Regency Era Quotes

You may be a bit presumptuous, Miss Woodhart, and may lack certain habits of good etiquette. But in dancing, you exceed many—and in loveliness, I have known no equal.

heir eyes met. They both smiled, aware that they were in public, where anyone could see them on the street and in the window. But the rest of the world did not matter. For that moment, everything else vanished. He was there, she was there, no trouble could touch them.

He had accessorized his life with everything but paternal instinct.

Nothing said family more than shared soap.

I've never met anyone as kind as you are, except me Mum, o' course." --Benjamin Trimmel to Lady Alexandra.

The ladies, I daresay, will have already selected silk gowns and appropriate jewels," the countess droned on, "and are quite capable of comporting themselves in line with both propriety and fashion.” “I don’t care about fashion,” Lord Sheffield murmured into Amelia’s ear, “but I’m sorely disappointed whenever a lady I escort decides to comport herself with propriety.

There’s a Lady Amelia Pembroke here to see you, my lord. She was most insistent.” Benedict glanced up from his desk. “I trust you informed her that I was not receiving, and refused to let her in?” “Of course.” The butler hesitated before continuing, “She said she would simply wait until you are receiving.” Benedict put down his pen. “Wait where, pray?” “Upon the front step, my lord. I’m afraid the lady brought... the lady brought... a book. She cannot be budged.

He wore camel-colored breeches and dark brown Hessian riding boots, a snow-white shirt held together at the throat with a gold pin and a dark brown vest with little gold fleurs-de-lis embroidered on it. Kingsley looked magnificent, like a Regency-era fever dream. If Jane Austen had set eyes on Kingsley, she would never have written her genteel comedies of manner. She would have written porn.

Regency era or not, in a lot of ways, he ruins me.

It was, of course, a great failure in a woman's life - to never have achieved even a doomed and unsuccessful love. But she was not quite sure whether she had failed or not. When she was young there had been moments, of course. But those moments had never amounted to much more than a little fever of admiration - a little flutter and agitation in a ballroom - so slight a feeling that the cautious Dido had never considered it a secure foundation for a lifetime of living together. And then, sooner or later, she had always made and odd remark, or laughed at the wrong moment, and the young men became alarmed or angry - and the flutter and the agitation all turned to irritation. Dido could laugh and gossip about love as well as any woman but, deep down, she suspected that she had not the knack of falling into it.

That’s not a catalog!” Amelia's brother set aside his empty glass and plate to peer across the maplewood table. “Why the devil are you reading Debrett’s Peerage?” “It most certainly is a catalog," she replied, "and the most expedient one at my disposal. I’ve decided to take a husband. His name must be within these pages.

Who said the soirée needs to take place in the same old ballroom?" Amelia arched a brow. "All we need is a new venue.” “We?” Ravenwood reared back, horrified. “Not you, dear brother. Viscount Sheffield and I.” “Does the poor flat even know who you are?” Ravenwood burst out. Her smile turned calculating. “He’s about to.

We always have to go backward to move forward. Whether it’s to face our own missteps or reach the end of our lives with a final mistake... We always have to go back to pull ourselves out of ignorance or cast ourselves deeper into revenge.

We should go,” he said gruffly, his face inscrutable. “Why?” Her heartbeat thundered. She gripped his arms tight to keep herself from twining her own about his neck. He lowered his mouth to her ear, brushing it with a feather-soft kiss. “It isn’t safe.” Her answering shiver had nothing to do with the cold. She had never stood so close to any man, had never fought the urge to press herself even closer. “What could happen?” she whispered. He cupped her face in his hands. “Anything.

I feel the moment his gaze lifts off me and returns to the windshield, but he’s left a mark: from now on, dark cliffs, wind racing through hair, cinnamon paired with clove and pine—all of it will only mean Wyn Connor to me. A door has opened, and I know I’ll never get it shut again. Regency era or not, in a lot of ways, he ruins me.

Cupid had struck his heart to the core but had forgotten to put even a mere scratch on his beloved's.

I love stepping back in time

It was William who would climb out of his carriage unafraid and help a farmer drive a herd of cattle or sheep across a road when necessary.

