Duke Silver Quotes

He may make me feel like a fool, and like a woman who can do nothing, but what I can do I will. In my jewellery box is a dark locket of black tarnished silver and inside it locked in the darkness, I have his name: Richard Neville and that of George, Duke of Clarence, written in my blood on a piece of paper from the corner of my father's last letter. These are my enemies, I have cursed them. I will see them dead at my feet.

Jonquil went by with a full plate of food, and Petunia reached out and tried to snag a small cream puff from it. Jonquil lifted it over Petunia's head before she could, and clucked her tongue. "These are for Lily," she said. "Oh really?" Petunia gave her a look. "And possibly some are for that Analousian duke Jacques invited," Jonquil said with a sparkle in her eye. "But none are for you." Then she flipped one to Oliver. "You can have one, my lord earl," she said, and twirled away. "These are excellent," Oliver said, eating half of it in one bite. He fed Petunia the other half so she wouldn't get cream on her knitting. Oliver was just leaning in to steal a kiss - "I hope this means you're planning on marrying her, boy," barked King Gregor. Oliver leaped to his feet. "Sire! Yes! I mean ... I ... sire!" "I didn't pardon you and restore your earldom so that you could loll around my gardens flirting with my daughters," King Gregor said. Then he bent down and gave Petunia a kiss on the cheek. "I like him," he whispered loudly in her ear. "Me too," she whispered back, blushing.

Did the tsar refuse to marry you?" I asked. I thought the duke might have been angry with her if he had: he hadn't seemed like a man to be satisfied if his plans went awry. "No," she said. "I am tsarina. For as long as I live." She said it dryly, as if she didn't expect that to last long. "The tsar is a black sorcerer. He is possessed by a demon of flame that wants to devour me." I laughed; I couldn't help it. It wasn't mirth, it was bitterness. "So the fairy silver brought you a monster of fire for a husband, and me a monster of ice. We should put them in a room together and let them make us both widows.

Review, friends—troops long past review,” the Duke intoned. “All to fate a weight of pains and dollars. Their spirits wear our silver collars. Review, friends—troops long past review: Each a dot of time without pretense or guile. With them passes the lure of fortune. Review, friends—troops long past review. When our time ends on its rictus smile, we’ll pass the lure of fortune.

He sat on his horse unmoving, a somber black figure in startling contrast to the vivid colors about him, the sun dazzling on his white gold hair. Unlike the duke and his bastard, there was no laughter in his face, and his eyes were not searching the housefronts for diversion-instead, he was staring intently straight up at my window.

The duke nodded, his beautiful face full of catlike satisfaction. "But since then I have conquered a sterner fortress." His eyes mocked me. "And now I enter it freely.

Spare change. Can't imagine how it got there." She tipped her head in reproach. He exhaled, sounding resigned. "It's not what you think." She turned her hand palm-up between them, letting the coin serve as its own accusation. "I think I know a shilling when I see one." "Look again." She looked down at the coin in her gloved palm, where its embossed face stood out in sharp relief against white satin. Light glinted off the surface, revealing the color to be not the expected dull silver, but a coppery hue instead. Oh. A sharp pang of surprise caught her heart. He'd been telling the truth. It wasn't a shilling after all. It was a penny. A bright, newly minted penny. One he'd been keeping tucked in his breast pocket. Right next to his heart. She drew a shaky breath. "Gabriel." His hands went to her shoulders- but it was his low, husky voice that reached out and drew her close. "You know the squalor I was born to. And you know I promised myself I'd never be that barefoot, starving boy again." She nodded. "I have every luxury a man could desire. Hundreds of thousands of pounds in my accounts. I worked like hell to build a fortune, and yet..." His thumb met her cheek with a reverent caress. "Now I'd sell my soul for a Penny.

Even after three decades of marriage, Evie's heart still skipped a beat at the sight of her husband, formerly Lord St. Vincent, now the Duke of Kingston. Sebastian had matured into a magnificent man with a presence that both intimidated and dazzled. Since ascending to the dukedom ten years ago, he had acquired a veneer of dignity that befitted a man of his considerable power. But no one could look into those remarkable blue eyes, alive with glints of fire and ice, without recalling that he had once been the most wicked rake in England. He still was- Evie could attest to that. Time had treated Sebastian lovingly, and always would. He was a beautiful man, lean and elegant, his tawny-golden hair now lightly brushed with silver at the temples. A lion in winter, whom no one could cross except at their peril. Maturity had given him a look of cool, incisive authority, the sense of a man who had seen and experienced enough that he could rarely, if ever, be outmaneuvered. But when something amused or touched him, his smile was both incandescent and irresistible.

