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

I don't like your tone," was Violet's standard answer when one of her children was winning an argument.

The two of you together are a menace,” Penelope remarked. “My aim in life,” Lady Danbury announced, “is to be a menace to as great a number of people as possible, so I shall take that as the highest of compliments, Mrs. Bridgerton.” “Why is it,” Penelope wondered, “that you only call me Mrs. Bridgerton when you are opining in a grand fashion?” “Sounds better that way,” Lady D said, punctuating her remark with a loud thump of her cane.

The girl doesn’t need a violin,” he added. “She needs to have her hands bound so she can never touch an instrument again.

Mother,” Hyacinth said with a great show of solicitude, “you know I love you dearly—” “Why is it,” Violet pondered, “that I have come to expect nothing good when I hear a sentence beginning in that manner?

Is there anything else I can do to see to your comfort, Miss Trent?" Perriwick inquired. "She's fine," Blake growled. "Clearly, she--" "Perriwick, isn't the west wing on fire?" Perriwick blinked, sniffed the air, and stared at his employer in dismay. "I do not understand sir.

sometimes there are reasons for our fears that we can’t quite explain. Sometimes it’s just something we feel in our bones, something we know to be true, but would sound foolish to anyone else.