He stepped toward her, and her heart just ached from it. His face was so handsome, and so dear, and so perfectly wonderfully familiar. She knew the slope of his cheeks, and the exact shade of his eys, brownish near the iris, melting into green at the edge. And his mouth-she knew that mouth, the look of it, the feel of it. She knew his smile, and she knew his frown, and she knew- she knew far to much.

You’re going to be my grandmother.” “You silly child. In my heart, I’ve been your grandmother for years. I’ve just been waiting for you to make it official.

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.

Don’t look so upset,” Hyacinth said, once it was just the two of them again. “You’re quite a catch.” He looked at her assessingly. “Is one meant to say such things quite so directly?” She shrugged. “Not to men one is trying to impress.” “Touché, Miss Bridgerton.” She sighed happily. “My three favorite words.” Of that, he had no doubt.

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.

The look Anthony shot at his sister was so comically malevolent Simon nearly laughed. He managed to restrain himself, but mostly just because he was fairly certain that any show of humor would cause Anthony's fist to lose its battle with his brain, with Simon's face emerging as the conflict's primary casualty.

In her heart she longed for this man, dreamed of a life that could never be.