George looked at him and felt a great bubble of joy well up inside her. Harry watched her as if she were the center of his soul. He wasn’t smiling, but his beautiful emerald eyes were warm and serene.

When it came time to pledge herself to Harry, George leaned toward him and whispered, “I forgot one thing when I told you about the end of the fairy tale.”

Her almost husband smiled down at her and asked gravely, “What was that, my lady?”

She savored the moment and the love in his eyes, then declared, “And they lived happily ever after!”

“So they did,” Harry whispered back, and kissed her.

Vaguely she heard the vicar moan, “No, no, not yet!” and then, “Oh, never mind. I pronounce you man and wife.”

And that was how it should be, George thought as she opened her mouth beneath her husband’s. She was Harry’s wife.

And Harry was her man.

About the Author

About the Author

Elizabeth Hoyt lives in central Illinois with three untrained dogs, two angelic but bickering children, and one long-suffering husband. There is some debate on whether a golden hamster resides with her family as well. The hamster was a free-thinking rodent and decided to live sans cage sometime in the summer of ’05. It has not been reliably spotted since, although Elizabeth’s youngest child holds out hope of its return. The hermit crabs are best not mentioned at all.

Winters are long, cold, and monotonous in central Illinois. Elizabeth would be most appreciative of any mail you’d care to send her. You may e-mail her at [email protected] or mail her at PO Box 17134, Urbana, Illinois 61803. Please visit her website at elizabethhoyt.com for giveaways, book excerpts, and author updates.

Chapter One

“Hoyt dials up the heat!”
—Connie Brockway,
USA Today
bestselling author

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historical romance from

Elizabeth Hoyt?

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The Serpent Prince

AVAILABLE IN MASS MARKET
FALL 2007.

Chapter One

MAIDEN HILL, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 1760

The dead man at Lucinda Craddock-Hayes’s feet looked like a fallen god. Apollo, or more likely Mars, the bringer of war, taken human form and struck down from the heavens to be found by a maiden on her way home. Except that gods rarely bleed.

Or die, for that matter.

“Mr. Hedge,” Lucy called over her shoulder. She glanced around the lonely lane leading from the town of Maiden Hill to the Craddock-Hayes house. It appeared the same as before she’d made her find: deserted, except for herself; her manservant, puffing a ways behind her; and the corpse lying in the ditch. The sky hung low and wintry gray. The light had already begun to leak away, though it was not yet five o’clock. Leafless trees lined the road, silent and chill.