To Desire a Devil
Book 4:
The Legend of the Four Soldiers
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Synopsis
Nothing is more intoxicating or dangerous than surrendering to a devil.
Beatrice Corning, the niece of the present earl, is a proper English miss. But she has a secret: no real man has ever excited her more than the handsome youth in the portrait in her uncle’s home. Suddenly, that very man, thought to be murdered years ago, is here in the flesh, luring her into his bed. Half mad after seven years in hellish captivity, Reynaud St. Aubyn has burst into his ancestral home demanding his inheritance. Can this wild-looking man truly be the last earl’s heir? Only Beatrice can see past Reynaud’s savagery to the noble man inside. But can Beatrice’s love tame a man who will stop at nothing to regain his title, even if it means sacrificing her innocence?
For his part, Reynaud is drawn to this lovely lady, even as he is suspicious of her loyalty to her uncle.
Release date: November 1, 2009
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 384
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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To Desire a Devil
Elizabeth Hoyt
To Beguile a Beast
“Hoyt works her own brand of literary magic… in the exquisitely romantic, superbly sensual third addition to her extraordinary
Georgian-set Legend of the Four Soldiers series.”
—Booklist
“4½ Stars! Top Pick! A magical love story that reads like a mystical fable and a very real and highly passionate romance.
Hoyt has found a unique niche that highlights both her storytelling abilities and her considerable talents for depth of character
and emotion.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Desert Isle Keeper! Books such as this one are the reason I read romance… Just about as good as it can get.”
—
LikesBooks.com
“Fascinating… A heady mix… part love story, part history, and part fairy tale… I recommend it and cannot wait for the final
book in the series.”
—Historical Novels Review
“5 Stars! An amazing novel… Extraordinarily touching and noteworthy… Hoyt did an exceptional job.”
—
CoffeeTimeRomance.com
“Everything a historical romance should be… Every aspect of this tale is first-rate. The characters come alive, the plot moves
along at breakneck speed, and the images and details are so vivid the reader feels totally immersed in the words that spring
to life. I loved this book from beginning to end… definitely one for the keeper shelf!”
—
RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“Another scorching hot historical romance by one of the best… I thoroughly enjoyed Elizabeth Hoyt’s story of mystery and sensual
romance filled with suspense.”
—
FreshFiction.com
“Elizabeth Hoyt is three for three with a beguiling tale… and never misses a beat.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Spins a web of pure delight… another sparkling diamond for the author’s crown. Nothing less than magnificent!”
—
HuntressReviews.com
To Seduce a Sinner
“Superbly nuanced historical romance.”
—Chicago Tribune
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Hoyt’s magical fairy-tale romances have won the hearts of readers who adore sizzling sensuality perfectly
merged with poignancy. Her latest showcases her talent for creating remarkable characters and cherished stories that make
us believe in the miracle of love.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Hoyt expertly sifts a generous measure of danger into the latest intriguing addition to her Four Soldiers, Georgian-era series.
Her ability to fuse wicked wittiness with sinfully sensual romance is stunning.”
—Booklist
“I thoroughly enjoyed this story of action, mystery, and hot, hot romance. Be prepared to sizzle through this sensuous and
exciting story that’s impossible to put down until the last page is finished.”
—
FreshFiction.com
To Taste Temptation
“Hoyt… is firmly in control of her craft with engaging characters, gripping plot, and clever dialogue.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4½ Stars! Hoyt’s new series… begins with destruction and ends with glorious love. She begins each chapter with a snippet
of a legend that beautifully dovetails with the plot and creates a distinct love story that will thrill readers.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Stars! There’s an interesting suspense embedded in this book… The sensuality is breathtaking and the reader is carried
into the headiness of growing love… I loved this book, the high quality of the writing, the engaging plot, and, most of all,
the character development. A terrific novel… highly recommended.”
—
TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
The Serpent Prince
“Exquisite romance… mesmerizing storytelling… incredibly vivid lead characters, earthy writing, and an intense love story.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Wonderfully satisfying… delightfully witty… with just a touch of suspense. Set in a lush regency background, Elizabeth spins
a story of treachery, murder, suspense, and love with her usual aplomb.”
—
RomanceatHeart.com
“Delectably clever writing, deliciously complex characters, and a delightfully sexy romance between perfectly matched protagonists
are the key ingredients in the third book in Hoyt’s superbly crafted, loosely connected Georgian-era Prince trilogy.”
—Booklist
The Leopard Prince
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! An unforgettable love story that ignites the pages not only with heated love scenes but also with a mystery
that holds your attention and your heart with searing emotions and dark desire.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“The new master of the historical romance genre.”
—
HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“An exhilarating historical romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
The Raven Prince
“A sexy, steamy treat! A spicy broth of pride, passion, and temptation.”
—Connie Brockway, USA Today bestselling author
“Hoyt expertly spices this stunning debut novel with a sharp sense of wit and then sweetens her lusciously dark, lushly sensual
historical romance with a generous sprinkling of fairy-tale charm.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Will leave you breathless.”
—Julianne MacLean, author of Portrait of a Lover
One
OUT OF THE WOODS
People stared as he walked down the civilized streets of Boston. They sidled away nervously, taking care not to meet his eyes. He was obviously savage, raw with suppressed violence, and quite possibly mad.
He didn’t give a damn what they thought. He was too busy containing the shivers of unease that racked his body. He’d not been around so many people in years—seven years to be precise. The noise was loud in his ears--carriages rattling by, people talking and shouting, and the clip-clop of iron-shod horse hooves. The movement of so many bodies dazzled his eyes, making him start at phantom attacks, giving him no place to rest his gaze. He stopped for a moment, trying to get his senses under control, but a passing soldier jostled his shoulder.
