I don't know whether to toss you through that window or shake your hand and say 'Well done'" Henry said in a tired voice.

When a man writes a romance, the woman dies. When a woman writes one, it ends all tidy and sweet.

Simon stopped breathing until her forefinger touched his nipple, and then his hand shot up to cover hers. "I want you," he said. Her eyes flicked downward, and her lips curved ever so slightly. "I know." "No," he groaned, pulling her closer. "I want to be in your heart. I want-" His entire body shuddered when their skin touched. "I want to be in your soul.

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.

It was funny, he reflected later, how one’s life could alter in an instant, how one minute everything could be a certain way, and the next it’s simply ... not

Am I not allowed to have my pride? Or is that an emotion reserved for the elite?

Elizabeth, you resemble nothing so much as a hen trying to hatch a book.