Rake Best Quotes

Reformed rakes often make the best husbands.

The guys were totally skuzzy, grinning horribly, showing holes where teeth should be. “Boys, God doesn’t like you,” Fang intoned behind them. Whaaat? I thought, dumbfounded. “Wha!” they said, whirling. At that moment, Fang snapped out his huge wings and shone the penlight under his chin so it raked his cheekbones and eyes. My mouth dropped open. He looked like the angel of death. His dark wings filled the hallway almost to the ceiling, and he moved them up and down. “God doesn’t like bad people,” he said, using a really weird, deep voice. “What the heck?” one of the squatters murmured shallowly, his mouth slack, his eyes bugging out of his head. I whipped my own wings open. Fun, anyway. “This was a test,” I said, using my best spooky voice. “And guess what? You both failed.” The bums stopped dead, looks of horror and amazement on their faces. Then Fang growled, “Rowr!” He stepped forward, sweeping his wings up and down: the avenging demon. I almost cracked up. “Rowr!” I said myself, shaking my wings out. “Ahhhhh!” the guys yelled, backpedaling fast. Unfortunately, they were standing at the top of the staircase. They fell awkwardly, trying to grab each other, and rolled down two flights like lumpy bags of potatoes, shrieking the whole way. Fang and I slapped each other a quick high five—and we were out of there, jack.

Nico had proven himself in other ways. He'd kept the camps' secrets for the best of reasons, because he feared a war. He had plunged into Tartarus alone, voluntarily, to find the Doors of Death. He'd been captured and imprisoned by giants. He had led the crew of the Argo II into the House of Hades…and now he had accepted yet another terrible quest: raking himself to haul the Athene Parthenos back to Camp Half-Blood.

Reformed rakes make the best husbands,"Violet said. "Rubbish and you know it." -Anthony to Violet

Love isn't one-sided and selfish.It is full and generous and life-altering in the best of ways.Love does not destroy, Gabriel.It creates.

Are you Darah, Renee or Taylor? You look like a Taylor to me," he said, looking me up and down. I wasn't at my best, considering I was dressed for moving heavy objects in a blue UMaine t-shirt and black soccer shorts, and I had my light brown hair in a haphazard bun against the back of my neck. His eyes raked up and down twice, and for some reason the way he assessed me made me blush and want to kick him in the balls at the same time. "There must be a mistake," I said. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder. "That's a creative name. What do you shorten it to? Missy?

She was wet for him. Ready. This is a mistake. Julia raked her nails down his back. “Fuck, you feel good.” This is the best idea I’ve ever had.

I’m crying for that little boy who never had a chance to believe in love. And for your father, who obviously never experienced it either. Because that was infatuation, not love. Love isn’t one-sided and selfish. It is full and generous and life-altering in the best of ways. Love does not destroy, Gabriel. It creates.

When she says margarita she means daiquiri. When she says quixotic she means mercurial. And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again," she means, "Put your arms around me from behind as I stand disconsolate at the window." He's supposed to know that. When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading, or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he is raking leaves in Ithaca or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate at the window overlooking the bay where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway. When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels drinking lemonade and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed where she remains asleep and very warm. When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks. When she says, "We're talking about me now," he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says, "Did somebody die?" When a woman loves a man, they have gone to swim naked in the stream on a glorious July day with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle of water rushing over smooth rocks, and there is nothing alien in the universe. Ripe apples fall about them. What else can they do but eat? When he says, "Ours is a transitional era," "that's very original of you," she replies, dry as the martini he is sipping. They fight all the time It's fun What do I owe you? Let's start with an apology Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead. A sign is held up saying "Laughter." It's a silent picture. "I've been fucked without a kiss," she says, "and you can quote me on that," which sounds great in an English accent. One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it another nine times. When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the airport in a foreign country with a jeep. When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that she's two hours late and there's nothing in the refrigerator. When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake. She's like a child crying at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end. When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking: as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved. A thousand fireflies wink at him. The frogs sound like the string section of the orchestra warming up. The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

Tis best to weight the enemy more mighty than he seems.” Or she, as was this particular case.

Without the people who thought the best of him, he had forgotten how to think the best of himself.

She woke to Terak's claws raking through her hair and her body deliciously sore, well-used in the best sense.

I didn’t want to love you,” Anthony whispered. “It was the one thing I feared above all. I’d grown rather used to my rather odd little outlook on life. Almost comfortable, actually. But love—” His voice caught; the choking sound seemed unmanly, it made him vulnerable. But he didn’t care, because this was Kate. And it didn’t matter if she saw his deepest fears, because he knew she’d love him no matter what. It was a sublimely freeing feeling. “I’ve seen true love,” he continued. “I wasn’t the cynical jade society made me out to be. I knew love existed. My mother— my father—” He stopped, sucking in a ragged breath. This was the hardest thing he’d ever done. And yet he knew the words had to be said. He knew, no matter how difficult it was to get them out, that in the end, his heart would soar. “I was so sure that it was the one thing that could make this . . . this . . . I don’t really know what to call it— this knowledge of my own mortality . . .” He raked his hand through his hair, fighting for words. “Love was the only thing that was going to make that unbearable. How could I love someone, truly and deeply, knowing that it was doomed?” “But it’s not doomed,” Kate said, squeezing his hand. “I know. I fell in love with you, and then I knew. Even if I am right, even if I’m fated to live only as long as my father did before me, I’m not doomed.” He leaned forward and brushed a feather-light kiss on her lips. “I have you,” he whispered, “and I’m not going to waste a single moment we have together.” Kate’s lips spread into a smile. “What does that mean?” “It means that love isn’t about being afraid that it will all be snatched away. Love’s about finding the one person who makes your heart complete, who makes you a better person than you ever dreamed you could be. It’s about looking in the eyes of your wife and knowing, all the way to your bones, that she’s simply the best person you’ve ever known.” “Oh, Anthony,” Kate whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That’s how I feel about you.” -Anthony & Kate

I'll fix things up with George soon as she gets here," Anthony mumbled. "You may depend upon it." "Oh,I know you will, but you'll have to hie yourself back to London to do so, since she ain't coming here. Didn't want to inflict her dour mood on the festivities, so decided it ould be best to absent herself." Anthony looked appalled now and complained, "You didn't say she was that mad." "Didn't I? Think you're wearing that black eye just because she's a mite annoyed?" "That will do," Jason said sternly. "This entire situation is intolerable.And frankly, I find it beyond amazing that you have both utterly lost your finesse in dealing ith women since you married." That,of course, hit quite below the belt where these two ex[rakes were concerned. "Ouch," James muttered, then in his own defense, "American women are an exception to any known rule, and bloody stubbron besides." "So are Scots,for that matter," Anthony added. "They just don't behave like normal Enlgishwomen,Jason,indeed they don't." "Regardless.You know my feelings on the entire family gathering here for Christmas.This is not the time for anyone in the family to be harboring any ill will of any sort.You both should have patched this up before the holidays began. See that you do so immediately, if you both have to return to London to do so." Having said his peace, Jason headed for the door to leave his brothers to mull over their conduct,or rather, misconduct, but added before he left, "You both look like bloody panda bears.D'you have any idea what kind of example that sets for the children?" "Panda bears indeed," Anthony snorted as soon as the door closed. James looked up to reply drolly, "Least the roof is still intact.

Marabelle was made of stern stuff. It mattered not that she’d never laid eyes upon the man she was about to call husband or that his reputation as a rake and rogue had preceded him. No, she was going to make the best of it, as anyone worth their salt did, and that was certain.

Oh, darling, no. There’s a reason people say reformed rakes make the very best husbands. You want a wicked man in the bedroom. The wickeder the better, in fact. If anything, you ought to thank Vexley for his recent escapades. At least you know he’s well seasoned and has stamina.

Say!” Benedict exclaimed. “Why don’t you save her, Hastings?” Simon took one look at Lady Bridgerton (who at that point had her hand firmly wrapped around Macclesfield’s forearm) and decided he’d rather be branded an eternal coward. “Since we haven’t been introduced, I’m sure it would be most improper,” he improvised. “I’m sure it wouldn’t,” Anthony returned. “You’re a duke.” “So?” “So?” Anthony echoed. “Mother would forgive any impropriety if it meant gaining an audience for Daphne with a duke.” “Now look here,” Simon said hotly, “I’m not some sacrificial lamb to be slaughtered on the altar of your mother.” “You have spent a lot of time in Africa, haven’t you?” Colin quipped. Simon ignored him. “Besides, your sister said—” All three Bridgerton heads swung round in his direction. Simon immediately realized he’d blundered. Badly. “You’ve met Daphne?” Anthony queried, his voice just a touch too polite for Simon’s comfort. Before Simon could even reply, Benedict leaned in ever-so-slightly closer, and asked, “Why didn’t you mention this?” “Yes,” Colin said, his mouth utterly serious for the first time that evening. “Why?” Simon glanced from brother to brother and it became perfectly clear why Daphne must still be unmarried. This belligerent trio would scare off all but the most determined— or stupid— of suitors. Which would probably explain Nigel Berbrooke. “Actually,” Simon said, “I bumped into her in the hall as I was making my way into the ballroom. It was”— he glanced rather pointedly at the Bridgertons—“ rather obvious that she was a member of your family, so I introduced myself.” Anthony turned to Benedict. “Must have been when she was fleeing Berbrooke.” Benedict turned to Colin. “What did happen to Berbrooke? Do you know?” Colin shrugged. “Haven’t the faintest. Probably left to nurse his broken heart.” Or broken head, Simon thought acerbically. “Well, that explains everything, I’m sure,” Anthony said, losing his overbearing big-brother expression and looking once again like a fellow rake and best friend. “Except,” Benedict said suspiciously, “why he didn’t mention it.” “Because I didn’t have the chance,” Simon bit off, about ready to throw his arms up in exasperation. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Anthony, you have a ridiculous number of siblings, and it takes a ridiculous amount of time to be introduced to all of them.” “There are only two of us present,” Colin pointed out. “I’m going home,” Simon announced. “The three of you are mad.” Benedict, who had seemed to be the most protective of the brothers, suddenly grinned. “You don’t have a sister, do you?” “No, thank God.