He whirled, his knife already drawn, a snarl upon his lips.
The soldier’s eyes widened and he backed away hands raised before turning and running.
“Damned French frog,” someone muttered.
He spun, seeking the speaker, but all that he saw were white faces, hostile or fearful, all of them strange and foreign. Except that wasn’t right. They weren’t foreign and he wasn’t French. He blinked and sheathed his knife, inhaling to steady himself. He was close, so close. He merely needed to contain his demons for a little while longer.
He ducked his head and continued. Months of walking had brought him here, to so-called civilization. He’d lived on what game he could hunt, on what berries and roots he could forage. Had walked through rain and searing heat. Had hidden from Indians and French and those he simply couldn’t identify. He’d stepped out of the woods seven days ago and still wasn’t used to the lack of cover around him.
Yet still he walked. He’d sacrificed too much—blood, people he’d held dear, and his own honor—to get here.
He could smell the salt of the ocean now, along with the stink of rotting fish. In another minute the harbor came into view. Tall ships sat at anchor and he could hear the cries of seagulls. His heart began to beat faster. So close. So close.
He had no money or influence here. The clothes on his back were ragged, his moccasins were worn, and he was skeletally thin from lack of food and walking. But he would sail on a ship bound for England even if he had to scrub the decks to pay his way.
He was Reynaud St. Aubyn, the Viscount of Hope, and by God or the devil, he was going home.
Two
ACROSS AN OCEAN
The ship rolled violently, tossed by the ocean like a bull flinging off fleas, and Jenkins’ muttered prayers rose into a shriek in the dark.
“Shut yer trap,” Wilton the cook growled.
Jenkins didn’t seem to hear. His voice was high and hysterical now, imploring God, the angels, and various saints to save him from a grave at sea. Reynaud closed his eyes, drawing the filthy blanket over his shoulders as he lay in his swinging hammock. Half the men were weak from a fever, he was damnably cold, and Jenkins’ prayers were truly irritating. The ship might well go to the bottom of the sea in this storm, but he very much doubted God or any saint cared.
A dreadful cracking came from above and the first mate flung open the door. “The main mast is giving way! Everyone on deck!”
Reynaud tumbled from his hammock along with every other man in the room, scrambling to pull on shoes. He headed for the door as Jenkins screamed behind him.
“No, God, no!” Jenkins was shouting. He was a slight man, an American on his way to visit an uncle in London with the vague promise of some type of apprenticeship.
For a moment Reynaud felt sorry for the man.
Then the first mate cuffed Jenkins. “Every bleeding one of you on deck if you want to live to see the dawn!”
Reynaud ran down the passage and out the door to the deck. The night was black with the storm, the only light from the wildly swinging lanterns. He was immediately drenched to the bone by the stinging rain, even as a wave crashed over the bow.
“Frenchie! Give a hand here!” A sailor named Hood bellowed into the wind.
Reynaud stumbled toward him, sliding on the wet deck. Hood was braced, using his entire weight to hold onto a rope attached to the main mast. Reynaud grasped the rope above the other man’s hands and pulled hard.
“Have to take down the sails,” Hood panted, “afore they pull us all into the water!”
Reynaud had signed on in the lowly position of Cook’s helper, but he’d found out that in a crisis everyone helped on a ship. The sails above them were already mostly down, but they’d broken free at one end, whipping in the wind. The mast was tilting dangerously, the push of the flapping sails weighing it down.
The ship rolled, leaning so far over that Reynaud was sure they’d capsize. The first mate was cursing and cuffing men left and right. “Hold fast! Hold fast you bloody whoresons!” Stinging seawater and rain streamed into his eyes and a shiver racked his frame. Reynaud was suddenly at once freezing cold and burning hot. He gripped the rope, feeling the skin abrading from his palms.
The ship lurched and suddenly righted itself. At the same time there was a terrible wail and Jenkins slid across the deck and tumbled overboard.
For a moment Reynaud merely stared at the place where the man had fallen over.
Then Hood leaned over and bawled in his ear. “Always fancied his smoking pipe.”
Jesus. He was in a den of thieves. Reynaud concentrated on holding the rope, pulling grimly. He could show no weakness or they’d fall upon him like wolves. He would not let that happen. He’d not succumb to the storm, the fever, or the predators on the ship.
Whatever happened he was making it home.
Three
ENGLAND
London was a brown and gray miasma, Reynaud thought hazily as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the docks. He pulled with all his strength on the rowboat oars, but one still caught and skimmed over the top of the waves.
“Feelin’ poorly, are ye, Frenchie?” Hood asked with mock solicitude from behind him.
Reynaud ignored him. To rise to the bait would only show weakness and that he could ill-afford. He was nearly there, nearly home. His heart beat in a too-fast flurry, a sign of the illness he’d recovered from only recently. For days he’d lain in his swinging hammock, his hand on his unsheathed knife, hallucinating night attacks. Except when Reynaud had finally felt well enough to rise, Hood had had a new scar on his jaw and one of the other sailors a slash in his sleeve. Not all of the attacks had been nightmares, it seemed.
They docked the rowboat and Reynaud leapt ashore as agilely as he could. His muscles ached, his very bones ached, and he could feel sweat break out along his hairline, but he stood on English soil at last.
“D’you need some help?” Hood asked.
