To Taste Temptation
Book 1:
The Legend of the Four Soldiers
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Synopsis
Even the most refined lady craves an untamed man to release her passion.
Britain’s high society—le bon ton—loves nothing more than a good scandal, and they’re giddy with the appearance of wealthy Samuel Hartley. Not only is he self-made, American, and in the habit of wearing moccasins, but he is also notorious for fleeing a battle in which several English gentlemen lost their lives.
What le bon ton doesn’t know, though, is that Samuel is in London because of this massacre. He believes his regiment was given up to the enemy and won’t rest until he finds the traitor.
Lady Emeline Gordon is captivated by Samuel. Not only does he defy convention with his unusual dress, his sensual smile, and his forthright manner, but he survived the battle that killed her beloved brother. Samuel suspects that the person responsible for her brother’s death is Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale, a family friend since childhood and Emeline’s fiancé.
Despite Emeline’s belief in Vale’s innocence and her refusal to break off her betrothal, she and Samuel begin a passionate affair. But can their relationship survive the fallout from Samuel’s investigation?
A Blackstone Audio production.
Release date: May 1, 2008
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 Taste Temptation
Elizabeth Hoyt
Praise For Elizabeth Hoyt’s Novels
The Serpent Prince
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Fantastic...magically blends fairy tale, reality, and romance in a delicious, sensual feast.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“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
“A delight to read...It is fun and flirtatious, serious and sincere, menacing and magical. If you haven’t read this series, I enthusiastically recommend it to you.”
—Rakehell.com
“With an engrossing plot centered on revenge and a highly passionate romance between Simon and Lucy, The Serpent Prince delivers a steamy tale that packs an emotional punch. The three-dimensional characters, high drama, and sensuous love story make it a page-turner. The attention to detail when describing the time period and the traditions of the day, such as dueling, add to the overall satisfaction. I highly recommend The Serpent Prince.”
—RomRevToday.com
“A passionate love affair that will capture your heart and leave you wanting more. The intensity of attraction the characters have for each other is so entrancing, I was eager to turn each page to discover more.”
—FreshFiction.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 Princes trilogy.”
—Booklist
“Sardonic, sensual, dastardly, and above all, a focused and intense love story that will touch all historical romance fans . . . Hoyt once again creates vivid characters and a masterful piece of storytelling.”
—ARomanceReview.com
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
“Deeply sensual...not to be missed...a delight from start to finish. The story is so well written, the characters so engaging.”
—HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“Wicked squires, a relationship reminiscent of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (complete with sex scenes), and something of a mystery to solve make this an entertaining book...a good, lively tale.”
—MyShelf.com
“A spellbinding and sensually charged novel that grabs you from the first page.”
—TheMysticCastle.com
“4½ Stars! Absolutely fantastic...filled with witty dialogue and sparkling characters.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Hoyt creates another of her powerful stories of love and romance.”
—NovelTalk.com
“Hoyt isn’t afraid to play with conventions while taking risks....She gets into the soul of her story and lures the reader in.”
—PaperbackReader.net
“An original and well-crafted story.”
—TheRomanceReader.com
“A refreshing historical romance...Elizabeth Hoyt weaves a superb tale that will keep you reading long into the night.”
—Bookloons.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
“A very rich, very hot dessert.”
—BookPage
“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 fairytale charm.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Will leave you breathless.”
—Julianne MacLean, author of Portrait of a Lover
“Hoyt’s superb debut historical romance will dazzle readers with its brilliant blend of exquisitely nuanced characters, splendidly sensual love story, and elegant writing expertly laced with a dash of tart wit.”
—Booklist
“I didn’t want it to end!”
—Julia Quinn, New York Times bestselling author
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! You’ll adore Hoyt’s intelligent characters and their spicy dialogue as much as the heated love scenes.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A delicious romance...I enjoyed it immensely.”
—Jane Feather, New York Times bestselling author
“A must read! A beautiful romance that will leave you breathless...make you laugh and yet make you cry...and will touch your heart and soul.”
—RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
“A terrific Georgian romance starring a fascinating heroine.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Sensuous and passionate...a book that kept me immersed and entertained until the end.”
—RoundtableReviews.com
“A romance novel that refuses to blend in with countless other historical romances that fear even the tiniest deviation from the tried and true.”
—MyShelf.com
“5 Hearts! A fantastic book. The story captivated this reviewer from the beginning....Ms. Hoyt created a terrific cast of characters for this novel.”
—LoveRomancesandMore.com
“Offers an unexpected take on seduction...A must read.”
—FreshFiction.com
Prologue
Once upon a time long, long ago, there came four soldiers traveling home after many years of war. Trimp tramp! Trimp tramp! Trimp tramp! sounded their boots as they marched abreast, heads held high, looking neither to the left nor right. For so they had been taught to march, and it is not an easy thing to forget the ritual of many years. The wars and battles were over, but I do not know if our soldiers had won or lost them, and maybe it does not matter. Their clothes were tattered, their boots more holes than leather, and not one of the soldiers journeyed home the same man as had left it.
By and by, they came to a crossroads, and here they halted to consider their choices. One road led to the west, the way straight and well paved. One road trailed to the east into a dark and secret forest. And one road pointed north, where the shadows of lonely mountains lay.
“Well, fellows,” the tallest soldier said at last, taking off his hat and scratching his head, “shall we toss a coin?”
“Nay,” said the soldier to his right. “My way lies there.” And he bid his companions adieu and marched off to the east, never looking back as he disappeared into the dark forest.
“I am partial to that way,” said the soldier to the left, and he gestured to the mountains looming in the distance.
