Jen: Today we are excited to welcome Elizabeth Boyle to Romancing the Book as our next feature for the Historical Romance Retreat. Elizabeth, will you share a short bio with us?
Elizabeth: Elizabeth Boyle, a former pirate hunter for Bill Gates, started writing what she loved to read: romance novels. Since her first book was published in 1996, she’s won the RWA RITA award, numerous Romantic Times’ Reviewer’s Choice awards and seen most of her twenty-some historical romance novels hit the USA Today and New York Times bestseller lists. She resides in Seattle with her husband and two sons, or “heroes in training” as she likes to call them. When she isn’t writing, she can be found in her garden, walking on the beach, or cooking up some old favorite family recipe. She also knits. A lot.
Elizabeth loves to hang out on Facebook, Twitter (where she spouts off on writing and life), Pinterest (warning: you had better like decorating, cooking, and crafts, as well as her writing inspiration boards), and Goodreads (and all the books she’s enthusiastically trying to get the entire world to read).
Jen: Please tell us about your newest release and where the idea came from.
Elizabeth: THE KNAVE OF HEARTS is just that—the story of knavish rake, Alaster “Tuck” Rowland, who convinces my poor ruined heroine, Miss Lavinia Tempest, that he can help her find the perfect sort of match that will redeem her in the eyes of London society. But problems soon surface when the rake finds that Miss Tempest is probably her own worst enemy and much to his chagrin, his own heart is in danger of being stolen. That, and if he doesn’t succeed, he’ll lose the tremendous wager that got him into this entire mess.
Like so many of my series books, this story was born out of the writing of the previous book, THE VISCOUNT WHO LIVED DOWN THE LANE. When Tuck stepped onto the stage, I knew he was the roguish sort I love to write about, and I had the perfect heroine for him in the heroine’s proper sister. You could say they met by chance just like you might in real life.
Lord Charleton’s butler, Brobson barely admitted Tuck to the house. Even then, only to the foyer. “Your uncle will see you momentarily.” Then the fellow strode off as if he had just admitted a plague victim into the household.
Yes, indeed. It was as bad as all that.
As he stood there, shuffling about a bit nervously, he heard something. Coming to a standstill, he heard it more clearly.
Weeping. And then a huge sniffle. The sort that would leave a perfectly good handkerchief utterly useless.
He glanced at the front door. The one that led to the street and London beyond. Where perhaps he could start anew. Join a circus. Ship off to parts unknown. Drown himself in the Thames.
He shook his still throbbing head at any of those options. He wasn’t overly fond of travel–all the discomforts and inconveniences of being away from one’s own bed. And sadly, he was a perfectly good swimmer.
The crying had now risen in pitch and fervor, and jangled at his nerves. Bother, it would weigh on any man’s sensibilities.
Besides, it wrenched on his heart. He’d never admit this to anyone, not even if they were to forgive all his debts, but a woman’s tears were his undoing.
Against his better judgment, Tuck pushed the library door open and waded in.
He immediately wished he hadn’t.
Admittedly he’d been a bit drunk the previous night, but certainly he’d have remembered this.
The puffy, red face. The ugly, provincial gown. The dark hair sticking out in a few places.
But to the lady’s credit, it appeared she was nearing the end of her torment, for certainly much more and she’d risk flooding the carpet.
Then her gaze became more focused as if she’d finally realized she was no longer alone. And her eyes took on a wild-eyed rage that prodded him to take a step back.
“You!” she gasped, stalking forward with all the fury of, well, a fury. Worse, she caught up a vase from the side table as she approached.
Alaster Rowland was many things. A fool wasn’t one of them. He took as many steps backward as he could until he bumped into the wall, having misjudged the angle of his retreat.
Worse yet, the woman hunting him was a veritable horror. A hot, wet mess of tears and scalding anger brandishing a domestic weapon of sorts.
“That vase. . . in your hand . . .” he managed.
“Don’t think I won’t throw it,” she told him.
“I would duck and it would be a waste of a perfectly innocent vase.”
“I won’t miss,” she told him with all surety.
Jen: Describe your most romantic date.
Elizabeth: Vancouver, British Columbia
Jen: Favorite flavor of ice cream.
Elizabeth: Tillamook Mudslide
Jen: Favorite holiday tradition.
Elizabeth: Baking tons of Christmas cookies.
Jen: Favorite animal?
Elizabeth: Cats and dogs.
Jen: Who is your hero?
Elizabeth: My mom.
Jen: How do you eat an Oreo?
Elizabeth: With my mouth. I also chew.
Jen: What is the perfect temperature?
Elizabeth: In the mid 70s.
Jen: What is the most surprising item on your bucket list?
Elizabeth: Already crossed it off. Dancing backup for a Motown band.
Jen: What is your favorite book made into a movie?
Elizabeth: Harry Potter. All of them. That or Persuasion—the 1995 version, not that wretchedly horrible 2007 version where she runs all over Bath.
Jen: Are you a morning person or a night owl?
Jen: Tropics or mountains?
Jen: Where is your favorite place to read?
Elizabeth: Curled up in a big chair with a nice coffee beside me.
Jen: What’s coming next?
Elizabeth: I have two projects in the works—a wedding anthology with Julia Quinn, Laura Lee Guhrke and Stefanie Sloane. Then I will finish writing the last book in the Rhymes with Love series, When She Was Wicked. So in a sense, I have a lot going on and that always make me happy because there is nothing I like more than telling stories.