Reynaud shook his head, walking swiftly along the dock. His father’s town house was in the West End of London naturally, and he’d have to get there by foot. He had nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the knife hanging at his side.
Time wavered and slipped away as he staggered.
When next Reynaud was aware, he realized someone was following him. The area he was in was poor. A beggar lolled in a doorway, watching him as he stumbled past. Was the beggar a lookout? Footsteps rushed toward him and Reynaud whirled, the knife in his hand. He braced his feet wide apart, throwing back his head and snarling. Two youths had been coming toward him, but they faltered, their eyes widening at the look on his face.
“Find some other prey,” Reynaud growled, and they scattered.
The sun was overhead now. Reynaud continued, his feet dragging, his knife in his hand. People he met made a wide berth around him. He walked and walked for hours and then suddenly—miraculously—his father’s house was before him.
He squinted, staring, wondering if he was dreaming. But the door with its brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head was still there. He hung his knife by his side and mounted the steps of his home. He was breathing heavily, sweat had cooled down his back, and the very door wavered before his eyes.
Reynaud grit his teeth and knocked. He would not collapse now, so close to his goal. Only minutes more and he would see his father. He would be home.
The door opened to reveal the face of a strange butler. The man’s lip curled as he looked Reynaud up and down. He began to shut the door.
Reynaud slammed his palm flat against the door, preventing it from shutting. “I am Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope. Show me to my father.”
Longsword’s sword was quite extraordinary, for not only was it heavy, sharp, and deadly, but also it could be wielded only
by Longsword himself….
—from Longsword
LONDON, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 1765
Few events are as boring as a political tea. The hostess of such a social affair is often wildly desirous for something—anything—to occur at her party so as to make it more exciting.
Although, perhaps a dead man staggering into the tea was a little too exciting, Beatrice Corning reflected later.
Up until the dead-man-staggering-in bit, things had gone as usual with the tea party. Which was to say it was crashingly dull.
Beatrice had chosen the blue salon, which was, unsurprisingly, blue. A quiet, restful, dull blue. White pilasters lined the walls, rising to the ceiling with discreet little curlicues at their tops. Tables and chairs
were scattered here and there, and an oval table stood at the center of the room with a vase of late Michaelmas daisies. The
refreshments included thinly sliced bread with butter and small, pale pink cakes. Beatrice had argued for the inclusion of
raspberry tarts, thinking that they at least might be colorful, but Uncle Reggie—the Earl of Blanchard to everyone else—had balked at the idea.
Beatrice sighed. Uncle Reggie was an old darling, but he did like to pinch pennies. Which was also why the wine had been watered
down to an anemic rose color, and the tea was so weak one could make out the tiny blue pagoda at the bottom of each teacup.
She glanced across the room to where her uncle stood, his plump bandy legs braced and hands on hips, arguing heatedly with
Lord Hasselthorpe. At least he wasn’t sampling the cakes, and she’d watched carefully to make sure his wineglass was filled
only once. The force of Uncle Reggie’s ire had made his wig slip askew. Beatrice felt a fond smile tug at her lips. Oh, dear.
She gestured to one of the footmen, gave him her plate, and began slowly winding her way across the room to put her uncle
to rights.
Only, a quarter of the way to her goal she was stopped by a light touch at her elbow and a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t
look now, but His Grace is performing his famous imitation of an angry codfish.”
Beatrice turned and looked into twinkling sherry-brown eyes. Lottie Graham was only a smidgen over five feet, plump, and dark-haired,
and the innocence of her round, freckled face was entirely belied by the sharpness of her wit.
“He isn’t,” Beatrice murmured, and then winced as she casually glanced over. Lottie was quite correct, as usual—the Duke of
Lister did indeed look like an enraged fish. “Besides, what does a codfish have to get angry about anyway?”
“Exactly,” Lottie replied, as if having made her point. “I don’t like that man—I never have—and that’s entirely aside from
his politics.”
“Shh,” Beatrice hissed. They stood by themselves, but there were several groups of gentlemen nearby who could overhear if
they’d wished. Since every man in the room was a staunch Tory, it behooved the ladies to hide their Whig leanings.
“Oh, pish, Beatrice, dear,” Lottie said. “Even if one of these fine learned gentlemen heard what I’m saying, none of them
have the imagination to realize we might have a thought or two in our pretty heads—especially if that thought doesn’t agree
with theirs.”
“Not even Mr. Graham?”
Both ladies turned to look at a handsome young man in a snowy white wig in the corner of the room. His cheeks were pink, his
eyes bright, and he stood straight and strong as he regaled the men about him with a story.
“Especially not Nate,” Lottie said, frowning at her husband.
Beatrice tilted her head toward her friend. “But I thought you were making headway in bringing him to our side?”
“I was mistaken,” Lottie said lightly. “Where the other Tories go, there goest Nate as well, whether he agrees with their
views or no. He’s as steadfast as a titmouse in a high wind. No, I’m very much afraid he’ll be voting against Mr. Wheaton’s
bill to provide for retired soldiers of His Majesty’s army.”
Beatrice bit her lip. Lottie’s tone was nearly flippant, but she knew the other woman was disappointed. “I’m sorry.”
Lottie shrugged one shoulder. “It’s strange, but I find myself more disillusioned by a husband who has such easily persuaded
views than I would be by one whose views were entirely opposite but passionately held. Isn’t that quixotic of me?”
“No, it only shows your own strong feeling.” Beatrice linked her arm with Lottie’s. “Besides, I wouldn’t give up on Mr. Graham
yet. He does love you, you know.”