“And as for me,” the tall soldier cried, laughing, “I will take this easy road, for such has always been my choice. But what of you?” he asked the last soldier. “What road will you take?”
“Ah, me,” that soldier sighed. “I believe there is a pebble in my boot, and I will sit and take it out, for it has been plaguing me these many miles.” He suited action to word and found a nearby boulder to rest against.
The tall soldier clapped his hat back on his head. “Then it is decided.”
The remaining soldiers shook hands cordially and went their separate ways. But what adventures befell them and whether their travels led them safely home I cannot tell you, for this is not their story. This is the tale of that first soldier, the one who walked away into the dark forest.
His name was Iron Heart....
—from Iron Heart
Chapter One
Now Iron Heart got his name from a very strange thing. Although his limbs and face, and indeed all the rest of his body, were exactly like every other man created by God, his heart was not. It was made from iron, and it beat on the surface of his chest, strong, brave, and steadfast....
—from Iron Heart
LONDON, ENGLAND SEPTEMBER 1764
“They say he ran away.” Mrs. Conrad leaned close to impart this bit of gossip.
Lady Emeline Gordon took a sip of tea and glanced over the rim of the cup at the gentleman in question. He was as out of place as a jaguar in a room full of tabby cats: raw, vital, and not quite civilized. Definitely not a man she would associate with cowardice. Emeline wondered what his name was as she thanked the Lord for his appearance. Mrs. Conrad’s afternoon salon had been paralyzingly dull until he had sauntered in.
“He ran away from the massacre of the 28th Regiment in the colonies,” Mrs. Conrad continued breathlessly, “back in fifty-eight. Shameful, isn’t it?”
Emeline turned and arched an eyebrow at her hostess. She held Mrs. Conrad’s gaze and saw the exact moment when the silly woman remembered. Mrs. Conrad’s already pink complexion deepened to a shade of beet that really didn’t become her at all.
“That is...I...I—” her hostess stammered.
This was what one got when one accepted an invitation from a lady who aspired to but didn’t quite sail in the highest circles of society. It was Emeline’s own fault, really. She sighed and took pity. “He’s in the army, then?”
Mrs. Conrad grasped the bait gratefully. “Oh, no. Not anymore. At least I don’t believe so.”
“Ah,” Emeline said, and tried to think of another subject.
The room was large and expensively decorated, with a painting on the ceiling overhead depicting Hades pursuing Persephone. The goddess looked particularly vacuous, smiling down sweetly on the assembly below. She hadn’t a chance against the god of the underworld, even if he did have bright pink cheeks in this portrayal.
Emeline’s current protégé, Jane Greenglove, sat on a settee nearby, conversing with young Lord Simmons, a very nice choice. Emeline nodded approvingly. Lord Simmons had an income of over eight thousand pounds a year and a lovely house near Oxford. That alliance would be very suitable, and since Jane’s older sister, Eliza, had already accepted the hand of Mr. Hampton, things were falling into place quite neatly. They always did, of course, when Emeline consented to guide a young lady into society, but it was pleasing to have one’s expectations fulfilled nevertheless.
Or it should be. Emeline twisted a lace ribbon at her waist before she caught herself and smoothed it out again. Actually, she was feeling a bit out of sorts, which was ridiculous. Her world was perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Emeline glanced casually at the stranger only to find his dark gaze fixed on her. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners as if he was amused by something—and that something might be her. Hastily she looked away again. Awful man. He was obviously aware that every lady in the room had noticed him.
Beside her, Mrs. Conrad had started prattling, evidently in an attempt to cover her gaffe. “He owns an importing business in the Colonies. I believe he’s in London on business; that’s what Mr. Conrad says, anyway. And he’s as rich as Croesus, although you’d never guess it from his attire.”
It was impossible not to glance at him again after this information. From midthigh up, his clothing was plain indeed—black coat and brown-and-black-patterned waistcoat. All in all, a conservative wardrobe until one came to his legs. The man was wearing some type of native leggings. They were made from an odd tan leather, quite dull, and they were gartered just below the knees with red, white, and black striped sashes. The leggings split in the front over the shoes with brightly embroidered flaps that fell to either side of his feet. And his shoes were the strangest of all, for they had no heels. He seemed to be wearing a type of slipper made of the same soft, dull leather, with beading or embroidery work running from ankle to toe. Yet even heelless, the stranger was quite tall. He had brown hair, and as far as she could tell from halfway across the room, his eyes were dark. Certainly not blue or green. They were heavy-lidded and intelligent. She suppressed a shiver. Intelligent men were so hard to manage.
His arms were crossed, one shoulder propped against the wall, and his gaze was interested. As if they were the exotic ones, not he. His nose was long, with a bump in the middle; his complexion dark, as if he’d lately come from some exotic shore. The bones of his face were raw and prominent: cheeks, nose, and chin jutting in an aggressively masculine way that was nevertheless perversely attractive. His mouth, in contrast, was wide and almost soft, with a sensuous inverted dent in the lower lip. It was the mouth of a man who liked to savor. To linger and taste. A dangerous mouth.
Emeline looked away again. “Who is he?”
Mrs. Conrad stared. “Don’t you know?”
“No.”
Her hostess was delighted. “Why, my dear, that’s Mr. Samuel Hartley! Everyone has been talking about him, though he has only been in London a sennight or so. He’s not quite acceptable, because of the...” Mrs. Conrad met Emeline’s eyes and hastily cut short what she’d been about to say. “Anyway. Even with all his wealth, not everyone is happy to meet him.”
Emeline stilled as the back of her neck prickled.
Mrs. Conrad continued, oblivious. “I really shouldn’t have invited him, but I couldn’t help myself. That form, my dear. Simply delicious! Why, if I hadn’t asked him, I would never have—” Her flurry of words ended on a startled squeak, for a man had cleared his throat directly behind them.