Dear New Orleans, What a big, beautiful mess you are. A giant flashing yellow light—proceed with caution, but proceed. Not overly ambitious, you have a strong identity, and don’t look outside yourself for intrigue, evolution, or monikers of progress. Proud of who you are, you know your flavor, it’s your very own, and if people want to come taste it, you welcome them without solicitation. Your hours trickle by, Tuesdays and Saturdays more similar than anywhere else. Your seasons slide into one another. You’re the Big Easy…home of the shortest hangover on the planet, where a libation greets you on a Monday morning with the same smile as it did on Saturday night. Home of the front porch, not the back. This engineering feat provides so much of your sense of community and fellowship as you relax facing the street and your neighbors across it. Rather than retreating into the seclusion of the backyard, you engage with the goings-on of the world around you, on your front porch. Private properties hospitably trespass on each other and lend across borders where a 9:00 A.M. alarm clock is church bells, sirens, and a slow-moving eight-buck-an-hour carpenter nailing a windowpane two doors down. You don’t sweat details or misdemeanors, and since everybody’s getting away with something anyway, the rest just wanna be on the winning side. And if you can swing the swindle, good for you, because you love to gamble and rules are made to be broken, so don’t preach about them, abide. Peddlin worship and litigation, where else do the dead rest eye to eye with the livin? You’re a right-brain city. Don’t show up wearing your morals on your sleeve ’less you wanna get your arm burned. The humidity suppresses most reason so if you’re crossing a one-way street, it’s best to look both ways. Mother Nature rules, the natural law capital “Q” Queen reigns supreme, a science to the animals, an overbearing and inconsiderate bitch to us bipeds. But you forgive her, and quickly, cus you know any disdain with her wrath will reap more: bad luck, voodoo, karma. So you roll with it, meander rather, slowly forward, takin it all in stride, never sweating the details. Your art is in your overgrowth. Mother Nature wears the crown around here, her royalty rules, and unlike in England, she has both influence and power. You don’t use vacuum cleaners, no, you use brooms and rakes to manicure. Where it falls is where it lays, the swerve around the pothole, the duck beneath the branch, the poverty and the murder rate, all of it, just how it is and how it turned out. Like a gumbo, your medley’s in the mix. —June 7, 2013, New Orleans, La.

Beauty is something that is hard to debate. Every man thinks his ideal the best.” His eyes raked her hotly, and she felt her internal temperature increase like a kitchen stove overly stocked before being lit. “But the wittiest women rise to the top of this structure, conventional beauty often taking a backseat to a woman possessed of a clever tongue.

You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Rake said. “About any of it. You aren’t an emotional nightmare.” She gave him a skeptical look. “You’re … alive.” She blinked at him, her eyebrows furrowing. “Alive?” Rake waved his hand, heat crawling up his skin like he’d just told her something way too honest. “You know. Lively. Energetic. There’s a sort of … I don’t know … vibrancy about you.

In the land of historical romance novels, particularly the Regencies, there is no line more quoted than this: Reformed rakes make the best husbands. It's the sort of pithy one-liner a beloved character dashes off and everyone laughs a sparkling laugh, the heroine knits her brow, and the rogue in question scowls but we all know the truth: That bad boy will soon be reformed. And he will like it.

In a single lunge, he covered fifteen feet and knocked the wind right out of me with a brutal head-butt. I toppled backward and crash-landed on the floor near the front door, my neck and shoulders bearing most of the impact. He was on me in an instant, unleashing a barrage of blows to my head. He raked my chest with razor-like claws. I tried my best to defend myself, but it was so dark in the house that I couldn’t see where the strikes came from.

Ned seemed so different from any other man of her acquaintance, and, certainly, the antithesis of the rake she had set her sights on. She had chosen DeVere as her best prospect, yet after only this short time in Ned's company, she couldn't help fervently wishing that he was DeVere. She should feel triumphant that her goal was within easy reach... In truth, it was as if her appetite had been whetted for beefsteak...only to be served liver instead. -A WILD NIGHT'S BRIDE

I wouldn’t have thought she had that much to say,” Pandora agreed. “Perhaps it’s just that she’s never able to slide a word in edgewise,” West remarked blandly. A few seconds later, he was pelted with a shower of sugar lumps. “Girls,” Kathleen exclaimed indignantly. “Stop that at once! West, don’t you dare encourage them by laughing!” She sent a threatening glance at Devon, who was desperately trying to suppress his amusement. “Or you,” she said severely. “I won’t,” he promised, wincing and reflecting ruefully that whoever said laughter was the best medicine had never broken a rib.

Why did you marry Theo?” Devon startled her by asking. “Was it a love match?” She frowned slightly. “I would prefer to limit our conversation to small talk.” “Small talk is a crashing bore.” “Regardless, people will expect a man of your position to be accomplished at it.” “Was Theo?” he asked snidely. “Yes.” Devon snorted. “I never saw him demonstrate that particular skill. Perhaps I was always too busy dodging his fists to notice.” “I think it’s safe to say that you and Theo didn’t bring out the best in each other.” “No. We were too much alike in our faults.” Mockery edged his tone as he added, “And it seems I have none of his virtues.

Raising the mic, I took a deep breath and said, ‘I won’t speak long. I’m not real good with speaking in public. I just wanted to thank you all for gathering here tonight…’ I trailed off. My words had dried up. I raked my hand through my hair and, gathering my composure, managed to say, ‘Before she passed, my Poppy asked me to send these kisses to her in a way that she would see them in heaven. I know most of you didn’t know her, but she was the best person I knew … she would have treasured this moment.’ My lip hooked into a crooked smile at the thought of her face when she saw them. She would love it. ‘So please, light your lanterns and help my kisses reach my girl.

I swear if-“ Galen starts to name all kinds of ways to kill Rachel if she’s involved, but he’s cut off by the sound of his new favorite person to loathe approaching. “Highness, I’ve heard your lovely sister plans to join us soon,” Jagen says from behind them. “What a happy reunion.” Galen rolls his eyes before turning to face him. “You are correct, Jagen. Rayna has missed you. She loves that face you make when you’re upset. She says it’s the best impression of a rockfish she’s ever seen.” Jagen doesn’t like this. His lips curl into a snarl. “Go ahead, young prince. Have a laugh at my expense. I assure you it will be the last time.” Torag glides in front of Galen. “That sounds a lot like a threat. To my knowledge, threatening a Royal is still illegal.” Galen grabs his shoulder. “It’s fine, Toraf. Let this squid release his ink. Ink will only last so long before it fades away in the current. When his protective cloud is gone, everyone will see what’s really going on here.” Jagen nods. “We shall see, young ones.” He rakes his eyes over Toraf. “Tell your mate that she stays with the rest of the Royals. If she tries to leave, I’ll have her thrown in the Ice Caverns. She can wait there until the rest of you join her.” Toraf starts toward Jagen again, but Galen holds him back. “This is not the time,” Galen says. Jagen gives Toraf a smug smile. Galen adds, “Besides, you saw his face when Antonis had him by the throat. We don’t want him to faint before things get interesting, do we?

Hey—we have a problem. You have some unexpected guests down at the gate. You should go check it out.” Guests? Who would come here to see me? I hop in the golf cart and drive down to the main gate. Just in time to hear Franny Barrister, the Countess of Ellington, tearing into a poor, clueless Matched security guard. “Don’t you tell me we can’t come in, you horse’s arse. Where’s Henry—what have you done with him?” Simon, my brother’s best friend, sees me approach, his sparkling blue eyes shining. “There he is.” I nod to security and open the gate. “Simon, Franny, what are you doing here?” “Nicholas said you didn’t sound right the last time he spoke to you. He asked us to peek in on you,” Simon explains. Franny’s shrewd gaze rakes me over. “He doesn’t look drunk. And he obviously hasn’t hung himself from the rafters—that’s better than I was expecting.” “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Simon peers around the grounds, at the smattering of crew members and staging tents. “What the hell is going on, Henry?” I clear my throat. “So . . . the thing is . . . I’m sort of . . . filming a reality dating television show here at the castle and we started with twenty women and now we’re down to four, and when it’s over one of them will get the diamond tiara and become my betrothed. At least in theory.” It sounded so much better in my head. “Don’t tell Nicholas.” Simon scrubs his hand down his face. “Now I’m going to have to avoid his calls—I’m terrible with secrets.” And Franny lets loose a peal of tinkling laughter. “This is fabulous! You never disappoint, you naughty boy.” She pats my arm. “And don’t worry, when the Queen boots you out of the palace, Simon and I will adopt you. Won’t we, darling?” Simon nods. “Yes, like a rescue dog.” “Good to know.” Then I gesture back to their car. “Well . . . it was nice of you to stop by.” Simon shakes his head. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily, mate.” “Yes, we’re definitely staying.” Franny claps her hands. “I have to see this!” Fantastic.

What is this?" Kathleen asked, picking up the bottle and viewing it suspiciously. "It's a beautifier," Pandora said. "Bloom of Rose," Cassandra chimed in. Kathleen gasped as she realized what it was. "It's rouge. She had never even held a container of rouge before. Setting it on the counter, she said firmly, "No." "But Kathleen-" "No to rouge," she said, "now and for all time." "We need to enhance our complexions," Pandora protested. "It won't do any harm," Cassandra chimed in. "The bottle says that Bloom of Rose is 'delicate and inoffensive'... It's written right there, you see?" "The comments you would receive if you wore rouge in public would assuredly not be delicate or inoffensive. People would assume you were a fallen woman. Or worse, an actress." Pandora turned to Devon. "Lord Trenear, what do you think?" "This is one of those times when it's best for a man to avoid thinking altogether," he said hastily. "Bother," Cassandra said. Reaching for a white glass pot with a gilded top, she gave it to Kathleen. "We found this for you. It's lily pomatum, for your wrinkles." "I don't have wrinkles," Kathleen said with dawning indignation. "Not yet," Pandora allowed. "But someday you will.

Mr. Quincy told me that he will be working for you in London. I am glad, for both your sakes, that you’ve given him such an opportunity. He will be an excellent valet.” “For what I’m paying him,” Winterborne said, “he’d better be the best in England.” Helen was briefly nonplussed. “I have no doubt he will be,” she ventured. Meticulously Winterborne neatened the stack of paper. “He wants to start by disposing of my shirts.” “Your shirts,” Helen repeated, perplexed. “One of my managers brought some of my clothes from London. Quincy could tell that the shirts were ready-made.” He glanced at her warily, assessing her reaction. “To be accurate,” he continued, “they’re sold half finished, so they can be tailored to the customer’s preference. The quality of the fabric is as high as any bespoke shirt, but Quincy still turns up his nose.” Helen considered her reply carefully. “A man of Quincy’s profession has an exacting eye when it comes to details.” She probably should have left it at that. The discussion of a man’s clothing was entirely improper, but she felt that she should help him to understand Quincy’s concerns. “It’s more than just the fabric. The stitching is different in a bespoke shirt: The seams are perfectly straight and flat-felled, and the buttonholes are often hand-worked with a keyhole shape at one side to reduce the stress of the button’s shank.” She paused with a smile. “I would elaborate about plackets and cuffs, but I fear you would fall asleep in the chair.