“Oh, I do know.” Lottie examined a tray of pink cakes on the nearby table. “That’s what makes the whole thing so very tragic.”
She popped a cake into her mouth. “Mmm. These are much better than they look.”
“Lottie!” Beatrice protested, half laughing.
“Well, it’s true. They’re such proper little Tory cakes that I’d’ve thought they’d taste like dust, but they have a lovely
hint of rose.” She took another cake and ate it. “You realize that Lord Blanchard’s wig is crooked, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Beatrice sighed. “I was on my way to setting it right when you waylaid me.”
“Mmm. You’ll have to brave Old Fishy, then.”
Beatrice saw that the Duke of Lister had joined her uncle and Lord Hasselthorpe. “Lovely. But I still need to save poor Uncle
Reggie’s wig.”
“You courageous soul, you,” Lottie said. “I’ll stay here and guard the cakes.”
“Coward,” Beatrice murmured.
She had a smile on her lips as she started again for her uncle’s circle. Lottie was right, of course. The gentlemen who gathered
in her uncle’s salon were the leading lights of the Tory Party. Most sat in the House of Lords, but there were commoners here
as well, such as Nathan Graham. They would all be outraged if they found out that she held any political thoughts at all,
let alone ones that ran counter to her uncle’s. Generally she kept these thoughts to herself, but the matter of a fair pension
for veteran soldiers was too important an issue to neglect. Beatrice had seen firsthand what a war wound could do to a man—and
how it might affect him for years after he left His Majesty’s army. No, it was simply—
The door to the blue salon was flung savagely open, cracking against the wall. Every head in the room swiveled to look at
the man who stood there. He was tall, with impossibly wide shoulders that filled the doorway. He wore some type of dull leather
leggings and shirt under a bright blue coat. Long black hair straggled wildly down his back, and an overgrown beard nearly
covered his gaunt cheeks. An iron cross dangled from one ear, and an enormous unsheathed knife hung from a string at his waist.
He had the eyes of a man long dead.
“Who the hell’re—” Uncle Reggie began.
But the man spoke over him, his voice deep and rusty. “Où est mon père?”
He was staring right at Beatrice, as if no one else in the room existed. She was frozen, mesmerized and confused, one hand
on the oval table. It couldn’t be…
He started for her, his stride firm, arrogant, and impatient. “J’insiste sur le fait de voir mon père!”
“I… I don’t know where your father is,” Beatrice stuttered. His long stride was eating up the space between them. He was almost
to her. No one was doing anything, and she’d forgotten all her schoolroom French. “Please, I don’t know—”
But he was already on her, his big, rough hands reaching for her. Beatrice flinched; she couldn’t help it. It was as if the
devil himself had come for her, here in her own home, at this boring tea of all places.
And then he staggered. One brown hand grasped the table as if to steady himself, but the little table wasn’t up for the task.
He took it with him as he collapsed to his knees. The vase of flowers crashed to the floor beside him in a mess of petals,
water, and glass shards. His angry gaze was still locked with hers, even as he sank to the carpet. Then his black eyes rolled
back in his head, and he fell over.
Someone screamed.
“Good God! Beatrice, are you all right, my dear? Where in blazes is my butler?”
Beatrice heard Uncle Reggie behind her, but she was already on her knees beside the fallen man, unmindful of the spilled water
from the vase. Hesitantly, she touched his lips and felt the brush of his breath. Still alive, then. Thank God! She took his
heavy head between her palms and placed it on her lap so that she might look at his face more closely.
She caught her breath.
The man had been tattooed. Three stylized birds of prey flew about his right eye, savage and wild. His commanding black eyes were closed, but his brows
were heavy and slightly knit as if he disapproved of her even when unconscious. His beard was untrimmed and at least two inches
long, but she made out the mouth beneath, incongruously elegant. The lips were firm, the upper one a wide, sensuous bow.
“My dear, please move away from that… that thing,” Uncle Reggie said. He had his hand on her arm, urging her to get up. “The footmen can’t remove him from the house until
you move.”
“They can’t take him,” Beatrice said, still staring at the impossible face.
“My dear girl . . .”
She looked up. Uncle Reggie was such a darling, even when red-faced with impatience. This might very well kill him. And her—what
did this mean for her? “It’s Viscount Hope.”
Uncle Reggie blinked. “What?”
“Viscount Hope.”
And they both turned to look at the portrait near the door. It was of a young, handsome man, the former heir to the earldom.
The man whose death had made it possible for Uncle Reggie to become the Earl of Blanchard.
Black, heavy-lidded eyes stared from the portrait.
She looked back down at the living man. His eyes were closed, but she remembered them well. Black, angry, and glittering,
they were identical to the eyes in the portrait.
Beatrice’s heart froze in wonder.
Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, the true Earl of Blanchard, was alive.
RICHARD MADDOCK, LORD Hasselthorpe, watched as the Earl of Blanchard’s footmen lifted the unconscious lunatic from where he’d collapsed on the
floor of the sitting room. How the man had gotten past the butler and footmen in the hall was anyone’s guess. The earl should
take better care of his guests—the room was filled with the Tory elite, for God’s sake.
“Damned idiot,” the Duke of Lister growled beside him, putting voice to his own thoughts. “Blanchard should’ve hired extra
guards if the house wasn’t safe.”