Emeline hadn’t been watching, so she hadn’t seen him move, but she knew instinctively who stood so close to them. Slowly she turned her head.
Mocking coffee-brown eyes met her own. “Mrs. Conrad, I’d be grateful if you’d introduce us.” His voice had a flat American accent.
Their hostess sucked in her breath at this blunt order, but curiosity won out over indignation. “Lady Emeline, may I introduce Mr. Samuel Hartley. Mr. Hartley, Lady Emeline Gordon.”
Emeline sank into a curtsy, only to be presented with a large, tanned hand on rising. She stared for a moment, nonplussed. Surely the man wasn’t that unsophisticated? Mrs. Conrad’s breathy giggle decided the matter. Gingerly, Emeline touched just her fingertips to his.
To no avail. He embraced her hand with both of his, enveloping her fingers in hard warmth. His nostrils flared just the tiniest bit as she was forced to step forward into the handshake. Was he scenting her?
“How do you do?” he asked.
“Well,” Emeline retorted. She tried to free her hand but could not, even though Mr. Hartley didn’t seem to be gripping her tightly. “Might I have my appendage returned to me now?”
That mouth twitched again. Did he laugh at everyone or just her? “Of course, my lady.”
Emeline opened her mouth to make an excuse—any excuse—to leave the dreadful man, but he was too quick for her.
“May I escort you into the garden?”
It really wasn’t a question, since he’d already held out his arm, obviously expecting her consent. And what was worse, she gave it. Silently, Emeline laid her fingertips on his coat sleeve. He nodded to Mrs. Conrad and drew Emeline outside in only a matter of minutes, working very neatly for such a gauche man. Emeline squinted up at his profile suspiciously.
He turned his head and caught her look. His own eyes wrinkled at the corners, laughing down at her, although his mouth remained perfectly straight. “We’re neighbors, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve rented the house next to yours.”
Emeline found herself blinking up at him, caught off guard once again—a disagreeable sensation as rare as it was unwanted. She knew the occupants of the town house to the right of hers, but the left had been let out recently. For an entire day the week before, men had been tramping in and out of the open doors, sweating, shouting, and cursing. And they’d carried...
Her eyebrows snapped together. “The pea-green settee.”
His mouth curved at one corner. “What?”
“You’re the owner of that atrocious pea-green settee, aren’t you?”
He bowed. “I confess it.”
“With no trace of shame, either, I see.” Emeline pursed her lips in disapproval. “Are there really gilt owls carved on the legs?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“I had.”
“Then I’ll not argue the point.”
“Humph.” She faced forward again.
“I have a favor to ask of you, ma’am.” His voice rumbled somewhere above her head.
He’d led her down one of the packed gravel paths of the Conrads’ town house garden. It was unimaginatively planted with roses and small, clipped hedges. Sadly, most of the roses had already bloomed, so the whole looked rather plain and forlorn.
“I’d like to hire you.”
“Hire me?” Emeline inhaled sharply and stopped, forcing him to halt as well and face her. Did this odd man think she was a courtesan of some sort? The insult was outrageous, and in her confusion she found her gaze wandering over his frame, crossing wide shoulders, a pleasingly flat waist, and then dropping to an inappropriate portion of Mr. Hartley’s anatomy, which, now that she noticed it, was rather nicely outlined by the black wool breeches he wore under his leggings. She inhaled again, nearly choking, and hastily raised her eyes. But the man either hadn’t observed her indiscretion or was much more polite than his attire and manner would lead one to believe.
He continued. “I need a mentor for my sister, Rebecca. Someone to show her the parties and balls.”
Emeline cocked her head as she realized that he wanted a chaperone. Well, why hadn’t the silly man said so in the first place and saved her all this embarrassment? “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?” The words were soft, but there was an edge of command behind them.
Emeline stiffened. “I take only young ladies from the highest ranks of society. I don’t believe your sister can meet my standards. I’m sorry.”
He watched her for a moment and then looked away. Although his gaze was on a bench at the end of the path, Emeline doubted very much that he saw it. “Perhaps, then, I can plead another reason for you to take us on.”
She stilled. “What is that?”
His eyes looked back at her, and now there was no trace of amusement in them. “I knew Reynaud.”
The beating of Emeline’s heart was very loud in her ears. Because, of course, Reynaud was her brother. Her brother who had been killed in the massacre of the 28th.
SHE SMELLED OF lemon balm. Sam inhaled the familiar scent as he waited for Lady Emeline’s answer, aware that her perfume was distracting him. Distraction was dangerous when in negotiations with a clever opponent. But it was odd to discover this sophisticated lady wearing such a homey perfume. His mother had grown lemon balm in her garden in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, and the scent pitched him back in time. He remembered sitting at a rough-hewn table as a small boy, watching Mother pour boiling water over the green leaves. The fresh scent had risen with the steam from the thick earthenware cup. Lemon balm. Balm to the soul, Mother had called it.
“Reynaud is dead,” Lady Emeline said abruptly. “Why do you think I’d do you this favor simply because you say you knew him?”
He examined her face as she spoke. She was a beautiful woman; there was no doubt about that. Her hair and eyes were dramatically dark, her mouth full and red. But hers was a complicated beauty. Many men would be dissuaded by the intelligence in those dark eyes and by the skeptical purse of those red lips.
“Because you loved him.” Sam watched her eyes as he said the words and saw a slight flicker. He’d guessed right, then; she’d been close to her brother. If he was kind, he’d not presume on her grief. But kindness had never gotten him much, either in business or in his personal life. “I think you’ll do it for his memory.”
