A Week To Be Wicked

"Oh no. Oh God. I couldn't possibly be so stupid."
"Don't limit yourself. You can be anything you wish."

Truly? That whole determined, dangerous saunter across the room was for me? In that case, would you mind going back and doing it all over again? Slowly this time, and with feeling.

She stared at him, horrified. And thrilled. And horrified at being thrilled.

"Don't you do that." She turned away from the mirror, toward him. "Don't you dare make a joke. It took a great deal of courage to say what I did. And you don't have to speak a word in return, but I will insist you be man enough to take it. I won't have you making light of my feelings, or making light of yourself, as if you are not worthy of them. Because you are worthy, Colin. You're a generous, good-hearted person, and you deserve to be loved. Deeply, truly, well, and often."

He squeezed her hands. "I love you. I love that you're clever and loyal and curious and kind. I love that you're often so fearless and bold and strong, but I also love that you're occasionally not, because then I can be strong for you. I love that I can tell you anything. Anything at all. And I love that you always have something surprising to say. I love that you call things by their right names. That you aren't afraid to call a tit a tit, or a cock -"

Certainty becomes you.

So odd. Most women of his acquaintance relied on physical beauty and charm to mask their less-pleasant traits. This girl did the opposite, hiding everything interesting about herself behind a prim, plain facade.
What other surprises was she concealing?

Mr. Sand, do you think it's possible to fall in love in the space of a single day?"
He smiled. "I wouldn't know. I only fall in love at night. Never lasts beyond breakfast, though."

She couldn't "heal" him. No woman could. Events that far in the past just couldn't be undone. But perhaps he didn't need a cure, but a lens. Someone who accepted him for the imperfect person he was, and then helped him to see the world clear. Like spectacles did for her.

A better man wouldn't play this "sweetheart" game with her when he knew very well it couldn't lead to more.
But he wasn't a better man. He was Colin Sandhurst, reckless, incorrigible rogue and damn it, he couldn't resist. He wanted to amuse her, spoil her, feed her sweets and delicacies. Steal a kiss or two, when she wasn't expecting it. He wanted to be a besotted young buck squiring his girl around the fair.
In other words, he wanted to live honestly. Just for the day.

He quietly groaned. Again and again, he'd witnessed this phenomenon with his friends. They got married. They were happy in that sated, grateful way of infrequently pleasured men with a now-steady source of coitus. Then they went about crowing as if they'd invented the institution of matrimony and stood to earn a profit for every bachelor they could convert.

The words burned on her tongue, but Minerva couldn't give them voice. What a hopeless coward she was. She could pound on his door at midnight and demand to be respected as an individual. She could travel across the country in hopes of being appreciated for her scholarly achievements. But she still lacked the courage to ask for the one thing she wanted most.
To be loved, just for herself.

"What on earth are you wearing? Did you take orders in a convent since we spoke last?Little Sisters of the Drab and Homely."

Men never hesitated to declare their presence. They were permitted to live aloud, in reverberating thuds and clunks, while ladies were always schooled to abide in hushed whispers.

He laughed. A strained, ha, ha, ha, I may die of this laugh.

"For the love of ammonites, man! That's just stupid. Why on earth would the Society need to protect unmarried women from bone-dry lectures regarding soil composition? Do your members find themselves whipped into some sort of dusty frenzy, from which no delicate lass would be safe?"
Mr. Barrington tugged on his coat. "Sometimes the debate does get heated."
Colin turned to her. "Min, Can I just hit him?"
"I think that's a bad idea."
"Run him through with something sharp?"

He lay on the bed, freshly shaven and washed, legs crossed at the ankles and arms propped behind his head. His posture said, Yes, ladies. I truly am this handsome. And I don't even have to try.