Here is the point.” She stepped into his path, forcing him to meet her eyes. Man-eating sharks and all. “No one can be reduced to numbers in a ledger, or a stack of banknotes, or a single silver coin. We are humans, with souls and hearts and passion and love. Every last one of us is priceless. Even you.

THE DUKE Leto Atreides leaned against a parapet of the landing control tower outside Arrakeen. The night’s first moon, an oblate silver coin, hung well above the southern horizon. Beneath it, the jagged cliffs of the Shield Wall shone like parched icing through a dust haze. To his left, the lights of Arrakeen glowed in the haze—yellow . . . white . . . blue.

The same thing happened after Donald Trump won the presidency. There was a huge outcry about the polls being wrong. Nate Silver, the founder of FiveThirtyEight.com, drew a lot of that criticism. But he never said Clinton was a sure thing. Based on his aggregation and weighting of polling data, he had Trump between 30% and 40% to win (approximately between two-to-one and three-to-two against) in the week before the election. An event predicted to happen 30% to 40% of the time will happen a lot.

Careful, Charlie,” I say. “That sounds like jealousy.” “It’s relief,” he says. “I expected you to show up here today in Daisy Dukes and pigtails, maybe a Ford tattoo on your tailbone.” I slide my forearms onto the desk and lean forward in such a way that I really might as well have brought a silver platter out and presented my cleavage to him that way. The lack of sleep is really getting to me. I feel haunted by him, and I’m determined to haunt him right back. “I would be”—I drop my voice—“adorable in Daisy Dukes and pigtails.” His eyes snap back to my face, flashing; his mouth twitches through that grimacing pout, a pair as reliable as thunder and lightning. “Not the word I’d use.” Awareness sizzles down my backbone. I lean closer. “Charming?” His eyes stay on my face. “Not that either.” “Sweet,” I say. “No.” “Comely?” I guess. “Comely? What year is it, Stephens?” “A real girl next door,” I parry. He snorts. “Whose door?” I straighten. “It’ll come to me.” “I doubt it,” he says under his breath.

Elliania wore her cloak of narwhals and bucks, and somehow a doublet that matched it perfectly had been created for the Prince. Dutiful’s simple coronet had been replaced with an ornate harvest crown, and in that I saw Chade’s subtle hand, for he displayed the Prince as a crowned king before his dukes. Ceremonial it might be, yet it could not fail to leave an impression. Elliania was crowned, as well. Whereas the Prince wore a crown of gilded antlers, hers featured a single narwhal horn enameled in blue and trimmed in silver. When

Do you know why I always keep a shilling in my pocket? Because everything I am today, everything I've earned- it all started there. I was once worth a single shilling. Now I'm worth hundreds of thousands of pounds." "No, you aren't." "Shall I produce the bank ledgers to prove it?" "Ledgers are meaningless. I have a sum placed on me, you know. A dowry of forty thousand. And yet if I were to lose my virtue, some would deem me worthless." "You could never be worthless." "I could certainly drive down the price of your house. You never miss a chance to remind me." He shook his head. "That's not the point." "Here is the point." She stepped into his path, forcing him to meet her eyes. Man-eating sharks and all. "No one can be reduced to numbers in a ledger, or a stack of banknotes, or a single silver coin. We are humans, with souls and hearts and passion and love. Every last one of us is priceless. Even you." She set her frustration aside and took his face in her hands. He needed to hear this. Everyone needed to hear it, including her. Perhaps that was why she spoke the words so often, to so many creatures. Simply to hear them echo back. "Gabriel Duke. You are priceless.

Laurel stood on stage. She was very still. Her lovely blue eyes were lowered modestly. Her silver blonde hair fell in disheveled curls around her face, white roses and strands of pearls woven artfully throughout. A necklace of what looked like diamonds clasped her slender throat while white kid gloves were drawn up to her elbow. She held a fan of frosted silver in one hand, dangling at her side. Her dress was a shimmering sapphire blue, and it fit her exquisitely, molding to her form, hugging her small bosom and lifting her breasts until they appeared ready to spill from the satin bodice. A silver braided sash cinched her waist, emphasizing its narrowness. And then, she lifted her head, raised the hand that held the fan, then the other one and, tipping her head back, opened her eyes. They were haunting and luminous, soft in the candlelight. Her skin was pale and smooth. The crowd was utterly quiet, watching her. And then, she began to sing. If Dare had thought Laurel Spencer beautiful before, now she became goddess-like to him in an instant as a melody so heart-wrenching and lovely spilled forth from her lips.