“Humph.” She didn’t look particularly convinced.
But he knew otherwise. It was one of the first things he’d learned to recognize in the import business: the exact moment when his opponent wavered and the scales of the negotiation tipped in Sam’s favor. The next step was to strengthen his position. Sam held out his arm again, and she stared at it a moment before placing her fingertips on his sleeve. He felt the thrill of her acquiescence, though he was careful not to let it show.
Instead, he led her farther down the garden path. “My sister and I will only be in London for three months. I don’t expect you to work miracles.”
“Why bother engaging my help at all, then?”
He tilted his face to the late-afternoon sun, glad that he was outside now, away from the people in the salon. “Rebecca is only nineteen. I am often occupied with my business, and I’d like her to be entertained, perhaps meet some ladies of her own age.” All true, if not the whole truth.
“There are no female relatives to do the duty?”
He glanced down at her, amused by her unsubtle question. Lady Emeline was a small woman; her dark head came only to his shoulder. Her lack of height should’ve made her seem fragile, but he knew Lady Emeline was no delicate piece of china. He’d watched her for some twenty minutes in the damnably small sitting room before approaching her and Mrs. Conrad. In that time, her gaze had never stopped moving. Even as she’d talked to their hostess, she’d kept an eye on her charges as well as on the movements of the other guests. He’d lay good money that she was aware of every conversation in the room, of who had talked to whom, of how the discussions had progressed, and when the participants had parted. In her own rarified world, she was as successful as he.
Which made it even more important that she be the one to help him gain entry into London society.
“No, my sister and I have no surviving female relatives,” he answered her question now. “Our mother died at Rebecca’s birth and Pa only months later. Fortunately, my father’s brother was a businessman in Boston. He and his wife took in Rebecca and raised her. They’ve both passed on since.”
“And you?”
He turned to look at her. “What about me?”
She frowned up at him impatiently. “What happened to you when both your parents died?”
“I was sent to a boys’ academy,” he said prosaically, the words in no way conveying the shock of leaving a cabin in the woods and entering a world of books and strict discipline.
They had reached a brick garden wall, which marked the end of the path. She halted and faced him. “I must meet your sister before I can come to any decision.”
“Of course,” he murmured, knowing he had her.
She shook out her skirts briskly, her black eyes narrowed, her red mouth pursed as she thought. An image of her dead brother suddenly rose up in his mind: Reynaud’s black eyes narrowed in exactly the same manner as he dressed down a soldier. For a moment, the masculine face superimposed itself over the smaller, feminine face of the sister. Reynaud’s heavy black brows drew together, his midnight eyes staring as if with condemnation. Sam shuddered and pushed the phantom away, concentrating on what the living woman was saying.
“You and your sister may visit me tomorrow. I’ll let you know my decision after that. Tea, I think? You do drink tea, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Will two o’clock suit you?”
He was tempted to smile at her order. “You’re very kind, ma’am.”
She looked at him suspiciously a moment, then whirled to march back up the garden path, which left him to follow. He did, slowly, watching that elegant back and those twitching skirts. And as he followed her, he patted his pocket, hearing the familiar crinkle of paper and wondering, how best could he use Lady Emeline?
“I DO NOT comprehend,” Tante Cristelle pronounced that night at dinner. “If the gentleman did indeed wish the honor of your patronage, why did he not pursue you through the channels usual? He should compel a friend to make the introduction.”
Tante Cristelle was Emeline’s mother’s younger sister, a tall, white-haired lady with a terribly straight back and sky-blue eyes that should’ve been benign but weren’t. The old lady had never married, and privately Emeline sometimes thought it was because the males of her aunt’s age must’ve been terrified of her. Tante Cristelle had lived with Emeline and her son, Daniel, for the last five years, ever since the death of Daniel’s father.
“Perhaps he wasn’t aware of how it’s properly done,” Emeline said as she perused the selection of meats on the tray. “Or perhaps he didn’t want to take the time to go through the customary maneuvers. He said they were to be in London only a short while, after all.” She indicated a slice of beef and smiled her thanks as the footman forked it onto her plate.
“Mon Dieu, if he is such a gauche rustic, then he has no business attempting the labyrinths of le ton.” Her aunt took a sip of wine and then pursed her lips as if the red liquid were sour.
Emeline made a noncommittal sound. Tante Cristelle’s analysis of Mr. Hartley was accurate on the surface—he had indeed given the appearance of a rustic. The problem was, his eyes had told another story. He’d almost seemed to be laughing at her, as if she were the naïf.
“And what will you do, I ask you, if the girl is anything like the brother you describe?” Tante Cristelle arched her eyebrows in exaggerated horror. “What if she wears her hair in braids down her back? What if she laughs too loudly? What if she wears no shoes and her feet, they are so dirty?”
This distasteful thought was apparently too much for the old lady. She beckoned urgently to the footman for more wine while Emeline bit her lip to keep from smiling.
“He is very wealthy. I discreetly inquired about his position from the other ladies at the salon. They all confirmed that Mr. Hartley is indeed one of the richest men in Boston. Presumably, he moves in the best circles there.”
“Tcha.” Tante dismissed all of Boston society.
Emeline cut into her beef serenely. “And even if they were rustics, Tante, surely we should not hold lack of proper training against the chit?”
“Non!” Tante Cristelle exclaimed, making the footman at her elbow start and nearly drop the decanter of wine. “And again I say, non! This prejudice, it is the foundation of society. How are we to discern the well-born from the common rabble if not by the manners they keep?”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Yes, of course I am right,” her aunt retorted.
“Mmm.” Emeline poked at the beef on her plate. For some reason, she no longer wanted it. “Tante, do you remember that little book my nanny used to read to Reynaud and me as children?”
