Burn Brighter, and those who seek a narrative both compelling and necessary.

Excerpt

Prologue

September 1955

Ajar, State of Uttar Pradesh, India

Her feet step lightly on the hard earth, calloused soles insensible to the tiny pebbles and caked mud along the riverbank. On her head she balances a mutki, the same earthenware jug she uses to carry water from the well every day. Today, instead of water, the girl is carrying everything she owns: a second petticoat and blouse, her mother’s wedding sari, The Tales of Krishna her father used to read to her—the pages fabric-soft from years of handling—and the letter that arrived from Jaipur earlier this morning.

When she hears the voices of the village women in the distance, the girl hesitates. The gossip-eaters are chatting, telling stories, laughing, as they wash saris, vests, petticoats and dhotis. But when they spot her, she knows they will stop to stare or spit at the ground, imploring God to protect them from the Bad Luck Girl. She reminds herself of the letter, safe inside the mutki, and thinks: Let them. It will be the last time.

Yesterday, the women were haranguing the Headman: why is the Bad Luck Girl still living in the schoolteacher’s hut when we need it for the new schoolmaster? Afraid to make a sound for fear they would come inside and pull her out by her hair, the girl had remained perfectly still within the four mud walls. There was no one to protect her now. Last week, her mother’s body had been burned along with the bones of other dead animals, the funeral pyre of the poor. Her father, the former schoolteacher, had abandoned them six months ago, and, shortly after, he drowned in a shallow pool of water along the riverbank, so drunk he likely hadn’t felt the sting of death.

Every day for the past week, the girl had lay in wait on the outskirts of the village for the postman, who cycled in sporadically from the neighboring village. This morning, as soon as she spotted him, she darted out from her hiding place, startling him, and asked if there were any letters for her family. He had frowned and bit his cheek, his rheumy eyes considering her through his thick glasses. She could tell he felt sorry for her, but he was also peeved—she was asking for something only the Headman should receive. But she held his gaze without blinking. When he finally handed over the thick onionskin envelope addressed to her parents, he did so hastily, avoiding her eyes and pedaling away as quickly as he could. 

Now, standing tall, her shoulders back, she strolls past the women at the riverbank. They glare at her. She can feel her heart flutter wildly in her breast, but she passes, straight as sugar cane, mutki on her head, as if she is going to the farmers well, two miles farther from the village, the only well she is allowed to use.

The gossip-eaters no longer whisper but shout to one another: There goes the Bad Luck Girl! The year she was born, locusts ate the wheat! Her older sister deserted her husband, never to be seen again! Shameless! That same year her mother went blind! And her father turned to drink! Disgraceful! Even the girl’s coloring is suspect. Only Angreji-walli have blue eyes. Does she even belong to us? To this village? 

The girl has often wondered about this older sister they talk about. The one whose face she sees only as a shadow in her dreams, whose existence her parents have never acknowledged. The gossip-eaters say she left the village thirteen years ago. Why? Where did she go? How did she escape a place where the gossip-eaters watch your every move? Did she leave in the dead of night when the cows and goats were asleep? They say she stole money, but no one in the village has any money. How did she feed herself? Some say she dressed as a man so she wouldn’t be stopped on the road. Others say she ran off with a circus boy and was living as a nautch girl, dancing in the Pleasure District miles away in Agra. 

Three days ago, old man Munchi with the game leg—her only friend in the village—warned her that if she didn’t vacate her hut, the Headman would insist she marry a widowed farmer or demand she leave the village. 

“There is nothing here for you now,” Munchiji had said. But how could she leave—a thirteen-year-old orphan girl with no family or money? 

Munchiji said, “Have courage, bheti.” He told her where to find her brother-in-law, the husband her older sister had abandoned all those years ago, in a nearby  village. Perhaps he could help her find her sister. 

“Why can’t I stay with you?” she had asked.

 “It would not be proper,” the old man replied gently. He made his living painting images on the skeletons of peepal leaves. To console her, he’d given her a painting. Angry, she’d almost thrown it back at him until she saw that the image was of Lord Krishna, feeding a mango to his consort Radha, her namesake. It was the most beautiful gift she had ever received.

Radha slows as she approaches the village threshing ground. Four yoked bulls walk in circles around a large flat stone, grinding wheat. Prem, who cares for the bulls, is sitting with his back against the hut, asleep. Quietly, she hurries past him to the narrow path that leads to Ganesh-ji’s temple. The shrine has a slender opening and, inside, a statue of Lord Ganesh. Gifts are arranged around the Elephant God’s feet: a young coconut, marigolds, a small pot of ghee, slices of mango. A cone of sandalwood incense releases a languid curl of smoke.

The girl lays Munchiji’s painting of Krishna in front of Ganesh-ji, the Remover of All Obstacles, and begs him to remove the curse of The Bad Luck Girl.

By the time she reaches her brother-in-law’s village ten miles to the West, it is late afternoon and the sun has moved closer to the horizon. She is sweating through her cotton blouse. Her feet and ankles are dusty; her mouth dry. 

She is cautious, entering the village. She crouches in shrubs and hides behind trees. She knows an alone girl will not be treated kindly. She searches for a man who looks like the one Munchiji described.

She sees him. There. Squatting under the banyan tree, facing her. Her brother-in-law.

He has thick, oily, coal-black hair. A long, bumpy scar snakes from his bottom lip to his chin. He is not young but neither is he old. His bush-shirt is spotted with curry and his dhoti is stained with dust. 

Then she notices the woman squatting in the dirt in front of the man. She is supporting her elbow with one hand, her forearm dangling at an unnatural angle. Her head is completely covered with her pallu, and she is talking to the man in a quiet whisper. Radha watches, wondering if her brother-in-law has taken another wife. 

She picks up a small stone and throws it at him. She misses. The second time, she hits him in the thigh, but he merely flicks his hand, as if swatting away an insect. He is listening intently to the woman. Radha throws more pebbles, managing to hit him several times. At last, he lifts his head and looks around him. 

Radha steps into the clearing so he can see her.

His eyes widen, as if he is looking at a ghost. He says, “Lakshmi?”

Excerpted from The Henna Artist by Alka Joshi, Copyright © 2020 by Alka Joshi. Published by MIRA Books.

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About the Author

Alka Joshi is a graduate of Stanford University and received her M.F.A. from the California College of the Arts. She has worked as an advertising copywriter, a marketing consultant, and an illustrator. Alka was born in India, in the state of Rajasthan. Her family came to the United States when she was nine, and she now lives on California's Monterey Peninsula with her husband and two misbehaving pups. The Henna Artist is her first novel. Visit her website and blog at thehennaartist.com

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