“I’m not a hero,” he said darkly. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“Love is blind,” Harriet quipped.
“But not illiterate,” Elizabeth retorted.
“The Smythe-Smith musicale. It finished off what the Crusades had begun.”
“In fanciful novels, the sort Sarah read by the dozen and refused to apologize for, foreshadowing was painted by the bucket, not the brushstroke.”
“Don’t tell me your name. It’s likely to awaken my conscience, and that’s the last thing we want.”
“Die!” the unicorn shrieked. “Die! Die! Die!”
Today I fell in love.
It would be rather easy to love Hyacinth Bridgerton. He didn’t know where that thought had come from, or what strange corner of his brain had come to that conclusion, because he was quite certain it would be nearly impossible to LIVE with her, but somehow he knew that it wouldn’t be at all difficult to love her.
“My aim,” she said tightly, “is to find a husband. Not to snare one, not to trap one, not to drag one to the altar, but to find one, preferably one with whom I might share a long and contented life.”
“Rupert’s poetry could surely have been improved by a cow or two. Saying moo on cue at Waterloo.”