At the end of the evening, when Winterborne was donning his hat and gloves in the entrance hall, Helen impulsively picked up her potted orchid from a table in the drawing room, and brought it to him. “Mr. Winterborne,” she said earnestly, “I would like very much for you to have this.” He gave her a questioning glance as she pushed the pot into his hands. “It’s a Blue Vanda orchid,” she explained. “What should I do with it?” “You might wish to keep it in a place where you can see it often. Remember that it doesn’t like to be cold and wet, or hot and dry. Whenever it’s moved to a new environment, the Vanda usually becomes distressed, so don’t be alarmed if a flower shrivels and drops off. Generally it’s best not to set it where there may be a draft, or too much sun. Or too much shadow. And never place it next to a bowl of fruit.” She gave him an encouraging glance. “Later, I’ll give you a special tonic to mist over it.” As Winterborne stared at the exotic flower in his hands with perplexed reluctance, Helen began to regret her spontaneous action. He didn’t seem to want the gift, but she couldn’t very well ask to have it back. “You needn’t take it if you don’t want it,” she said. “I would understand--” “I want it.” Winterborne looked into her eyes and smiled slightly. “Thank you.” Helen nodded and watched forlornly as he departed with the orchid caught firmly in his grasp. “You gave him the Blue Vanda,” Pandora said in wonder, coming to stand beside her. “Yes.” Cassandra came to her other side. “The most diabolically temperamental orchid of your entire collection.” Helen sighed. “Yes.” “He’ll kill it within a week,” Kathleen said flatly. “Any of us would.” “Yes.” “Then why did you give it to him?” Helen frowned and gestured with her palms up. “I wanted him to have something special.” “He has thousands of special things from all over the world,” Pandora pointed out. “Something special from me,” Helen clarified gently, and no one asked her about it after that.

We need more baskets,” Pandora said triumphantly, entering the hall. The twins, who were clearly having a splendid time, had adorned themselves outlandishly. Cassandra was dressed in a green opera cloak with a jeweled feather ornament affixed to her hair. Pandora had tucked a light blue lace parasol beneath one arm, and a pair of lawn tennis rackets beneath the other, and was wearing a flowery diadem headdress that had slipped partially over one eye. “From the looks of it,” Kathleen said, “you’ve done enough shopping already.” Cassandra looked concerned. “Oh, no, we still have at least eighty departments to visit.” Kathleen couldn’t help glancing at Devon, who was trying, without success, to stifle a grin. It was the first time she had seen him truly smile in days. Enthusiastically the girls lugged the baskets to her and began to set objects on the counter in an unwieldy pile…perfumed soaps, powders, pomades, stockings, books, new corset laces and racks of hairpins, artificial flowers, tins of biscuits, licorice pastilles and barley sweets, a metal mesh tea infuser, hosiery tucked in little netted bags, a set of drawing pencils, and a tiny glass bottle filled with bright red liquid. “What is this?” Kathleen asked, picking up the bottle and viewing it suspiciously. “It’s a beautifier,” Pandora said. “Bloom of Rose,” Cassandra chimed in. Kathleen gasped as she realized what it was. “It’s rouge.” She had never even held a container of rouge before. Setting it on the counter, she said firmly, “No.” “But Kathleen--” “No to rouge,” she said, “now and for all time.” “We need to enhance our complexions,” Pandora protested. “It won’t do any harm,” Cassandra chimed in. “The bottle says that Bloom of Rose is ‘delicate and inoffensive’…It’s written right there, you see?” “The comments you would receive if you wore rouge in public would assuredly not be delicate or inoffensive. People would assume you were a fallen woman. Or worse, an actress.” Pandora turned to Devon. “Lord Trenear, what do you think?” “This is one of those times when it’s best for a man to avoid thinking altogether,” he said hastily.

Mowbray! Been a while since you bothered with the season. What brings you to town?” Lord Adrian Montfort, Earl of Mowbray, shifted his gaze from the couples whirling past on the dance floor and to the man who approached: the tall, fair, eminently good-looking Reginald Greville. He and Greville, his cousin, had once been the best of friends. However, time and distance had weakened the bond—with a little help from the war with France, Adrian thought bitterly. Ignoring Reginald’s question, he offered a somewhat rusty smile in greeting, then turned his gaze back to the men and women swinging elegantly about the dance floor. He replied instead, “Enjoying the season, Greville?” “Certainly, certainly. Fresh blood. Fresh faces.” “Fresh victims,” Mowbray said dryly, and Reginald laughed. “That too.” Reginald was well-known for his success in seducing young innocents. Only his title and money kept him from being forced out of town. Shaking his head, Adrian gave that rusty smile again. “I wonder you never tire of the chase, Reg. They all look sadly similar to me. I would swear these were the very same young women who were entering their first season the last time I attended…and the time before that, and the time before that.” His cousin smiled easily, but shook his head. “It has been ten years since you bothered to come to town, Adrian. Those women are all married and bearing fruit, or well on their way to spinsterhood.” “Different faces, same ladies,” Adrian said with a shrug. “Such cynicism!” Reg chided. “You sound old, old man.” “Older,” Adrian corrected. “Older and wiser.” “No. Just old,” Reg insisted with a laugh, his own gaze turning to the mass of people moving before them. “Besides, there are a couple of real lovelies this year. That blonde, for instance, or that brunette with Chalmsly.” “Hmmm.” Adrian looked the two women over. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but my guess is that the brunette—lovely as she is—doesn’t have a thought in her head. Rather like that Lady Penelope you seduced when last I was here.” Reg’s eyes widened in surprise at the observation. “And the blonde…” Adrian continued, his gaze raking the woman in question and taking in her calculating look. “Born of parents in trade, lots of money, and looking for a title to go with it. Rather like Lily Ainsley. Another of your conquests.” “Dead-on,” Reginald admitted, looking a bit incredulous. His gaze moved between the two women and then he gave a harsh laugh. “Now you have quite ruined it for me. I was considering favoring one or both of them with my attentions. But now you have made them quite boring.” -Reg & Adrian

Besides the fact that you’re a scoundrel at the gaming tables,” she responded tartly, “I’m beginning to suspect that you’re a womanizing rake.” Christopher grinned leisurely as his perusal swept her. “I’ve been a long time at sea. However, I doubt that in your case my reaction would vary had I just left the London Court.” Erienne’s eyes flared with poorly suppressed ire. The insufferable egotist! Did he dare think he could find a willing wench at the back door of the mayor’s cottage? “I’m sure that Claudia Talbot would welcome your company, sir. Why don’t you ride on over to see her? I hear his lordship traveled off to London this morning.” He laughed softly at her sneering tones. “I’d rather be courting you.” “Why?” she scoffed. “Because you want to thwart my father?” His smiling eyes captured hers and held them prisoner until she felt a warmth suffuse her cheeks. He answered with slow deliberation. “Because you are the prettiest maid I’ve ever seen, and I’d like to get to know you better. And of course, we should delve into this matter of your accidents more thoroughly, too.” Twin spots of color grew in her cheeks, but the deepening dusk did much to hide her blush. Lifting her nose primly in the air, Erienne turned aside, tossing him a cool glance askance. “How many women have you told that to, Mr. Seton?” A crooked smile accompanied his reply. “Several, I suppose, but I’ve never lied. Each had their place in time, and to this date, you are the best I’ve seen.” He reached out and taking a handful of the cracklings, he chewed the crisp morsels as he awaited her reaction. A flush of anger spread to the delicate tips of her ears, and icy fire smoldered in the deep blue-violet pools. “You conceited, unmitigated boor!” Her voice was as cold and as flat as the Russian steppes. “Do you think to add me to your long string of conquests?” Her chilled contempt met him face to face until he rose and towered above her. His eyes grew distant, and he reached out a finger to flip a curl that had strayed from beneath the kerchief. “Conquest?” His voice was soft and deeply resonant. “You mistake me, Erienne. In the rush of a moment’s lust, there are purchased favors, and these are for the greater part forgotten. The times that are cherished and remembered are not taken, are not given, but shared, and are thus treasured as a most blissful event.” He lifted his coat on his fingertips and slung it over his shoulder. “I do not ask that you yield to me, nor do I desire to conquer you. All I plead is that you grant me moments now and then that I might present my case, to the end that we could share a tender moment at some distant time.” -Erienne & Christopher

You and Patrick looked awfully cozy,” Ryder says, setting Mama’s note back on the counter. So I was right--he had been watching us. “So?” “So, nothing.” He shrugs. “Just making an observation.” “Yeah, you never just make an observation. Oh, and you and Rosie looked pretty cozy, too. I sure hope you’re not leading her on. You know she likes you.” A muscle in his jaw works furiously as he shoves his cell phone back into his pocket. “That’s the kind of guy you think I am? Seriously, Jem?” I swallow hard, unable to reply. Because the truth is, I don’t know. “I’ll see you later,” he says, his voice cold and clipped. He turns and stalks out. For some unknown reason, I follow him--down the hall, out the front door. “Don’t walk out on me,” I holler as he rounds the Durango and opens the driver’s-side door. “If you have something to say to me, then say it.” He gets in and slams the car door shut, but I throw it open again. “C’mon,” I taunt, motioning with one hand. I’m totally losing it now--white spots dancing before my eyes, tears streaking down my cheeks. I can barely catch my breath, like I’m about to hyperventilate. This isn’t about Ryder, I realize. It’s about Nan. The sudden realization hits me hard. What if I never see her again? My knees buckle, and I start to go down. Somehow, Ryder manages to catch me just before I hit the ground. “Shit, Jemma! What’s the matter with you?” He drags me to my feet and presses me against the side of his truck. “Take a deep breath. Jesus!” I do what he says. By the third, I’ve slowed my heart rate to something nearing normal. Only, my cheeks are burning with mortification now. This is the second time I’ve broken down in front of Ryder. He must think I’ve lost my mind--that I’ve totally gone off the deep end. “Just go,” I say, my voice shaking. He rakes both hands through his hair. “Are you kidding me? I can’t leave you alone like this.” “Go,” I repeat, more forcefully this time. “Just get in your car and leave, okay?” “C’mon, Jemma. You know I can’t.” “I swear I’m okay.” I straighten my spine and lift my chin, trying my best to look calm, collected, and reasonably sane. “Seriously, Ryder. I just need to be alone right now.” “Fine,” he says, shaking his head. “If you say so.” I step away from the car, feeling queasy now as he slips inside and starts the engine. But before he pulls out, he rolls down his window and meets my gaze. His dark eyes look intense, full of conflict. For a split second, I wonder what’s going on inside his head--if he’s judging me. If he has any idea what I’m going through. If he even cares. “She’s going to be okay, Jemma,” he says, then slides his sunglasses on and drives away. I guess he does get it, after all.