Minerva considered herself a reasonably intelligent person, but good heavens . . . handsome men made her stupid. She grew so flustered around them, never knew where to look or what to say. The reply meant to be witty and clever would come out sounding bitter or lame. Sometimes a teasing remark from Lord Payne's quarter quelled her into dumb silence altogether. Only days later, while she was banging away at a cliff face with a rock hammer, would the perfect retort spring to mind. "as for Diana . . . sometimes I think the kindest thing I could do for my sister is ruin her chances of making a "good" marriage. Then she might make a loving one." Amazing, then, how with that one remark, he made a mortifying situation thirteen times worse. This is the normal way with birthdays, see? Amazingly enough, they arrive on the same day, every year. Mama's gaze pierced her. As a girl, Minerva had envied her mother's blue eyes. They'd seemed the color of tropical oceans and cloudless skies. But their color had faded over the years since Papa's death. Now their blue was the hue of dyed cambric worn three seasons. Or brittle middle-class china. The color of patience nearly worn through. She'd always wondered what it would feel like to stand on one end of a ballroom and watch a handsome, powerful man make his way to her. This was as close as she'd ever come to it, she supposed. Standing at Diana's side. Imagining. "Thank you," she forced herself to say. "I would be most . . . relieved." He led her to the floor, where they queued up for the country dance. "Relieved?" he murmured with amusement. "Ladies usually find themselves 'delighted' or 'honored' to dance with me. Even 'thrilled.'" She shrugged helplessly. "It was the first word that came to mind." One more minute of this, and she'd be a certifiable simpleton. "That's it," she said, balling her hands in fists. "I'm not letting you out of it this time. I insist that you take me to Scotland. I demand you ruin me. As a point of honor." "This is true valor, I hope you know. Legends have sprung from less. All Lancelot did was paddle about in a balmy lake." She smiled. "Lancelot was a knight. You're a viscount. The bar is higher." "It's all right," she said. "You're through." "Jesus," he finally managed, pushing water off his face. "Jesus Christ and John the Baptist. For that matter, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John." Still not enough. He needed to reach back to the Old Testament for this. "Obadiah. Nebuchadnezzar. Methuselah and Job." "Be calm," she said, taking him by the shoulders. "Be calm. And there are women in the Bible, you know." "Yes. As I recall it, they were trouble, every last one." "It's like a lizard's foot," she said. "With a footprint that size, that deep? That would have to be one bloody large lizard." "Sweet heaven." She swallowed back a lump in her throat. "You must do this all the time. Night after night, you tell women your tale of woe . . ." "Not really. The tale of woe precedes me." ". . . and then they just open their arms and lift their skirts for you. 'Come, you poor, sweet man, let me hold you' and so forth. Don't they?" He hedged. "Sometimes." At times like these, patience came at a premium. Jesus. Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. Delilah, Jezebel, Salome, Judith, Eve. Trouble, every last one. Add Minerva Highwood to the list. "I'll be damned," he muttered. "Most likely." She folded the blanket with efficient snaps. "And I may be joining you, after what we just did." "This Sir Alisdair fellow." Her cheeks blushed crimson. "I'm just saying, he's likely older than Francine. And less attractive." "I don't care! I don't care if he's ancient and warty and leprous and hunchbacked. He would still be learned, intelligent. Respected and respectful. He would still be a better man than you. You know it, and you're envious. You're being cruel to me to soothe your pride." She looked him up and down with a contemptuous glare. "And you're going to catch flies in your mouth, if you don't shut it." For once, Colin found himself without words. The best he could do was take her advice and hoist his dropped jaw. "What? You mean to travel almost five hundred miles alone? No. I can't let you do that. I . . . I forbid you." It was Colin's first attempt at forbidding anyone to do anything, and it worked about as well as he'd expected it to. Which was to say, not at all. It was a sense of privilege and mute wonder, as though he'd witnessed one of those small, everyday miracles of spring. Like a licked-clean foal taking its first steps on wobbly legs. Or a new butterfly pushing scrunched, damp wings from a chrysalis. After spending all of her girlhood fervently wishing she could run away from home,  she'd actually done it. "A man might engage in flirtation with disinterest, or even disdain. But he never teases without affection." He speared her with a look. "Those are my words. That is blatant plagiarism." "I think you've more than made up for lost time now. In fact, I'm certain you've exceeded your teasing quota for the day." "I can't borrow against tomorrow?" "No." "Is that a nautilus?" he asked. "Close, but no. It's an ammonite." "An ammonite? What's an ammonite? Sounds like an Old Testament people overdue for smiting." "Ammonites are not a biblical people," she replied in a tone of strained forbearance. "But they have been smited." "Smote." With a snap of linen, she shot him a look. "Smote?" Grammatically speaking, I think the word you want is 'smote.'" "Scientifically speaking, the word I want is 'extinct.' Ammonites are extinct. They're only known to us in fossils." "And bedsheets, apparently." "You know . . ." She huffed.  "Anyhow," she went on, "so long as my mother forced me to embroider, I insisted on choosing a pattern that interested me. I've never understood why girls are always made to stitch insipid flowers and ribbons." "Well, just to hazard a guess . . ." Colin straightened his edge. "Perhaps that's because sleeping on a bed of flowers and ribbons sounds delightful and romantic. Whereas sharing one's bed with a primeval sea snail sounds disgusting." Her jaw firmed. "You're welcome to sleep on the floor." "Did I say disgusting? I meant enchanting. I've always wanted to go to bed with a primeval sea snail." "You know," he said, "this design begins to appeal to me after all. Sea slugs aren't the least bit arousing, but logarithms . . . I've always thought that word sounded splendidly naughty." He let it roll off his tongue with ribald inflection. "Logarithm." He gave an exaggerated shiver. "Ooh. Yes and thank you and may I have some more." "Lots of mathematical terms sound that way. I think it's because they were all coined by men." "'Hypotenuse' is downright lewd." "Quadrilateral" brings rather carnal images to mind." She was silent for a long time. Then one of her dark eyebrows arched. "Not so many as   'rhombus.'" Good Lord. That word was wicked. Her pronunciation of it did rather wicked things to him. He had to admire the way she didn't shrink from a challenge, but came back with a new and surprising retort. One day, she'd make some fortunate man a very creative lover. "We have the oddest conversations." "I find this conversation more than odd. It's positively shocking." "Why? Because I understand the principle of a logarithm? I know you're used to speaking to me in small, simple words, but I did have the finest education England can offer a young aristocrat. Attended both Eton and Oxford." "Yes, but . . . somehow, I never pictured you earning high marks in maths." "So there's an . . . an etiquette to raking. Some seducer's code of honor. Is this what you're telling me?" Is it truly so unfathomable, that an imperfect girl might be perfectly loved? Think of it like running down a slope. If you attempt to slow down and choose your steps, you're bound to trip up and stumble. He was right. They could have a whole conversation without exchanging a word. And the conversation they had right now went like this: Colin, shut it. I don't think I will, M. Then I'll make you. Really? How? I'm not certain, but it will be slow and painful. And I won't leave any evidence. "Eventually, a governess realized I needed spectacles. When I first put them on my face, I can't even tell you . . . it was like a miracle." "Finally seeing properly?" "Knowing I wasn't hopeless." A knot formed in her throat. "I'd believed there was something incurably wrong with me, you see. But suddenly, I could see the world clear. And not only the parts in the distance, but the bits within my own reach. I could focus on a page. I could explore the things around me, discover whole worlds beneath my fingertips. I could be good at something, for once." "I don't know. What do people see when they gaze at the sky? Inspiration? Beauty?" She heard him sigh. "Truth be told, this view always intimidated me. The sky's so vast. I can't help but feel it has expectations of me. Ones I'm already failing." He was silent for a long moment. "It reminds me of your eyes." Perhaps, she thought, people were more like ammonites than one would suppose. Perhaps they too built shells on a consistent, unchanging factor, some quality or circumstance established in their youth. Each chamber in the shell just an enlargement of the previous. Growing year after year, until they spiraled around and locked themselves in place. And even if she could discern what future she wanted . . . How would she bear it if that future didn't want her? There were a dozen reasons why she might refuse him. But they were all someone else's reasons. Her mother's, her peer's, society's. She'd already left all those expectations behind. "this native people he lived with, deep in the jungle, their language had dozens of words for rain. Because it was so common to them, you see. Where they lived, it rained almost constantly. Several times a day. So they had words for light rain, and heavy rain, and pounding rain. Something like eighteen different terms for storms, and a whole classification system for mist." "Why are you telling me this?" His touch skimmed idly down her arm. "Because I'm standing here, wanting to give you a fitting compliment, but my paltry vocabulary fails me. I think what I need is a scientific excursion. I need to venture deep into some jungle where beauty takes the place of rain. Where loveliness itself falls from the sky at regular intervals. Dots every surface, saturates the ground, hangs like vapor in the air. Because the way you look, right now . . ." His gaze caught hers in the reflection. "They'd have a word for it there." "Words for everyday showers of prettiness, and the kind of misty loveliness that disappears whenever you try to grasp it. Beauty that's heralded by impressive thunder, but turns out to be all flash. And beyond all these, there'd be this word . . . a word that even the most grizzled, wizened elders might have uttered twice in their lifetimes, and in hushed, fearful tones at that. A word for a sudden, cataclysmic torrent of beauty with the power to change landscapes. Make plains out of valleys and alter the course of rivers and leave people clinging to trees, alive and resentful, shaking their fists at the heavens." A hint of sensual frustration roughened his voice. "And I will curse the gods along with them, Min. Some wild monsoon raged through me as I looked at you just now. It's left me rearranged inside, and I don't have a map. He couldn't compare a woman to a torrentially beautiful monsoon, and then look surprised that he'd gotten wet. I would rather die a spinster - poor, ruined, scorned, and alone- than suffer that heartbreak daily. This is ideal, you'll see. We do everything backward. It's just how we are. We began with an elopement. After that, we made love. Next, we'll progress to courting. When we're old and silver-haired, perhaps we'll finally get around to flirtation. We'll make fond eyes at each other over our mugs of gruel. We'll be the envy of couples half our age." "I'm so sorry we'll never meet," she whispered, laying her posy atop the late Lord and Lady Payne's grave. "But thank you. For him. I promise, I'll love him as fiercely as I can. Kindly send down some blessings when you can spare them. We'll probably need them, from time to time." Looks fade; gold doesn't.