You are very quiet,” Archer remarked as they walked together to the refreshment table. They’d just finished a game of whist and when Rose begged off from a second round, Grey’s brother did the same. “My apologies,” she replied. “I do not mean to be rude.” “My brother doesn’t deserve to take up so much room in that lovely head of yours.” She might have been insulted by his disparaging Grey, or his familiarity with her, had she not been so surprised by the remark itself. “You are impertinent, sir.” He grinned-a grin so much more roguish than Grey’s. “One of my more charming traits. I did not mean offense, dear lady. Only that thinking about him will do you no good. The man is bent on punishing himself for the rest of his life.” Rose accepted the plate he offered her. “Thank you. Why would he wish to punish himself?” “Because he’s an ar…idiot. Sandwich?” He held up a cucumber sandwich caught in silver tongs. “Please. I’m not certain I wish to discuss your brother with you, Lord Archer.” “Not even if I can help you win him?” Rose’s heart froze-no, it simply stopped. Her entire body went numb. She would have dropped her plate had Archer not swept it from her hand into his own. “What makes you think I wish to win him?” He flashed her a coy glance. “Please, lady Rose. I’ve not made a career out of studying your sex to fall for your false innocence now.” Oh dear God. Had Grey told him? “I’ve seen the way you look at him, and I’ve had to put with hearing about you for the last four years-no offense.” Rose arched a brow as he piled food upon her plate. “None taken. I wasn’t aware that I looked at your brother in a manner different from how I might look upon anyone else.” “Mm.” He popped a small cake into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “That’s just it. You try too hard to treat him like everyone else. It’s obvious you care for him, and not just as the man who saved your life.” “Saved my life? How very dramatic.” He gave her a very serious look as he handed her the laden plate. “Where do you suppose you’d be right now if Grey hadn’t taken you in? Certainly not here, with such good food and charming company.” Point taken. And now she felt simply awful for the way she had spoken to Grey earlier. She was such a cow. “You shame me, sir.” And worse, he’d made tears come to her eyes. Staring at her food-such a wonderful array he’d picked for her-she blinked them away. He steered her toward a window seat where they sat in plain view of the room, but at least with a modicum of privacy. “My apologies, my lady. I did not mean to offend you with my plain and thoughtless words.” “Plain, perhaps. Thoughtless, I highly doubt it.” She managed a small smile. “I don’t think you do anything without thinking first.” Archer laughed, looking so much like Grey it hurt to look at him. “Were that but true.

Vim?” “Sweetheart?” The whispered endearment spoken with sleepy sensuality had Sophie’s insides fluttering. Was this what married people did? Cuddled and talked in shadowed rooms, gave each other bodily warmth as they exchanged confidences? “What troubles you about going home?” He was quiet for a long moment, his breath fanning across her neck. Sophie felt him considering his words, weighing what to tell her, if anything. “I’m not sure exactly what’s amiss, and that’s part of the problem, but my associations with the place are not at all pleasant, either.” Was that…? His lips? The glancing caress to her nape made Sophie shiver despite the cocoon of blankets. “What do you think is wrong there?” Another kiss, more definite this time. “My aunt and uncle are quite elderly, though Uncle Bert and Aunt Essie seem the type to live forever. I’ve counted on them living forever. You even taste like flowers.” Ah, God, his tongue… a slow, warm, wet swipe of his tongue below her ear, like a cat, but smoother than a cat, more deliberate. “Nobody lives forever.” The nuzzling stopped. “This is lamentably so. My aunt writes to me that a number of family heirlooms have gone missing, some valuable in terms of coin, some in terms of sentiment.” His teeth closed gently on the curve of her ear. What was this? He wasn’t kissing her, exactly, nor fondling the parts other men had tried to grope in dark corners—though Sophie wished he might try some fondling. “Do you think you might have a thief among the servants?” He slipped her earlobe into his mouth and drew on it briefly. “Perhaps, though the staff generally dates back to before the Flood. We pay excellent wages; we pension those who seek retirement, those few who seek retirement.” “Is some sneak thief in the neighborhood preying on your relations, then?” It was becoming nearly impossible to remain passively lying on her side. She wanted to be on her back, kissing him, touching his hair, his face, his chest… “Or has some doughty old retainer merely misplaced some of the silver?” Vim muttered right next to her ear. “You’ll sort it out.