Hasselthorpe grunted, sipping his abominably watered-down wine. The footmen were almost to the door now, obviously laboring
under the weight of the savage madman. The earl and his niece were trailing the footmen, speaking in low tones. Blanchard
darted a glance at him, and Hasselthorpe raised a disapproving eyebrow. The earl looked hastily away. Blanchard might be higher
in rank, but Hasselthorpe’s political influence was greater—a fact that Hasselthorpe usually took care to use lightly. Blanchard
was, along with the Duke of Lister, his greatest ally in parliament. Hasselthorpe had his eye on the prime minister’s seat,
and with the backing of Lister and Blanchard, he hoped to make it within the next year.
If all went according to his plans.
The little procession exited the room, and Hasselthorpe returned his gaze to the g. . .
“Hoyt works her own brand of literary magic… in the exquisitely romantic, superbly sensual third addition to her extraordinary
Georgian-set Legend of the Four Soldiers series.”
—Booklist
“4½ Stars! Top Pick! A magical love story that reads like a mystical fable and a very real and highly passionate romance.
Hoyt has found a unique niche that highlights both her storytelling abilities and her considerable talents for depth of character
and emotion.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Desert Isle Keeper! Books such as this one are the reason I read romance… Just about as good as it can get.”
—
LikesBooks.com
“Fascinating… A heady mix… part love story, part history, and part fairy tale… I recommend it and cannot wait for the final
book in the series.”
—Historical Novels Review
“5 Stars! An amazing novel… Extraordinarily touching and noteworthy… Hoyt did an exceptional job.”
—
CoffeeTimeRomance.com
“Everything a historical romance should be… Every aspect of this tale is first-rate. The characters come alive, the plot moves
along at breakneck speed, and the images and details are so vivid the reader feels totally immersed in the words that spring
to life. I loved this book from beginning to end… definitely one for the keeper shelf!”
—
RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“Another scorching hot historical romance by one of the best… I thoroughly enjoyed Elizabeth Hoyt’s story of mystery and sensual
romance filled with suspense.”
—
FreshFiction.com
“Elizabeth Hoyt is three for three with a beguiling tale… and never misses a beat.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Spins a web of pure delight… another sparkling diamond for the author’s crown. Nothing less than magnificent!”
—
HuntressReviews.com
To Seduce a Sinner
“Superbly nuanced historical romance.”
—Chicago Tribune
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Hoyt’s magical fairy-tale romances have won the hearts of readers who adore sizzling sensuality perfectly
merged with poignancy. Her latest showcases her talent for creating remarkable characters and cherished stories that make
us believe in the miracle of love.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Hoyt expertly sifts a generous measure of danger into the latest intriguing addition to her Four Soldiers, Georgian-era series.
Her ability to fuse wicked wittiness with sinfully sensual romance is stunning.”
—Booklist
“I thoroughly enjoyed this story of action, mystery, and hot, hot romance. Be prepared to sizzle through this sensuous and
exciting story that’s impossible to put down until the last page is finished.”
—
FreshFiction.com
To Taste Temptation
“Hoyt… is firmly in control of her craft with engaging characters, gripping plot, and clever dialogue.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4½ Stars! Hoyt’s new series… begins with destruction and ends with glorious love. She begins each chapter with a snippet
of a legend that beautifully dovetails with the plot and creates a distinct love story that will thrill readers.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Stars! There’s an interesting suspense embedded in this book… The sensuality is breathtaking and the reader is carried
into the headiness of growing love… I loved this book, the high quality of the writing, the engaging plot, and, most of all,
the character development. A terrific novel… highly recommended.”
—
TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
The Serpent Prince
“Exquisite romance… mesmerizing storytelling… incredibly vivid lead characters, earthy writing, and an intense love story.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Wonderfully satisfying… delightfully witty… with just a touch of suspense. Set in a lush regency background, Elizabeth spins
a story of treachery, murder, suspense, and love with her usual aplomb.”
—
RomanceatHeart.com
“Delectably clever writing, deliciously complex characters, and a delightfully sexy romance between perfectly matched protagonists
are the key ingredients in the third book in Hoyt’s superbly crafted, loosely connected Georgian-era Prince trilogy.”
—Booklist
The Leopard Prince
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! An unforgettable love story that ignites the pages not only with heated love scenes but also with a mystery
that holds your attention and your heart with searing emotions and dark desire.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“The new master of the historical romance genre.”
—
HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“An exhilarating historical romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
The Raven Prince
“A sexy, steamy treat! A spicy broth of pride, passion, and temptation.”
—Connie Brockway, USA Today bestselling author
“Hoyt expertly spices this stunning debut novel with a sharp sense of wit and then sweetens her lusciously dark, lushly sensual
historical romance with a generous sprinkling of fairy-tale charm.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Will leave you breathless.”
—Julianne MacLean, author of Portrait of a Lover
One
OUT OF THE WOODS
People stared as he walked down the civilized streets of Boston. They sidled away nervously, taking care not to meet his eyes. He was obviously savage, raw with suppressed violence, and quite possibly mad.
He didn’t give a damn what they thought. He was too busy containing the shivers of unease that racked his body. He’d not been around so many people in years—seven years to be precise. The noise was loud in his ears--carriages rattling by, people talking and shouting, and the clip-clop of iron-shod horse hooves. The movement of so many bodies dazzled his eyes, making him start at phantom attacks, giving him no place to rest his gaze. He stopped for a moment, trying to get his senses under control, but a passing soldier jostled his shoulder.
He whirled, his knife already drawn, a snarl upon his lips.
The soldier’s eyes widened and he backed away hands raised before turning and running.
“Damned French frog,” someone muttered.