Dream Lake

It was a bad habit of hers - looking for safety in places where there wasn't any.

"I know. But I hate weddings."
"Because of Darcy?"
"Because a wedding is a ceremony where a symbolic virgin surrounded by women in ugly dresses marries a hungover groom accompanied by friends he hasn't seen in years but made them show up anyway. After that, there's a reception where the guests are held hostage for two hours with nothing to eat except lukewarm chicken winglets or those weird coated almonds, and the DJ tries to brainwash everyone into doing the electric
slide and the Macarena, which some drunk idiots always go for. The only good part about a wedding is the free booze."
"Can you say that again?" Sam asked. "Because I might want to write it down and use it as part of my speech."

"Sometimes you meet a really nice guy, but no matter how you try, you can't seem to make yourself want him. But that's not nearly as bad as when you meet the wrong guy, and you can't make yourself not want him."

Sometimes silence was easiest, when the only word left was good-bye.

You are everything that's ever been my favourite thing," she wanted to tell him. "You're my love song, my birthday cake, the sound of ocean waves and French words and a baby's laugh. You're a snow angel, creme brulae, a kaleidoscope filled with glitter. I love you and you'll never catch up, because I've gotten a head start and my heart is racing at light speed.

A woman could do that to you - reach that place in your soul where the best and worst of you was kept. And once she was there, she owned that place and never left.

"I don't really like this song," Emma had said.
"You told me it was your favourite."
"It's beautiful. But it always makes me sad."
"Why, love?" he'd asked gently. "It's about finding each other again. About someone coming home."
Emma had lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him earnestly. "It's about losing someone, and having to wait until you're together in heaven."
"There's nothing in the lyrics about heaven," he'd said.
"But that's what it means. I can't bear the idea of being separated from you, for a lifetime or a year or even a day. So you mustn't go to heaven without me."
"Of course not," he had whispered. "It wouldn't be heaven without you."

I hate you for all the years I 'll have to live without you.

How can a heart hurt this much and still go on beating? How can I feel this bad without dying from it?

I 've bruised my knees with praying to have you back. None of my prayers have been answered. I tried to send them up to heaven but they 're trapped here on earth, like bobwhites beneath the snow. I try to sleep and it's like I 'm suffocating.
Where have you gone?

Once you said that if I wasn't with you, it wouldn't be heaven.
I can't let go of you. Come back and haunt me. Come back.

"What if you could meet your soul mate?" the ghost asked. "You'd want to avoid that?"
"Hell, yes. The idea that there's one soul out there, waiting to merge with mine like some data-sharing program, depresses the hell out of me."
"It's not like that. It's not about losing yourself."
"Then what is it?" Alex was only half listening, still occupied with the viselike tightness of his chest.
"It's like your whole life you 've been falling toward the earth, until the moment someone catches you. And you realise that somehow you 've caught her at the same time. And together, instead of falling, you might be able to fly."

"Justine," Zoe said, "I don't want to curse anyone."
"Of course you don't, you're much too nice.  But I don't have that problem.