When I was a little older, about twelve, I went to work at a nearby house. It was owned by old Mrs. Cromby and oh, I was so homesick! I cried myself to sleep for a fortnight it seemed, until it was my day off and I could go home to see Mam." He frowned at this, not liking to think of his infant housekeeper in tears. "Why did they send you then if you were so upset?" She gave him a look. "Because I needed to learn a trade, naturally. And it was a good position. Mrs. Cromby was very strict but I learned so much from her and her housekeeper, Mrs. Little. How to keep records and how to make wood polish and brass polish and silver polish. When to turn linen and how to store cheese. What cuts of beef are the cheapest and how to bargain down the butcher. How to judge when a fish is fresh and when to buy shellfish and when not to. How to keep moths from woolen and mice from the pantry. How to get wine stains out of white linen and how to dye faded cloth black again. All that and so much more." She drew breath and he looked at her, deeply appalled. "That all sounds frightfully boring." "And yet without that knowledge you'd live in dirty, messy, vermin-infested chaos," she said sweetly. "Mm.

Once it was two lads— Domenico and Piero— and it was Piero who lorded it with you! You do not choose to remember—" "I remember well enough." Domenico's voice was dangerously even. "Forbear to talk of it." "If you remember, then judge my jealousy. Measure for measure with the love I gave you." "You loved the son of the Duke of Cabria." The raw fury in Domenico's eyes made Piero step back, but his voice was still stifled. "It was my power you made your court to; you thought to haul yourself higher on my coattails and rule the state from behind my throne. Do not tell me tales of your undying love.

I’ve had hemorrhoids more pleasant, my dear!” Minin’s head spun. Two gray and white Italian Greyhounds—Artemis and Eos—pranced into the lounge and happily came for Minin with their wet noses. He knew they were gifts to their master from the grand duke of Luxembourg, and twins of the same litter. Lord Roman Leonidovich Ivanov trailed in a moment later. He was a tall, sharp man of eighty-six with the booming voice of an auctioneer, the confident poise of a Shakespearean actor and the suffocating presence of a master politician. A wavy silver mane covered the sides of his head; wrinkles ran across his forehead like rivulets and connected his wide nose with the corners of his mouth; and pale, fleshy circles ringed his eyes where tanning goggles frequently rested.

Oooh! Incorrigible! Great word. Very Bridgerton. I could role-play the duke if that’s something you’re into.

Using the delicate cloth like a handkerchief to protect the brittle pages, she opened the first book she had unearthed: On Dragons. "Oh, how wonderful!" she murmured to herself, gazing at the wildly colored illustrations of giant reptiles, winged and breathing fire. The Chaucerian English was going to take some work to decipher. She would have to see what reference texts she could find in the collection to help her work out the captions, but for now, the pictures fascinated her. The next page showed a silver-armored knight astride a galloping white steed. Armed with a lance, he was shown charging at the hideous, horned dragon that loomed over him, its black, batlike wings outstretched. The knight in the picture had a winged ally of his own, however. In the sky above him hovered none other than St. Michael the Archangel again, her old friend from the duke's family chapel. Come to think of it, she mused, wasn't that white Maltese cross on the little knight's pennant another detail she had noticed in the chapel? She turned the page and stopped at the next colorful picture of a dragon holding its egg in its claws. Some sort of curious symbol was depicted inside the rounded contours of the egg. Kate furrowed her brow and leaned closer, studying the symbol on the dragon's egg. A tingle of faint recognition ran down her spine. I've seen this before. The symbol showed an eight-spoked wagon wheel, with a flaming torch in the center. Beneath the wheel was the Latin motto, Non serviam. Easy enough to translate: "I will not serve.

Did you know? Duke Kahanamoku competed in four Olympics from 1912 to 1932 setting three world-records, while winning three gold medals, two silver, and one bronze.