It felt odd to have Regina laundering his clothes. 'Oh. If you’d rather clean them yourself . . .' No, that didn’t sound right, either.

In his letter, he’d written three different words. 'You’re not alone.' They swirled inside her head, solid and deep and resonant in a way that ethereal 'I love you' could never be.

-El verde es el color de la envidia -le recordó-. ¿Quieres que el resto de las damas me tengan envidia? -No. Quiero que los hombres me la tengan a mí.

What shall we say when people ask us how we met?” The corners of her mouth twitched. “We’ll say I was in my nightrail, brushing my hair in peaceful solitude, when you climbed up to my balcony and—” “Do you even have a balcony?” She pursed her lips. “You’re not invited upon it, regardless.” He gave her a slow, naughty smile. “No one’s ever *invited* to scale a balcony.

He’d almost redoubled his efforts to charm her. Prepared a wink and a smile and a glib response but stopped. Every time he tried to charm her, she stiffened, so he’d given her the truth instead. 'I’ve nowhere else to be.' Surprisingly, it had worked.

The only thing he was sorry for was slamming the door and perhaps raising his voice to the woman who'd been like a mother to him since the passing of his parents. Perhaps she hadn't really deserved his reaction, but he was, justifiably, weary of their meddling and hearing about his father's will. Apparently no suitable maiden was going to appear on his doorstep. He seemed to be looking for a needle in a haystack.

We, men, who work hard to get somewhere in life, to make something of ourselves in life, to mean something to someone, to have what our ancestors never had.....We, men, who toil for a name, respect, livelihood, who are pitied, mocked all for the love of a woman.....We men who need to have a coherent existence, and oneness of spirit with a single soul; We, sir, do not deserve such an audience as Ms. Adams." - Pritchard's letter

We, men, who work hard to get somewhere in life, to make something of ourselves in life, to mean something to someone, to have what our ancestors never had.....We, men, who toil for a name, respect, livelihood, who are pitied, mocked all for the love of a woman......We men who need to have a coherent existence, and oneness of spirit with a single soul; We, sir, do not deserve such an audience as Ms. Adams. " - Pritchard's letter

No, my love, if we miss our opportunity to break into [his] residence tonight, the consequences will be grave, for I’m convinced you would never let me forget it was my fault. Then you won’t invite me to help the next time you break into a gentleman’s apartments and I will be forced to sneak up on you whilst you are hiding in a dark corner, and your shout of alarm will alert the butler, which will cause a great ruckus involving Runners and magistrates. And that must be avoided at all costs.

The young ladies might behave like they were smooth and sealed as alabaster statues underneath their clothes, but then they would drop their soiled shifts on the bedchamber floor, to be whisked away and cleansed, and would thus reveal themselves to be the frail, leaking, forked bodily creatures that they really were. Perhaps that was why they spoke instructions at her from behind an embroidery hoop or over the top of a book: she had scrubbed away their sweat, their stains, their monthly blood; she knew they weren’t as rarefied as angels, and so they just couldn’t look her in the eye.

