TO DESIRE A DEVIL , il nuovo romanzo di Elizabeth HOYT

E' finalmente uscito l'ultimo romanzo della serie Legend of the four soldiers di ELIZABETH HOYT, To Desire a Devil,  che sono sicura farà la gioia delle patite, come me e Viv, di quest'autrice. Visto il bel successo ottenuto in Italia dalla sua prima serie, Princes(Principi), pubblicata nella collana di romance storici  I Romanzi della Mondadori, speriamo che anche questa serie possa essere presto disponibile per le lettrici italiane.

Intanto ecco l'originale...(io l'ho già messo nella mia lista dei prossimi acquisti!)

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?

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.

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?


Direttamente dal sito di Elizabeth Hoyt ecco l'estratto del primo capitolo di TO DEIRE A DEVIL , 4° romanzo della serie Legend of Four Soldiers

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. (...)

Copyright: Elizabeth Hoyt 2009

 Vuoi continuare a leggere questo estratto? VAI QUI


TO TASTE TEMPTATION # 1  (maggio 2008) 

Lady Emeline Gordon is the model of sophistication in London’s elite social circles, always fashionable and

flawlessly appropriate. As such, she is the perfect chaperone for Rebecca, the young sister of a successful Boston businessman and former Colonial soldier. Samuel Hartley may be wealthy, but his manners are as uncivilized as the American wilderness he was raised in. Who wears moccasins to a grand ball? His arrogant disregard for propriety infuriates Emeline, even as his boldness excites her.But beneath Samuel’s rakish manner, he is haunted by tragedy. He has come to London to settle a score, not to fall in love. And as desperately as Emeline longs to feel this shameless man’s hands upon her, to taste those same lips he uses to tease her, she must restrain herself. She is not free. But some things are beyond a lady’s control…

TO SEDUCE A SCOUNDREL # 2 (novembre 2008)

For years, Melisande Fleming has loved Lord Vale from afar . . . watching him seduce a succession of lovers,

and once, catching a glimpse of heartbreaking depths beneath his roguish veneer. When he’s jilted on his wedding day, she boldly offers to be his. Vale gladly weds Melisande, if only to produce an heir. But he’s pleasantly surprised: A shy and proper Lady by day, she’s a wanton at night, giving him her body—though not her heart.
Determined to learn her secrets, this sinner starts to woo his seductive new wife—while hiding the nightmares from his soldiering days in the Colonies that still haunt him. Yet when a deadly betrayal from the past threatens to tear them apart, Lord Vale must bare his soul to the woman he married...or risk losing her forever.

TO BEGUILE A BEAST # 3 (maggio 2009) 

Reclusive Sir Alistair Munroe has hidden in his castle ever since returning from the Colonies, scarred inside and out. But when a mysterious beauty arrives at his door, the passions he's kept suppressed for years begin to awaken.

Running from past mistakes has taken legendary beauty Helen Fitzwilliam from the luxury of the ton to a crumbling Scottish castle . . . and a job as a housekeeper. Yet Helen is determined to start a new life and she won't let dust-or a beast of a man-scare her away.

Beneath Helen's beautiful façade, Alistair finds a courageous and sensual woman. A woman who doesn't back away from his surliness-or his scars. But just as he begins to believe in true love, Helen's secret past threatens to tear them apart. Now both Beast and Beauty must fight for the one thing neither believed they could ever find--a happy ever after. LEGGI QUI LA NOSTRA RECENSIONE.

Anche a te piace Elizabeth Hoyt? Hai letto gli altri romanzi di questa serie? Ti piacerebbe vederla pubblicata anceh in Italia? Lascia un commento.