“Book? What book? Whatever are you talking about?”
Emeline plucked at the bit of gathered ribbon on her sleeve. “It was a book of fairy tales, and we were very fond of it. I thought of it today for some reason.”
She stared thoughtfully at her plate, remembering. Nanny would often read to them outside after an afternoon picnic. Reynaud and she would sit on the picnic blanket as Nanny turned the pages of the fairy-tale book. But as the story progressed, Reynaud would creep unconsciously forward, drawn by the excitement of the tale, until he was nearly in Nanny’s lap, hanging on every word. . .
The Serpent Prince
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Fantastic...magically blends fairy tale, reality, and romance in a delicious, sensual feast.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“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
“A delight to read...It is fun and flirtatious, serious and sincere, menacing and magical. If you haven’t read this series, I enthusiastically recommend it to you.”
—Rakehell.com
“With an engrossing plot centered on revenge and a highly passionate romance between Simon and Lucy, The Serpent Prince delivers a steamy tale that packs an emotional punch. The three-dimensional characters, high drama, and sensuous love story make it a page-turner. The attention to detail when describing the time period and the traditions of the day, such as dueling, add to the overall satisfaction. I highly recommend The Serpent Prince.”
—RomRevToday.com
“A passionate love affair that will capture your heart and leave you wanting more. The intensity of attraction the characters have for each other is so entrancing, I was eager to turn each page to discover more.”
—FreshFiction.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 Princes trilogy.”
—Booklist
“Sardonic, sensual, dastardly, and above all, a focused and intense love story that will touch all historical romance fans . . . Hoyt once again creates vivid characters and a masterful piece of storytelling.”
—ARomanceReview.com
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
“Deeply sensual...not to be missed...a delight from start to finish. The story is so well written, the characters so engaging.”
—HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“Wicked squires, a relationship reminiscent of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (complete with sex scenes), and something of a mystery to solve make this an entertaining book...a good, lively tale.”
—MyShelf.com
“A spellbinding and sensually charged novel that grabs you from the first page.”
—TheMysticCastle.com
“4½ Stars! Absolutely fantastic...filled with witty dialogue and sparkling characters.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Hoyt creates another of her powerful stories of love and romance.”
—NovelTalk.com
“Hoyt isn’t afraid to play with conventions while taking risks....She gets into the soul of her story and lures the reader in.”
—PaperbackReader.net
“An original and well-crafted story.”
—TheRomanceReader.com
“A refreshing historical romance...Elizabeth Hoyt weaves a superb tale that will keep you reading long into the night.”
—Bookloons.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
“A very rich, very hot dessert.”
—BookPage
“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 fairytale charm.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Will leave you breathless.”
—Julianne MacLean, author of Portrait of a Lover
“Hoyt’s superb debut historical romance will dazzle readers with its brilliant blend of exquisitely nuanced characters, splendidly sensual love story, and elegant writing expertly laced with a dash of tart wit.”
—Booklist
“I didn’t want it to end!”
—Julia Quinn, New York Times bestselling author
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! You’ll adore Hoyt’s intelligent characters and their spicy dialogue as much as the heated love scenes.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A delicious romance...I enjoyed it immensely.”
—Jane Feather, New York Times bestselling author
“A must read! A beautiful romance that will leave you breathless...make you laugh and yet make you cry...and will touch your heart and soul.”
—RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
“A terrific Georgian romance starring a fascinating heroine.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Sensuous and passionate...a book that kept me immersed and entertained until the end.”
—RoundtableReviews.com
“A romance novel that refuses to blend in with countless other historical romances that fear even the tiniest deviation from the tried and true.”
—MyShelf.com
“5 Hearts! A fantastic book. The story captivated this reviewer from the beginning....Ms. Hoyt created a terrific cast of characters for this novel.”
—LoveRomancesandMore.com
“Offers an unexpected take on seduction...A must read.”
—FreshFiction.com
Prologue
Once upon a time long, long ago, there came four soldiers traveling home after many years of war. Trimp tramp! Trimp tramp! Trimp tramp! sounded their boots as they marched abreast, heads held high, looking neither to the left nor right. For so they had been taught to march, and it is not an easy thing to forget the ritual of many years. The wars and battles were over, but I do not know if our soldiers had won or lost them, and maybe it does not matter. Their clothes were tattered, their boots more holes than leather, and not one of the soldiers journeyed home the same man as had left it.
By and by, they came to a crossroads, and here they halted to consider their choices. One road led to the west, the way straight and well paved. One road trailed to the east into a dark and secret forest. And one road pointed north, where the shadows of lonely mountains lay.
“Well, fellows,” the tallest soldier said at last, taking off his hat and scratching his head, “shall we toss a coin?”
“Nay,” said the soldier to his right. “My way lies there.” And he bid his companions adieu and marched off to the east, never looking back as he disappeared into the dark forest.
“I am partial to that way,” said the soldier to the left, and he gestured to the mountains looming in the distance.
“And as for me,” the tall soldier cried, laughing, “I will take this easy road, for such has always been my choice. But what of you?” he asked the last soldier. “What road will you take?”
“Ah, me,” that soldier sighed. “I believe there is a pebble in my boot, and I will sit and take it out, for it has been plaguing me these many miles.” He suited action to word and found a nearby boulder to rest against.
The tall soldier clapped his hat back on his head. “Then it is decided.”
The remaining soldiers shook hands cordially and went their separate ways. But what adventures befell them and whether their travels led them safely home I cannot tell you, for this is not their story. This is the tale of that first soldier, the one who walked away into the dark forest.
His name was Iron Heart....