When He Was Wicked

"In every life there is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that one feels as if one's been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and one knows, absolutely knows without the merest hint of a shadow of a doubt that one's life will never be the same."

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

Tell me something wicked.

Stirlings of old had been so damned besotted with their newfound earldom that they couldn't think to put any other name on anything...It was a wonder he didn't drink Kilmartin Tea and sit on a Kilmartin-style chair. In fact, he probably would be doing just that if his grandmother had found a way to manage it without actually taking the family into trade.

Michael nodded tersely, eyeing a table across the room. It was empty. So empty. So joyfully, blessedly empty.
He could picture himself a very happy man at that table.
"Not feeling very conversational this evening, are we?" Colin asked, breaking into his (admittedly tame) fantasies.

"Oh, God, Francesca,Now there's a good one.Why? Why? Why?" He gave each one a different tenor, as if he were testing out the word, asking it to different people.
"Why?" he asked again, this time with increased volume as he turned around to face her.
"Why? It's because I love you, damn me to hell. Because I've always loved you. Because I loved you when you were with John, and I loved you when I was in India, and God only knows I don't deserve you, but I love you, any way."
Francesca sagged against the door.
"How's that for a witty little joke?" he mocked. "I love you. I love you, my cousin's wife. I love you, the one woman I can never have. I love you, Francesca Bridgerton Stirling."

...and he stopped going to church entirely, because there seemed no point now in even contemplating prayer for his soul. Besides, the parish church near Kilmartin dated to 1432, and the crumbling stones certainly couldn't take a direct strike of lightning.

And if God ever wanted to smite a sinner, he couldn't do better than Michael Stirling.
Michael Stirling, Sinner. He could see it on a calling card. He'd have had it printed up, even his was just that sort of black sense of humor, if he weren't convinced it would kill his mother on the spot.
Rake he might be, but there was no need to torture the woman who'd borne him.

Their fathers had been twins, but John's had entered the world seven minutes before Michael's.
The most critical seven minutes in Michael Stirling's life, and he hadn't even been alive for them.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Cousin's Wife.
Moses must have forgotten to write that one down.

She didn't like to be thwarted, and she certainly did not enjoy admitting that she might not be able to arrange her world, and the people inhabiting it, to her satisfaction.

It was one of those things that had to be experienced to be understood.

There were a lot of things in life to be afraid of, but strangeness ought not be among them.

"A lot of women want children."
"Right," he said, coughing on the word. "Of course. But, don't you think you might want a husband first?"
"Of course."

"I hope you know that I am listening, should you ever change your mind. I'm going to kill her," Francesca said to no one in particular. Which was probably a good thing, as there was no one else present.
"Who are you talking to?" Hyacinth demanded.
"God," Francesca said baldly. "And I do believe I have been given divine leave to murder you."
"Hmmph," was Hyacinth's response. "If it was that easy, I'd have asked permission to eliminate half the ton years ago."
Francesca decided just then that not all of Hyacinth's statements required a rejoinder. In fact, few of them did.

Francesca actually felt her chin drop. "Mother," she said, shaking her head, "you really should have stopped at seven."
"Children, you mean?" Violet asked, sipping at her tea. "Sometimes I do wonder."
"Mother!" Hyacinth exclaimed.
Violet just smiled at her. "Salt?"
"It took her eight tries to get it right," Hyacinth announced, thrusting the salt cellar at her mother with a decided lack of grace.
"And does that mean that you, too, hope to have eight children?" Violet inquired sweetly.
"God no," Hyacinth said. With great feeling. And neither she nor Francesca could quite resist a chuckle after that.

"And what renders him so unmarriageable?" Eloise asked.
Francesca leveled a serious stare at her older sister. Eloise was mad if she thought she should set her cap for Michael.
"Well?" Eloise prodded.
"He could never remain faithful to one woman," Francesca said, "and I doubt you'd be willing to put up with infidelities."
"No," Eloise murmured, "not unless he'd be willing to put up with severe bodily injury."

Michael wondered what the legal ramifications were for strangling a knight of the realm. Surely nothing he couldn't live with.

Michael had to clutch the end of the table to keep from rising. He could have had Shakespeare at his side to translate, and still not have been able to explain why Colin's remark infuriated him so.

