“It wasn’t her I was after,” Val said, fingering his lip. “It was her brother. It’s not my fault he’s so fond of his sister.” He tilted his face back, hanging his head upside down to look at her—a particularly disconcerting sight, considering the present state of his face. “And you know why I did it. I don’t allow anyone to cross me and not feel my ire. It’s a simple rule. People ought to stick to it.”
“But he didn’t even know he had crossed you!” she said in exasperation.
“As I said, not my fault.” Val sounded bored now. “Anyway, the whole thing’s over now.”
She looked at him cautiously. “You’re done with the Duke of Wakefield and his sister?”
“Certainly his sister,” Val allowed. “She went off to marry that dragoon fellow in Cornwall.” He flipped his hand in the air. “I won’t go to Cornwall for anything.”
“And the duke?”
“Oh, him as well—at least for the present.” Val sighed and got nimbly off the bed. He wasn’t moving as if he’d been beaten not a fortnight ago. “But that’s not why I’m here, dearest sister. I have a favor to ask of you.”
Eve immediately grew wary. The last favor her brother had asked for had resulted in the kidnapping of Lady Phoebe. “What is it?”
“Now don’t look so frightened, Evie darling. This is something quite simple. Something you might even enjoy.” The fact that Val was smiling charmingly didn’t add at all to his argument.
Val was at his most dangerous when he was charming.
“Just tell me, Val,” Eve said.
“I made an investment about a year ago in Harte’s Folly,” he said. “I want you to oversee it.”
Eve blinked. “Oversee it? How? And why me?”
“You’ll just be checking on the money, making sure Harte is spending it correctly. You know you like accounting books and all those tidy rows of numbers.”
Sadly, this was true. Eve had loved numbers and their strict adherence to rules from the time she’d been a child. “But—”
“As to why I asked you, it’s because you’re my sister and the only one I trust in the world,” Val said simply and rather disarmingly. “That and I’d rather my men of business not know about this particular venture.”
“Why? Is it illegal?”
“So very suspicious!” he replied. “I’d wonder where you’d got it from, if I didn’t know perfectly well.”
“Val—”
He was suddenly in front of her, taking her hands, which for Val meant this was quite important.
He hardly ever touched other people.
“I need you, Eve,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Can you do this for me? Please?”
Really, it had been inevitable since he’d appeared in her room.
“Yes.”
MEANWHILE IN CORNWALL…
“I don’t know,” Phoebe said as she flopped onto the bed in a most unladylike manner, her arms spread-eagled, “if it was such a good idea to introduce my brother to your father.”
“Why do you say that, my darling wife?” Trevillion asked.
Oh, she did like it when he called her his wife in his deep, rasping voice! And as they’d only been married that morning, it still had a thrillingly new ring to it.
Thank goodness, though, that it was finally evening. The day had been full of excitement and celebration with all her family and all Trevillion’s family in attendance, but it had also been exhausting. They’d decided to marry in Cornwall, in the town near the Trevillion family house, which boasted a tiny damp Norman church. The entire town had turned out for their nuptials. It seemed a wedding was exciting enough for the locals, but the appearance of a duke and duchess made it a once-in-a-century event.
Which brought her back to the topic at hand.
“I found Maximus in a corner with your father talking horses after the wedding breakfast, and Maximus had that tone in his voice which means he’s making plans,” Phoebe said disapprovingly.
“What sort of plans?” Trevillion asked. Somehow he’d taken off most of his clothes, for his chest was bare as he began kissing her neck.
She tilted up her head to give him better access. “Plans to buy horses from your father or invest in horse-breeding or something else meddlesome. Maximus is always plotting, you know.”
“I do know,” her new husband replied as he began to unlace her wedding dress. “But I think I may be tired of talking about Maximus now. There must be something we can do on our wedding night.”
“Do you think so?” she asked innocently. “I suppose we could go walk on the moors—”
“Phoebe—”
“Or ride on the beach—or groom one of the horses—”
His mouth covered hers, cutting off her silly suggestions, which, technically, was cheating, but Phoebe didn’t care at all at the moment.
She loved Trevillion’s kisses.
He licked into her mouth, gently, softly exploring, catching her chin in his hand to hold her as he angled his head over hers.
She gasped and opened her mouth wider, tracing his lower lip with her tongue.
He drew back and she noticed his breathing had quickened. He settled his big body on hers and asked, “Are you happy, Mrs. Trevillion?”
“I am,” she whispered back.
“Even though I haven’t a gilded castle nor scores of servants?”
“You,” she said, cradling his face between her hands, “have a loving father and sister, a niece I adore, and just the right amount of servants. As for gilt… well, it’s rather wasted on me, don’t you think? I’d rather have moors and the wind off the ocean, and horses to ride. And you, Mr. Trevillion. I’d trade gilded castles any day to spend my life with you.”
She could hear him swallow, and then his face was against hers, his own damp. “I’m so lucky you would have me, my Phoebe, as my wife and my love. You’ve brought the sun into my lonely, gray life.”
“Lonely no more,” she whispered back.
And then she kissed him.