Pur essendosi ormai rassegnata a tenere il cappello fermo con la mano destra, con la quale reggeva pure l’ombrellino e una piccola borsa di velluto blu, Miss Portland procedeva spedita, lo sguardo fisso a terra, ormai a pochi metri dal calesse di Maylon. E lo avrebbe superato senza prestare alcuna attenzione, né all’uomo che lo guidava né al cavallo che lo tirava, se l’ottavo conte di Maylon non ne fosse smontato con un salto e non le si fosse parato davanti sbarrandole la strada. «Miss Portland, è un piacere insperato incontrarvi.» Sophie sussultò e sollevando lo sguardo si trovò di fronte quell’uomo. Che nelle ultime due settimane tante volte era riuscita abilmente a evitare. Lo fissò senza nascondere la propria sorpresa e, con un semplice «Lord Maylon» e una frettolosa riverenza, si apprestò a proseguire il proprio cammino. Tentativo sprecato, perché lui, di nuovo, le si parò davanti. Che cosa voleva da lei? «Ho appena fatto visita alla vostra madrina, illudendomi di incontrarvi, Miss Portland. Ma è evidente che non ho avuto questa fortuna. Così, quando vi ho vista, ho sperato che mi avreste fatto l’onore di lasciarvi ricondurre a casa.» La mano ancora sul cappello, il pericoloso ombrellino puntato verso di lui come una lancia in resta, Sophie socchiuse gli occhi come per osservarlo meglio e, senza giri di parole, gli chiese: «Per quale ragione, Lord Maylon, vorreste ricondurmi a casa, quando sono quasi arrivata?» *** Tutte le risposte che vennero alle labbra di sua signoria non avrebbero potuto essere riferite a Sophie senza il ricorso a imbarazzanti spiegazioni. Se le avesse detto che voleva riaccompagnarla a casa per poter rimanere finalmente solo con lei, anche se per pochi minuti, avrebbe dovuto spiegarle anche il perché di quel desiderio. Avrebbe dovuto confessarle che da quando si erano incontrati non faceva che pensare a lei. Con un’intensità fastidiosa e insistente, tanto da non essere più riuscito a guardare né tantomeno a toccare un’altra donna. No, questa spiegazione era fuori luogo, l’avrebbe scandalizzata: era una debuttante, dopo tutto. Avrebbe potuto dirle che voleva respirare il suo profumo, che sapeva di mughetti e viole, gioire del suo sorriso coinvolgente e pericolosamente sensuale, sentirsi circondato dalla vitalità e dal calore che il suo corpo sprigionava, ascoltare la sua voce e perdersi nei suoi occhi. Scartò anche questa ipotesi, ritenendo che tale risposta avrebbe potuto apparire a Miss Portland non solo esagerata ma del tutto sciocca. Quindi, con tono rude e sguardo severo, si limitò a fornirle più che una sola motivazione, un intero elenco di ragioni inappuntabili. «Primo, perché è tardi, Miss Portland, e Lady Rumphill era molto preoccupata che non foste ancora rientrata a casa. Secondo, perché la borsa che portate è talmente pesante che, se non ve ne liberate subito, domani avrete difficoltà a muovere le braccia... a proposito, quando contate di leggere tutti quei libri, Miss Portland?... e, terzo, perché altrimenti finirete col perdere quel delizioso cappello di paglia che a quanto pare non vuole rimanervi sulla testa. Forse perché la vostra testa è talmente dura da scoraggiare anche un cappello. Allora, salite o devo convincervi in altro modo?» «È questo che pensate della mia testa, my lord?» gli rispose lei, le labbra arrotondate in un Oh! oltraggiato. «Questo, e molto altro.» «Non oso davvero chiedervi cosa intendiate per molto altro, ma presumo sia meglio evitare di darvi quest’ulteriore soddisfazione.» E mentre diceva queste parole, docile docile Miss Portland gli permise di aiutarla a salire sul calesse, mentre lui, pur sorpreso dalla resa di lei, ancora sogghignava per quella risposta tagliente. ***

His kiss was like being on the back of a runaway horse, soaring over hills and galloping through streams and flying over logs in one spectacular jump after another, heart pounding and hair flying, breathless, exhilarated, and terrified.

Clearly you’re unfamiliar with the concept of the Regency-era duel,” I say. “Oh, I’m familiar, but since I rarely find myself flirting with the unwed daughters of powerful dukes, I figure I’m okay.” “You think we’re just going to skate over you being well versed in Regency customs?” “Harriet, I don’t get the feeling you skate over anything,” he says.

Here is an unbroken space in which a woman and a man may with the full sanction of society, practically make love to each other with their eyes, their fleeting touch, and the display of their bodies. Emblem of marriage, indeed.

He tried to disguise how tired and ill he was, how depressing the thought of death was to him and how he spent his days and nights thinking up schemes of living beyond what the prognosis said. His hope, if not his heart, would find a way.

One is only as good as one is useful.

Hope is the damnedest of all feckless emotions.