Can you forgive me? Men are complete idiots when a woman cries.” He gave her the smile he’d reserved for old ladies in the jury box. She nibbled on her lower lip, looking pensive and wary. The bluebird in his grandma’s cuckoo clock sprang from its door and chirped, breaking the silence. Maddie jumped, pressing her hand to her chest as though trying to keep her heart from jumping out. As the clock struck, he cursed himself for making her uncomfortable. How could he have made such a tactical error? From what he’d discerned, she might as well be a virgin. He’d simply forgotten himself. Lost in her charm and good-girl complex, he’d said the first teasing thing that sprang to mind. And since he was a guy, it had been sexual. He took two cautious steps toward her, hoping she wouldn’t bolt upstairs. “That wasn’t the best thing to say when I’m trying to get you out of your clothes.” Auburn brows drew together in what he could only suspect was disapproval. He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? This wasn’t the time to mention seeing her naked. Shit, it was like he had no experience with women. She still said nothing, just stared at him with those uncanny green eyes. And damn if it wasn’t making him a bit unsettled. It had been so long since he’d been anything but cool and detached, even before his troubles in Chicago. The knowledge caused a stirring of unease. “I swear, I didn’t mean it.” He was starting to sound like a sixteen-year-old apologizing for trying to get to second base. Quietly, she toyed with the fabric of her dress, picking at one of the sparkly beads. At a loss for how to make the situation right, he offered the one thing he wanted to avoid, but was guaranteed to put her at ease. “Do you want me to call my neighbor, Gracie, to come help you out of your dress? She eats shit like this up, so you’ll make her day.” Maddie shifted on the balls of her feet. He narrowed his eyes. No matter how hard he peered at her, she remained a mystery. He sweetened the offer. “She’s a baker, so I bet she even has some cupcakes or cookies lying around.” Maddie placed her hand on her stomach. Why wouldn’t she speak? He raked a hand through his hair. “Princess, take pity on me here. I can’t begin to guess what you’re thinking. Did I scare you away forever?” She blinked, her face clearing as though she’d suddenly come out of a trance. “I’m sorry. Other than being an emotional basket case, I’m fine.” This

I don’t like being really sweaty.” She sipped her cappuccino. “Well, outside of a few examples. Some kinds of sweat are worth the exertion.” He leaned closer. “Please tell me you’re talking about sex.” She blinked, keeping her expression serious. “No, I’m talking about raking leaves. Of course I’m talking about sex.” He wiped his brow theatrically. “I’m going to change the subject, or I’ll be useless for hours. Bobbi says you never drink iced stuff. Now that September is here, that’s one thing, but in full summer, too?” “Are you a coffee spy, Paddy?” She raised a brow. “If I am, can I capture you and do whatever I have to to get you to cooperate?” The words fell over her, heated, dirty innuendo. “Maybe.

After seeing Dylan with the redhead, I sunk deeper into a depression. Even working at Lark’s house did nothing to distract me. I simply went through the motions. Fortunately, Lark was especially tired and slept most of the day, so she never noticed my bad mood. Harlow wasn’t as oblivious as we washed dishes after dinner. “What’s up, stinky pup?” I rolled my eyes at her nickname for me. “Nothing.” “She doesn’t want to deal with the leaves,” Jace said from behind us. Our ten year old brother crossed his arms like Dad often did when suspicious. “See, she got spooked last night and bailed on raking the leaves. They ended up blowing around the yard and now she’s trying to get out of raking them again.” “That’s not it.” “Sure, it is,” he said, his dark hair covering his narrowed eyes. “What else could it be?” Grumpy, I decided to punish him. “It’s about a sexy guy.” Jace’s face twisted into horror. “Eww!” he cried, running out of the room. Harlow and I laughed at the sound of him telling on me to Mom. “In a few years, girls will be all he thinks about,” I said, returning to the dishes. Harlow leaned her head against my shoulder. “Sexy guy, huh?” “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your fight?” Harlow glanced at the clock. “Yeah. When I get back, I want to hear about the sexy guy making you sigh so much.” As my sister dressed to go, I finished the dishes and struggled to stop sighing. I was still grumpy when Dad got home. In this living room, he told Harlow to be careful. She said something and laughed. When Harlow started fighting at the Thunderdome, she called herself Joy and hid it from our parents. She didn’t think they’d approve and she was right. Harlow and I were naïve to assume they wouldn’t find out long before she told them the truth though. Dad might be a pastor, but he learned about the Lord in prison. As a member of the Reapers, Dad had eyes and ears all over Ellsberg. He likely knew Harlow was fighting before she threw her first punch. Entering the kitchen, Dad smiled at me. “Stop talking about cute boys around your brother. He has a sensitive gag reflex.” I laughed as he got himself a beer and joined me at the sink. “Mom said we have leftovers. Mind warming them up for me?” Shaking my head, I filled a plate and set it in the microwave. “Are you okay?” Dad asked, frowning at me. “You look worn down.” “I had a long day.” “You sure that’s it?” We watched each other and I remembered the first time he asked if I was okay. Five years earlier when I was brought to this house and met my new family. I didn’t remember a lot from that day besides thinking these people were too good to be true. I figured they’d wait until Kirk was gone then hurt me. I couldn’t remember when I knew Dad was a good man who loved me. Not like my real dad loved me. Tad felt the kind of love a person died to protect. I saw the love in his eyes as he waited for his food to finish warming. “I wish I was stronger.” “So do I,” he said softly. “Everyone does. They just don’t admit it. That’s what makes you so brave. You can admit your fears.” Even thinking he was full of shit, I smiled. “Thanks, Dad.” Taking his plate out of the microwave, he inhaled. “Mom makes the best meatloaf.” “I made it.” Grinning, Dad nudged me with his hip. “If you make this meatloaf for the boy you’re hung up on, you’ll own him.” “I’ll remember that.

My first kiss. That was my first kiss. And he’s a duke. I just kissed a duke. And I didn’t even see it coming. I’d always imagined this slow-motion, front porch, end-of-the-first-date sort of thing. The anticipation, the nerves. But it was just…sudden and unexpected. This is insane. “Something wrong?” she says, her hazel eyes soft and expressive, as if I’m about to unload the weight of the world and she’ll gladly bear it all. “I--I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on with your cousin. Everything he’s done up until now…and then…I just can’t figure out who he is, that’s all.” She just smiles and waits, like she knows I’ll continue once I figure out what I want to say. “It’s just…at the dance at the Pommeroy’s, he tried to tell this other titled guy that I wasn’t good enough to dance with. He told the guy he should dance with a lady instead. Like I’m not worthy or something because I’m just some commoner.” Emily furrows her brow. “That is quite unlike him. I’m sure he meant no harm.” “But it was just so pompous, and every time I think maybe he deserves a chance or something, I think about it again and realize what a jerk he’s been. Why would he tell Lord Brimmon I’m not good enough?” Her head snaps around and she looks at me. “’Twas Lord Brimmon?” I nod and narrow my eyes at Emily’s reaction. “Why does it matter who it was?” Emily hesitates. “Tell me,” I say. “Brimmon’s known as a rake at best and a scoundrel at worst. If Alex was trying to talk him out of dancing with you, it was for the sake of your reputation, not his.” My jaw drops. Could that be true? Could I have been wrong about him? Sigh. I’ve gotten nothing right in 1815. Nothing. I’ve been judging him for that comment since the moment he made it. “So…it had nothing to do with me not being good enough?” Emily laughs. “Oh, heavens, no. You’re his guest. How could that be true?” “Oh…But then he was saying he’d dance with me because it was expected. Because I was his guest, he would do it out of duty. He acted like it was a chore.” Emily looks downright amused. “Harksbury has hosted many guests. Alex danced with precisely one of them: you.” “Oh.” I stare down at my hands and try to suppress the urge to grin, but I can’t stop it. It spreads until I’m beaming. Alex danced with me because he wanted to. Not because he had to. Is it really possible there’s more to him than I thought? “Well now I’ve screwed everything up…” I trail off. I don’t think I can admit to the botched kiss moment with Alex. “He’s going to think I’m a total freak.” She furrows her brow. I don’t know if she’s wondering what’s gone on between Alex and me, or what a freak is. “I am certain he would not think such a thing.” I wish I could believe her. But I know the truth: there’s no way Alex is ever going to kiss me again. No matter how much I want it.

So many to choose from,” he answered. “But let’s see. I guess the most recent is this one old guy who keeps calling us for the same issue. We keep telling him he’s fine, but every time we have to take him into the ED anyway.” He set his soup bowl down on the table and ran a hand through his hair. “What’s his issue?” “Beets.” “Beets?” “Yeah, apparently he keeps stealing beets from his neighbor’s garden and they turn his pee bright pink. He thinks he’s dying. But no, it’s just the beets. Last time we were there, the neighbor came running after him with a rake. Funniest thing ever, watching two eighty-year-old dudes trying to wrestle each other to the ground.

What’s more they are also some of the best-paid entertainers in history: Curtis Jackson, aka 50 Cent, raked in U.S. $150 million in 2008 alone, placing him on top of Forbes’s “Hip-Hop Cash Kings” list.

Listen up, nerd,” he said, glancing over his shoulder while I wrapped myself against his back. “Man, you feel good like that.” “Your huge brain is working at a wavelength I don’t understand. Repeat what you just said in a dumb way so I’ll understand what my being a nerd has to do with you liking this,” I said, wiggling my hips against him before raking his back with my breasts. After giving me a groan followed by a naughty grin, Cooper sighed. “I can’t even remember what the hell we were talking about,” he said, wrapping my arms tighter around him. “Oh, yeah, you being a nerd. So don’t worry about getting carded. The Kirk in Whiskey Kirk’s is my pop and he doesn’t care if you get wasted. He doesn’t believe in laws.” “I’m not drinking.” “Farah, you need to relax and enjoy life.” “I come from a long line of drunks and addicts, so I’m not relaxing and enjoying life if it means I become like my loser relatives.” Cooper glanced back at me and smiled. “Did you take a shower before I showed up because you’re hella feisty?” “Do they have good food at this bar?” I asked, ignoring his question. “Burgers, hot wings, only the best bar food in Kentucky. You just keep holding on while I see if I can concentrate with your tits pushed up against me like that.” “I had them pushed up the other night and you concentrated fine.” “That’s because you were wearing your uniform and I forgot you had tits. No forgetting today.” “If you ever want to be friends with them, you really need to stop calling them tits. They don’t like that.” “Yes, mam,” he said, laughing as he pushed off and drove away from the apartment.

Yeah. Still.” THEY CIRCLED the block one more time, checking houses with lights: the house across the street from Hanson’s had lights, as did the one on the left. “If we’re gonna do it, best not to circle again,” Del said. “Drop me off,” Lucas said, and pulled on the gloves. Lucas climbed out in front of the lights-out house, walked quickly down the sidewalk and then up the walk to Hanson’s place, and rang the doorbell. Rang it again, did a quick check around, pulled out the rake, rang the doorbell again, and slipped the rake into the lock. The rake sounded like somebody shaking a tray of dinner forks: not hard, just shaking it a little. Lucas kept the turning pressure on the lock, and felt it go. He took the knob, turned it, called, “Hey, Roger. You home?” No answer. He stepped inside, pushed the door shut, and turned on the light. Burglary notes: if you’re burglarizing a house, don’t go through the door and leave the house dark, and look around with the flashlight. The neighbors will call the cops. On the other hand, turning on the light is absolutely normal. Lucas called out again: “Hey, Hanson? Hey . . .” Silence. He started moving, going swiftly through the living room, through the kitchen to the back door. He unlocked it, cracked it open. Then back through the house, checking the three bedrooms. One had been

She would never marry a rake, if you will pardon my plain speaking." "Then she will reform him . . . A reformed rake makes the best of husbands, it is said.