SEE THE FOLLOWING PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF
THE NEXT MAIDEN LANE NOVEL,
Sweetest Scoundrel!
OCTOBER 1741
LONDON, ENGLAND
It took an extreme provocation to rouse Eve Dinwoody.
For five years her life had been quiet. She had a nice house in an unfashionable but respectable part of town. She had her three servants—Jean-Marie Pépin, her bodyguard; his pretty, plump wife, Tess, her cook; and Ruth, her rather scatterbrained maid. She had a hobby—painting miniatures—which also served to bring in extra pin money. She even had a pet of sorts—a white dove she had yet to name.
Eve liked her quiet life. On most days she quite enjoyed staying inside, puttering around with her miniatures and feeding the unnamed dove oat kernels. Truth be told, Eve was rather shy.
But Eve could, in fact, rouse herself from her quiet life, given enough provocation. And Lord knew Mr. Harte, the owner and manager of Harte’s Folly, was very provoking indeed. Harte’s Folly was the preeminent pleasure garden in London—or at least it had been before it’d burned to the ground more than a year ago. Now Mr. Harte was rebuilding his pleasure garden and in the process spending quite scandalous amounts of money.
Which was why she stood on the third floor of a disreputable boardinghouse very early on a Monday morning, glaring at a stubbornly shut door.
A drop of rainwater dripped from the brim of her hat onto the worn floorboards beneath her feet. Really, it was an absolutely disgusting day outside.
“Do you want me to break the door down?” Jean-Marie asked cheerfully. He stood well over six feet tall and his ebony face beneath a snowy wig gleamed in the low light. He still had a faint Creole accent from his youth in the French West Indies.
Eve squared her shoulders. “No, thank you. I shall handle Mr. Harte myself.”
Jean-Marie raised an eyebrow.
She glared. “I shall.” She rapped at the door again. “Mr. Harte, I know you’re within. Ple
ase answer your door at once.”
Eve had performed this maneuver twice already without result, save for a sudden crash from inside the room after the second knock.
She raised her fist for a fourth time, determined to make Mr. Harte acknowledge her, when the door suddenly swung open.
Eve blinked and involuntarily stepped back, bumping into Jean-Marie’s broad chest. The man standing in the doorway was rather… intimidating.
He wasn’t tall exactly—Jean-Marie had several inches on him and he was only half a head or so taller than Eve herself—but what he might have lacked in height he more than made up in breadth of shoulder. The man’s arms nearly touched the doorway on either side. He wore a white shirt, unlaced at the throat and revealing a V of tangled chest hair. Wild tawny hair fell to his shoulders. His face wasn’t pretty. The exact opposite, in fact. It was strong, lined, and fierce, and everything that was masculine.
Everything that Eve most dreaded.
The man glanced at Jean-Marie, narrowed his eyes, leaned one arm against the doorjamb, and turned his attention to Eve. “What.”
Eve straightened. “Mr. Harte?”
Instead of replying he yawned widely and ran a hand over his face, pulling down the skin around his eyes and cheeks. “I’m sorry, luv, but I haven’t any more parts available for the theater. Per’aps if you come again in another two months when we stage As You Like It. You might make a passable”—here he paused, eyes fixed quite rudely on Eve’s nose—“maid, I suppose.”
He turned his head and shouted over his shoulder, “Are there maids in As You Like It?”
“A shepherdess,” came the reply. The speaker was feminine and had a beautifully accented voice.
Mr. Harte—if it was he—glanced back at Eve without any real apology in his face. “There. Sorry. Although I have to say, at your age and with”—he actually flapped his hand at Eve’s nose this time—“I’d look into something behind the stage, luv.”
And he shut the door in her face.
Or at least he tried to, for Eve had had enough, thank you very much. She stuck her foot in the gap, pressed her shoulder against the door, and walked into Mr. Harte.
Who, unfortunately, didn’t move as he ought to have done.
He blinked, scowling at Eve.
This close she could see the little red veins in his bloodshot eyes and smell some sort of stale spirits on his person. Also, he seemed not to have made use of a razor in several days.
She could feel the old panic rising in her chest, but she fought it. This man posed no threat to her—not in that way, in any case—and Jean-Marie was right behind her. She was a woman grown and ought to have been over these terrors by now.
Eve tilted up her chin. “Move, please.”
“Now look here,” he growled. “I don’t even know your name and if you think this is how an actress gets a part at my pleasure garden, you’re—”
“I’m not an actress,” she enunciated clearly in case he was hard of hearing as well as a drunken oaf. “And my name is Miss Eve Dinwoody.”
“Dinwoody…” Instead of clearing his brow, her name made him scowl harder.
She took the opportunity of his distraction to slip triumphantly past him.
And then she stopped dead.
The room was an absolute shambles, crowded to overflowing with mismatched furniture and dusty things. Stacks of papers and books slid off chairs and tables, falling to alluvial mounds on the floor. In one corner a huge heap of colorful fabric was piled, surmounted by a gilded crown; in another a life-size portrait of a bearded man was propped next to a four-foot-tall model of a ship, complete with sails and rigging. A stuffed raven eyed her beadily from the mantelpiece, and on the hearth itself a kettle steamed next to an enormous chipped pink teapot and a teetering tower of dirty dishes and cups. Indeed, so filled was the room that it took Eve a moment to notice the nude woman in the bed.
