When a man writes a romance, the woman dies. When a woman writes one, it ends all tidy and sweet.
Francesca: It’s still a bit cold yet. Michael: Never stopped John and me. Francesca: Yes, well, you’re Scottish. Your blood circulates quite well half frozen.
This has to be the most self-centered thing I’ve ever said, but no, I think you just wanted to vex me.
My mother is convinced that yellow is a happy color and that a happy girl would get a husband. -Penelope Featherington.
It’s only through sheer force and luck that she’s yet to take over the world.
Watch over Honoria, will you? See that she doesn’t marry an idiot.
Caroline Trent hadn’t meant to shoot Percival Prewitt, but she had, and now he was dead. Or at least she thought he was dead.
Men. The day they learned to admit to a mistake was the day they became women.
Society is capricious and rewards the bad as often as the good. But it never rewards the quiet.
Olivia: You didn’t even know I was there! Harry: Excuse me, yes I did.
Everyone has secrets. Especially me.
Nothing like trapping the gentlemen where they couldn’t get away.
Every unmarried man is looking for a wife. They just don’t always know it.
This thing between them, this bond – it wasn’t just passion, and it wasn’t wicked. It was love, and it was divine.
It was juvenile, he knew, this need to assign blame, but everyone had a right to childish emotions from time to time, didn’t they?
A lot could happen in a week. Just look at the last one.
It was a damned good thing men couldn’t have children. Gregory took no shame in admitting that the human race would have died out generations earlier.
The Smythe-Smith musicale. Thankfully, it came around just once per year, because Hyacinth was quite certain it would take a full twelve months for her ears to recover.
He was a puzzle. And Hyacinth hated puzzles. Well, no, in truth she loved them. Provided, of course, that she solved them.
And so Harry became proficient in the task of cleaning up vomit.