We go outside. We rake the leaves. We pile them way up high. We jump on top. We toss them up and watch the colors fly. What can we do with all these leaves? I know. I have a plan. We run inside and find old clothes. We'll make a pumpkin man. We button all the buttons. We tie up legs and sleeves. We fill and stuff the body with lots of crunchy leaves. We give him gloves. We give him boots. We're having so much fun. It's time to pick a pumpkin head. We'll find the nicest one. Some are short and some are tall. Some are bumpy. Some are small. We look around the pumpkin patch. We find the best of all! We cut the top to get inside. We scoop out all the seeds. We draw a face and cut it out. A light is all it needs. We go outside at sunset, put the pumpkin head in place. Our pumpkin man smiles back at us with a happy, glowing face.

Don't cry for me, Empress. I'm not worth it." "I'm not crying for you," she said, placing her hand against his cheek. "I'm crying for that little boy who never had a chance to believe in love. And for your father, who obviously never experienced it either. Because that was infatuation, not love. Love isn't one-sided and selfish. It is full and generous and life-altering in the best of ways. Love does not destroy, Gabriel. It creates.

Get a large tarp, at least 16 × 16-feet, and open it near your garden where you have all your boxes built and located. Make sure you have them in their final resting place—check with the boss one more time and ask, “Are you sure this is where you want all the boxes, dear?” All of the three ingredients are dusty when dry, so do this when there is no wind. Don’t do it in the garage, or you’ll get dust all over your nice new car or workshop. Wear a painter’s mask and have a hose ready with a very fine spray. Don’t forget to have a few mixing tools ready like a snow shovel, a hoe, or a steel rake. Count out the bags and boxes, do the math one more time and start opening the bags and pouring the contents out on the tarp without walking on the ingredients. Roughly mix the three ingredients as best you can as you pour it. Then drag two corners of the tarp to the opposite two corners. You’ll see the material roll over, mixing itself. When you’ve pulled the tarp so that the mixture is almost to the edge, move 90 degrees and pull those two corners over. You just work your way around the tarp and repeat pulling corners together until your Mel’s Mix is uniformly mixed. It’s finished when you don’t see any single material or one color. Use the hose with a fine mist or spray to wet down any dust, but don’t spray so much you make puddles or wet the ingredients so the mixture becomes too heavy to move easily. Don’t let the kids play in the mixture, or they will crush the large particles of vermiculite. (By the way, I’d save a small plastic bag of vermiculite for seed starting. We’ll get to seed starting in the next chapter.) The next step is to fill the boxes, wetting down the mixed-in layers only as you fill it. Once the box is full and the top leveled off, don’t pack it down. It will settle just right by itself.

Okay. Do you have something to do today?” Day asked. “No. I want to go back to the hotel and change,” God responded. Day thought if he should ask God about staying with him until he found another place. He didn’t want to freak God out, they’d just said they loved each other, but it didn’t mean they were ready to pick out china. He felt God’s thick fingers under his chin, pulling his face back to face him. “Just ask already?” God snorted a laugh. Day rolled his eyes. Sometimes he forgot how perceptive they both were. Day could pick up most of God’s thoughts, just like the man could pick up his. “Fine.” Day grumbled. “Do you want to stay here with me? I’m not trying to clamp a ball and chain around your ankle or anything, I just thought economically it’d make more sense you know, not having to pay that kind of money for weeks when I’m right here with all this extra room. Then it would be beneficial that you didn’t have to travel to pick me up for work, we could split the housework too because I hate raking the leaves and you don’t seem to mind. Also, I thought—” “Leo, shut the hell up.” God’s eyes were wide as he stared at him. Day registered that he had rambled on, letting his nerves get the best of him while he was basically asking God to move in with him. The man was his partner but he was also so damned guarded. “I could stay here with you, until I find my own place.” God kissed him on the forehead and nudged him off him so he could raise up and swing his long legs over the side.

My lady, would you care to inspect the menu for dinner? Cook is doing her best to accommodate on such short notice. I believe she plans to serve chicken this evening." "Oh, actually, chicken will do very well for his lordship, but I shall require a dish without meat." "Without meat?" the woman repeated, looking even more pinched. "Such as, may I inquire?" "Vegetables, bread, noodles, soup made without meat stock, cheese, milk, fruit. Anything, really, so long as it is not made from killed meat.

But even during an event as exceptional as the world famous troubadour's just concluded performance, the travelers kept to themselves remaining in clearly delineated groups. Elves stayed with elves. Dwarvish craftsman gathered with their kin who would often hide to protect their merchant caravans and were armed to the teeth. The groups tolerated at best the gnome miners and halfling farmers who camped beside them. All non-humans were uniformly distant towards humans. The humans re-payed in kind but were not seem to mix amongst themselves either. Nobility looked down on the merchants and traveling salesman with open scorn. While soldiers and mercenaries, distanced themselves from shepherds and their reeking sheepskins. The few wizards and their disciples, kept themselves entirely apart from the others and bestowed their arrogance on everyone in equal parts. A tied knit, dark and silent group of peasants lurked in the background resembling a forest with their rakes, pitchforks and flails, poking above their heads. They were ignored by all. The exception, as ever was the children. Freed from the constraints of silence which have been enforced during the bards performance, the children dashed into the woods with wild cries and enthusiastically immersed themselves in a game whose rules were incomprehensible to all those who have bidden farewell to the happy years of childhood. Children of elves, dwarves, halflings, gnomes, half elves, quarter elves and toddlers of mysterious provenance, neither knew or recognized racial or social divisions. At least, not yet.

As far as Nattapong Chamroon was concerned, he ruled the world. Well… he and his brother did. He was twenty-eight years old and handsome; his father owned a transnational criminal enterprise that raked in over 240 million U.S. dollars a year, plenty of money to keep Nattapong and his older brother, Kulap, knee-deep in the best cars, clothes, houses, booze, and friends

Yet they were best mates and forever fighting over every little thing. She’d never seen anything quite like them. “Would you stop with the shifting the bucket while I be mopping, Jake? What’s wrong with you, man?” “Me? Ye be the idiot what’s moving it!” Hinder Desai, who’d also been left behind to referee the two—lucky him for that punishment—let out an exasperated sigh as he raked his hand across his face and met Mara’s gaze. “Can I be killing them, mum? You think the captain would notice it?

With a muttered curse, Travis raked a handful of fingers through his windblown hair and faced the dark eyes of his first mate. “The men have done very well,” Travis said evenly. “They would like to hear it from you.” “What am I, a cheerleader?” Diego winced. “Hell,” Travis muttered. “I’ll tell them at mess tonight.” “Thank you.” Travis had the grace to look uncomfortable. “No thanks needed. The men have done a fine job.” “They would not have dared to do less,” Diego said dryly. “Their captain is, as they say, on a rip.” Travis’s lips twitched in a smile. “That bad?” “Si. That good, too. We have done two weeks of work in less than five days and we are on our way back to harbor where beautiful women wait. No one is complaining about that!” Travis smiled rather grimly. “Only five days, huh?” “Less.” “Seemed more like five weeks.” “Next time bring your red-haired woman along. Then time will run at its usual pace.” Travis gave his first mate a look. Diego held up his hands in surrender. “Jurgen wins the pool, I see.” “What pool?” “The one trying to guess what put you out of temper and what it will take to bring you back to your normal, smiling self.” “Normal? Smiling? In their dreams,” Travis retorted. “I am shocked, Captain. Simply shocked. You are a man of most even disposition.” But Diego’s wry smile said just the opposite. “The men are proud to work under a captain who demands their best. The only time they grumble is when their best is not appreciated.

The truth is, sir...I require a rake. And only the best will do.

The best thing to do," said one of the malingerers, "is to sham madness. In the next room there are two other men from the school where I teach and one of them keeps shouting day and night : 'Giordano Bruno's stake is still smoldering ; renew Galileo's trial !'” “I meant at first to act the fool too and be a religious maniac and preach about the infallibility of the Pope, but finally I managed to get some cancer of the stomach for fifteen crowns from a barber down the road." "That's nothing," said another man. "Down our way there's a midwife who for twenty crowns can dislocate your foot so nicely that you're crippled for the rest of your life.” “My illness has run me into more than two hundred crowns already," announced his neighbor, a man as thin as a rake. "I bet there's no poison you can mention that I haven't taken. I'm simply bung full of poisons. I've chewed arsenic, I've smoked opium, I've swallowed strychnine, I've drunk vitriol mixed with phosphorus. I've ruined my liver, my lungs, my kidneys, my heart—in fact, all my insides. Nobody knows what disease it is I've got." "The best thing to do," explained someone near the door, "is to squirt paraffin oil under the skin on your arms. My cousin had a slice of good luck that way. They cut off his arm below the elbow and now the army'll never worry him any more.” “Well," said Schweik, "When I was in the army years ago, it used to be much worse. If a man went sick, they just trussed him up, shoved him into a cell to make him get fitter. There wasn't any beds and mattresses and spittoons like what there is here. Just a bare bench for them to lie on. Once there was a chap who had typhus, fair and square, and the one next to him had smallpox. Well, they trussed them both up and the M. O. kicked them in the ribs and said they were shamming. When the pair of them kicked the bucket, there was a dust-up in Parliament and it got into the papers. Like a shot they stopped us from reading the papers and all our boxes was inspected to see if we'd got any hidden there. And it was just my luck that in the whole blessed regiment there was nobody but me whose newspaper was spotted. So our colonel starts yelling at me to stand to attention and tell him who'd written that stuff to the paper or he'd smash my jaw from ear to ear and keep me in clink till all was blue. Then the M.O. comes up and he shakes his fist right under my nose and shouts: 'You misbegotten whelp ; you scabby ape ; you wretched blob of scum ; you skunk of a Socialist, you !' Well, I stood keeping my mouth shut and with one hand at the salute and the other along the seam of my trousers. There they was, running round and yelping at me. “We'll knock the newspaper nonsense out of your head, you ruffian,' says the colonel, and gives me 21 days solitary confinement. Well, while I was serving my time, there was some rum goings-on in the barracks. Our colonel stopped the troops from reading at all, and in the canteen they wasn't allowed even to wrap up sausages or cheese in newspapers. That made the soldiers start reading and our regiment had all the rest beat when it came to showing how much they'd learned.

He was doing his best to fit in with a crowd of people who would never have given him the time of day, yet they’d all expected him to kill—and be killed, if necessary

He was doing his best to fit in with a crowd of people who would never have given him the time of day, yet they’d all expected him to kill—and be killed, if necessary—fighting the French.

