DUKE OF DESIRE by Elizabeth Hoyt (October 17, 2017; Grand Central Publishing Mass Market; The Maiden Lane Series #12)
A LADY OF LIGHT
Refined, kind, and intelligent, Lady Iris Jordan finds herself the unlikely target of a diabolical kidnapping. Her captors are the notoriously evil Lords of Chaos. When one of the masked-and-nude!-Lords spirits her away to his carriage, she shoots him…only to find she may have been a trifle hasty.
A DUKE IN DEEPEST DARKNESS
Cynical, scarred, and brooding, Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore, has made it his personal mission to infiltrate the Lords of Chaos and destroy them. Rescuing Lady Jordan was never in his plans. But now with the Lords out to kill them both, he has but one choice: marry the lady in order to keep her safe.
CAUGHT IN A WEB OF DANGER…AND DESIRE
Much to Raphael’s irritation, Iris insists on being the sort of duchess who involes herself in his life—and bed. Soon he’s drawn to both to her quick wit and her fiery passion. But when Iris discovers that Raphael’s past may be even more dangerous than the present, she falters. Is their love strong enough to withstand not only the Lords of Chaos but also Raphael’s own demons?
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DUKE OF DESIRE- Short Excerpt
Desperately she flung herself at the opposite seat and tugged it
up. Thrust her hand in.
A pistol.
She cocked it, desperately praying that it was loaded.
She turned and aimed it at the door to the carriage just as the
door swung open.
The Wolf loomed in the doorway—still nude—a lantern in one hand.
She saw the eyes behind the mask flick to the pistol she held between her bound
hands. He turned his head and said something in an incomprehensible language to
someone outside.
Iris felt her breath sawing in and out of her chest.
He climbed into the carriage and closed the door, completely
ignoring her and the pistol pointed at him. The Wolf hung the lantern on a hook
and sat on the seat across from her.
Finally he glanced at her. “Put that down.”
His voice was calm. Quiet.
With just a hint of menace.
She backed into the opposite corner, as far away from him as
possible, holding the pistol up. Level with his chest. Her heart was pounding
so hard it nearly deafened her. “No.”
The carriage jolted into motion, making her stumble before she
caught herself.
“T-tell them to stop the carriage,” she said, stuttering with
terror despite her resolve. “Let me go now.”
“So that they can rape you to death out there?” He tilted his head
to indicate the Lords. “No.”
“At the next village, then.”
“I think not.”
He reached for her and she knew she had no choice.
She shot him.
The blast blew him into the seat and threw her hands up and back, the
pistol narrowly missing her nose.
Iris scrambled to her feet. The bullet was gone, but she could
still use the pistol as a bludgeon.
The Wolf was sprawled across the seat, blood streaming from a
gaping hole in his right shoulder. His mask had been knocked askew on his face.
She reached forward and snatched it off.
And then gasped.
The face that was revealed had once been as beautiful as an angel’s
but was now horribly mutilated. A livid red scar ran from just below his
hairline on the right side of his face, bisecting the eyebrow, somehow missing
the eye itself but gouging a furrow into the lean cheek and catching the edge
of his upper lip, making it twist. The scar ended in a missing divot of flesh
in the line of the man’s severe jaw. He had inky black hair and, though they
were closed now, Iris knew he had emotionless crystal-gray eyes.
She knew because she recognized him.
He was Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore, and when she’d
danced with him—once—three months ago at a ball, she’d thought he’d looked like
Hades.
God of the underworld.
God of the dead.
She had no reason to change her opinion now.
Then he gasped, those frozen crystal eyes opened, and he glared at
her. “You idiot woman. I’m trying to save you.”
Desperately she flung herself at the opposite seat and tugged it
up. Thrust her hand in.
A pistol.
She cocked it, desperately praying that it was loaded.
She turned and aimed it at the door to the carriage just as the
door swung open.
The Wolf loomed in the doorway—still nude—a lantern in one hand.
She saw the eyes behind the mask flick to the pistol she held between her bound
hands. He turned his head and said something in an incomprehensible language to
someone outside.
Iris felt her breath sawing in and out of her chest.
He climbed into the carriage and closed the door, completely
ignoring her and the pistol pointed at him. The Wolf hung the lantern on a hook
and sat on the seat across from her.
Finally he glanced at her. “Put that down.”
His voice was calm. Quiet.
With just a hint of menace.
She backed into the opposite corner, as far away from him as
possible, holding the pistol up. Level with his chest. Her heart was pounding
so hard it nearly deafened her. “No.”
The carriage jolted into motion, making her stumble before she
caught herself.
“T-tell them to stop the carriage,” she said, stuttering with
terror despite her resolve. “Let me go now.”
“So that they can rape you to death out there?” He tilted his head
to indicate the Lords. “No.”
“At the next village, then.”
“I think not.”
He reached for her and she knew she had no choice.
She shot him.
The blast blew him into the seat and threw her hands up and back, the
pistol narrowly missing her nose.
Iris scrambled to her feet. The bullet was gone, but she could
still use the pistol as a bludgeon.
The Wolf was sprawled across the seat, blood streaming from a
gaping hole in his right shoulder. His mask had been knocked askew on his face.
She reached forward and snatched it off.
And then gasped.
The face that was revealed had once been as beautiful as an angel’s
but was now horribly mutilated. A livid red scar ran from just below his
hairline on the right side of his face, bisecting the eyebrow, somehow missing
the eye itself but gouging a furrow into the lean cheek and catching the edge
of his upper lip, making it twist. The scar ended in a missing divot of flesh
in the line of the man’s severe jaw. He had inky black hair and, though they
were closed now, Iris knew he had emotionless crystal-gray eyes.
She knew because she recognized him.
He was Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore, and when she’d
danced with him—once—three months ago at a ball, she’d thought he’d looked like
Hades.
God of the underworld.
God of the dead.
She had no reason to change her opinion now.
Then he gasped, those frozen crystal eyes opened, and he glared at
her. “You idiot woman. I’m trying to save you.”
About the Author:
Elizabeth Hoyt is the New York Times bestselling author of over seventeen lush historical romances including the Maiden Lane series. Publishers Weekly has called her writing "mesmerizing." She also pens deliciously fun contemporary romances under the name Julia Harper. Elizabeth lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with three untrained dogs, a garden in constant need of weeding, and the long-suffering Mr. Hoyt.
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