Rehearsels, actually." "Rehearsals?" "For the-" Oh,no. "-musicale." The Smythe-Smith musical.It finished off what the Crusades had begun.There wasn't a man alive who could maintain a romantic thought when faced with the memory-or the threat-of a Smythe-Smith musicale.

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.

Let me drive," she said, reaching for the reins. He turned to her in disbelief. "This is a phaeton, not a single-horse wagon." Sophie fought the urge to throttle him. His nose was running, his eyes were red, he couldn't stop coughing, and still he found the energy to act like an arrogant peacock. "I assure you," she said slowly, "that I know how to drive a team of horses.

She was petite, small in that way that made a man want to slay dragons.

I'm not a gentle pony... I promise you, you will have to work to keep your seat.

When you walk into a room,” he said softly, “the air changes.

I’m not certain you’d know the right sort of man for you if he arrived on our doorstep riding an elephant.” “I would think the elephant would be a fairly good indication that I ought to look elsewhere.