Lady Whistledown Quotes

Men are sheep. Where one goes, the rest will soon follow. -Lady Whistledown

A man with charm is an entertaining thing, and a man with looks is, of course, a sight to behold, but a man with honour, ah, he is the one, dear reader, to which the young ladies should flock. - Lady Whistledown's society papers 2 May 1814

It was truly an abomination of nature that one always found the most comfortable spot in the bed five minutes before one had to leave it.

if one read [Lady Whistledown's Society Papers] often enough, one could almost feel a part of London society without actually attending any balls.

Have you noticed how [Lady Whistledown] describes me?' 'Er, it's almost always favorable, isn't it?' His hand began to wave again - rather dismissively, in her opinion. 'Yes, yes, that's not the point,' he said in a distracted voice. 'You might think it more the point,' Penelope replied testily, 'if you'd ever been likened to an overripe citrus fruit.' He winced, and he opened and closed his mouth twice before finally saying, 'If it makes you feel better, I didn't remember that she'd called you that until just now.' He stopped, thought for a moment, then added, 'In fact, I still don't remember it.

Daphne looked down and noticed that her hand was clenched into a fist. Then she looked up and realized her mother was staring at her, clearly waiting for her to say something. Since she had already exhaled, Daphne cleared her throat, and said, “I’m sure Lady Whistledown’s little column is not going to hurt my chances for a husband.” “Daphne, it’s been two years!” “And Lady Whistledown has only been publishing for three months, so I hardly see how we can lay the blame at her door.” “I’ll lay the blame wherever I choose,” Violet muttered.

Many a woman has been ruined by a single kiss. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

She had pushed the kiss into a small corner of her brain, and it only came out at night. It would trip about her head and run down and beat in her heart a bit, and not let her get any sleep at all.

A mãe sempre dissera que, quando uma mulher estava bem-vestida, se sentia bem.

Queria que ela adorasse aquilo, que o amasse e que soubesse, quando se deitassem nos braços um do outro, suados e exaustos, que pertencia a ele. Porque ele já sabia que pertencia a ela.

Miss Martin," he said. "How on earth did you get a name like Isabella?" Just one of the many things that he'd wondered about as he had sat hunched behind his desk over the weekend. She shook her head, obviously confused by the change of subject, but then smiled. "Ah, it was my mother. I received my imagination from her. She was constantly telling me stories about Spanish princesses and English princes. She named me Isabella after the Spanish Queen." See, Anthony thought, nothing so extravagant that it should be pondered to death over an entire weekend.

Lady Whistledown always had all the latest on-dits, and unlike other columnists, she wasn’t hesitant about using people’s full names. Having decided last week, for example, that Kate didn’t look good in yellow, she wrote, clear as day: “The color yellow makes the dark-haired Miss Katharine Sheffield look like a singed daffodil.” Kate hadn’t minded the insult. She’d heard it said on more than one occasion that one could not consider oneself “arrived” until one had been insulted by Lady Whistledown. Even Edwina, who was a huge social success by anyone’s measure, had been jealous that Kate had been singled out for an insult. And even though Kate didn’t particularly want to be in London for a season, she figured that if she had to participate in the social whirl, she might as well not be a complete and utter failure. If getting insulted in a gossip column was to be her only sign of success, well then, so be it. Kate would take her triumphs where she may. Now when Penelope Featherington bragged about being likened to an overripe citrus fruit in her tangerine satin, Kate could wave her arm and sigh with great drama, “Yes, well, I am a singed daffodil.

Then why did you return to England if not to get the diary?" "I returned because you asked me to." She looked at him, too startled to even speak for a moment. [She said,] "That's all it would have taken." "Yes." "Oh!" She stomped her foot, tugging even harder on her hand. "I hate that!" Max's brow lowered. "You hate what?" "How you've made it all my fault! Not only did you leave because of me, but now, you return because of me! Maxwell, you are - you are -" She snapped her mouth together, took a deep breath, then burst out, "You are a beast!" She yanked her hand free, jumped up, and marched from the room, slamming the door behind her.