He spun, seeking the speaker, but all that he saw were white faces, hostile or fearful, all of them strange and foreign. Except that wasn’t right. They weren’t foreign and he wasn’t French. He blinked and sheathed his knife, inhaling to steady himself. He was close, so close. He merely needed to contain his demons for a little while longer.
He ducked his head and continued. Months of walking had brought him here, to so-called civilization. He’d lived on what game he could hunt, on what berries and roots he could forage. Had walked through rain and searing heat. Had hidden from Indians and French and those he simply couldn’t identify. He’d stepped out of the woods seven days ago and still wasn’t used to the lack of cover around him.
Yet still he walked. He’d sacrificed too much—blood, people he’d held dear, and his own honor—to get here.
He could smell the salt of the ocean now, along with the stink of rotting fish. In another minute the harbor came into view. Tall ships sat at anchor and he could hear the cries of seagulls. His heart began to beat faster. So close. So close.
He had no money or influence here. The clothes on his back were ragged, his moccasins were worn, and he was skeletally thin from lack of food and walking. But he would sail on a ship bound for England even if he had to scrub the decks to pay his way.
He was Reynaud St. Aubyn, the Viscount of Hope, and by God or the devil, he was going home.
Two
ACROSS AN OCEAN
The ship rolled violently, tossed by the ocean like a bull flinging off fleas, and Jenkins’ muttered prayers rose into a shriek in the dark.
“Shut yer trap,” Wilton the cook growled.
Jenkins didn’t seem to hear. His voice was high and hysterical now, imploring God, the angels, and various saints to save him from a grave at sea. Reynaud closed his eyes, drawing the filthy blanket over his shoulders as he lay in his swinging hammock. Half the men were weak from a fever, he was damnably cold, and Jenkins’ prayers were truly irritating. The ship might well go to the bottom of the sea in this storm, but he very much doubted God or any saint cared.
A dreadful cracking came from above and the first mate flung open the door. “The main mast is giving way! Everyone on deck!”
Reynaud tumbled from his hammock along with every other man in the room, scrambling to pull on shoes. He headed for the door as Jenkins screamed behind him.
“No, God, no!” Jenkins was shouting. He was a slight man, an American on his way to visit an uncle in London with the vague promise of some type of apprenticeship.
For a moment Reynaud felt sorry for the man.
Then the first mate cuffed Jenkins. “Every bleeding one of you on deck if you want to live to see the dawn!”
Reynaud ran down the passage and out the door to the deck. The night was black with the storm, the only light from the wildly swinging lanterns. He was immediately drenched to the bone by the stinging rain, even as a wave crashed over the bow.
“Frenchie! Give a hand here!” A sailor named Hood bellowed into the wind.
Reynaud stumbled toward him, sliding on the wet deck. Hood was braced, using his entire weight to hold onto a rope attached to the main mast. Reynaud grasped the rope above the other man’s hands and pulled hard.
“Have to take down the sails,” Hood panted, “afore they pull us all into the water!”
Reynaud had signed on in the lowly position of Cook’s helper, but he’d found out that in a crisis everyone helped on a ship. The sails above them were already mostly down, but they’d broken free at one end, whipping in the wind. The mast was tilting dangerously, the push of the flapping sails weighing it down.
The ship rolled, leaning so far over that Reynaud was sure they’d capsize. The first mate was cursing and cuffing men left and right. “Hold fast! Hold fast you bloody whoresons!” Stinging seawater and rain streamed into his eyes and a shiver racked his frame. Reynaud was suddenly at once freezing cold and burning hot. He gripped the rope, feeling the skin abrading from his palms.
The ship lurched and suddenly righted itself. At the same time there was a terrible wail and Jenkins slid across the deck and tumbled overboard.
For a moment Reynaud merely stared at the place where the man had fallen over.
Then Hood leaned over and bawled in his ear. “Always fancied his smoking pipe.”
Jesus. He was in a den of thieves. Reynaud concentrated on holding the rope, pulling grimly. He could show no weakness or they’d fall upon him like wolves. He would not let that happen. He’d not succumb to the storm, the fever, or the predators on the ship.
Whatever happened he was making it home.
Three
ENGLAND
London was a brown and gray miasma, Reynaud thought hazily as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the docks. He pulled with all his strength on the rowboat oars, but one still caught and skimmed over the top of the waves.
“Feelin’ poorly, are ye, Frenchie?” Hood asked with mock solicitude from behind him.
Reynaud ignored him. To rise to the bait would only show weakness and that he could ill-afford. He was nearly there, nearly home. His heart beat in a too-fast flurry, a sign of the illness he’d recovered from only recently. For days he’d lain in his swinging hammock, his hand on his unsheathed knife, hallucinating night attacks. Except when Reynaud had finally felt well enough to rise, Hood had had a new scar on his jaw and one of the other sailors a slash in his sleeve. Not all of the attacks had been nightmares, it seemed.
They docked the rowboat and Reynaud leapt ashore as agilely as he could. His muscles ached, his very bones ached, and he could feel sweat break out along his hairline, but he stood on English soil at last.
“D’you need some help?” Hood asked.
Reynaud shook his head, walking swiftly along the dock. His father’s town house was in the West End of London naturally, and he’d have to get there by foot. He had nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the knife hanging at his side.
Time wavered and slipped away as he staggered.
When next Reynaud was aware, he realized someone was following him. The area he was in was poor. A beggar lolled in a doorway, watching him as he stumbled past. Was the beggar a lookout? Footsteps rushed toward him and Reynaud whirled, the knife in his hand. He braced his feet wide apart, throwing back his head and snarling. Two youths had been coming toward him, but they faltered, their eyes widening at the look on his face.