The bed itself sat square in the middle of the room, an overgrown, unwieldy thing, hung with gold and scarlet curtains like something from a Turk’s harem, and in the middle reclined an odalisque, the golden coverlet barely concealing her curves. She was dark and sensual, her ebony hair spilling to olive-tinged shoulders, lips a deep natural carmine.
The woman sat up, the coverlet falling perilously to the very tips of her breasts. “Asa, who are dees peoples?”
Mr. Harte clutched both hands in his hair. “I don’t know, Violetta!”
“I do apologize,” Eve said stiffly to the woman, presumably Violetta. “Had I known you were in dishabille, I assure you—”
Mr. Harte laughed sarcastically. “You came bursting in. When, exactly, would you have stopped to—”
“I assure you,” Eve began, glaring at the awful man.
“Is no problem,” the odalisque said at the same time, grinning and revealing an incongruous gap between her two front teeth. She shrugged again and the coverlet gave up the fight, falling to her waist.
Mr. Harte glanced at the woman, paused, his eyes fixated on her now-revealed bosom, and then visibly shook himself before turning back to Eve. “And who are you anyway?”
“I already told you,” Eve said through gritted teeth. “I am Eve Dinwoody and—”
“Dinwoody!” Harte exclaimed, pointing at her. “That’s the name of the Duke of Montgomery’s man of business. Signs his letters ‘E. Dinwoody’ in the most affected hand I’ve ever seen…”
He frowned suddenly.
Jean-Marie and the odalisque looked at him.
Eve raised her eyebrows, waiting.
Mr. Harte’s moss-green eyes widened. “Oh, the devil damn me.”
“Yes, no doubt,” Eve said with a completely false smile. “But before that happens I’ve come to cut off your credit.”
OTHER TITLES BY ELIZABETH HOYT
The Raven Prince
The Leopard Prince
The Serpent Prince
The Ice Princess
To Taste Temptation
To Seduce a Sinner
To Beguile a Beast
To Desire a Devil
Wicked Intentions
Notorious Pleasures
Scandalous Desires
Thief of Shadows
Lord of Darkness
Duke of Midnight
Darling Beast
“Hoyt’s writing is almost too good to be true.”
—Lisa Kleypas, New York Times bestselling author
“There’s an enchantment to Hoyt’s stories that makes you believe in the magic of love.”
—RT Book Reviews
PRAISE FOR ELIZABETH HOYT’S MAIDEN LANE SERIES
Darling Beast
“Hoyt’s exquisitely nuanced characters, vividly detailed setting, and seemingly effortless and elegant writing provide the splendid material from which she fashions yet another ravishingly romantic love story.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“4½ Stars! Top Pick! Darling Beast is wondrous, magical, and joyous—a read to remember.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A lovely book that I very much enjoyed reading. I love the Maiden Lane series and can’t wait until the next book comes out!
—BookBinge.com
Duke of Midnight
“Top Pick! A sensual tale of forbidden love… Plenty of action and intriguing mystery make this a page-turner.”
—BookPage
“Richly drawn characters fill the pages of this emotionally charged mix of mystery and romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4½ stars! Top Pick! There is enchantment in the Maiden Lane series, not just the fairy tales Hoyt infuses into the memorable romances, but the wonder of love combined with passion, unique plotlines, and unforgettable characters.”
—RT Book Reviews
“I loved it. I loved Artemis. I loved Max, and I loved their story. I have enjoyed every Elizabeth Hoyt book I have read (and I have read most of them).”
—All About Romance (LikesBooks.com)
>
Lord of Darkness
“Lord of Darkness illuminates Hoyt’s boundless imagination… readers will adore this story.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hoyt’s writing is imbued with great depth of emotion… heartbreaking… an edgy tension-filled plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Lord of Darkness is classic Elizabeth Hoyt, meaning it’s unique, engaging, and leaves readers on the edge of their seats… an incredible addition to the fantastic Maiden Lane series. I Joyfully Recommend Godric and Megs’s tale, for it’s an amazing, well-crafted story with an intriguing plot and a lovely, touching romance… simply enchanting!”
—JoyfullyReviewed.com
“I adore the Maiden Lane series, and this fifth book is a very welcome addition to the series… [It’s] sexy and sweet all at the same time… This can be read as a stand-alone, but I adore each book in this series and encourage you to start from the beginning.”
—USA Today’s Happy Ever After blog
“Beautifully written… a truly fine piece of storytelling and a novel that deserves to be read and enjoyed.”
—TheBookBinge.com
Thief of Shadows
“An expert blend of scintillating romance and mystery… The romance between the beautiful and quick-witted Isabel and the masked champion of the downtrodden propels this novel to the top of its genre.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Amazing sex scenes… a very intriguing hero… This one did not disappoint.”
—USA Today
“Innovative, emotional, sensual… Hoyt’s beautiful blending of the essential elements of a fairy tale into a stunning love story enhances this delicious ‘keeper.’ ”