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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.