Massachusettensis," pseudonym of Daniel Leonard, a prominent Massachusetts lawyer, penned several essays pleading America's cause. While he would soon transform into a Tory, as a Whig he made the following inflammatory remarks: Men combined to subvert our civil government, to plunder and murder us, can have no right to protection in their persons or properties among us; they have by their attempts upon our liberty, put themselves in a state of war with us, as Mr. Locke observes, and being the aggressors, if they perish, the fault is their own. "If any person in the best condition of the state, demands your purse at the muzzle of his pistol, you have no need to recur to law, you cannot give, i.e. immediate security against your adversary; and for that reason, viz. because the law cannot be applied to your relief, you make your own defence on the principles of natural law, which is now your only rule, and his life is forfeited into your hands, and you indemnified if you rake it, because he is the first and a dangerous aggressor." This rule applies itself to states, and to those employed by them to distress, rob or enslave other states; and shall property be secure where even life is forfeited?

Because that was infatuation, not love. Love isn’t one-sided and selfish. It is full and generous and life-altering in the best of ways. Love does not destroy, Gabriel. It creates.

Why should I side with you? Why should I care if you win?” The phouka raked fingers through his hair. “You have seen one of them, one of their forms. That is what seeks domination over every natural thing in this place. We of the Seelie Court are capricious, and not always well-disposed toward humankind. But would you hand this city over to the likes of what you saw tonight? That is the Unseelie Court. If we fall, every park, every boulevard tree, every grassy lawn would be their dwelling place.” Eddi sighed. “It’s not just for you, it’s for the entire seven-country metro area. Couldn’t we just let them have St. Paul?” The phouka made a disgusted noise. “All right. What if they did take over? Would we all be eaten in our beds?” He shook his head. “There are places,” he began slowly, “that belong to them. Have you ever passed through some small town, surrounded by fertile country and fed by commerce, that seemed to be rotting away even as you watched? Where the houses and the people were faded, and all the storefronts stood empty?” Eddi remembered a few. “Or a city whose new buildings looked tawdry, whose old ones were ramshackle, where the streets were grimy and the wind was never fresh, where money passed from hand to hand yet benefited no one?” His words were quicker now. “This city is alive with the best magic of mortal folk. The very light off the skyscrapers and the lakes vibrate with it. If the Unseelie Court takes up residence here, this will be a place where people fear their neighbors, where life drains the living until art and wit are luxuries, where any pleasant thing must be imported and soon loses its savor.” He fell silent, as if embarrassed by his own eloquence. Eddi rubbed her hands over her face, trying to rub away her confusion, her anger, her fear. Finally she asked the only question she had left. “Can’t you get somebody else?” The phouka began to laugh weakly. “Oh, go to bed, Eddi McCandry. You could befuddle a stone. Go to bed, and sleep soundly, and tempt me not into some foolish flap of the tongue.

She beamed. “Perhaps the best of the lot! He has a title—he is a baron. He has never been wed but he has several children. His home is quite nice, apparently, it is in Sussex, and he has a pleasing income! I believe it is two thousand a year.” She waited. He stared, appearing close to an apoplexy. “So he is a rake?” “You have bastards!” “I am a rake! Next.” She choked. “Next?” “Amanda is not marrying a rake. Her husband will be loyal to her.” “Then maybe you should consider de Brett? He is very handsome and I am sure that he might fall in love with Amanda!” “Who is Ralph Sheffeild?” Cliff ignored her. She had saved the best for last. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Sheffeild. “He was knighted during the war for his valor, he is the youngest son of an earl, the family is very wealthy, and he can marry as he chooses. He is not a rake. If he is taken with Amanda, it would be perfect!” “How do you know he is not a rake?” “I know his reputation.” “He must be a rake, or he would be wed.” “I feel certain he is not a rake,” she said quickly. “If he were a rake, the gossip would be all over the ton.” “Does he have a mistress?” “Not that I know of.” “Then he must prefer men.” Cliff smiled in triumph. “What a leap to make!” She was aghast. “He is too perfect. Something is wrong with him. If it isn’t that preference, perhaps he gambles!” “He doesn’t gamble.” She had to control her laughter now. She had no idea if Sheffeild gamed. “And Cliff, he likes women. I have met him personally, I am certain.” Cliff folded his arms across his chest and stared. “Something is wrong with this one, I can feel it. What aren’t you telling me?” “I have told you everything. He is perfect for Amanda!” He tore the paper not in two, but in shreds. Then he smiled, letting the scraps drift to the floor. “Cliff!” she gasped. “What is wrong with Sheffeild?” “No one is perfect,” he retorted. “He is hiding something.” “You cannot reject everyone!” “I can and I will, until I find the right suitor. Make me another list,” he ordered, walking away. She couldn’t resist. She took a book from the shelf and threw it, so it hit him square in the back. He turned. “What was that for?” “Oh, let’s just say I am going to enjoy watching you taken down a peg or two. And by the by, we are all rooting for Amanda.” He simply looked at her, clearly clueless as usual.

When we thought you were dead, we searched for your body. Months, years even. You were never out of our thoughts. You were my family, Jacques, my friend. It was hard to learn to be completely solitary. Gregori and Mikhail and even Aidan survived the centuries because, as alone as they had to be, they had a bond, an anchor to keep them strong through the bleak centuries. You were mine. Once you were gone, my struggle became immense.” When Jacques remained silently on guard, Shea pushed at his back. Can’t you hear his grief? He’s reaching out to you. Even if you can’t remember him, help him. You do not know if he has turned or not, Jacques reprimanded her. You felt the presence, and here he is. A vampire can give the illusion of purity, of anything he chooses. Stay behind me! “I just wanted to tell you I am glad you are back, and I am happy for you that you found your lifemate. It was wrong of me to be envious. I should have been more cautious about judging what I did not understand.” Byron raked a hand through his dark hair. “I am going away for a while. I must to gain the strength to get through the years.” Jacques nodded slowly. “I am going to the healer to try to repair the damage done to my mind. I have noticed Gregori’s relationship with Mikhail seems to be strong even though Mikhail has a lifemate. I would wish that if all that you say is true, when I am healed, we can resume our friendship.” The wild winds were dying down. The rain beat down in a steady drone, and the air seemed heavily oppressed. Byron nodded tiredly and managed a wan smile that did not light his eyes. “I wish the best for you both, and I hope that you have many children. Try to make them female for my sake.” “When will you return?” Jacques inquired. “When I am able.” Byron’s form began to waver, to fade, so that they could see through the transparent shape.

The guys had already cleaned up. Or done the best they could with a quick wash and teeth brushing at Corey’s. There hadn’t been any spare toothbrushes, so I’d done mine with my finger and tried not to look in the mirror. One glance had told me that no amount of touch-ups was going to help. I needed a twenty-minute shower. “And this clothing is getting burned,” I said as I raked a comb through my tangled hair. “There’s a fireplace downstairs,” Corey said. “I’ll take it for you right now.” I gave him a look. “Once I have something to wear.” “Grab a shirt from Nic’s room,” Daniel said. “She won’t mind. It might be a little small but…” “That’s fine,” Corey said with a grin. “I won’t mind either.

of glittering armor and the forest of battle pennants, the main part of the emperors’ army was concentrated on Highway 24, forcing its way toward the Caldecott Tunnel. Enemy catapults hurled projectiles toward the legion’s positions, but most disappeared in bursts of purple light as soon as they got close. I assumed that was the work of Terminus, doing his part to defend the camp’s borders. Meanwhile, at the base of the tunnel, flashes of lightning pinpointed the location of the legion’s standard. Tendrils of electricity zigzagged down the hillsides, arcing through enemy lines and frying them to dust. Camp Jupiter’s ballistae launched giant flaming spears at the invaders, raking through their lines and starting more forest fires. The emperors’ troops kept coming. The ones making the best progress were huddled behind large armored vehicles that crawled on eight legs and…Oh, gods. My guts felt like they’d gotten tangled in my bike chain. Those weren’t vehicles. “Myrmekes,” I said. “Meg, those are myr—” “I see them.” She didn’t even slow down. “It doesn’t change anything. Come on!” How could it not change anything? We’d faced a nest of those giant ants at Camp Half-Blood and barely survived. Meg had nearly been pulped into Gerber’s larvae purée. Now we were confronting myrmekes trained for war, snapping trees in half with their pincers and spraying acid to melt through the camp’s defensive pickets. This was a brand-new flavor of horrible. “We’ll never get through their lines!” I protested. “Lavinia’s secret tunnel.

A raking shot, which entered in the lower deck, had glanced along the beams and through the thickest of the people,

raking the length of the Spanish ship from a distance of only a few yards.

The best compliment we ever got was that the Pogues were ‘like The Dubliners on-speed.’” Shane MacGowan

What made the movie business unique in the history of corporate capitalism is captured in the screenwriter William Goldman’s maxim, true for many decades: “nobody knows anything.” No other industry pumped out so many products so frequently with so little foreknowledge of whether they would be any good. The only feasible business strategy, it appeared, was to sign up the best creative talent, trust your strongest hunches about what looked likely to appeal to millions of people, and hope you ended up with Back to the Future instead of Ishtar. Over the past few years, however, something big has happened: finally, people in Hollywood do know something. What they know is that branded franchises work. People say they want new ideas and fresh concepts, but in reality they most often go to the multiplex for familiar characters and concepts that remind them of what they already know they like. Big name brands like Marvel, Harry Potter, Fast & Furious, and Despicable Me consistently gross more than $1 billion at the global box office, not only raking in huge profits, but justifying studios’ very existence and the jobs of everyone who works on their glamorous lots. This change has happened slowly over about a decade in Hollywood, making it hard to appreciate its magnitude. But now it is undeniable that the dawn of the franchise film era is the most meaningful revolution in the movie business since the studio system ended, in the 1950s.

Please forgive me for inconveniencing you, Mr. Winterborne. I don’t intend to stay long.” “Does anyone know you’re here?” he asked curtly. “No.” “Speak your piece, then, and make it fast.” “Very well. I--” “But if it has anything to do with Lady Helen,” he interrupted, “then leave now. She can come to me herself if there’s something that needs to be discussed.” “I’m afraid Helen can’t go anywhere at the moment. She’s been in bed all day, ill with a nervous condition.” His eyes changed, some unfathomable emotion spangling the dark depths. “A nervous condition,” he repeated, his voice iced with scorn. “That seems a common complaint among aristocratic ladies. Someday I’d like to know what makes you all so nervous.” Kathleen would have expected a show of sympathy or a few words of concern for the woman he was betrothed to. “I’m afraid you are the cause of Helen’s distress,” she said bluntly. “Your visit yesterday put her in a state.” Winterborne was silent, his eyes black and piercing. “She told me only a little about what happened,” Kathleen continued. “But it’s clear that there is much you don’t understand about Helen. My late husband’s parents kept all three of their daughters very secluded. More than was good for them. As a result, all three are quite young for their age. Helen is one-and-twenty, but she hasn’t had the same experiences, or seasoning, as other girls her age. She knows nothing of the world outside Eversby Priory. Everything is new to her. Everything. The only men she has ever associated with have been a handful of close relations, the servants, and the occasional visitor to the estate. Most of what she knows about men has been from books and fairy tales.” “No one can be that sheltered,” Winterborne said flatly. “Not in your world. But at an estate like Eversby Priory, it’s entirely possible.” Kathleen paused. “In my opinion, it’s too soon for Helen to marry anyone, but when she does…she will need a husband with a placid temperament. One who will allow her to develop at her own pace.” “And you assume I wouldn’t,” he said rather than asked. “I think you will command and govern a wife just as you do everything else. I don’t believe you would ever harm her physically, but you’ll whittle her to fit your life, and make her exceedingly unhappy. This environment--London, the crowds, the department store--is so ill suited to her nature that she would wither like a transplanted orchid. I’m afraid I can’t support the idea of marriage for you and Helen.” Pausing, she took a long breath before saying, “I believe it’s in her best interest for the engagement to be broken.