The only interesting thing to do is read Whistledown,' said the nonblinking lady, as if Penelope had never even spoken. The gentleman next to her murmured his assent. And then Lady Danbury smiled. Colin grew alarmed. The old lady had a look in her eye. A frightening look. 'I have an idea,' she said. Someone gasped. Someone else groaned.

don’t think it matters if she is Lady Whistledown or not.

Men are contrary creatures. Their heads and their hearts are never in agreement. And as women know all too well, their actions are usually governed by a different aspect altogether. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 29 April 1814

To say that men can be bullheaded would be insulting to the bull. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

To say that men can be bullheaded would be insulting to the bull. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 2 June

To say that men can be bullheaded would be insulting to the bull. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 2 June 1813

There is nothing like a spot of competition to bring out the worst in a man—or the best in a woman. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 4 May 1814

Congratulations, Lady Whistledown,” he murmured. “I prefer Mrs. Bridgerton,” she replied.

Men are sheep. Where one goes, the rest will soon follow. - Lady Whistledown

He just looked at her as if she were an idiot. Or a woman. It was Tillie's experience that most men thought they were one and the same.

Tengo una idea —dijo ella. Alguien ahogó una exclamación. Otro gimió. —Una idea brillante. —Y no es que no sean brillantes todas sus ideas —musitó Colin con su voz más afable. Lady Danbury lo hizo callar agitando la mano. —¿Cuántos verdaderos misterios hay en la vida? Nadie contestó, así que Colin aventuró: —¿Cuarenta y dos? Ella ni se molestó en mirarlo, ceñuda. —Os digo a todos aquí y ahora… Todos se le acercaron más. Incluso Colin. Era imposible sustraerse al dramatismo del momento. —Todos sois mis testigos… Colin creyó oír mascullar a Penelope: «Dilo de una vez». —Mil libras —dijo lady Danbury. Aumentó el número de personas congregadas alrededor. —Mil libras —repitió ella, aumentando el volumen de la voz. La verdad, tenía dones innatos para estar en un escenario—. Mil libras… De repente todo el salón estaba en reverente silencio. —…a la persona que desenmascare a lady Whistledown.

Call me Maximilian.' A sheep farmer. He's a sheep farmer, she reminded herself fiercely. One who lived in Yorkshire, of all places. 'Very well, Maximilian,' she said.

Lady Anne Bishop, he was coming to realize to his growing delight, was far more complex than he'd anticipated. Each moment the plans he'd worked out to win her needed to be modified and adapted as he learned something new about her.

She may not be all that bland. She looked quite fetching today, actually.' Terrance turned a glare on Stu. The man put his hands up as if to ward off an attack. 'Not that I noticed.

They are good and fun and beautiful, and I’m happy. Others aren’t so easy. But it is my decision to be happy during the hard times as well as the easy ones. I cannot control most things, but I can control my feelings. And I want to be happy. So I find something in every moment that I can enjoy.

Linney stood in a deserted marble hall of Montagu House, Bloomsbury, in which the British Museum was kept, staring at the Rosetta Stone.

A man with charm is an entertaining thing, and a man with looks is, of course, a sight to behold, but a man with honor - ah, he is the one, dear reader, to which the young ladies should flock.

Contrary to popular opinion, This Author is aware that she is viewed as something of a cynic. But that, dear reader, could not be further from the truth. This Author likes nothing better than a happy ending. And if that makes her a romantic fool, so be it. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 15 June 1814

It has oft been said that physicians make the worst patients, but it is the opinion of This Author that any man makes a terrible patient. One might say it takes patience to be a patient, and heaven knows, the males of our species lack an abundance of patience. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 2 May 1817

Ah, Valentine’s Day. This Author personally detests the holiday. A girl must take the measure of her worth by the number of cards and bouquets she receives, and a young man is forced to spew poetry as if anyone actually spoke in rhyme. It’s a wonder the holiday hasn’t been