There were only so many ways a man's heart could break, and he had a feeling his couldn't survive another puncture.

"Eloise is getting married as well."
"Eloise?" Michael asked with some surprise. "Was she even being courted by anyone?"
"No," Francesca said, quickly flipping to the third sheet of her mother's letter. "It's someone she's never met."
"Well, I imagine she's met him now," Michael said in a dry voice.
  

The Seduction Of Sarah

Luck is a fickle creature. She loves many, but is faithful to none.

"Is she always like that?"
"Like what?" Sara asked absently, staring at the letter in her hands.
"Floating about as if she was a blasted fairy."

I am not made of porcelain, Anthony. Nor do I need to be wrapped in wool and placed in a box for safekeeping. I don't like boxes; I never have.

Well, it is a good thing he died young. Most men don't have the good sense to know
when to quit this earth. At least your husband didn't drag on and on like some do.

"Why would he bother? He has no more wish to wed than I."
"How do you know?" Anthony asked. "Did you ask him?"
Her face heated, and Anthony covered his eyes. "Pray do not say another word. I don't wish to know."

"Bridgeton had a choice, Sara," Marcus said. "And he chose marriage."
"Get married or die. I vow, how did he make up his mind so quickly?"
"I wanted to shoot him," Anthony offered. "But Marcus would not allow it."
"You are both insufferable!"

She eyed him uncertainly. "Very well. Nick wants me, but he's decided not to - to -" She floundered to a halt and the tears that threatened in her eyes became reality. One, single drop slipped down her cheek.
Bloody hell. Anthony raked a hand through his hair. "Do you mean to tell me that Bridgeton is not - er - fulfilling his husbandly duties?"
She nodded miserably. "Oh, Anthony, what am I to do?"
He closed his eyes. God above. He was a decent man, one who took his responsibilities seriously. He was a good friend, an excellent landlord, and he never cheated at cards, unless it was with one of his own brothers. What had he done to deserve this?

Scandal In Scotland

:- If there's one thing you taught me, it's to never trust an answer that's actually another question.
:- It is surprising how many times a good feeling can be confused with a bad one. Often one is unsure which feeling it really is until much later.
:- It makes me wonder which tendencies are decided by birth, and which by desire.
:- Never underestimate the power of a bossy woman.
:- I'm very happy that you're following your dreams. I've discovered that they fragile things and must be fed if they are to live long enough to turn into reality. There are only two things that will feed a dream: action and honesty. If you are honest enough to face your dream, with all its limitations, and willing to take whatever action is necessary to make up for those limitations, then there is a good chance you will be one of the few to succeed.
:- Family is the only anchor that will hold in a choppy sea.
:- ...it's sad day when you forget your purpose in life.
:- My dear brother, never allow a woman to hold all of the cards.
:- I don't know which is more telling about a soul, their laughter or their tears. I suspect the latter, but hope for the former,

Ten Things I Love About You

When the dead body said, "Good evening," Annabel had to face the grim conclusion that it wasn't as dead as she'd hoped.

Sebastian Grey.
The worrds rang like a miserable moan in her head. On the list of men she ought not to be kissing, he had to rank at the top, along with the King, Lord Liverpool, and the chimney sweep.

"I miss my dog."
...
"What was his name again?"
"Mouse."
"That was very unkind of you."
"Naming him mouse?"
"Isn't he a greyhound?"
"I could have named hum Turtle."
"Frederick!"...
"It's better than Frederic," Annabel said, "Good heavens, that's my brother's name.

"I like my parents," Olivia said.
Sebastian shook his head, "A concept so alien I think it must be unpatriotic."

"But I wouldn't choose to spend time with them." Sebastian considered this, "Especially my father. As he's dead."

"You're charm can be terrifying."
"I suppose if you put it that way I cannot help but be complimented."

"Today I glory in my sixdom."
"Sixdom?"
"Sixitude."
Annabel started to grin.
"Sixulation," Louisa proclaimed.

Besides," he said breezily, "were it not for misunderstandings, we would be sadly lacking in great literature."
She looked at him questioningly.
"Where would Romeo and Juliet be?"
"Alive.

Happiness could be like a head cold. Or cholera.
Catching.

I can imagine no greater bliss than to lie about, reading novels all day.

A Night Like This

- "Love is blind," Harriet quipped.
"But not illiterate," Elizabeth retorted.

