It didn’t matter the quality of the writing— Callie’s fantasies about her fictional heroes were entirely democratic.

She was all he wanted. He would give everything for her. Without thought. Without regret.

She can't force us to go to the ball. We're grown men, for Lord's sake!" Will cocked an eyebrow at his younger brother. "You don't think she can force us? We are speaking of the same mother, correct? Small frame, enormous will?

So, are you... intrigued ... by Stanhope?" "Intrigued by him?" "Indeed. Do you find him ..." he paused. "Intriguing?" she teased. He sent her an exasperated look.

Ralston didn't care. He turned on his brother as the surgeon knelt next to him and inspected the wound. "She could have been killed!" And what about you?" This time, it was Callie who spoke, her own pent-up energy releasing in anger, and the men turned as one to look at her, surprised that she and found her voice. "What about you and your idiotic pland to somehow restore my honor by playing guns out in the middle of nowhere with OXFORD?" She said the baron's name in disdain. "Like children? Of all the ridiculous, unnecessary, thoughtless, MALE things to do...who even FIGHTS duels anymore?!

She had wanted more than she could have. She had wanted him, and more... she had wanted him to want her. In the name of something bigger than tradition, bolder than reputation, more important than a silly title.

Truth is irrelevant. What is relevant is whether or not they believe it." The logic in the words grated. "The first rule of scoundrels?