Right, I totally forgot. I can’t wait to taste the flummery.” “I’m not sure if I want to know what that is,” Manning said. “It’s a sort of jelly, but made into a mold that is shaped like a castle or a tower or just a”—Debbie Mae wiggled one hand—“big wobbly thing. The ragout of veal will be a hit, I’m sure. And the Roman punch will have to be changed a little bit. It’s usually lemon water and hot syrup with a lot of rum.

I’m not Janessa. I want to celebrate my wedding, with friends and family, while having a really good time. If someone spills punch on my dress, I’m not going to cry about it.” Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I may cry just a bit but it’s only because it’s an Austen-era reproduction and anybody would feel the pain of destroying something so lovely.

My cousin Rebecca teaches comparative English literature at Midlands College. She’s always seeing Austen in the world around her.” “Exactly.” Theresa beamed. “Life is easier to understand when you think of it in terms of Pride and Prejudice. And all the others.” “I didn’t realize there were that many others.” She thought for a moment. “Wait, I think I saw a bit of Emma on the BBC one year.” “Wasn’t it amazing?” Theresa gripped her hand, blue eyes bright with excitement. “What was your favorite part? The dance? Or the proposal?” She searched her memory for any bit of the plot line but came up empty. “I… I liked the hats,” she said. Theresa stared for a moment, then burst into laughter. Lucy felt her face warming as curious guests turned to watch. “You liked the hats. Oh, girl.

Lucy saw the delighted expressions of the guests and knew they looked like something out an Austen movie. Well, at least Jem did. She giggled a little and cleared her throat. “Something funny?” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “Just thinking how you’re just like Captain Wentworth and I’m just like Tina Turner.

His disheveled appearance could not hide his attractive qualities. And at first sight she could have sworn she'd come upon a character from one of her books¬¬—the gallant prince turned pirate. Perhaps it was his tall, strong form and unshaven face that gave him such a roguish appearance. It also wasn't hard to look into his blue eyes, which peered out from beneath his lengthy wet mop of black hair.

... You make me feel as if I am a bird soaring in the sky. When you are not with me, I am bound to the ground." He touched her soft cheek. "I want you to marry me, Ruby. Will you?

Good evening, Lady Ruby," he answered. "What are you to dream of?" he asked again with a curious expression. Ruby's cheeks turned red as she met his warm blue eyes. Her feet felt heavy as bricks, and she did not know if she could walk. She had thought she'd never see him again, but here he was now before her. She thought of a crafty remark. "Not of you," she answered. But quickly she wondered if her protest made her sound like a silly, lovesick girl. She bit her lip. "I see," he said. "Well, we will have to change that." He gave her a grin, a flash of dark sensuality that sent a bolt of excitement through her.

He gave a nod. "My future lies in your hands." "Not your future, Gerard, but the path leading to it," she suggested.

Feris was taller than the average man and his looks were sinister in the form of long dark hair and deep-set eyes. He had an untouchable, magnetic quality that consumed any beholder whose gaze fell upon him as he spoke, and when he fell silent, his penetrating stare easily defied any predators.

He gave a nod. "My future lies in your hands." "Not your future, Gerard, but the path leading to it," she suggested

I did not think you would be this impressed with my visit. I should come to see you more often." "Oh Fredrick," she said, not amused. "I am so glad to see a familiar face." "Is that all? A familiar face?" He let out a sigh. "For a minute I thought you'd missed me." She let go of him and stood back to swat him playfully on the arm. "Do not play with me, Fredrick. Of course I missed you. You have been away from my company for far too long.

Do I get a reward?" he asked as he brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss. Ruby darted her eyes away from him as she blushed with embarrassment. "For my rescue?" she dared. His eyes twinkled. "For rescuing each other." He placed his hand along her back and pulled her against his chest.

It was quite apparent that he'd been bestowed all the charms of any handsomely clad rake. A demeanor to match, Ruby thought.

Ruby's eyes shot open when she woke, for she felt a constraint around her wrists and ankles. Feeling with her fingers, she touched cold metal. Her small movement gave the chains a slight jingle. A sinking feeling washed over her at the realization that she was chained.

