Lawson’s review of To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soliders) by Elizabeth Hoyt
Historical romance released by Vision 1 Nov 09

Hoyt’s Legend of the Four Soldiers ends circling back to the beginning a little with the St. Aubyn family. Emeline’s brother who has been thought dead for seven years has appeared in London. Reynaud’s arrival is a shock to many, including the uncle that took over his title. Those that have been waiting for the revelation of the traitor of the 28th Foot at Spinner’s Falls will get that story resolved as well as see the happy endings of all those of the series so far.

When Reynaud St. Aubyn interrupts a political tea in his father’s town house, he really doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s feverish and happy to have made it back to London after seven years of captivity among a tribe in North America. After several days of recovery, he comes to know the niece of his uncle, the new Earl, Beatrice Corning, who has been caring for him.

Beatrice has been fascinated by Reynaud for years. She’s started for many hours many nights at his portrait, painted just before he went to the colonies. The real man is much more fascinating, dark, mysterious and damaged from his captivity. He’s also driven to reach the goal he’s had for the last seven years, which is to do anything to regain all that he’s lost. His title, lands, money and family. Unfortunately his uncle is attempting to prove his insanity to keep the title.

Placed in the middle and forced to make a choice, Beatrice works for her own ends trying to get a bill passed that would provide for veterans. Reynaud tries to get Beatrice on his side so that he doesn’t look insane and he can regain his title. The traitor works to cover his tracks so he won’t hang for his decisions.

Beatrice is a sweet, strong heroine, but she never seemed fully fleshed out. She’s devoted her life to helping her uncle, but she doesn’t agree with his political leanings. She devotes quite a bit of time to her friend Jeremy, who came home from the war horribly scarred. She spends time with her friend Lottie, who has some troubles with her marriage, which disillusions Beatrices towards love and marriage. While there are many facets to her personality, as a character, she seems a bit flat.

Reynaud is about the same. He sets out to use Beatrice and claim her as his own, but there isn’t much emotion involved in either decision. His focus is on the goal of regaining his life and damn anyone who wants to get in his way. He does get drawn into the search for the traitor by Vale, but that feeds is ultimate goals rather than is something that he feels he should do.

The story does have some interesting points, but they are just blips on the radar that get a bit overwhelmed by the somewhat interesting, but unfortunately flat characters of Beatrice and Reynaud. The other thing is Hoyt’s use of a fairy tale to open each chapter. While somewhat entertaining and showing a different side to the characters, the fairy tale, in the end, just distracts from the story. From the excerpt at the end of the book, it appears Hoyt will continue the use of fairy tales in the next series. While a concept that sets her apart from other writers, the fairy tales are almost like a schtick and don’t help the main story as they did in Hoyt’s first series.

Grade: C-

NOTHING IS MORE INTOXICATING-
Reynaud St. Aubyn has spent the last seven years in hellish captivity. Now half mad with fever he bursts into his ancestral home and demands his due. Can this wild-looking man truly be the last earl’s heir, thought murdered by Indians years ago?

OR DANGEROUS-
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 is here, in the flesh-and luring her into his bed.

THAN SURRENDERING TO A DEVIL.
Only Beatrice can see past Reynaud’s savagery to the noble man inside. For his part, Reynaud is drawn to this lovely lady, even as he is suspicious of her loyalty to her uncle. But can Beatrice’s love tame a man who will stop at nothing to regain his title-even if it means sacrificing her innocence?

Read an excerpt

Elizabeth Hoyt fans have patiently and anxiously awaited the release of her latest book in her Legends of the Four Soldiers series. To Desire a Devil hit the shelves just yesterday, but if you don’t have your copy yet,  then you need to take a few minutes to read an excerpt.  This one just might be the best of the series yet.

NOTHING IS MORE INTOXICATING—

Reynaud St. Aubyn has spent the last seven years in hellish captivity. Now half mad with fever he bursts into his ancestral home and demands his due. Can this wild-looking man truly be the last earl’s heir, thought murdered by Indians years ago?

OR DANGEROUS—

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 is here, in the flesh—and luring her into his bed.

THAN SURRENDERING TO A DEVIL.

Only Beatrice can see past Reynaud’s savagery to the noble man inside. For his part, Reynaud is drawn to this lovely lady, even as he is suspicious of her loyalty to her uncle. But can Beatrice’s love tame a man who will stop at nothing to regain his title—even if it means sacrificing her innocence?