“Find some other prey,” Reynaud growled, and they scattered.
The sun was overhead now. Reynaud continued, his feet dragging, his knife in his hand. People he met made a wide berth around him. He walked and walked for hours and then suddenly—miraculously—his father’s house was before him.
He squinted, staring, wondering if he was dreaming. But the door with its brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head was still there. He hung his knife by his side and mounted the steps of his home. He was breathing heavily, sweat had cooled down his back, and the very door wavered before his eyes.
Reynaud grit his teeth and knocked. He would not collapse now, so close to his goal. Only minutes more and he would see his father. He would be home.
The door opened to reveal the face of a strange butler. The man’s lip curled as he looked Reynaud up and down. He began to shut the door.
Reynaud slammed his palm flat against the door, preventing it from shutting. “I am Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope. Show me to my father.”
Longsword’s sword was quite extraordinary, for not only was it heavy, sharp, and deadly, but also it could be wielded only
by Longsword himself….
—from Longsword
LONDON, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 1765
Few events are as boring as a political tea. The hostess of such a social affair is often wildly desirous for something—anything—to occur at her party so as to make it more exciting.
Although, perhaps a dead man staggering into the tea was a little too exciting, Beatrice Corning reflected later.
Up until the dead-man-staggering-in bit, things had gone as usual with the tea party. Which was to say it was crashingly dull.
Beatrice had chosen the blue salon, which was, unsurprisingly, blue. A quiet, restful, dull blue. White pilasters lined the walls, rising to the ceiling with discreet little curlicues at their tops. Tables and chairs
were scattered here and there, and an oval table stood at the center of the room with a vase of late Michaelmas daisies. The
refreshments included thinly sliced bread with butter and small, pale pink cakes. Beatrice had argued for the inclusion of
raspberry tarts, thinking that they at least might be colorful, but Uncle Reggie—the Earl of Blanchard to everyone else—had balked at the idea.
Beatrice sighed. Uncle Reggie was an old darling, but he did like to pinch pennies. Which was also why the wine had been watered
down to an anemic rose color, and the tea was so weak one could make out the tiny blue pagoda at the bottom of each teacup.
She glanced across the room to where her uncle stood, his plump bandy legs braced and hands on hips, arguing heatedly with
Lord Hasselthorpe. At least he wasn’t sampling the cakes, and she’d watched carefully to make sure his wineglass was filled
only once. The force of Uncle Reggie’s ire had made his wig slip askew. Beatrice felt a fond smile tug at her lips. Oh, dear.
She gestured to one of the footmen, gave him her plate, and began slowly winding her way across the room to put her uncle
to rights.
Only, a quarter of the way to her goal she was stopped by a light touch at her elbow and a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t
look now, but His Grace is performing his famous imitation of an angry codfish.”
Beatrice turned and looked into twinkling sherry-brown eyes. Lottie Graham was only a smidgen over five feet, plump, and dark-haired,
and the innocence of her round, freckled face was entirely belied by the sharpness of her wit.
“He isn’t,” Beatrice murmured, and then winced as she casually glanced over. Lottie was quite correct, as usual—the Duke of
Lister did indeed look like an enraged fish. “Besides, what does a codfish have to get angry about anyway?”
“Exactly,” Lottie replied, as if having made her point. “I don’t like that man—I never have—and that’s entirely aside from
his politics.”
“Shh,” Beatrice hissed. They stood by themselves, but there were several groups of gentlemen nearby who could overhear if
they’d wished. Since every man in the room was a staunch Tory, it behooved the ladies to hide their Whig leanings.
“Oh, pish, Beatrice, dear,” Lottie said. “Even if one of these fine learned gentlemen heard what I’m saying, none of them
have the imagination to realize we might have a thought or two in our pretty heads—especially if that thought doesn’t agree
with theirs.”
“Not even Mr. Graham?”
Both ladies turned to look at a handsome young man in a snowy white wig in the corner of the room. His cheeks were pink, his
eyes bright, and he stood straight and strong as he regaled the men about him with a story.
“Especially not Nate,” Lottie said, frowning at her husband.
Beatrice tilted her head toward her friend. “But I thought you were making headway in bringing him to our side?”
“I was mistaken,” Lottie said lightly. “Where the other Tories go, there goest Nate as well, whether he agrees with their
views or no. He’s as steadfast as a titmouse in a high wind. No, I’m very much afraid he’ll be voting against Mr. Wheaton’s
bill to provide for retired soldiers of His Majesty’s army.”
Beatrice bit her lip. Lottie’s tone was nearly flippant, but she knew the other woman was disappointed. “I’m sorry.”
Lottie shrugged one shoulder. “It’s strange, but I find myself more disillusioned by a husband who has such easily persuaded
views than I would be by one whose views were entirely opposite but passionately held. Isn’t that quixotic of me?”
“No, it only shows your own strong feeling.” Beatrice linked her arm with Lottie’s. “Besides, I wouldn’t give up on Mr. Graham
yet. He does love you, you know.”
“Oh, I do know.” Lottie examined a tray of pink cakes on the nearby table. “That’s what makes the whole thing so very tragic.”
She popped a cake into her mouth. “Mmm. These are much better than they look.”
“Lottie!” Beatrice protested, half laughing.
“Well, it’s true. They’re such proper little Tory cakes that I’d’ve thought they’d taste like dust, but they have a lovely
hint of rose.” She took another cake and ate it. “You realize that Lord Blanchard’s wig is crooked, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Beatrice sighed. “I was on my way to setting it right when you waylaid me.”
