The Excerpt

Duncan Higgins, the Second Duke of Barrington, tucked his muslin cravat tighter underneath his Parisian greatcoat. The evening performance of How You Like It had been crowded with patrons eager to see the new gas lighting at the Theatre-Royal. It was difficult to tolerate the stares his massive form and green-tinged skin attracted, but he could ensure his attire reflected the latest demands of the season. 

Better to be respected, or even feared, than to find himself an object of scorn.

His father had stepped foot in London eighteen years prior, the first orc to do so. But Duncan’s height, the horns curling back on his head, and his unusual coloring—unusual on the streets of this city, at least—still drew stares. As in all things connected to the frivolous ton, no one stated anything outright. Rather, he was subject to the averted glances of children seeing one of his kind for the first time. Or the pursed lips of a mother with a daughter of marriageable age looking to catch a gentleman’s eye. A gentleman of wealth, manners, and title.

A human gentleman. They were not eager for their daughters to marry Duncan Higgins, even if he were five and twenty and met their other requirements. He’d learned that lesson well enough. 

So be it. Duncan would remain at a distance, observing and taking notes on human society as a scientist would a colony of lemurs or some such.

His younger brother, Albion, would have deemed that too harsh. Albion and their mother came to London from the Hidden Realm two years after Duncan accompanied Father here. He didn’t understand what it had been like for Duncan in those early days. When grown women had screamed at the sight of orcs, no matter how fine their English clothes, and boys hurled rocks at their backs.

As he stepped out to the street this evening, an assortment of dandies packed the space outside the venerable theater, waiting on the carriages that would propel them to the next stop on their nightly rounds about the city. Despite the chill in the air, they left their greatcoats open, the better to showcase ruffled shirts, cravats folded crisply on the cross, and fitted trousers.  

Albion often laughed at Duncan’s propensity for tracking human fashion, whilst Duncan argued that all manner of human customs were of interest. The apparel chosen for a particular season spoke to the values and aspirations of the ton. When living as an outsider, one could never know too much about a culture.

And Duncan was an outsider who literally stood out in a crowd. He ducked under the arches outside the theater’s foyer, side-stepping a matron with two daughters prancing before her. The ladies wore stunning multi-colored sapphires—pink, orange, amber, in every shade and gradient—sparkling on pendants hanging from the short pearl necklaces that were all the rage this season.

The rare gemstones originated in his land and were the source of his family’s wealth. Nevertheless, when the mother caught him glancing at her daughters’ jewels, she called them closer to her. Their finery was for the benefit of the human dandies. Not Duncan Higgins. Even if he could have made either of them a duchess.

At one time, such a snub would have caused Duncan great shame. Now, however, these women meant no more to him than the portraits he might examine at a public exhibition in one of the city’s galleries. He tipped his bespoke hat in their direction and continued, wanting only to locate a hackney coach so he might return to his townhouse in a timely manner.

Despite the indulgence of taking in a performance this evening, he wished to abide by his customary schedule, drafting three pages over a glass of port prior to retiring for the night. Duncan aspired to publish a book in the Hidden Realm so the orcs who came to London in the future were better prepared than he had been.

Considering additional comments for his section on the shenanigans of human mothers, Duncan neglected to mind his feet. Distracted, he stumbled over one of the humans milling in front of the theater, tipping a woven basket filled with flowers over in the process. The blossoms hit the sodden ground in a colorful spray of wilting clumps—pansies, snowdrops, and clematis. He nearly tumbled down beside them.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, reaching for his handkerchief, twice the size of those used by other gentlemen, to wipe away the mud that had spattered his new coat. And just as the French styles were once again making their way across the Channel. Thanks to that scoundrel Napoleon Bonaparte, London had been deprived of Parisian fashions for several years.

“Hey there, ‘ya big lug!” a female voice called, rising above the din of the humans still bustling out of the theater. “Watch where you’re putting them huge green feet of yours, kitten.”

Duncan had been called many names in his life, but “kitten” had never before counted among their number. It took him a moment to realize the young woman was addressing him. 

She clicked her tongue between her teeth as she attempted to reclaim the flowers. “A girl’s tryin’ to make a living here, you know.”

Her voice held the distinctive tinge of the East End, an accent he sometimes heard from shopkeepers. This woman’s outlandish appearance matched the Cockney drawl. Her walking dress and pelisse, both of which might have been a startling bronze hue when in fashion five years ago, clung to her slender figure in an indecent manner. A flamboyant blue-purple iris, its petals shaped like the fleur-de-lis of the old French royal family, with a jagged shot of golden color in the center, topped her bonnet.

To make matters even more ridiculous, he found himself staring at this woman, whose delicate form and features were at odds with the boldest feminine voice he’d had the pleasure of hearing since he left the Hidden Realm. In Duncan’s homeland, women were not given to the performative modesty of the ton. What was that phrase he’d heard a human gentleman use to describe a beguiling young lady who had only recently arrived in London from the country? A diamond in the rough. At the time, the expression had confused him, but now he thought he understood what it meant.

Every delicious word Nancy Gideon puts on the page exhilarates with a sensuous ferocity. Hopelessly addicted. — Darynda Jones, NY Times Bestselling Author