So grab a cup of coffee, a Pepsi, whatever you’ll need because I didn’t cut anything out in giving you a look at Elizabeth’s new book. It’s going to take that few minutes and then some, but will it be worth it!

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. Though his eyes were closed, 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 guests, frowning slightly. The people nearest to where the man had fallen were in small knots, talking in low, excited murmurs. Something was afoot. One could watch the ripple of some news spreading outward through the crowd. As it reached each new knot of gentlemen, eyebrows shot up and bewigged heads leaned close together.

Young Nathan Graham was in a gossiping group nearby. Graham was newly elected to the House of Commons, an ambitious man with the wealth to back his aspiration and the makings of a great orator. He was a young man to watch and perhaps groom for one’s own use.

Graham broke away from the circle and strode to where Hasselthorpe and Lister stood in a corner of the room. “They say it’s Viscount Hope.”

Hasselthorpe blinked, confused. “Who?”

“That man!” Graham gestured to the spot where a maid was cleaning up the broken vase.

Hasselthorpe’s mind momentarily froze in shock.

“Impossible,” Lister growled. “Hope has been dead for seven years.”

“Why would they think it’s Hope?” Hasselthorpe asked quietly.

Graham shrugged. “There was a resemblance, sir. I was close enough to study the man’s face when he burst into the room. The eyes are . . . well, the only word is extraordinary.”

“Eyes, extraordinary or not, are hardly proof enough to resurrect a dead man,” Lister stated.

Lister had cause to speak with flat authority. He was a big man, tall with a sloping belly, and he had an undeniable presence. Lister was also one of the most powerful men in England. It was natural, then, that when he spoke, men took care to listen.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Graham gave a small bow to the duke. “But he was asking after his father.”

Graham had no need to add and they stood in the Earl of Blanchard’s London residence.

“Ridiculous.” Lister hesitated, then said, lower, “If it is Hope, Blanchard’s just lost his title.”

He looked significantly at Hasselthorpe. If Blanchard lost the title, he would no longer sit in the House of Lords. They’d lose a crucial ally.

Hasselthorpe frowned, turning to the life-sized portrait hanging by the door. Hope had been a young man, perhaps only in his twentieth year, when he’d sat for it. The painting depicted a laughing youth, pink and white cheeks unblemished, black eyes merry and clear. If the madman had been Hope, he’d suffered a sea change of monumental proportions.

Hasselthorpe turned back to the other men and smiled grimly. “A lunatic cannot unseat Blanchard. And in any case, no one has proved he’s Hope. There is no cause for alarm.”

Hasselthorpe sipped his wine, outwardly cool and composed, while inside he acknowledged the unfinished end to his sentence.

There was no cause for alarm . . . yet.

###

It had taken four footmen to lift Viscount Hope, and even now they staggered under his weight. Beatrice watched the men carefully as she and her uncle trailed behind them, worried they might let him fall. She’d persuaded Uncle Reggie to take the unconscious man to an unused bedroom, although her uncle had been far from happy with the matter. Uncle Reggie had initially been of a mind to toss him into the street. She took a more cautious view, not only from Christian charity, but also from the niggling worry that if this was Lord Hope, they’d hardly help their case by throwing him out.

The footmen staggered into the hall with their burden. Hope was thinner than in his portrait, but he was still a very tall man—over six feet, Beatrice estimated. She shivered. Fortunately, he’d not regained consciousness after glaring at her so evilly. Otherwise she wasn’t sure they would’ve been able to move him at all.

“Viscount Hope is dead,” Uncle Reggie muttered as he trotted beside her. He didn’t sound as if he believed his protest himself. “Dead these seven years!”

“Please, Uncle, don’t let your temper fly,” Beatrice said anxiously. He hated being reminded of it, but Uncle Reggie had had an attack of apoplexy just last month—an attack that had absolutely terrified her. “Remember what the doctor said.”

“Oh, pshaw! I’m as fit as a fiddle despite what that quack thinks,” Uncle Reggie said stoutly. “I know you have a soft heart, m’dear, but this can’t be Hope. Three men swore they saw him die, murdered by those savages in the American Colonies. One of them was Viscount Vale, his friend since childhood!”