Your upbringing must have been the complete opposite of lonely,” she said, “with so many brothers and sisters about.” “You know who I am,” he stated. She nodded. “I didn’t at first.” He walked over to the balustrade and leaned one hip against it, crossing his arms. “What gave me away?” “It was your brother, actually. You looked so alike—” “Even with our masks?” “Even with your masks,” she said with an indulgent smile. “Lady Whistledown writes about you quite often, and she never passes up an opportunity to comment upon how alike you look.” “And do you know which brother I am?” “Benedict,” she replied. “If indeed Lady Whistledown is correct when she says that you are tallest among your brothers.” “You’re quite the detective.” She looked slightly embarrassed. “I merely read a gossip sheet. It makes me no different from the rest of the people here.” Benedict watched her for a moment, wondering if she realized that she’d revealed another clue to the puzzle of her identity. If she’d recognized him only from Whistledown, then she’d not been out in society for long, or perhaps not at all. Either way, she was not one of the many young ladies to whom his mother had introduced him. “What else do you know about me from Whistledown?” he asked, his smile slow and lazy. “Are you fishing for compliments?” she asked, returning the half smile with the vaguest tilt of her lips. “For you must know that the Bridgertons are almost always spared her rapier quill. Lady Whistledown is nearly always complimentary when writing about your family.” “It’s led to quite a bit of speculation about her identity,” he admitted. “Some think she must be a Bridgerton.” “Is she?” He shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of. And you didn’t answer my question.” “Which question was that?” “What you know of me from Whistledown.” She looked surprised. “Are you truly interested?” “If I cannot know anything about you, at least I might know what you know about me.” She smiled, and touched the tip of her index finger to her lower lip in an endearingly absentminded gesture. “Well, let’s see. Last month you won some silly horse race in Hyde Park.” “It wasn’t the least bit silly,” he said with a grin, “and I’m a hundred quid richer for it.” She shot him an arch look. “Horse races are almost always silly.” “Spoken just like a woman,” he muttered. “Well—” “Don’t point out the obvious,” he interrupted. That made her smile. “What else do you know?” he asked. “From Whistledown?” She tapped her finger against her cheek. “You once lopped the head off your sister’s doll.” “And I’m still trying to figure out how she knew about that,” Benedict muttered. “Maybe Lady Whistledown is a Bridgerton, after all.” “Impossible. Not,” he added rather forcefully, “that we’re not smart enough to pull it off. Rather, the rest of the family would be too smart not to figure it out.” -Sophie & Benedict

Some moments are easy. They are good and fun and beautiful, and I’m happy. Others aren’t so easy. But it is my decision to be happy during the hard times as well as the easy ones. I cannot control most things, but I can control my feelings. And I want to be happy. So I find something in every moment that I can enjoy.

grin, then swung up on his perch and settled

The portly man was Mr. Thomas Whistledown, and the lady to his right was Miss Lucinda Mayford, who, Victoria was quickly informed by Captain Pays, was a great heiress looking to snag a title.

To say that men can be bullheaded would be insulting to the bull. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers,

Some moments are easy. They are good and fun and beautiful, and I'm happy. Others aren't so easy. But it is my decision to be happy during the hard times as well as the easy ones. I cannot control most things, but I can control my feelings. And I want to be happy. So I find something in every moment that I can enjoy.

It’s a boy for the Duke and Duchess of Hastings! After three girls, society’s most besotted couple has finally produced an heir. This Author can only imagine the level of relief in the Hastings household; after all, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a married man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of an heir. The name of the new babe has yet to be made public, although This Author feels herself uniquely qualified to speculate. After all, with sisters named Amelia, Belinda, and Caroline, could the new Earl Clyvedon be called anything but David? LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 15 December 1817