- "He said he loved me," she whispered.
Daniel swallowed, and he had the strangest sensation, almost a premonition of what it must like to be a parent.
Someday, God willing, he'd have a daughter, and that daughter would look like the woman standing in front of him, and if ever she looked at him with that bewildered expression, whispering, "He said he loved me . . ."
Nothing short of murder would be an acceptable response.

- I was told once that the most important part of a fight is making sure your opponent looks worse than you do when you're through.

- "Have you seen Frances?"
He tilted his head to the right. "I believe she's off rooting about in the bushes."
Anne followed his gaze uneasily. "Rooting?"
"She told me she was practicing for the next play."
Anne blinked at him, not following.
"For when she gets to be a unicorn."
"Oh, of course." She chuckled. "She is rather tenacious, that one."

- "What about me?" Frances asked.
"The butler," Harriet replied without even a second of hesitation.
Frances's mouth immediately opened to protest.
"No, no," Harriet said. "It's the best role, I promise. You get to do everything."
"Except be a unicorn," Daniel murmured.
Frances tilted her head to the side with a resigned expression.
"The next play," Harriet finally gave in. "I shall find a way to include a unicorn in the one I'm working on right now."
Frances pumped both fists in the air. "Huzzah!"

- "Oh, Daniel," his mother exclaimed, catching him before he could make his escape, "Do come join us. We're trying to decide if Honoria should be married in lavender-blue or blue-lavender."
He opened his mouth to ask the difference, then decided against it. "Blue-lavender," he said firmly, not having a clue as to what he was talking about.
"Do you think so?" his mother responded, frowning. "I really think lavender-blue would be better."
The obvious question would have been why she'd asked his opinion in the first place, but once again, he decided that the wise man did not make such queries.

- She was petite, small in that way that made a man want to slay dragons.

- "Help me. Please?"
She gave him an abashed nod (but not nearly so abashed as she ought) and turned to Harriet. "I think that Lord Winstead refers to the rhyming qualities of the title."
Harriet blinked a few times. "It doesn't rhyme."
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Elizabeth burst out. "Finstead Winstead?"
Harriet's gasp very nearly sucked the air from the room. "I never noticed!" she exclaimed.
"Obviously," her sister drawled.
"I must have been thinking about you when I wrote the play," Harriet said to Daniel. From her expression, he gathered he was meant to feel flattered, so he tried to smile.

- "His brows rose. "And how is it that you have come to be such an expert on scrapes and bruises?"
"I'm a governess," she said. Because really, that ought to be explanation enough.

- Then Elizabeth came, bearing a tray of cakes and sweets, and finally Harriet, who carried with her a small sheaf of papers, her current opus, Henry VIII and the Unicorn of Doom .
"I'm not certain Frances is going to be appeased by an evil unicorn," Anne told her.
Harriet looked up with one arched brow. "She did not specify that it must be a good unicorn."
Anne grimaced. "You're going to have a battle on your hands, that's all I'm going to say on the matter."

- Harriet shrugged, then said, "I'm going to begin in act two. Act one is a complete disaster. I've had to rip it completely apart."
"Because of the unicorn?"
"No," Harriet said with a grimace. "I got the order of the wives wrong. It's divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, widowed."
"How cheerful."
Harriet gave her a bit of a look, then said, "I switched one of the divorces with a beheading."
"May I give you a bit of advice?" Anne asked.
Harriet looked up.
"Don't ever let anyone hear you say that out of context."

- Then, with a cheeky quirk of his brows, he leaned forward and murmured, "Would it be improper of me to admit that I am inordinately flattered by your attention to
the details of my face?"
Anne snorted out a laugh. "Improper and ludicrous."
"It is true that I have never felt quite so colorful," he said, with a clearly feigned sigh.
"You are a veritable rainbow," she agreed. "I see red and . . . well, no orange and yellow, but certainly green and blue and violet."
"You forgot indigo."
"I did not," she said, with her very best governess voice. "I have always found it to be a foolish addition to the spectrum. Have you ever actually seen a rainbow?"
"Once or twice," he replied, looking rather amused by her rant.