“Well, they were obviously wrong,” Beatrice murmured. She frowned as the panting footmen mounted the wide dark oak stairs ahead of them. The bedrooms were all on the town house’s third floor. “Mind his head!”

“Yes, miss,” George, the eldest footman, replied.

“If that is Hope, then he’s lost his mind,” Uncle Reggie huffed as they made the upper hall. “He was raving in French, of all things. About his father! And I know absolutely that the last earl died five years ago. Attended his funeral m’self. You’ll not convince me the old earl’s alive, too.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice replied. “But I don’t believe the viscount knows his father is dead.”

She felt a pang for the unconscious man. Where had Lord Hope been all these years? How had he gotten those strange tattoos? And why didn’t he know his father was dead? Dear God, maybe her uncle was right. Maybe the viscount’s mind was broken.

Uncle Reggie gave voice to her awful thoughts. “The man is insane; that’s clear. Raving. Attacking you. I say, shouldn’t you lie down, m’dear? I can send for some of those lemon sweets you like so much, damn the cost.”

“That’s very kind of you, Uncle, but he didn’t get close enough to lay a hand on me,” Beatrice murmured.

“Wasn’t for lack of trying!”

Uncle Reggie stared disapprovingly as the footmen bore the viscount into the scarlet bedroom. It was only the second nicest guest bedroom, and for a moment Beatrice had a pang of doubt. If this was Viscount Hope, then surely he merited the first nicest guest bedroom? Or was the point moot since if he was Lord Hope, then he really ought to be in the earl’s bedroom, which, of course, Uncle Reggie slept in? Beatrice shook her head. The whole thing was too complicated for words, and, in any case, the scarlet bedroom would have to do for now.

“The man ought to be in a madhouse,” Uncle Reggie was saying. “Might murder us all in our sleep when he wakes. If he wakes.”

“I doubt he’ll do any such thing,” Beatrice said firmly, ignoring both her uncle’s hopeful tone in his last words and her own uneasiness. “Surely it’s only the fever. He was burning up when I touched his face.”

“S’pose I’ll have to send for a physician.” Uncle Reggie scowled at Lord Hope. “And pay for it m’self.”

“It would be the Christian thing to do,” Beatrice murmured. She watched anxiously as the footmen lowered Hope to the bed. He hadn’t moved or made a sound since his collapse. Was he dying?

Uncle Reggie grunted. “And I’ll have to explain this to my guests somehow. Bound to be gossiping about it this very moment. We’ll be the talk of the town, take my word.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice said soothingly. “I can supervise here if you wish to attend to our guests.”

“Don’t take too long, and don’t get too close to the blighter. No telling what he might do if he wakes.” Uncle Reggie glared at the unconscious man before stumping out of the room.

“I won’t.” Beatrice turned to the waiting footmen. “George, please see that a physician is called in case the earl becomes distracted and forgets the matter.” Or thinks better of the cost, she mentally added.

“Yes, miss.” George started for the door.

“Oh, and send Mrs. Callahan up, will you, George?” Beatrice frowned at the pale, bearded man on the bed. He was moving restlessly, as if he might be waking. “Mrs. Callahan always seems to know what to do.”

“Yes, miss.” George hurried from the room.

Beatrice looked at the remaining three footmen. “One of you needs to go tell Cook to warm some water, brandy, and—”

But at that moment, Hope’s black eyes flew open. The movement was so sudden, his glare so intense, that Beatrice squeaked like a ninny and jumped back. She straightened and, feeling a little embarrassed of her missishness, hurried forward as Lord Hope began to rise.

“No, no, my lord! You must remain in bed. You’re ill.” She touched his shoulder, lightly but firmly pushing him back.

And suddenly she was seized by a whirlwind. Lord Hope violently grabbed her, shoved her down on the bed, and fell atop her. He might be thin, but Beatrice felt as if a sack of bricks had landed on her chest. She gasped for air and looked up into black eyes glaring at her malevolently from only inches away. He was so close she could count each individual sooty eyelash.

So close she felt the painful press of that horrid knife in her side.

