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Rhymes with Love Series Books 1-4
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
Rhymes With Love #5
Elizabeth Boyle
Releasing on January 26, 2016
Avon
In the fifth novel of the captivating Rhymes with Love
series from New York Times bestselling author Elizabeth Boyle, a young woman’s
hopes of a match encounter a wickedly handsome complication…
Lavinia Tempest has been eagerly anticipating a
spectacular Season. But one disastrous pile-up on the Almack’s dance floor
derails all her plans. Add to that, the very stunning revelations about her
mother’s scandalous past have become the ton’s latest on dits. Lavinia’s future
has gone from shining bright to blackest night in one misstep.
Alaster “Tuck” Rowland admits he’s partly to blame for
Lavinia’s disastrous debut. But it’s not guilt that compels him to restore her
reputation. Rather, he’s placed a wager that he can make Lavinia into of the
most sought-after ladies in London. Who better than an unrepentant rake to set
Society astir?
Tuck’s motives are hardly noble. But in teaching the
lovely Lavinia how to win any man she wants, he suddenly finds himself tangled
in the last place he ever imagined: in love.
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“Come now, Miss Tempest, my uncle expects me to
dance with one of you,” he said as he came wavering up to her. “You cannot
stand here all night.”
She looked around for her sister, Lady Aveley.
Anyone. “I-I-I, oh dear. Mr. Rowland, I don’t believe—” she stammered out, even
as Mr. Rowland took her hand, his strong, sure fingers lacing around hers.
No man had ever just come up and claimed her
before for the simple reason that Kempton was a small village, and everyone
knew (thanks in no small part to Mrs. Bagley-Butterton) that dancing with
Lavinia was akin to asking to have your toes trimmed—or those of your neighbors—or
to have something valuable broken.
Or a section of your house scorched.
Mr. Rowland, completely unaware of the mortal
danger into which he was placing himself and a good portion of London society,
just caught hold of her hand and tugged her out onto the floor, utterly and
completely deaf to her protests.
“No, please, sir, I don’t think this is wise,”
she told him. And she meant it. This was a very bad notion.
But unfortunately, her protests had no effect on
Mr. Rowland, horrible scoundrel that he was …
Has that been mentioned as yet? That Mr. Alaster
Rowland, the presumptive heir to his uncle’s barony, is the worst sort of
knave? It should be. And often.
He was also the most handsome devil Lavinia
Tempest had ever met. Or had held her hand. Or smiled down at her with a wicked
light in his eyes.
Lavinia had never seen brown eyes hold that sort
of promise, the kind that sent a shiver of something so delicious, so
dangerous, down her spine that she made a note right there and then to add a
new rule to her list at her first opportunity:
No. 83. A proper gentleman should not make one’s insides
get so very warm.
In truth, as Mr. Alaster Rowland slid his hand
around her waist, took her other hand in his, something altogether improper
happened to Lavinia.
It had to be improper, for it certainly wasn’t proper.
“Mr. Rowland, I cannot,” she protested one last
time, when to her horror, the band struck up a cotillion.
A cotillion? The last time she’d tried to dance a
cotillion, Lady Essex’s house, Foxgrove, had caught fire.
Yet here was Mr. Rowland, laughing and leaning
closer. “But of course you can,” he whispered in her ear, his breath warm
against her skin.
It was as if he had brushed his fingers there
—right against the curve of her neck. It was so intimate, so promising a
gesture, that it left Lavinia in a blinding daze.
Yet Lavinia, the girl who had made a study of all
things proper, knew exactly how to behave when all was proceeding at a proper
pace, but right now she was being steered down a path she’d never taken before
and assailed by a river of improper desires.
At least she assumed they were desires, for it
was a dangerous, heady sort of warmth spreading through her limbs.
That, and something else happened. Her feet—which
before had always seemed two sizes too big—untangled. It was as if the warmth
of Mr. Rowland’s touch, his teasing glance, his confidence in her, awakened a
very graceful part of her.
Lavinia straightened, head held just so, and a
long-forgotten admonishment from the dancing master Lady Hathaway had hired
years ago, tripped through her thoughts.
Dancing is all about elegance.
And right there and then, Lavinia felt elegant.
Not because her gown was proper. Or that she was standing on the dance floor of
Almack’s (though that certainly helped) but because the man gazing down at her
held her, not at arm’s length and in obvious fear, but with all the proper care
and respect of a gentleman.
Moments later, Lavinia Tempest found herself
dancing.
Perfectly. Like a lady. Mr. Rowland moved, as did
everyone else, and Lavinia moved as well.
And in the right direction.
ELIZABETH BOYLE has always loved romance and
now lives it each and every day by writing adventurous and passionate stories
that readers from all around the world have described as “page-turners.” Since
her first book was published, she’s seen her romances become New York
Times and USA Today bestsellers and win the RWA RITA
Award and the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice awards. She resides in Seattle
with her family, her garden and always growing collection of yarn. Readers can
visit her on the Web at www.elizabethboyle.com.
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