It was the one dream he'd never permitted himself to consider.

Interesting, he later reflected, was perhaps not the correct word.By the time he and Henry arrived back at the house for their midday meal-a scrumptious bowl of hot, sticky porridge-he had mucked out the stable stalls, milked a cow, been pecked by three separate hens, weeded a vegetable garden, and fallen into a trough.

Caroline, do you value your neck?" "Yes, I'm rather fond of it. Why?" "Because if you don't shut up, I'm going to wring it.

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

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

It's the curse of motherhood. You're required to love us even when we vex you.

He blinked a few times, each motion so slow that he was never quite sure if he’d get his eyes open again. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Funny how he was only just realizing it. Funnier still that he couldn’t seem to summon any concern for her maidenly sensibilities. She might be blushing. He couldn’t tell. It was too dark to see. But it didn’t matter. This was Honoria. She was a good egg. A sensible egg. She wouldn’t be scarred forever by the sight of his chest.