She tried to press her hand against his chest–she couldn’t breathe!–but he caught it, crushing it in his own as he growled, “J’insiste sur le fait—”

He was cut off as Henry, one of the footmen, bashed him over the head with a bed warmer. Lord Hope slumped, his heavy head thumping onto Beatrice’s breast. For a moment she was in fear of suffocating altogether. Then Henry pulled him off her. She took a shuddering breath and stood on shaky legs, turning to look at her unconscious patient in the bed. His head lolled, his piercing black eyes veiled now. Would he have really hurt her? He’d looked so evil—demented, even. What in God’s name had happened to him? She rubbed her sore hand, swallowing hard as she regained her composure.

George returned and looked shocked when Henry explained what had happened.

“Even so, you shouldn’t have hit him so hard,” Beatrice scolded Henry.

“‘E was hurting you, miss.” Henry sounded mulish.

She brushed a trembling hand over her hair, checking that her coiffure was still in place. “Yes, well, it didn’t actually come to that, although I admit for a moment I was fearful. Thank you, Henry. I’m sorry, I’m still a bit discomposed.” She bit her lip, eyeing Lord Hope again. “George, I think it wise to place a guard at the viscount’s door. Day and night, mind you.”

“Yes, miss,” George replied sturdily.

“It’s for his own sake as well as ours,” Beatrice murmured. “And I’m sure he’ll be fine once he recovers from this illness.”

The footmen exchanged uncertain glances.

Beatrice put a bit more steel in her voice to cover her own worry. “I would be obliged if Lord Blanchard didn’t hear of this incident.”

“Yes, ma’am,” George answered for all the footmen, although he still looked dubious.

Mrs. Callahan arrived at that moment, bustling into the room. “What’s all the bother, then, miss? Hurley’s said there’s a gentleman what’s collapsed.”

“Mr. Hurley is correct.” Beatrice gestured to the man on the bed. She turned to the housekeeper eagerly as a thought occurred to her. “Do you recognize him?”

“Him?” Mrs. Callahan wrinkled her nose. “Can’t say as I do, miss. Very hairy gentleman, isn’t he?”

“Says ‘e’s Viscount Hope,” Henry stated with satisfaction.

“Who?” Mrs. Callahan stared.

“Bloke in the painting,” Henry clarified. “Pardon me, miss.”

“Not at all, Henry,” Beatrice replied. “Did you know Lord Hope before the old earl’s death?”

“I’m sorry, no, miss,” Mrs. Callahan said. “Came on fresh when your uncle was made the earl, if you remember.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Beatrice said in disappointment.

“Practically the whole staff was,” Mrs. Callahan continued, “and them that had stayed . . . Well, they’re gone now. It’s been five years, after all, since the old earl passed.”

“Yes, I know, but I had hoped.” How could they say for certain who the man was until someone who’d actually known Hope identified him? Beatrice shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter at the moment anyway. No matter who he is, it’s our duty to care for this man.”

So saying, Beatrice ordered her troops and gave out assignments. By the time she’d consulted with the physician—Uncle Reggie hadn’t forgotten to send for him after all—supervised Cook making gruel, and planned for a nursing regime, the political tea was long over with. Beatrice left Lord Hope—if that was indeed who he was—under the eagle eye of Henry and drifted down the stairs to the blue sitting room.

It was empty now. Only the damp stain on the carpet gave any evidence of the dramatic events of several hours before. Beatrice stared at the stain for several moments before turning and inevitably facing the portrait of Viscount Hope.

He looked so young, so carefree! She stepped closer, pulled as always by some attracting force she couldn’t resist. She’d been nineteen when she’d first seen the portrait. The night she’d arrived at Blanchard House with her uncle, the new Earl of Blanchard, it had been very late. She’d been shown a room, but the excitement of a new house, the long carriage ride, and London itself had caused sleep to escape her. She’d lain wide awake for half an hour or more before pulling on a wrapper and padding down the stairs.

She remembered peeking in the library, examining the study, creeping through the halls, and somehow, inevitably—fatefully, it seemed—she’d ended up here. Here where she stood right now, only a pace before the portrait of Viscount Hope. Then, as now, it was his laughing eyes that had drawn her gaze first. Slightly crinkled, full of mischief and wicked humor. His mouth next, wide, with that slow, sensual curve on the upper lip. His hair was inky black, drawn straight back from a wide brow. He lounged in a relaxed pose against a tree, a fowling gun held casually through the crook of one arm, two spaniels panting adoringly up at that face.

