Darling Beast (Maiden Lane) (27 page)

“Historical romance at its best… Series fans will be enthralled, while new readers will find this emotionally charged installment stands very well alone.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“4½ stars! This is the Maiden Lane story readers have been waiting for. Hoyt delivers her hallmark fairy tale within a romance and takes readers into the depths of the heart and soul of her characters. Pure magic flows from her pen, lifting readers’ spirits with joy.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“With its lush sensuality, lusciously wrought prose, and luxuriously dark plot,
Scandalous Desires
, the latest exquisitely crafted addition to Hoyt’s Georgian-set Maiden Lane series, is a romance to treasure.”

—
Booklist
(starred review)

“Ms. Hoyt writes some of the best love scenes out there. They are passionate, sexy, and blazing hot… I simply adore Ms. Hoyt’s books for her sensuous prose, multifaceted characters, and intense, well-developed story lines. And she delivers every single time. It’s no wonder all of her books are on my keeper shelves. Do yourself a favor and pick up
Scandalous Desires
.”

—TheRomanceDish.com

“
Scandalous Desires
is the best book Elizabeth Hoyt has written so far, with endearing characters and an all-encompassing romance you’ll want to hold close and never let go. If there’s one must-read book, especially for historical romance fans, it’s
Scandalous Desires
.”

—FallenAngelReviews.com

“Emotionally stunning… The sinfully sensual chemistry Hoyt creates between her shrewd, acid-tongued heroine and her scandalous, sexy hero is pure romance.”

—
Booklist

“4½ stars! Top Pick! A magnificently rendered story that not only enchants but enthralls.”

—
RT Book Reviews

J
ULY
1741

L
ONDON,
E
NGLAND

Captain James Trevillion, formerly of the 4th Dragoons, had been in many dangerous places, but until now he wouldn’t’ve thought Bond Street in the middle of a sunny Wednesday afternoon was one of them.

“Do you have the package from Furtleby’s?” inquired his charge, Lady Phoebe Batten.

The sister of the Duke of Wakefield, Lady Phoebe was plump, pretty, and quite pleasant to nearly everyone excepting himself. She was also blind, which was both why she had her hand on Trevillion’s left forearm and why Trevillion was here at all: he was her bodyguard.

“No,” he answered absently as he watched one—no, three—big brutes coming toward them, moving against the brightly dressed, fashionable crowd. They looked ominously out of place. He leaned heavily on the cane in his right hand and pivoted to look behind them. Lovely. A fourth man.

“Because the lace was especially fine,” she said, “and
also at a special price which I’m quite sure I won’t be able to find again for quite some time.”

“Was it?”

The nearest brute had a nasty scar on his cheek and was holding something down by his side—a knife? A pistol? Trevillion transferred the cane to his left hand and gripped his own pistol, one of two holstered in black leather belts crisscrossed over his chest. His right leg protested the sudden loss of support.

Two shots, four men. The odds were not particularly good.

“Yes,” Lady Phoebe replied. “And Furtleby made sure to tell me that the lace was made by grasshoppers weaving butterfly wings on the Isle of Man. Very exclusive.”

“I
am
listening to you,” Trevillion said as the first brute shoved aside an elderly dandy wearing a full-bottomed white wig.

“Are you?” she asked sweetly, “because—”

The brute’s hand came up with a pistol and Trevillion shot him in the chest.

Lady Phoebe gripped his arm tighter. “What—?”

The other three men started running.
Toward
them.

“Don’t let go of me,” Trevillion barked, glancing quickly around. He couldn’t fight three men with only one shot remaining. “
Left.
Now.”

He shoved her in that direction, his right leg giving him hell. The bloody thing better not collapse on him—not now. He holstered the first pistol and drew the second.

“Did you just shoot someone?” Lady Phoebe panted as a screaming matron brushed roughly against her. The panicked crowd was surging around them, making their progress harder.

“Yes.”

There.
A couple of paces away a small boy was holding the reins of a bay gelding in the street. The horse’s eyes showed white, its nostrils flared, but it hadn’t bolted at the shot, which was a good sign.

“Why?”

“It seemed a good idea,” Trevillion said grimly. He looked behind them. Two of their attackers had been detained behind a gaggle of screeching society ladies. The other, though, was determinedly elbowing through the crowd in their direction.

“Did you kill him?” Lady Phoebe asked with interest.

“Maybe.” They made the horse and boy. “Up now.”

“Up where?”

“Horse,” Trevillion grunted, slapping her hand on the horse’s saddle.

“Oi!” shouted the boy.

Lady Phoebe was a clever girl. She felt down to the stirrup and placed her foot in it. Trevillion put his hand frankly on her bottom and pushed her up hard onto the beast.

She gave a little squeak.

“Thanks,” Trevillion muttered at the boy, now wide-eyed at the sight of the pistol.

He dropped his cane, grabbed the reins, and scrambled inelegantly into the saddle behind Lady Phoebe, still holding the pistol in one hand.

The third brute made the horse and grabbed for the bridle, his lips twisted in an ugly grimace.

Trevillion shot him full in the face.

The horse half-reared, but Trevillion sternly kneed it into a canter even as he holstered the spent pistol.

He might be a cripple on land, but by God, in the saddle he was a demon.

“Did you kill
that
one?” Lady Phoebe shouted as they swerved around a cart.

“Yes.”

“Oh, good.” She threw back her head and laughed breathlessly as he grasped her around the waist.

He leaned forward, inhaling the scent of roses in her hair, and kicked the horse into a full gallop.

Right through the heart of London.

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