6 commenti:

  1. Francy aiuto!!! Ma la traduzione? E noi povere ignoranti? Mi è caduto l'occhio su un brano, ma spero di aver capito male quello che c'è scritto! Lo vedi? Serve la traduzione. Anche se capisco un po' l'inglese non conosco tutte le parole e mi sfuggono le sfumature.
    Ciao Lucia

  2. Lullibi, hai argione, servirebbe la traduzione ma non l'ho messa - apposta - per vari primo è che in realtà questo brano è stato preso 'in prestito' dal sito di Elizabeth Hoyt la quale ne ha il copyright e in teoria non sarebbe permesso metterci le mani senza il suo permesso e quello della casa editrice, anche per tradurlo. Ma visto che sappiamo entrambe come vanno queste cose di copyright sul web, dove alla fine tutto è di tutti, la vera ragione per cui non l'ho messo è che trattandosi di un romanzo per ora uscito solo in inglese pensavo di interessare quelle che leggono in lingua e anche tutte quelle che hanno fatto anni di inglese alle superiori e che sarebbe ora che si mettessero di buona lena a 'tirare fuori dall' armadio' il loro inglese', dargli un rispolveratina e ricominciare ad usarlo per fare qualcosa davvero piacevole, come leggere un bel libro! ( a parte il fatto ch in questo periodo sono un po' oberata con i miei impegni da prof e non ho molto tempo libero da dedicare ad una traduzione lunga - anche se non difficile - come questa). Ma qual è il famoso 'brano su cui ti è caduto l'occhio' e che vorresti veder tradotto???


  3. Bellissimo post non vedo l'ora che vengano tradotti in italiano e pubblicati magari dalla Mondadori...In attesa fateci sapere o voi fortunate lettrici di inglese che ne pensate ...sembra una bellissima serie!!!

  4. Ciao Lib63, guarda che due di questi romanzi li abbiamo già recensiti,però mi sono dimenticata di mettere i link alle recensioni. Adesso però li ho aggiunti (grazie per lo spunto, a proposito), così se hai voglia puoi amdare a leggerteli.

    La serie è molto carina, a me fin ora il primo è quello che è piaciuto di più.

    TO DESIRE A DEVIL mi è appena arrivato e quando lo leggerò vi farò sapere...

    A presto.

  5. Francy I beg your pardon (ricordi di scuola), ma dopo la tua lavatina di testa (molto soft ehh)ho riprovato a leggere, ma siccome sono anni, no, secoli che non leggo in inglese non riesco proprio ad entrare dentro la storia come quando leggo in italiano. Riproverò con comodo portandomi il computer a letto ed usando un dizionario (sob! Mi ci vorrà un secolo!).
    Profondamente somara Lucia (Lucignolo mi fa un baffo)
    P.S. Ma sei proprio una prof?

  6. Eh...vedi Lucia che le lavatine di testa servono ogni tanto? Assolutamente cerca di saltarci fuori perchè ti ripeto che quest'estratto non è difficile! poi mi dirai...
    E...sì, sono una prof...d'inglese, di che altro!? ( adesso capisci il perchè della ramanzina?! :o) )

    Have a good read!

    PS:E fammi sapere se ci sei saltata fuori eh!


I VOSTRI COMMENTI ARRICCHISCONO IL BLOG! GRAZIE. (Se li lasciate ricordatevi di firmarli, ci piace sapere chi siete!)
I commenti contenenti offese o un linguaggio scurrile verranno cancellati.



Questo blog non rappresenta una testata giornalistica in quanto viene aggiornato senza alcuna periodicità. Non può pertanto considerarsi un prodotto editoriale ai sensi della legge n. 62 del 7.03.2001.

I contenuti e le immagini sono stati utilizzati senza scopo di lucro ai soli fini divulgativi ed appartengono ai loro proprietari. Pertanto la loro pubblicazione totale o parziale non intende violare alcun copyright e non avviene a scopo di lucro. Qualora i rispettivi Autori si sentano lesi nei propri diritti, sono pregati di contattarmi e in seguito provvederò a rimuovere il materiale in questione.


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...


Clicca sull'immagine e vai alla nostra pagina FB