Who could blame them? She’d probably worn the same expression when she’d first seen him. Maybe she still did. She’d spent innumerable nights gazing at him just like this, dreaming of a man who would see inside her and love her only for herself. On the night of her twentieth birthday, she’d crept down here, feeling excited and on the verge of something wonderful. The first time she’d ever been kissed, she’d come here to contemplate her feelings. Funny how now she couldn’t quite remember the face of the boy whose lips had so inexpertly met her own. And when Jeremy had returned, broken from the war, she’d come here.

Beatrice took one last look at those wicked ebony eyes and turned aside. For five long years she’d mooned over a painted man, a thing of dreams and fantasy. And now the flesh-and-blood man lay only two floors above her.

The question was, beneath the hair and beard, under the dirt and madness, was he the same man who’d sat for this portrait so long ago?

Welcome once again to Duck Chat!

And please welcome Elizabeth Hoyt to the Pond for the day!

If you’re an historical romance fan, you know that Elizabeth came racing into our lives in 2006 when her Princes trilogy debuted, and she hasn’t slowed down one bit since then. Next came her Legends of the Four Soldiers and she’s now working on a new series, which she’ll tell us about in a bit.

Elizabeth is married; she loves gardening but I’m assuming she doesn’t grow tomatoes since she really doesn’t care for them, but she does have twenty-six named varieties of daylilies in her garden; she grew up in Minnesota, the daughter of a frog biologist. She began her writing career at age thirty-five and her first book was published just after her fortieth birthday. Lucky for us it didn’t take any longer than that! Be sure to leave a comment or question for Elizabeth because she’s giving away a signed copy of To Desire a Devil!

So now that you know a little about Elizabeth, let’s chat!

DUCK CHAT: Elizabeth, for those few readers who may not have read your books yet – hopefully it’s only a few! – would tell us about your first series, The Princes Trilogy, just an overview of how the series came about and a little something about each book?

ELIZABETH HOYT: The Princes Trilogy books are (loosely) linked by the heroes, an odd trio of friends who all belong to the Agrarian Club which meets in a coffee house. The Raven Prince, is a about Edward de Raaf, the Earl of Swartingham, who lost his entire family in a smallpox epidemic when he was a boy. Edward is trying to re-create his family and has already found a suitable lady to marry. But then his land steward hires a new secretary for Edward while he is away and she turned out to be a rather argumentative widow who turns all of Edward’s plans upside-down. Harry Pye, the hero of The Leopard Prince, is a mysterious land steward. He finds to his horror that his employer, Lady Georgina Maitland, insists on visiting the land he oversees in the north of England and interfering with both his work and his private life. Simon Iddesleigh, Viscount Iddesleigh, is the hero of The Serpent Prince. He’s a sophisticated gentleman with a cutting wit, but he is entirely undone by a provincial lady who sees right through his blather.

These were the first books I wrote and actually I can’t really remember how they came about other than the fact that I was trying my hand at writing historical romance and then (as now) I was most interested in the hero of a story.

DC: If you could retire any question and never, ever have it asked again, what would it be? Feel free to answer it.

EH: The dreaded “Where do you get your ideas?” It’s dreaded because I honestly don’t know. Ideas just arrive while I’m driving or weeding my garden. It’s just part of being a writer, I think.

DC: Then there’s your Legend of the Four Soldiers series. What’s the genesis of this series? To Taste Temptation and To Seduce a Sinner are the first two books in the series; would you tell our readers about those stories?

EH: Well, okay, I do know (partly) where I got the idea for these books. The war in Iraq had just started and I wanted to address the plight of the soldier returning home from war. I grew up just post the Vietnam War, with all the books and movies about the subject, and I used to read World War I poetry as a romantic teenager. The idea of the soldier with post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) has always interested to me. So I wanted to explore what would happen to good soldiers, brave soldiers, who had fought well and returned home to an era that didn’t know anything at all about PTSD and where mental illness was considered a moral weakness.

The Legend of the Four Soldiers is about four very different men who were in the same regiment during the French and Indian War in the American Colonies. While marching in the New England woods, their regiment is ambushed and massacred. To Taste Temptation starts the series six years later with Samuel Hartley who was an American scout. He’s now a wealthy merchant come to London ostensibly on business, but in reality to find the man who betrayed his regiment. To do this he needs entry into London society and he seeks the help of Lady Emeline Gordon, a proper widow who is rather aghast at his backwoods ways.