I am attracted to you, and I think the attraction is mutual. I am asking you to marry me, Maggie Windham. Cry the banns, reserve St. George’s, your mama weeping in the first row while your brothers glare at me for my audacity…” He could not gauge her reaction. “Her Grace is not my mother, and my brothers would not glare at you, and while I understand the honor you do—” She tipped her head back, eyes closed. He watched while her throat worked and felt her hand clench in his. “Benjamin, I cannot.” He had expected an uphill battle. He had not expected the single, silver tear that slipped from the corner of her closed eye and trickled down her cheek. “Why not?” She shook her head and accepted his handkerchief. “I’m just a by-blow, and being your countess would only ensure I was the subject of constant gossip. Our children would be ostracized; I’d be the subject of much criticism…” “Our children would be the grandchildren of a duke and an earl. When one of the Wilson sisters can marry a titled lord and be accepted anywhere, your argument fails. We’d live in Cumbria, where the only ones to pass judgment would be the sheep climbing the fells. I’d give you as many children as you wanted, and we’d suit, Maggie Windham. We’d suit admirably.” He was an educated, resourceful man, but just a man. Words were not winning the fair maid, and while he’d been prepared to work for her capitulation, he was not ready for her to wall herself off in specious arguments and stubborn silence. He kissed her. He put all of his longing into the kiss, all of his determination to keep her safe and fight her battles for her. When she was sighing into his mouth and her hands were clinging to his biceps, he forced himself to pause, lest he be consummating unspoken vows on the carriage bench. “You must not…” She drew in a slow, deep breath, their mouths an inch apart. “You cannot ravish my reason, Benjamin. I am discharging you, and we will be cordial acquaintances from this day forward.” She dropped her forehead to his, her fingers circling his wrist where his hand cradled her jaw. A tactical retreat might be in order, but he was not going to be easily discouraged. “I will serenade you from the street, Maggie Windham. I will be so callow, you will marry me to save me from embarrassment.” She

I will dismiss Stenson before sunset,” Westhaven assured her. “I will confront my father, as well. Just one request, Anna.” She met his gaze squarely, still upset but apparently willing to shift the focus of her rage. “Be here when I return,” he said, holding her gaze. She huffed out a breath, nodded once, and dropped her eyes. “Be here.” He walked up to her and put his arms around her. She went willingly, to his relief, and held on to him tightly. “Do not pack, do not warn Morgan, do not pawn the silver, do not panic. Be here and try, just try, to find some ability to trust me.” When

The low thrum of Dom’s voice sent her pulse into a dance. Devil take him! She’d just seen him last night; his mere voice shouldn’t make her swoon, for pity’s sake. It shouldn’t make her remember the soft words he’d whispered as he’d caressed her and kissed her and swept her into madness… What was wrong with her? She wasn’t letting that man sweep her anywhere, not as long as he only wanted to sweep her out of his way. Now if only she could be sure why. She strained to listen. For a while, the gentlemen were too intent on eating to say much of interest. But once the clink of silver ended and the clink of glasses began, their tongues loosened. Thank heaven for brandy. She could smell it all the way over here.

I was not even shocked; it would be a lucky man indeed who lived out his natural span here. All around us, even now, plots and subterfuges were in train — a whisper here, a few ambiguous words in passing, or only a look. Sandro’s face came back to me, the swiftly masked expression when his generalship was mocked, and Piero’s, watching Domenico when he thought he was unobserved. Duke Carlo could not have inspired more hate or love in any who surrounded him, and he had been murdered.

You think…” “No.” He was smiling again. “I do not think. I dare not. The old duke is dead and the duchess packed off to her Spanish kin in Naples; that is all any man her knows but he.” He glanced at Domenico and then away. “And we know enough when we know so much.” “But Duke Carlo was old. I thought when I heard he was dead that he had died naturally.” “It is safer to think so. Believe it.

Elain is pleasant to look at, her mother had once mused while Nesta sat beside her dressing table, a servant silently brushing her mother’s gold-brown hair, but she has no ambition. She does not dream beyond her garden and pretty clothes. She will be an asset on the marriage market for us one day, if that beauty holds, but it will be our own maneuverings, Nesta, not hers, that win us an advantageous match. Nesta had been twelve at the time. Elain barely eleven. She’d absorbed every word of her mother’s scheming, plans for futures that had never come to pass. We shall have to petition your father to go to the continent when the time is right, her mother had often said. There are no men here worthy of either of you. Feyre hadn’t even been considered at that point, a sullen, strange child whom her mother ignored. Human royalty rules there still—lords and dukes and princes—but their wealth is tapped out, many of their estates nearing ruin. Two beautiful ladies with a king’s fortune could go far. I might marry a prince? Nesta had asked. Her mother had only smiled.