She opened her eyes to find a strange man above her. "Ahh," he sighed. "Your eyes are the color of jade. I imagined them to be dark, like your hair. How strange." She continued to stare at him without a word. His figure loomed over her, and he stared at her with large, black eyes, like those of a bird, she thought. His thin, black hair fell past his chin, making him appear delicate, almost beautiful. His lips curved to a smile. "I find you just as beautiful, my dear," he said. His statement shocked her; it was as if he'd read her thoughts. "Yes, I know what you think presently, but…." He paused for a moment. "Not all of them. You keep something hidden from me. Hmm, how strange. Very well. It seems you are more interesting than I first thought." "What is it that you want?" she spat out. "Oh, please do not start with that nonsense," he chided. "My plans are not for you to know. However, I will assure you that now I have seen you, I plan to keep you, at least for a while.

He rolled his neck, as if to relieve the stress of his shoulders. "Your body is encased in a strong spell. It will not open up to me," he said in frustration. "Who guards you?

To be your companion." "Companion?" He said the word as if he were spitting a bad taste from his mouth. "I am a killer. A monster! Can you not see that?

The boy continued with a desperate note. "You may have saved my life, but it is not my life any longer, it is yours.

The years passed. Untouched by age, he lived and did as his creator had suggested. Victim after victim, drink after drink, he tried to stop his hunger; however, it did not last for long. The tingling ache of emptiness crawled up from his gut until he could no longer stand it, and soon he would be out on the hunt all over again. He had never felt guilt for his murders. The power inside him reassured that he was above such emotions. Besides, he was the gate that opened their soul to his creator. He fed not only himself, but it.

At first glance, the ball seemed to be an elegant success. However, re-evaluation would allow an observer to see more than a graceful party. Many well-thought plans highlighted what this really was: a marriage market.

The party was at its peak and everyone was taking full advantage of the moment. Each lady had her eye on a certain marked beau. Elegant women conversed with eligible men, handsome and well bred. Ruby felt sorry for the under-endowed ladies and plain girls, who stood together in a small group with their mothers. Passing by the conniving little circle, she heard too clearly the strategies they had concocted. They were like vultures hunting for rotten meat. Mothers sent out their girls to meet the wealthiest and nearly deceased men of the ton.

In the realm of Ahura, there are two lands, one of light and one of dark. The land of light is where the mountain lay, and near its top is where the Zoroastrians dwell. They are the people of the land, and the chosen Twelve are their most powerful leaders and protectors. It is a beautiful sight, not like anything in mortal existence. The peak stretches up toward a sky of amber and blue. During certain hours, a purple hue explodes along the skyline, stretching out into the distance of one side of the mountain, extending farther than the eye can grasp. This is a constant. Never without light.

His kiss was cold, and his tongue made her sick. She felt a sharp prick as he pulled her even closer. Her conflicting thoughts dissolved from her mind, every thought except surrendering to him. The heat returned and she desired more, more of what he had to offer, more of what he was doing. She could not deny him any longer. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders pulling him closer, holding on to his solid form.

There he was, her confidant—strong, solid, and unbending.

The dream came again—three times in three nights and always at the first of the year.

... The freshly devoured peppermint she loved lofted from her breath and up to his nose with her loud bellow of Father in his ear, and Caxton was sure that he could smell that scent now out in the crisp night air. "You demon!" he screamed with all his might. ...

We are great friends, Fredrick, and I do not want to lose you. Marriage is something I am not ready for, even if it were with my best friend. Can we not continue to love each other the way we always have?" His eyes scanned her face and his hands reunited with hers. "My dear lady, I love you more than that," Fredrick said tenderly.

His disheveled appearance could not hide his attractive qualities. And at first sight she could have sworn she'd come upon a character from one of her books—the gallant prince turned pirate. Perhaps it was his tall, strong form and unshaven face that gave him such a roguish appearance. It also wasn't hard to look into his blue eyes, which peered out from beneath his lengthy wet mop of black hair.

I shall tell you everything you need to know about Lavinia, and you will...teach me how to dance." His grin was wicked again. "Among other things.