To Seduce a Sinner is about Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale, a bon vivant, always the center of attention during the day, who hides a secret at night. After Jasper is left at the altar by his flighty fiancée he is propositioned by Melisande Fleming. Melisande is plain and brown and has been in love with Jasper for years—though he has no idea of that when he hastily marries her.

DC: In May To Beguile a Beast, the third book in the series, hit the shelves. We meet Alistair and Helen in this story. Can you give us some insight to them and their relationship?

EH: Sir Alistair Munroe is a naturalist who was horribly scarred during the war. Because of his scars he’s hidden himself away in his crumbling castle in Scotland. But one and dark stormy night he answers the door to find a beautiful woman on his doorstep claiming to be his new housekeeper. To Beguile a Beast is a “Beauty and the Beast” story, but I wanted to explore what physical disfigurement meant in an age without plastic surgery, how a man can lose all hope and how he can regain it with the right woman.

DC: Then in November we’ll see the long-awaited To Desire a Devil, all about Reynaud and Beatrice. Can we get a little sneak peak, please?

EH: Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope is the fourth and final soldier in the series. Presumed dead for seven years, he escapes captivity and returns home, ready to resume his life. But the life he left isn’t there anymore. His father, the Earl of Blanchard is dead, another man has claimed the title, and there are rumors that he’s insane. Everyone seems to be against him except the new earl’s niece, a woman named Beatrice Corning. Beatrice for her part is dangerously attracted to Reynaud, but can she make him see that what they have may be more important than the life he’s trying to regain?

DC: I’ve heard writers often say their stories take them in surprising directions, or dialogue flows from some unknown place. Is it the same with you? Do your characters surprise you sometimes?

EH: Sure. In fact, when I wrote the first scene of To Desire a Devil, I ended up with a character I hadn’t planned on (Beatrice’s friend, Lottie.)

DC: Do you ever argue with your characters while you’re writing? Who usually wins?

EH: Hmm. I don’t find myself arguing with characters, but I as I’m writing the book does sometimes go off the road and into the woods.

DC: And congratulations are in order for your new series, Maiden Lane, you just contracted with Grand Central Publishing for. Wicked Intentions is the first book in the series. Can you tell us about the series as a whole and then some about Wicked Intentions?

EH: The Maiden Lane series is set during the gin craze in London when one out of every four houses sold gin for a penny and a half a cup. There was wide-spread addiction, crime, and violence, but for economic reasons it took forever for Parliament to crack down on the sale of gin. My fictional Maiden Lane is smack in the middle of one of the worst areas of London at this time, St. Giles, And on Maiden Lane is the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children run by Temperance Dews and her brother. But the home has recently lost its patron and the home is in dire financial straits. One night a man appears in her sitting room, Lazarus Huntington, Lord Caire, who has an interesting proposition: if Temperance will help him search St. Giles for a murderer, he will help her find a new patron for the home.

DC: What is sure to distract you from sitting down and working/writing?

EH: A good book.

DC: Now, I have to ask you about a few of the fun facts I read on your website. I became quite curious about some of them! First, you found yourself accidentally locked in at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, England, not hearing the bell indicating closing time. How long were you locked in? How did you get out? What was the reaction of the museum staff? I could go on for a bit on the little questions, so anything else you can tell us about the experience, please!

EH: The Ashmolean Museum is a wonderful place and I highly recommend it to anyone who happens to be in Oxford. When I was sixteen my family spent a year in Oxford and I used to walk to the “Ashmole” (as my art teacher called it) and spend entire afternoons there. On this particular day I was looking at Greek pottery, which at that time was literally stacked up in cases in the Ashmolean. Greek pottery can be quite pornographic, so I was taking a deep, artistic interest in the pottery when somehow I didn’t hear the warning bell, (Which, in my own defense, was kind of a musical chime.) Then I heard the door lock to the room I was in. So being a resourceful teenager I ran over and pounded on the doors and was let out by a middle-aged security guard who told me to listen better next time. Sadly, I still stare at Greek pottery in museums.

DC: How do you feel your male or female characters have evolved over your career? Do you think you write them differently now than you did when you started?

