A duel, a duel, a duel. Is there anything more exciting, more romantic ... or more utterly moronic?

Phillip looked to Eloise. "Perhaps introductions are in order?" "Oh," Eloise said, gulping. "Yes, of course. These are my brothers." "I'd gathered," he said, his voice as dry as dust. She shot him an apologetic look, which, Phillip thought, was really the least she could do after nearly getting him tortured and killed, then turned to her brothers and motioned to each in turn, saying, "Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Gregory. These three," she added, motioning to A, B, and C, "are my elders. This one"—she waved dismissively at Gregory—"is an infant.

No words for the passion. No words for the need.No words for the sheer epiphany of the moment.And so, on an otherwise unremarkable Friday afternoon, in the heart of Mayfair, in a quiet drawing room on Mount Street, Colin Bridgerton kissed Penelope Featherington.And it was glorious.

That was very rude of me.” “Think nothing of it. You’ve done worse.

Do I look like a mess?” she asked. He nodded. “But you’re my mess,” he whispered.

No. Haven’t you been listening?” Marcus would always remember that moment. It was to be the first time he would ever be faced with that most vexing of female quirks: the question that had nothing but wrong answers.

I was told once that the most important part of a fight is making sure your opponent looks worse than you do when you’re through.