In my opinion, it’s too soon for Helen to marry anyone, but when she does…she will need a husband with a placid temperament. One who will allow her to develop at her own pace.” “And you assume I wouldn’t,” he said rather than asked. “I think you will command and govern a wife just as you do everything else. I don’t believe you would ever harm her physically, but you’ll whittle her to fit your life, and make her exceedingly unhappy. This environment--London, the crowds, the department store--is so ill suited to her nature that she would wither like a transplanted orchid. I’m afraid I can’t support the idea of marriage for you and Helen.” Pausing, she took a long breath before saying, “I believe it’s in her best interest for the engagement to be broken.” A heavy silence descended. “Is that what she wants?” “She said earlier today that she has no wish to see you again.” Throughout Kathleen’s speech, Winterborne had looked away as if he were only half listening. At that last remark, however, she found herself the target of a bladelike gaze. Perhaps, she thought uneasily, it would be best to leave soon.

I believe it’s in her best interest for the engagement to be broken.” A heavy silence descended. “Is that what she wants?” “She said earlier today that she has no wish to see you again.” Throughout Kathleen’s speech, Winterborne had looked away as if he were only half listening. At that last remark, however, she found herself the target of a bladelike gaze. Perhaps, she thought uneasily, it would be best to leave soon.

I believe it’s in her best interest for the engagement to be broken.” A heavy silence descended. “Is that what she wants?” “She said earlier today that she has no wish to see you again.” Throughout Kathleen’s speech, Winterborne had looked away as if he were only half listening. At that last remark, however, she found herself the target of a bladelike gaze. Perhaps, she thought uneasily, it would be best to leave soon. Winterborne approached her as she stood by the bookshelves. “Tell her she’s free, then,” he sneered. He leaned his cane against a shelf and set a broad hand on a section of fluted casing. “If a few kisses are enough to make her bedridden, I doubt she’d live through her first night as my wife.

She said earlier today that she has no wish to see you again.” Throughout Kathleen’s speech, Winterborne had looked away as if he were only half listening. At that last remark, however, she found herself the target of a bladelike gaze. Perhaps, she thought uneasily, it would be best to leave soon. Winterborne approached her as she stood by the bookshelves. “Tell her she’s free, then,” he sneered. He leaned his cane against a shelf and set a broad hand on a section of fluted casing. “If a few kisses are enough to make her bedridden, I doubt she’d live through her first night as my wife.” Kathleen returned his gaze without flinching, knowing that he was trying to unnerve her. “I’ll see that the ring is returned to you as soon as possible.” “She can keep it as compensation for wasted time.

Her betrothal was over, with no one having asked what she wanted. Not even Winterborne. Everything would go back to the way it was. Now there would be nothing to intimidate or challenge her. No dark-eyed suitor who wanted things she didn’t know how to give. But she didn’t feel the relief she was supposed to feel. The tight, trapped feeling in her chest was worse than ever. The more she thought about the last time she’d seen Winterborne…his impatience, the demanding kisses, his bitter words…the more she thought that they should have talked about what had happened. She would have at least liked to try. But it had probably all worked out for the best. She and Winterborne hadn’t been able to find their footing together. He unnerved her, and she was certain that she bored him, and she didn’t see how she could have ever found a place for herself in his world. It was only…she had liked the sound of his voice, and the way he had looked at her. And that sense he’d given her of being on the brink of discovering something new and frightening and wonderful and dangerous…she would miss that. She worried that his pride had been hurt. It was possible that he might feel lost and alone, just as she did.

The more she thought about the last time she’d seen Winterborne…his impatience, the demanding kisses, his bitter words…the more she thought that they should have talked about what had happened. She would have at least liked to try. But it had probably all worked out for the best. She and Winterborne hadn’t been able to find their footing together. He unnerved her, and she was certain that she bored him, and she didn’t see how she could have ever found a place for herself in his world. It was only…she had liked the sound of his voice, and the way he had looked at her. And that sense he’d given her of being on the brink of discovering something new and frightening and wonderful and dangerous…she would miss that. She worried that his pride had been hurt. It was possible that he might feel lost and alone, just as she did. As she fretted and paced around the room, Helen’s gaze happened to stray across an object on the table near the parlor window. Her eyes widened as she realized it was the potted Blue Vanda she had given him. The orchid he hadn’t wanted but had taken anyway. He had sent it back.

Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable? Shall I send for tea or refreshments?” He shook his head. “Quincy will bring a tray soon.” She wasn’t certain how to reply. It had been easier to talk to him when he had been ill and helpless. “Mr. Quincy told me that he will be working for you in London. I am glad, for both your sakes, that you’ve given him such an opportunity. He will be an excellent valet.” “For what I’m paying him,” Winterborne said, “he’d better be the best in England.” Helen was briefly nonplussed. “I have no doubt he will be,” she ventured.

Mr. Quincy told me that he will be working for you in London. I am glad, for both your sakes, that you’ve given him such an opportunity. He will be an excellent valet.” “For what I’m paying him,” Winterborne said, “he’d better be the best in England.

It’s a Blue Vanda orchid,” she explained. “What should I do with it?” “You might wish to keep it in a place where you can see it often. Remember that it doesn’t like to be cold and wet, or hot and dry. Whenever it’s moved to a new environment, the Vanda usually becomes distressed, so don’t be alarmed if a flower shrivels and drops off. Generally it’s best not to set it where there may be a draft, or too much sun. Or too much shadow. And never place it next to a bowl of fruit.” She gave him an encouraging glance. “Later, I’ll give you a special tonic to mist over it.” As Winterborne stared at the exotic flower in his hands with perplexed reluctance, Helen began to regret her spontaneous action. He didn’t seem to want the gift, but she couldn’t very well ask to have it back. “You needn’t take it if you don’t want it,” she said. “I would understand--” “I want it.” Winterborne looked into her eyes and smiled slightly. “Thank you.

No to rouge,” she said, “now and for all time.” “We need to enhance our complexions,” Pandora protested. “It won’t do any harm,” Cassandra chimed in. “The bottle says that Bloom of Rose is ‘delicate and inoffensive’…It’s written right there, you see?” “The comments you would receive if you wore rouge in public would assuredly not be delicate or inoffensive. People would assume you were a fallen woman. Or worse, an actress.” Pandora turned to Devon. “Lord Trenear, what do you think?” “This is one of those times when it’s best for a man to avoid thinking altogether,” he said hastily.

The comments you would receive if you wore rouge in public would assuredly not be delicate or inoffensive. People would assume you were a fallen woman. Or worse, an actress.” Pandora turned to Devon. “Lord Trenear, what do you think?” “This is one of those times when it’s best for a man to avoid thinking altogether,” he said hastily.

The comments you would receive if you wore rouge in public would assuredly not be delicate or inoffensive. People would assume you were a fallen woman. Or worse, an actress.” Pandora turned to Devon. “Lord Trenear, what do you think?” “This is one of those times when it’s best for a man to avoid thinking altogether,” he said hastily. “Bother,” Cassandra said. Reaching for a white glass pot with a gilded top, she gave it to Kathleen. “We found this for you. It’s lily pomatum, for your wrinkles.” “I don’t have wrinkles,” Kathleen said with dawning indignation. “Not yet,” Pandora allowed. “But someday you will.” Devon grinned as the twins snatched their empty baskets and scurried away to continue shopping. “When my wrinkles appear,” Kathleen said ruefully, “those two will have caused most of them.” “That day will be a long time coming.” Looking down at her, Devon cupped her face with his hands. “But when it does, you’ll be even more beautiful.” The skin beneath his gentle touch flamed with a blush more brilliant than potted rouge could have imparted. Desperately she tried to make herself pull away from him, but his touch had paralyzed her.

My Lord, It was very kind of you to send the lovely gift which is very useful now that the weather has turned. I am pleased to relate that the cashmere absorbed an application of black dye quite evenly so that it is now appropriate for mourning. Thank you for your thoughtfulness. Lady Trenear “You dyed it?” Devon asked aloud, setting the note on his desk with mixture of amusement and irritation. Reaching for a silver penholder, he inserted a fresh nib and pulled a sheet of writing paper from a nearby stack. That morning he had already written a half-dozen missives to lawyers, his banker, and contractors, and had hired an outside agent to analyze the estate’s finances. He grimaced at the sight of his ink-stained fingers. The lemon-and-salt paste his valet had given him wouldn’t entirely remove the smudges. He was tired of writing, and even more so of numbers, and Kathleen’s letter was a welcome distraction. The challenge could not go unanswered. Staring down at the letter with a faint smile, Deon pondered the best way to annoy her. Dipping the pen nib into the inkwell, he wrote, Madam, I am delighted to learn that you find the shawl useful in these cooler days of autumn. On that subject, I am writing to inform you of my recent decision to donate all the black curtains that currently shroud the windows at Eversby Priory to a London charitable organization. Although you will regrettably no longer have use of the cloth, it will be made into winter coats for the poor, which I am sure you will agree is a far nobler purpose. I am confident in your ability to find other ways of making the atmosphere at Eversby Priory appropriately grim and cheerless. If I do not receive the curtains promptly, I will take it to mean that you are eager for my assistance, in which case I will be delighted to oblige you by coming to Hampshire at once. Trenear Kathleen’s reply was delivered a week later, along with massive crates containing the black curtains.

