She'd met Colin on a Monday. She'd kissed him on a Friday. Twelve years later. She sighed. It seemed fairly pathetic.

Why don’t you purchase an Italian dictionary? I will assume the expense.” “I have one,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s very good. Half the words are missing.” “Half?” “Well, some,” she amended. “But truly, that’s not the problem.” He blinked, waiting for her to continue. She did. Of course. “I don’t think Italian is the author’s native tongue,” she said. “The author of the dictionary?” he queried. “Yes. It’s not terribly idiomatic.

A man’s got to keep up appearances. I’ll be universally detested if everyone realizes how perfect you are.

If one didn't have love, was it better, then, to be alone?

Don’t tell me your name. It’s likely to awaken my conscience, and that’s the last thing we want.

But she was already in. Gareth couldn't help but stand back in admiration. Hyacinth Bridgerton was clearly a natural born athlete. Either that or a cat burglar.

He sighed, wondering how his life had been turned upside down by this woman in less than forty-eight hours. Correction: by this woman, a pig, and a rabbit.