EH: Well, my “career” is only three years old—I was first published in 2006. I don’t think my heroes and heroines have evolved much in that time. Readers may disagree.

DC: Another fun fact tidbit is the fact you learned the difference between a frog and toad from your father due to this profession. I know this probably won’t be the question on the list, but I’m curious! LOL, what is the difference??? I’m a country girl and couldn’t tell you!

EH: My father used to take the entire family frog collecting in Minnesota when I was a child. He was interested in leopard frogs (the green frog with black spots that most people think of when they think of frogs.) Frogs generally have webbed fingers, toads don’t. Frogs generally live in or near wet spots and have smooth, damp skin (I once made the mistake of calling it “slimy” in front of my father!) Toads have dry, generally bumpy skin and the most common toads in North America excrete a poison from the bumps on their backs. It doesn’t hurt people, but it tastes bad to animals.

DC: Is there a genre you haven’t tackled but would like to try?

EH: I’d love to write a middle school book someday.

DC: What advice would you give to your younger self?

EH: Not to worry so much. But I wouldn’t have listened.

DC: Okay, just one more and I’ll let my curiosity go! You met your husband on an archeological dig. Would you tell us about that, where you were, what type of dig, and any romantic details you’d like to share?

EH: It was a summer field school in southwestern Wisconsin in the middle of a corn field and it was very hot and dirty and I thought my future husband was a complete jerk. He was the TA in charge of the dig (an older man!) and he strode around the dig in a tiny pair of running shorts (it was the 1980’s) and a bandana around his neck—no shirt—and was very grim because the dig was his doctoral thesis. (Which led to the comment whenever something went wrong, “it’s not my thesis!” Sadly, my future husband didn’t find it very funny.)

Almost a year later I took a lab class in which my future husband was the TA, although (as he made very clear) he didn’t grade me. After a couple of months he asked me out and six weeks later we were engaged.

DC: If you were a book, what would your blurb be?

EH: Hidden depths

DC: What would be your “voice’s” tagline?

EH: Strong, sensuous, and smart

DC: You also write as Julia Harper. For the Love of Pete is your latest release there. Can you tell us about that book and also what’s next for Julia?

EH: For the Love of Pete is about Dante Torelli, an undercover FBI agent assigned to protect a mob informant and his family. But when the informant’s hiding place is blown, a baby girl is snatched by a ruthless hitman. Now, Dante must save the toddler, uncover the traitor in his department, evade various bad guys, and deal with the toddler’s sexy aunt, all before the biggest mob trial in Chicago history, set to begin in just three days.

I’m contracted for one more Julia Harper book, right now we don’t have a release date.

DC: If you had never become an author, what do you think you would be doing right now?

EH: Who knows?

DC: Aside from your Maiden Lane series, anything else exciting on the horizon for Elizabeth Hoyt?

EH: Well, I’m writing and posting a free novella on my website this year. It’s called The Ice Princess and features a secondary character from the Princes Trilogy, Coral Smythe, the Aphrodite of Aphrodite’s Grotto. All the chapters to date are posted here.

Lightning Round:

- dark or milk chocolate?   – milk chocolate
- smooth or chunky peanut butter?    – chunky
- heels or flats?    – flats
- coffee or tea?    – either, depending on my mood
- summer or winter?    – winter
- mountains or beach?     – mountains
- mustard or mayonnaise?   – both
- flowers or candy?    – flowers
- pockets or purse?     – purse
- Pepsi or Coke?    – Pepsi
- ebook or print?   – large print print book

And just because:

1. What is your favorite word?    – I’m a writer, I have an infinite number of favorite words. But I’ll go with serendipity.
2. What is your least favorite word?    – Squat. Isn’t that just the ugliest sounding word?
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?    – I get excited by other people’s creativity and talent. A really well written, smart movie, for example, ramps up my own creativity.
4. What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?    – people who are jerks
5. What sound or noise do you love?   – crickets at night
6. What sound or noise do you hate?   – revving motors.
7. What is your favorite curse word?   – fuck
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?     – None. I’m very, very happy with what I do for a living.
9. What profession would you not like to do?   – Anything that involves a boss
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?   – “You’ve done well.”

DC: Elizabeth, we’re so glad you joined us today!  Thank you!