—from Iron Heart
Chapter One
Now Iron Heart got his name from a very strange thing. Although his limbs and face, and indeed all the rest of his body, were exactly like every other man created by God, his heart was not. It was made from iron, and it beat on the surface of his chest, strong, brave, and steadfast....
—from Iron Heart
LONDON, ENGLAND SEPTEMBER 1764
“They say he ran away.” Mrs. Conrad leaned close to impart this bit of gossip.
Lady Emeline Gordon took a sip of tea and glanced over the rim of the cup at the gentleman in question. He was as out of place as a jaguar in a room full of tabby cats: raw, vital, and not quite civilized. Definitely not a man she would associate with cowardice. Emeline wondered what his name was as she thanked the Lord for his appearance. Mrs. Conrad’s afternoon salon had been paralyzingly dull until he had sauntered in.
“He ran away from the massacre of the 28th Regiment in the colonies,” Mrs. Conrad continued breathlessly, “back in fifty-eight. Shameful, isn’t it?”
Emeline turned and arched an eyebrow at her hostess. She held Mrs. Conrad’s gaze and saw the exact moment when the silly woman remembered. Mrs. Conrad’s already pink complexion deepened to a shade of beet that really didn’t become her at all.
“That is...I...I—” her hostess stammered.
This was what one got when one accepted an invitation from a lady who aspired to but didn’t quite sail in the highest circles of society. It was Emeline’s own fault, really. She sighed and took pity. “He’s in the army, then?”
Mrs. Conrad grasped the bait gratefully. “Oh, no. Not anymore. At least I don’t believe so.”
“Ah,” Emeline said, and tried to think of another subject.
The room was large and expensively decorated, with a painting on the ceiling overhead depicting Hades pursuing Persephone. The goddess looked particularly vacuous, smiling down sweetly on the assembly below. She hadn’t a chance against the god of the underworld, even if he did have bright pink cheeks in this portrayal.
Emeline’s current protégé, Jane Greenglove, sat on a settee nearby, conversing with young Lord Simmons, a very nice choice. Emeline nodded approvingly. Lord Simmons had an income of over eight thousand pounds a year and a lovely house near Oxford. That alliance would be very suitable, and since Jane’s older sister, Eliza, had already accepted the hand of Mr. Hampton, things were falling into place quite neatly. They always did, of course, when Emeline consented to guide a young lady into society, but it was pleasing to have one’s expectations fulfilled nevertheless.
Or it should be. Emeline twisted a lace ribbon at her waist before she caught herself and smoothed it out again. Actually, she was feeling a bit out of sorts, which was ridiculous. Her world was perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Emeline glanced casually at the stranger only to find his dark gaze fixed on her. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners as if he was amused by something—and that something might be her. Hastily she looked away again. Awful man. He was obviously aware that every lady in the room had noticed him.
Beside her, Mrs. Conrad had started prattling, evidently in an attempt to cover her gaffe. “He owns an importing business in the Colonies. I believe he’s in London on business; that’s what Mr. Conrad says, anyway. And he’s as rich as Croesus, although you’d never guess it from his attire.”
It was impossible not to glance at him again after this information. From midthigh up, his clothing was plain indeed—black coat and brown-and-black-patterned waistcoat. All in all, a conservative wardrobe until one came to his legs. The man was wearing some type of native leggings. They were made from an odd tan leather, quite dull, and they were gartered just below the knees with red, white, and black striped sashes. The leggings split in the front over the shoes with brightly embroidered flaps that fell to either side of his feet. And his shoes were the strangest of all, for they had no heels. He seemed to be wearing a type of slipper made of the same soft, dull leather, with beading or embroidery work running from ankle to toe. Yet even heelless, the stranger was quite tall. He had brown hair, and as far as she could tell from halfway across the room, his eyes were dark. Certainly not blue or green. They were heavy-lidded and intelligent. She suppressed a shiver. Intelligent men were so hard to manage.
His arms were crossed, one shoulder propped against the wall, and his gaze was interested. As if they were the exotic ones, not he. His nose was long, with a bump in the middle; his complexion dark, as if he’d lately come from some exotic shore. The bones of his face were raw and prominent: cheeks, nose, and chin jutting in an aggressively masculine way that was nevertheless perversely attractive. His mouth, in contrast, was wide and almost soft, with a sensuous inverted dent in the lower lip. It was the mouth of a man who liked to savor. To linger and taste. A dangerous mouth.
Emeline looked away again. “Who is he?”
Mrs. Conrad stared. “Don’t you know?”
“No.”
Her hostess was delighted. “Why, my dear, that’s Mr. Samuel Hartley! Everyone has been talking about him, though he has only been in London a sennight or so. He’s not quite acceptable, because of the...” Mrs. Conrad met Emeline’s eyes and hastily cut short what she’d been about to say. “Anyway. Even with all his wealth, not everyone is happy to meet him.”
Emeline stilled as the back of her neck prickled.
Mrs. Conrad continued, oblivious. “I really shouldn’t have invited him, but I couldn’t help myself. That form, my dear. Simply delicious! Why, if I hadn’t asked him, I would never have—” Her flurry of words ended on a startled squeak, for a man had cleared his throat directly behind them.
Emeline hadn’t been watching, so she hadn’t seen him move, but she knew instinctively who stood so close to them. Slowly she turned her head.
Mocking coffee-brown eyes met her own. “Mrs. Conrad, I’d be grateful if you’d introduce us.” His voice had a flat American accent.
Their hostess sucked in her breath at this blunt order, but curiosity won out over indignation. “Lady Emeline, may I introduce Mr. Samuel Hartley. Mr. Hartley, Lady Emeline Gordon.”