- "What happened to your face?" Harriet asked.
"It was a misunderstanding," Daniel said smoothly, wondering how long it might take for his bruises to heal. He did not think he was particularly vain, but the questions were growing tiresome.
"A misunderstanding?" Elizabeth echoed. "With an anvil?"
"Oh, stop," Harriet admonished her. "I think he looks very dashing."
"As if he dashed into an anvil."
"Pay no attention," Harriet said to him. "She lacks imagination.

- "Nonetheless, I can't help but be flattered that you noticed the latest addition to my collection," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "Because personal injuries are such a dignified thing to collect."
"Are all governesses so sarcastic?

The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

She hated that she was still so desperate for a glimpse of him, but it had been this way for years.

"Oh, very well, do you want to know why I really think you should keep a journal?"
She nodded.
"Because someday you're going to grow into yourself, and you will be as beautiful as you already are smart."

Society is capricious and rewards the bad as often as the good. But it never rewards the quiet.

And then what would she say? I just told your brother that I love him, and I'm afraid that he hates me? I can't be alone with Turner because I'm afraid he might ravish me? I can't be alone with Turner because I'm afraid I might ravish him.  

Three Nights With A Scoundrel

"You don't want me to feel obligated? Well, I'm sorry, Lily. I am here
because I feel obligated." He brought her hand to his chest, pressing her
palm flat against his rapidly thumping pulse. "I'm obligated by my heart. It's
decided you're essential to my existence, you see. And it's threatening to go out on labor strike if I don't make you mine this very day. So yes. I am here on bended knee, acting from a deep, undeniable sense of obligation. I am, quite simply, yours." He swallowed hard. "If you'll have me."

"Julian," she said huskily, "you were right the other morning. You know me so well. I'm not made for illicit affaires, all that sneaking around to avoid discovery." In the dark, her hands crept up to his shoulders, then his face. Her finger teased through his hair. "Why should we hide at all? Let all London see us together. I don't care what anyone says or thinks. I love you, and I want the world to know."

He wanted to weep. For joy, for frustration. She was so brave, his beautiful Lily, and the situation was so damned unfair. It wasn't her fault that she made these heartrending declarations at a moment when their lives were probably in danger and he couldn't possibly reciprocate. That fault was his, for choosing to live the way he had and making the decisions he'd made. He didn't deserve her, didn't deserve her love. He most certainly didn't merit those warm brushes of her lips against his skin. But damned if he could bring himself to stop them.
"We're in love, Julian. Isn't it wonderful?"
"No," he murmured as she kissed him again. "It's not wonderful. It's a disaster."
Her lips grazed his jaw, then his throat. "I can feel you speaking, and I know you're probably making some valiant protest. But you know I can't hear those words. Your body is making an altogether different argument, and I'm listening to it." Her fingers crept inside his waistcoat, splaying over the thin lawn of his shirt. "Take your heart, for example."
Yes, take it. Take it and keep it, always.

Normally, she never paid calls, not on her own. But this was life after Leo - a series of tiny, halting steps toward independence.

I have to go," he said. "You don't understand. Someone wants to kill me.
"Someone wants to kill you?" she repeated. "Well, I want to make love to you. My goodness, Julian. With two such compelling alternatives, however will you choose?

Do you know," he said, "there are men who would like very much to see me dead. Powerful men. Obscenely wealthy me. Men who can afford to be patient and engage the services of large, ruthless brutes. I've managed to evade them all. But you...God's truth, I think you'll be the very death of me.

Three Weeks with My Brother

Dreams are always crushing when they don't come true.  But it's the simple dreams that are often the most painful because they seem so personal, so reasonable, so attainable. You're always close enough to touch, but never quite close enough to hold and it's enough to break your heart.

Sarah Dessen Collection of Uncatogorized Quotes

And always remember how much your crazy sister loves you.

The truth was I knew, after all those flat January days, that I deserved better. I deserved I love yous and kiwi fruits and warriors coming to my door, besotted with love. I deserved pictures of my face in a thousand expressions, and the warmth of a baby's kick beneath my hand. I deserved to grow, and to change, to become all the girls I could be over the course of my life, each one better than the last.

The bottom line is, what defines you isn't how many times you crash, but the number of times you get back on the bike.  As long as it's one more. you're all good.

Compiler's Note: I came across these beautiful quotes but I am not sure which novels they are from. So if anyone has any inkling and would like to help me categorize it properly, please leave a comment with the name of the book you think the quote is from. (please include few lines from the quotes to make it easier for me to identify it). Thanks!