“Mmm. You’ll have to brave Old Fishy, then.”
Beatrice saw that the Duke of Lister had joined her uncle and Lord Hasselthorpe. “Lovely. But I still need to save poor Uncle
Reggie’s wig.”
“You courageous soul, you,” Lottie said. “I’ll stay here and guard the cakes.”
“Coward,” Beatrice murmured.
She had a smile on her lips as she started again for her uncle’s circle. Lottie was right, of course. The gentlemen who gathered
in her uncle’s salon were the leading lights of the Tory Party. Most sat in the House of Lords, but there were commoners here
as well, such as Nathan Graham. They would all be outraged if they found out that she held any political thoughts at all,
let alone ones that ran counter to her uncle’s. Generally she kept these thoughts to herself, but the matter of a fair pension
for veteran soldiers was too important an issue to neglect. Beatrice had seen firsthand what a war wound could do to a man—and
how it might affect him for years after he left His Majesty’s army. No, it was simply—
The door to the blue salon was flung savagely open, cracking against the wall. Every head in the room swiveled to look at
the man who stood there. He was tall, with impossibly wide shoulders that filled the doorway. He wore some type of dull leather
leggings and shirt under a bright blue coat. Long black hair straggled wildly down his back, and an overgrown beard nearly
covered his gaunt cheeks. An iron cross dangled from one ear, and an enormous unsheathed knife hung from a string at his waist.
He had the eyes of a man long dead.
“Who the hell’re—” Uncle Reggie began.
But the man spoke over him, his voice deep and rusty. “Où est mon père?”
He was staring right at Beatrice, as if no one else in the room existed. She was frozen, mesmerized and confused, one hand
on the oval table. It couldn’t be…
He started for her, his stride firm, arrogant, and impatient. “J’insiste sur le fait de voir mon père!”
“I… I don’t know where your father is,” Beatrice stuttered. His long stride was eating up the space between them. He was almost
to her. No one was doing anything, and she’d forgotten all her schoolroom French. “Please, I don’t know—”
But he was already on her, his big, rough hands reaching for her. Beatrice flinched; she couldn’t help it. It was as if the
devil himself had come for her, here in her own home, at this boring tea of all places.
And then he staggered. One brown hand grasped the table as if to steady himself, but the little table wasn’t up for the task.
He took it with him as he collapsed to his knees. The vase of flowers crashed to the floor beside him in a mess of petals,
water, and glass shards. His angry gaze was still locked with hers, even as he sank to the carpet. Then his black eyes rolled
back in his head, and he fell over.
Someone screamed.
“Good God! Beatrice, are you all right, my dear? Where in blazes is my butler?”
Beatrice heard Uncle Reggie behind her, but she was already on her knees beside the fallen man, unmindful of the spilled water
from the vase. Hesitantly, she touched his lips and felt the brush of his breath. Still alive, then. Thank God! She took his
heavy head between her palms and placed it on her lap so that she might look at his face more closely.
She caught her breath.
The man had been tattooed. Three stylized birds of prey flew about his right eye, savage and wild. His commanding black eyes were closed, but his brows
were heavy and slightly knit as if he disapproved of her even when unconscious. His beard was untrimmed and at least two inches
long, but she made out the mouth beneath, incongruously elegant. The lips were firm, the upper one a wide, sensuous bow.
“My dear, please move away from that… that thing,” Uncle Reggie said. He had his hand on her arm, urging her to get up. “The footmen can’t remove him from the house until
you move.”
“They can’t take him,” Beatrice said, still staring at the impossible face.
“My dear girl . . .”
She looked up. Uncle Reggie was such a darling, even when red-faced with impatience. This might very well kill him. And her—what
did this mean for her? “It’s Viscount Hope.”
Uncle Reggie blinked. “What?”
“Viscount Hope.”
And they both turned to look at the portrait near the door. It was of a young, handsome man, the former heir to the earldom.
The man whose death had made it possible for Uncle Reggie to become the Earl of Blanchard.
Black, heavy-lidded eyes stared from the portrait.
She looked back down at the living man. His eyes were closed, but she remembered them well. Black, angry, and glittering,
they were identical to the eyes in the portrait.
Beatrice’s heart froze in wonder.
Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, the true Earl of Blanchard, was alive.
RICHARD MADDOCK, LORD Hasselthorpe, watched as the Earl of Blanchard’s footmen lifted the unconscious lunatic from where he’d collapsed on the
floor of the sitting room. How the man had gotten past the butler and footmen in the hall was anyone’s guess. The earl should
take better care of his guests—the room was filled with the Tory elite, for God’s sake.
“Damned idiot,” the Duke of Lister growled beside him, putting voice to his own thoughts. “Blanchard should’ve hired extra
guards if the house wasn’t safe.”
Hasselthorpe grunted, sipping his abominably watered-down wine. The footmen were almost to the door now, obviously laboring
under the weight of the savage madman. The earl and his niece were trailing the footmen, speaking in low tones. Blanchard
darted a glance at him, and Hasselthorpe raised a disapproving eyebrow. The earl looked hastily away. Blanchard might be higher
in rank, but Hasselthorpe’s political influence was greater—a fact that Hasselthorpe usually took care to use lightly. Blanchard
was, along with the Duke of Lister, his greatest ally in parliament. Hasselthorpe had his eye on the prime minister’s seat,
and with the backing of Lister and Blanchard, he hoped to make it within the next year.
If all went according to his plans.
The little procession exited the room, and Hasselthorpe returned his gaze to the g. . .
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