Emeline sank into a curtsy, only to be presented with a large, tanned hand on rising. She stared for a moment, nonplussed. Surely the man wasn’t that unsophisticated? Mrs. Conrad’s breathy giggle decided the matter. Gingerly, Emeline touched just her fingertips to his.
To no avail. He embraced her hand with both of his, enveloping her fingers in hard warmth. His nostrils flared just the tiniest bit as she was forced to step forward into the handshake. Was he scenting her?
“How do you do?” he asked.
“Well,” Emeline retorted. She tried to free her hand but could not, even though Mr. Hartley didn’t seem to be gripping her tightly. “Might I have my appendage returned to me now?”
That mouth twitched again. Did he laugh at everyone or just her? “Of course, my lady.”
Emeline opened her mouth to make an excuse—any excuse—to leave the dreadful man, but he was too quick for her.
“May I escort you into the garden?”
It really wasn’t a question, since he’d already held out his arm, obviously expecting her consent. And what was worse, she gave it. Silently, Emeline laid her fingertips on his coat sleeve. He nodded to Mrs. Conrad and drew Emeline outside in only a matter of minutes, working very neatly for such a gauche man. Emeline squinted up at his profile suspiciously.
He turned his head and caught her look. His own eyes wrinkled at the corners, laughing down at her, although his mouth remained perfectly straight. “We’re neighbors, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve rented the house next to yours.”
Emeline found herself blinking up at him, caught off guard once again—a disagreeable sensation as rare as it was unwanted. She knew the occupants of the town house to the right of hers, but the left had been let out recently. For an entire day the week before, men had been tramping in and out of the open doors, sweating, shouting, and cursing. And they’d carried...
Her eyebrows snapped together. “The pea-green settee.”
His mouth curved at one corner. “What?”
“You’re the owner of that atrocious pea-green settee, aren’t you?”
He bowed. “I confess it.”
“With no trace of shame, either, I see.” Emeline pursed her lips in disapproval. “Are there really gilt owls carved on the legs?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“I had.”
“Then I’ll not argue the point.”
“Humph.” She faced forward again.
“I have a favor to ask of you, ma’am.” His voice rumbled somewhere above her head.
He’d led her down one of the packed gravel paths of the Conrads’ town house garden. It was unimaginatively planted with roses and small, clipped hedges. Sadly, most of the roses had already bloomed, so the whole looked rather plain and forlorn.
“I’d like to hire you.”
“Hire me?” Emeline inhaled sharply and stopped, forcing him to halt as well and face her. Did this odd man think she was a courtesan of some sort? The insult was outrageous, and in her confusion she found her gaze wandering over his frame, crossing wide shoulders, a pleasingly flat waist, and then dropping to an inappropriate portion of Mr. Hartley’s anatomy, which, now that she noticed it, was rather nicely outlined by the black wool breeches he wore under his leggings. She inhaled again, nearly choking, and hastily raised her eyes. But the man either hadn’t observed her indiscretion or was much more polite than his attire and manner would lead one to believe.
He continued. “I need a mentor for my sister, Rebecca. Someone to show her the parties and balls.”
Emeline cocked her head as she realized that he wanted a chaperone. Well, why hadn’t the silly man said so in the first place and saved her all this embarrassment? “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?” The words were soft, but there was an edge of command behind them.
Emeline stiffened. “I take only young ladies from the highest ranks of society. I don’t believe your sister can meet my standards. I’m sorry.”
He watched her for a moment and then looked away. Although his gaze was on a bench at the end of the path, Emeline doubted very much that he saw it. “Perhaps, then, I can plead another reason for you to take us on.”
She stilled. “What is that?”
His eyes looked back at her, and now there was no trace of amusement in them. “I knew Reynaud.”
The beating of Emeline’s heart was very loud in her ears. Because, of course, Reynaud was her brother. Her brother who had been killed in the massacre of the 28th.
SHE SMELLED OF lemon balm. Sam inhaled the familiar scent as he waited for Lady Emeline’s answer, aware that her perfume was distracting him. Distraction was dangerous when in negotiations with a clever opponent. But it was odd to discover this sophisticated lady wearing such a homey perfume. His mother had grown lemon balm in her garden in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, and the scent pitched him back in time. He remembered sitting at a rough-hewn table as a small boy, watching Mother pour boiling water over the green leaves. The fresh scent had risen with the steam from the thick earthenware cup. Lemon balm. Balm to the soul, Mother had called it.
“Reynaud is dead,” Lady Emeline said abruptly. “Why do you think I’d do you this favor simply because you say you knew him?”
He examined her face as she spoke. She was a beautiful woman; there was no doubt about that. Her hair and eyes were dramatically dark, her mouth full and red. But hers was a complicated beauty. Many men would be dissuaded by the intelligence in those dark eyes and by the skeptical purse of those red lips.
“Because you loved him.” Sam watched her eyes as he said the words and saw a slight flicker. He’d guessed right, then; she’d been close to her brother. If he was kind, he’d not presume on her grief. But kindness had never gotten him much, either in business or in his personal life. “I think you’ll do it for his memory.”
“Humph.” She didn’t look particularly convinced.
But he knew otherwise. It was one of the first things he’d learned to recognize in the import business: the exact moment when his opponent wavered and the scales of the negotiation tipped in Sam’s favor. The next step was to strengthen his position. Sam held out his arm again, and she stared at it a moment before placing her fingertips on his sleeve. He felt the thrill of her acquiescence, though he was careful not to let it show.
Instead, he led her farther down the garden path. “My sister and I will only be in London for three months. I don’t expect you to work miracles.”
“Why bother engaging my help at all, then?”