Where’s Helen?” “She’s keeping company with Mr. Winterborne,” Cassandra said brightly. How had that come about? Devon sent a questioning glance to West, who hitched his shoulders in a slight shrug. “Mr. Winterborne had a rather difficult day,” Kathleen explained. “He’s feverish, and the laudanum makes him ill. It’s against all decorum, obviously, but Helen asked if she might try to help him.” “That’s very kind of her,” Devon said. “And it’s kind of you to allow it.” “Mrs. Church told me that Mr. Winterborne isn’t snapping and snarling anymore,” Pandora volunteered. “He’s resting on pillows and drinking orchid tea. And Helen has been chattering like a magpie for hours.” Cassandra looked dumbfounded. “Helen, chattering for hours? That doesn’t seem possible.” “I wouldn’t have thought she had that much to say,” Pandora agreed. “Perhaps it’s just that she’s never able to slide a word in edgewise,” West remarked blandly. A few seconds later, he was pelted with a shower of sugar lumps. “Girls,” Kathleen exclaimed indignantly. “Stop that at once! West, don’t you dare encourage them by laughing!” She sent a threatening glance at Devon, who was desperately trying to suppress his amusement. “Or you,” she said severely. “I won’t,” he promised, wincing and reflecting ruefully that whoever said laughter was the best medicine had never broken a rib.

West, don’t you dare encourage them by laughing!” She sent a threatening glance at Devon, who was desperately trying to suppress his amusement. “Or you,” she said severely. “I won’t,” he promised, wincing and reflecting ruefully that whoever said laughter was the best medicine had never broken a rib.

Good evening, then. I will leave you to your conversation.” Rhys didn’t reply, only lifted his wineglass and drank deeply. But his gaze followed her every second until she left the room. Devon leaned back and interlaced his fingers, resting them on his midriff. “Lady Helen is an accomplished young woman. She’s been educated in history, literature, and art, and she’s fluent in French. She also knows how to manage servants and run an upper-class household. After the mourning period is over, I intend to take her to London, along with the twins, for her first season.” “No doubt she’ll have many splendid offers,” Rhys said bitterly. Devon shook his head. “At best, she’ll have a few adequate ones. None will be splendid, nor even appropriate for a girl of her quality.” In response to Rhys’s perplexed glance, he explained, “The late earl didn’t provide for a dowry.” “A pity.” If Devon were going to try to borrow money from him to improve Lady Helen’s chances of marrying a peer, Rhys would tell him to sod off. “What has any of that to do with me?” “Nothing, if she doesn’t please you.” Seeing Rhys’s baffled expression, Devon shook his head with an exasperated laugh. “Confound it, Winterborne, don’t be obtuse. I’m trying to point out an opportunity, if you have any interest in Lady Helen.” Rhys was silent. Stunned. Devon chose his words with obvious care. “On the surface, it’s not the most obvious match.” Match? Marriage match? The bastard clearly didn’t understand what he was suggesting. Even so…Rhys felt his soul clutch at the idea.

After the mourning period is over, I intend to take her to London, along with the twins, for her first season.” “No doubt she’ll have many splendid offers,” Rhys said bitterly. Devon shook his head. “At best, she’ll have a few adequate ones. None will be splendid, nor even appropriate for a girl of her quality.” In response to Rhys’s perplexed glance, he explained, “The late earl didn’t provide for a dowry.” “A pity.” If Devon were going to try to borrow money from him to improve Lady Helen’s chances of marrying a peer, Rhys would tell him to sod off.

After the mourning period is over, I intend to take her to London, along with the twins, for her first season.” “No doubt she’ll have many splendid offers,” Rhys said bitterly. Devon shook his head. “At best, she’ll have a few adequate ones. None will be splendid, nor even appropriate for a girl of her quality.” In response to Rhys’s perplexed glance, he explained, “The late earl didn’t provide for a dowry.” “A pity.” If Devon were going to try to borrow money from him to improve Lady Helen’s chances of marrying a peer, Rhys would tell him to sod off. “What has any of that to do with me?” “Nothing, if she doesn’t please you.” Seeing Rhys’s baffled expression, Devon shook his head with an exasperated laugh. “Confound it, Winterborne, don’t be obtuse. I’m trying to point out an opportunity, if you have any interest in Lady Helen.

I know that you regret Theo’s death,” Devon said quietly. “I know that you married him with the best of intentions, and you’ve tried to mourn him sincerely. But Kathleen, love…You’re no more his widow than you ever were his wife.” The words were like a slap in the face. Shocked and offended, she scrambled from the bed and snatched up her shawl. “I should never have confided in you,” she exclaimed. “I’m only pointing out that--at least in private--you’re not bound by the same obligations as a true widow.” “I am a true widow!” Devon looked sardonic. “You barely knew Theo.” “I loved him,” she insisted. “Oh? What did you love most about him?” Angrily Kathleen parted her lips to reply…but not a single word emerged. She pressed the flat of her hand to her stomach as a sickening realization occurred to her. Now that her guilt over Theo’s death had been at least partially assuaged, she couldn’t identify any particular feeling for him except the distant pity she would have had for a complete stranger who had met such a fate. Despite that, she had taken her place as Theo’s widow, living in his house, befriending his sisters, enjoying all the benefits of being Lady Trenear. Theo had known that she was a sham. He had known that she didn’t love him, even when she herself hadn’t known it. That was why his last words had been an accusation. Furious and ashamed, Kathleen turned and went to the door. She flung it open without pausing to consider the need for discretion, and ran across the threshold. The breath was nearly knocked from her as she collided with a sturdy form. “What the--” she heard West say, while he reached out to steady her. “What is it? Can I help?” “Yes,” she snapped, “you can throw your brother back into that river.” She strode away before he could respond.

A huge shape loomed beside her…a man mounted on a sturdy black dray. It was Devon, she realized in bewilderment. She couldn’t say a word to save her life. He wasn’t dressed for riding--he wasn’t even wearing gloves. More perplexing still, he was wearing a stableman’s low-crowned felt hat, as if he had borrowed it while departing in haste. “Lady Helen asked me to fetch you,” Devon called out, his face unfathomable. “You can either ride back with me, or we’ll stand here and argue in a lightning storm until we’re both flambéed. Personally I’d prefer the latter--it would be better than reading the rest of those account ledgers.” Kathleen stared at him with stunned confusion. In practical terms, it was possible to ride double with Devon back to the estate. The dray, broad-built and calm-tempered, would be more than equal to the task. But as she tried to imagine it, their bodies touching…his arms around her… No. She couldn’t bear being that close to any man. Her flesh crawled at the thought. “I…I can’t ride with you.” Although she tried to sound decisive, her voice was wavering and plaintive. Rain streamed down her face, rivulets trickling into her mouth. Devon’s lips parted as if he were about to deliver a scathing reply. As his gaze traveled over her drenched form, however, his expression softened. “Then you take the horse, and I’ll walk back.” Dumbstruck by the offer, Kathleen could only stare at him. “No,” she eventually managed to say. “But…thank you. Please, you must return to the house.” “We’ll both walk,” he said impatiently, “or we’ll both ride. But I won’t leave you.” “I’ll be perfectly--” She broke off and flinched at a bone-rattling peal of thunder. “Let me take you home.” Devon’s tone was pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor instead of a violent late-summer storm. Had he said it in an overbearing manner, Kathleen might have been able to refuse him. But somehow he’d guessed that softening his approach was the best way to undermine her.

Let me take you home.” Devon’s tone was pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor instead of a violent late-summer storm. Had he said it in an overbearing manner, Kathleen might have been able to refuse him. But somehow he’d guessed that softening his approach was the best way to undermine her. The dray bobbed its head and pawed the ground with one hoof. She would have to ride back with him, she realized in despair. There was no alternative. Wrapping her arms around herself, she said anxiously, “F-first I have something to say to you.” Devon’s brows lifted, his face cold. “I…” She swallowed hard, and the words came out in a rush. “What I said in the study earlier was unkind, and untrue, and I’m s-sorry for it. It was very wrong of me. I shall make that very clear to Mr. Totthill and Mr. Fogg. And your brother.” His expression changed, one corner of his mouth curling upward in the hint of a smile that sent her heartbeat into chaos. “You needn’t bother mentioning it to them. All three will be calling me far worse before all is said and done.

…then I glimpsed a man wading back out into the river,” he was saying, “toward a half-submerged railway carriage with people trapped inside. And I said to myself, ‘That man is a hero. Also an idiot. Because he’s already been in the water for too long, and he won’t be able to save them, and he’s about to sacrifice his life for nothing.’ I proceeded to climb down the embankment and found Sutton. ‘Where is the earl?’ I asked.” West paused for dramatic effect, relishing the rapt attention of his audience. “And where do you think Sutton pointed? Out to the river, where that reckless fool had just saved a trio of children, and was wading after them with a baby in one arm and a woman on the other.” “The man was Lord Trenear?” one of the housemaids gasped. “None other.” The entire group exclaimed with pleasure and possessive pride. “Nothing to it, for a bloke as big as his lordship,” one of the footmen said with a grin. “I should think he’ll be put in the papers for this,” another exclaimed. “I hope so,” West said, “if only because I know how he would loathe it.” He paused as he saw Kathleen in the doorway. “All of you,” she said sotto voce to the servants, “had better clear out before Sims or Mrs. Church catches you in here.” “I was just reaching the best part,” West protested. “I’m about to describe my thrilling yet poignant rescue of the earl.” “You can describe it later,” Kathleen said, standing in the doorway as the servants hastily filed out. “For now, you should be resting.

Helen extended the thermometer to West. “Under your tongue, please,” she said gravely. He complied with a long-suffering expression. “Dear,” Kathleen asked Helen, “will you speak to Mrs. Church about dinner? With three invalids in the house, I think it’s best if we dine informally tonight.” “Two invalids,” West mumbled indignantly around the thermometer. “I’m perfectly well.” “Yes, of course,” Helen replied to Kathleen. “And I’ll make up a tray for Dr. Weeks. He may be occupied for a while with Lord Trenear and Mr. Winterborne, and he’s certainly earned his supper.” “Good idea,” Kathleen said. “Don’t forget to include a dish of lemon syllabub. As I recall, Dr. Weeks has a sweet tooth.” “By all means,” West said around the thermometer, “let’s talk about food in front of a starving man.” Before leaving, Helen paused to nudge his chin upward, closing his mouth. “No talking.

Dear,” Kathleen asked Helen, “will you speak to Mrs. Church about dinner? With three invalids in the house, I think it’s best if we dine informally tonight.” “Two invalids,” West mumbled indignantly around the thermometer. “I’m perfectly well.

He’s gone,” Devon said in a few moments. After taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he reached around the edge of the door to tamper with the latch mechanism, bending the thumb-lift bar so it wouldn’t close. “Although no one has asked my opinion about the pig,” he said, “I’m against any house pet that will eventually outweigh me.” Having braced herself for attack, Kathleen blinked uncertainly. He was behaving so unlike a lust-crazed beast that it gave her pause. In response to her frozen silence, Devon lifted a hand to her jaw and nudged her to look at him. Unable to avoid his calm, appraising glance, she realized there was no immediate danger of him forcing himself on her. “You’d best look away,” he advised, “unless you want a big eyeful of Ravenel. I’m going to fetch the towels.

You’d best look away,” he advised, “unless you want a big eyeful of Ravenel. I’m going to fetch the towels.

Or perhaps I’m simply planning my attack.” “It’s best not to use words like attack in these situations.” Edward smiled. “It makes one think of teeth.