Excerpt of To Desire a Devil by Elizabeth Hoyt

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.