Later that night, in a town house in the very best part of London, a woman picked up her quill and wrote: Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers 12 April 1824 Ah, Gentle Reader, This Author has learned that the Bridgerton grandchildren will soon number eleven . . . But when she tried to write more, all she could do was close her eyes and sigh. She’d been doing this for so very long now. Could it have possibly been eleven years already? Maybe it was time to move on. She was tired of writing about everyone else. It was time to live her own life. And so Lady Whistledown set down her quill and walked to her window, pushing aside her sage green curtains and looking out into the inky night. “Time for something new,” she whispered. “Time to finally be me.

time.” The magistrate cleared his throat and turned on Araminta, “And what has happened to her dowry?” Araminta said nothing. Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat. “I don’t think it’s terribly legal,” she said, “to embezzle a young woman’s dowry.” She smiled—a slow, satisfied sort of smile. “Eh, Araminta?” Chapter 23 Lady Penwood appears to have left town. So does Lady Bridgerton. Interesting . . . LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 18 JUNE 1817 Benedict decided he had never loved his mother more than he did at that very minute. He was trying not to grin, but it was exceedingly difficult with Lady Penwood gasping like a fish on land.

Such a scurry on Bruton Street. The dowager Viscountess Bridgerton and her son, Benedict Bridgerton, were seen dashing out of her house Friday morning. Mr. Bridgerton practically threw his mother into a carriage, and they took off at breakneck speed. Francesca and Hyacinth Bridgerton were seen standing in the doorway, and This Author has it on the best authority that Francesca was heard to utter a very unladylike word. But the Bridgerton household was not the only one to see such excitement. The Penwoods also experienced a great deal of activity, culminating in a public row right on the front steps between the countess and her daughter, Miss Posy Reiling. As This Author has never liked Lady Penwood, she can only say, “Huzzah for Posy!” LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 16 JUNE 1817

And if that weren’t enough, 1813 was the year that the mysterious (and fictitious) Lady Whistledown began publishing her thrice-weekly Society Papers. The single-sheet newspaper became an instant sensation. No one knew who Lady Whistledown really was, but everyone seemed to have a theory. For weeks—no, months, really—London could speak of nothing else. The paper had been delivered for free for two weeks—just long enough to addict the ton—and then suddenly there was no delivery, just paperboys charging the outrageous price of five pennies a paper. But by then, no one could live without the almost-daily dose of gossip, and everyone paid their pennies.

It seems one cannot take two steps at a London ball these days without stumbling across a society matron lamenting the difficulties of finding good help. Indeed, This Author thought that Mrs. Featherington and Lady Penwood were going to come to blows at last week’s Smythe-Smith musicale. It seems that Lady Penwood stole Mrs. Featherington’s lady’s maid right out from under her nose one month ago, promising higher wages and free cast-off clothing. (It should be noted that Mrs. Featherington also gave the poor girl cast-off clothing, but anyone who has ever observed the attire of the Featherington girls would understand why the lady’s maid would not view this as a benefit.) The plot thickened, however, when the lady’s maid in question fled back to Mrs. Featherington, begging to be rehired. It seemed that Lady Penwood’s idea of a lady’s maid included duties more accurately ascribed to the scullery maid, upstairs maid, and cook. Someone ought to tell the woman that one girl cannot do the work of three. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817

Penelope’s lips parted with surprise. No one had ever even thought to accuse her of such before. It was unbelievable . . . unthinkable . . . and . . . Rather flattering, actually. Penelope felt her mouth sliding into a sly smile, and she leaned forward, as if getting ready to impart news of great import. Lady Danbury leaned forward. Felicity and Eloise leaned forward. “Do you know what I think, Lady Danbury?” Penelope asked, in a compellingly soft voice. “Well,” Lady D said, a wicked gleam in her eye, “I would tell you that I am breathless with anticipation, but you’ve already told me once before that you think that I am Lady Whistledown.” “Are you?” Lady Danbury smiled archly. “Maybe I am.” Felicity and Eloise gasped again, louder this time. Penelope’s stomach lurched.

This Author that any man makes a terrible patient. One might say it takes patience to be a patient, and heaven knows, the males of our species lack an abundance of patience. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 2 May 1817