He tilted his face to the late-afternoon sun, glad that he was outside now, away from the people in the salon. “Rebecca is only nineteen. I am often occupied with my business, and I’d like her to be entertained, perhaps meet some ladies of her own age.” All true, if not the whole truth.
“There are no female relatives to do the duty?”
He glanced down at her, amused by her unsubtle question. Lady Emeline was a small woman; her dark head came only to his shoulder. Her lack of height should’ve made her seem fragile, but he knew Lady Emeline was no delicate piece of china. He’d watched her for some twenty minutes in the damnably small sitting room before approaching her and Mrs. Conrad. In that time, her gaze had never stopped moving. Even as she’d talked to their hostess, she’d kept an eye on her charges as well as on the movements of the other guests. He’d lay good money that she was aware of every conversation in the room, of who had talked to whom, of how the discussions had progressed, and when the participants had parted. In her own rarified world, she was as successful as he.
Which made it even more important that she be the one to help him gain entry into London society.
“No, my sister and I have no surviving female relatives,” he answered her question now. “Our mother died at Rebecca’s birth and Pa only months later. Fortunately, my father’s brother was a businessman in Boston. He and his wife took in Rebecca and raised her. They’ve both passed on since.”
“And you?”
He turned to look at her. “What about me?”
She frowned up at him impatiently. “What happened to you when both your parents died?”
“I was sent to a boys’ academy,” he said prosaically, the words in no way conveying the shock of leaving a cabin in the woods and entering a world of books and strict discipline.
They had reached a brick garden wall, which marked the end of the path. She halted and faced him. “I must meet your sister before I can come to any decision.”
“Of course,” he murmured, knowing he had her.
She shook out her skirts briskly, her black eyes narrowed, her red mouth pursed as she thought. An image of her dead brother suddenly rose up in his mind: Reynaud’s black eyes narrowed in exactly the same manner as he dressed down a soldier. For a moment, the masculine face superimposed itself over the smaller, feminine face of the sister. Reynaud’s heavy black brows drew together, his midnight eyes staring as if with condemnation. Sam shuddered and pushed the phantom away, concentrating on what the living woman was saying.
“You and your sister may visit me tomorrow. I’ll let you know my decision after that. Tea, I think? You do drink tea, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Will two o’clock suit you?”
He was tempted to smile at her order. “You’re very kind, ma’am.”
She looked at him suspiciously a moment, then whirled to march back up the garden path, which left him to follow. He did, slowly, watching that elegant back and those twitching skirts. And as he followed her, he patted his pocket, hearing the familiar crinkle of paper and wondering, how best could he use Lady Emeline?
“I DO NOT comprehend,” Tante Cristelle pronounced that night at dinner. “If the gentleman did indeed wish the honor of your patronage, why did he not pursue you through the channels usual? He should compel a friend to make the introduction.”
Tante Cristelle was Emeline’s mother’s younger sister, a tall, white-haired lady with a terribly straight back and sky-blue eyes that should’ve been benign but weren’t. The old lady had never married, and privately Emeline sometimes thought it was because the males of her aunt’s age must’ve been terrified of her. Tante Cristelle had lived with Emeline and her son, Daniel, for the last five years, ever since the death of Daniel’s father.
“Perhaps he wasn’t aware of how it’s properly done,” Emeline said as she perused the selection of meats on the tray. “Or perhaps he didn’t want to take the time to go through the customary maneuvers. He said they were to be in London only a short while, after all.” She indicated a slice of beef and smiled her thanks as the footman forked it onto her plate.
“Mon Dieu, if he is such a gauche rustic, then he has no business attempting the labyrinths of le ton.” Her aunt took a sip of wine and then pursed her lips as if the red liquid were sour.
Emeline made a noncommittal sound. Tante Cristelle’s analysis of Mr. Hartley was accurate on the surface—he had indeed given the appearance of a rustic. The problem was, his eyes had told another story. He’d almost seemed to be laughing at her, as if she were the naïf.
“And what will you do, I ask you, if the girl is anything like the brother you describe?” Tante Cristelle arched her eyebrows in exaggerated horror. “What if she wears her hair in braids down her back? What if she laughs too loudly? What if she wears no shoes and her feet, they are so dirty?”
This distasteful thought was apparently too much for the old lady. She beckoned urgently to the footman for more wine while Emeline bit her lip to keep from smiling.
“He is very wealthy. I discreetly inquired about his position from the other ladies at the salon. They all confirmed that Mr. Hartley is indeed one of the richest men in Boston. Presumably, he moves in the best circles there.”
“Tcha.” Tante dismissed all of Boston society.
Emeline cut into her beef serenely. “And even if they were rustics, Tante, surely we should not hold lack of proper training against the chit?”
“Non!” Tante Cristelle exclaimed, making the footman at her elbow start and nearly drop the decanter of wine. “And again I say, non! This prejudice, it is the foundation of society. How are we to discern the well-born from the common rabble if not by the manners they keep?”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Yes, of course I am right,” her aunt retorted.
“Mmm.” Emeline poked at the beef on her plate. For some reason, she no longer wanted it. “Tante, do you remember that little book my nanny used to read to Reynaud and me as children?”
“Book? What book? Whatever are you talking about?”
Emeline plucked at the bit of gathered ribbon on her sleeve. “It was a book of fairy tales, and we were very fond of it. I thought of it today for some reason.”
She stared thoughtfully at her plate, remembering. Nanny would often read to them outside after an afternoon picnic. Reynaud and she would sit on the picnic blanket as Nanny turned the pages of the fairy-tale book. But as the story progressed, Reynaud would creep unconsciously forward, drawn by the excitement of the tale, until he was nearly in Nanny’s lap, hanging on every word. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
To Taste Temptation
Elizabeth Hoyt
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