Yes, she was as odd and awkward as ever. Now, however, she saw that regardless of that, she deserved happiness, and no one was going to hand it to her on a silver platter; no, she had to reach out and take it for herself.

Flames burst into life all along the wall, following the channel's rectangular course around the vast room. The flames continued around the rest of the room, until the great torch over the archway burst into flames. The torch formed the apex of an arch where two great statues were joined. Carved from black marble, the two figures framed the hall's entrance like great columns. On the left was a giant Prometheus, whose facial features looked suspiciously demonic. He was depicted handing the torch to a smaller, but still Herculean statue of a man. Both figures grasped the handle of the torch, which continued to burn overhead as Kate and Rohan advanced slowly into the great chamber. "I think we've found the Hall of Fire," she murmured. "It would appear so," he agreed with a sardonic nod. "This was mentioned in the Journal. Lord, look at all this loot! O'Banyon was right." Treasure abounded in the now-fully-illuminated Hall of Fire. Walking deeper into the chamber, they were surrounded by dazzling riches, mounds of gold, open chests full of glittering coins from bygone eras, jewels, crowns, scepters, swords of power, gold and silver cloth, a throne, ancient vases and jeweled cups, classical statues no doubt worth a fortune. There was even a chariot that looked like it might have belonged to the likes of Alexander the Great.

Rohan took a seat on the old, thronelike chair in the center of the great hall and drummed his fingers on his sword's hilt in kingly impatience. After all, the sooner he finished here, the sooner he could go unwrap his little "present." His eyes gleamed with anticipation as he permitted himself to think about her briefly. Even now, his instincts were wide-awake with a very male awareness of a woman in his house. Waiting for him in his bed. He had wanted her gone from the great hall in case stronger measures were needed to remind his unruly tenants of his authority. He did not wish any female to witness his capacity for violence. Besides, he did not need the distraction of those beautiful breasts clamoring for his attention. He'd get to know them better soon enough, every silky inch of her. His people knew what he liked; he was decidedly pleased with their peace offering. This luscious young token of their apology left him feeling much more disposed to forgive. Indeed, the prospect of spending the next few nights in this abominable stone crypt of a castle suddenly looked a good deal more agreeable. Coming out here to the middle of nowhere, he had expected to have to go without his daily dose of sex, a real inconvenience for a man of his elemental nature. He had a rule, after all, against poaching on the locals. He wanted to be feared, not hated. But, hell, if they were going to offer her up on a silver platter, far be it from him to refuse such a delicious-looking morsel.

I know viscerally how likely 60–40 and 70–30 favorites are to lose (and, of course, the opposite). When people complained that Nate Silver did his job poorly because he had Clinton favored, I thought, “Those people haven’t gotten all their chips in a pot with a pair against a straight draw and lost.

When people complained that Nate Silver did his job poorly because he had Clinton favored, I thought, “Those people haven’t gotten all their chips in a pot with a pair against a straight draw and lost.” Or, more likely, they’ve had those things happen throughout their lives and didn’t realize that’s what 30% or 40% feels like.

From what he'd been told about the duke's past, Keir would have expected a florid old dandy, or a rheumy-eyed satyr. Anything but this elegantly lean man who moved with the supple ease of a tomcat. His clean-shaven face was a marvel of bone structure: a gift of male beauty that could never be outlived. The dark gold of his hair was silvered at the temple and sides, and time had weathered his complexion here and there with fine lines. But the signs of maturity only made him seem more powerful. The sheer presence of the man caused the hairs on Keir's arms to prickle in warning beneath the too-short sleeves of his ready-made coat.

Does Aunt Evie know?" Merritt asked, too tired to guard her tongue. "Know what?" Kingston asked, fishing a pocket watch from his waistcoat. "That you have a natural-born son." The duke's gaze remained on Keir. After a charged silence, he said evenly, "I have no secrets from my wife." "Were you and she married when-" Merritt broke off as Kingston shot her an incredulous glance, his eyes flashing like sunlight striking off silver. "Good God, Merritt. That you could even ask-" "Forgive me," she said hastily. "I was only trying to guess his age." "He's thirty-three. I would never betray Evie." Kingston took in a long breath and let it out slowly, working to bring his temper under control. "I should hope I'd never be so tedious. Adultery is only running away from one problem to create a new one.

I would have thought only that the money must have come from a strongroom somewhere, a chest full of gold like a duke would have or a tsar. I wouldn’t have thought of it coming from quiet men in plain coats who didn’t ride in carriages.