Blindly, Grace pushed away from the velvet-lined wall... Right into the path of a giant as tall and as hard as an oak. A firm hand caught her about the waist as strong fingers captured her wrists. She blinked the sting of unshed tears from her eyes to find herself entangled not with an oak, but with a man possessed of dark brown hair and dangerous golden eyes. A wry smile curved his lips as the orchestra began the opening strains of a waltz.

Oliver couldn’t walk away. Not when the wallflower needed rescuing. His goddamn Achilles heel, no matter how disastrous the outcome tended to be. He just wished his heroics would work out for once. He kept his eyes trained on the pretty black-haired American, every muscle tensed for action. An eternity ticked by. No one approached her. She had no one to dance with, to talk to. She looked... lost. Hauntingly lonely. Frightened and defiant all at the same time. ’Twould be better for them both if he turned around right now. Never met her eye. Never exchanged a single word. Left her to her fate and him to his. It was already too late.

She wasn’t exactly sure what Lord Waverly saw in her work, but that was the beauty of art. Everyone saw something a little different.

Annabella was like a light, a beam of pure joy. She radiated kindness and creativity. She helped him sort through his struggles, and she ignited something inside him no one else had.

She was lovely, of course. But it wasn’t that which had beguiled him so thoroughly against his will -- against his self-interest and his reason. It was the softness of her. The tender gravity in her gaze, and the reticence in her manner.

The place is an austere, wartime England. In the north Hampshire village of Steventon, Jane Austen was born in December 1775, and just 12 miles away in the cathedral city of Winchester, she died in July 1817. Such a short distance separates her birth and death, yet during her lifetime of forty-one years she travelled more than most women of this era, westwards as far as Dawlish in Devon, eastwards to Ramsgate in Kent, southwards to Portsmouth and probably as far north as Hamstall Ridware in Staffordshire. 1 England was the only country she knew, and for most of her adult life, that country was at war.

Personal hygiene, or lack of it, would undoubtedly shock us today, with the overpowering body odours and the stink of clothing, stale with sweat and often musty from damp houses. Some people smelled rather worse than others, particularly if employed in a noisome industry. This was an era before anti-perspirants, before the widespread use of soap, before a time when people washed their bodies and changed their clothing on a regular basis, and when virtually nobody immersed themselves in baths or showers. Everyone would have smelled, even genteel women like Jane Austen, who in mid-September 1796 admitted to Cassandra: ‘What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance.

....ma Elias non stava corteggiando veramente Dora, e ovviamente lei non era infatuata di lui. Dora non poteva infatuarsi di nessuno, in fondo. Era quasi certa che per una cosa del genere ci fosse bisogno di avere un'anima intera...

He was a river to her sandstone resolution. He flowed and she eroded.

Above his head, the drip had spread, dark and blooming across the plaster. A spider watched him from a gauzy web above the washstand. Light from his shrinking candle reflected in the grime on the window. He was pretty sure there was something crawling in his mattress. His stomach growled its displeasure, and somewhere a pig slept on his nightshirt. But for some reason, he was pleased.

What must it be like? Billy thought. What must it be like to be happy?

What was the point of all that education if at the end of it you came out speaking such drivel?

it strikes me that the whole world runs on theft of one kind or another.

I learned of the cruelty of man to his fellow man, and it did not come as any great surprise.

Dozens of shiny brass wall sconces created the sort of dim and atmospheric lighting I'd only ever seen in old movies and haunted houses. And the room wasn't just darkly lit. It was also just... dark. The walls were painted a dark chocolate brown that I vaguely remembered from art history classes had been fashionable in the Victorian era. A pair of tall, dark wooden bookshelves that must have weighed a thousand pounds each stood like silent sentinels on either end of the room. Atop each of them sat an ornate brass, malachite candelabra that would have seemed right at home in a sixteenth-century European cathedral. They clashed in style and in every other imaginable way with the two very modern-looking black leather sofas facing each other in the center of the room and the austere, glass-topped coffee table in the living room's center. The latter had a stack of what looked like Regency romance novels piled high at one end, further adding to the incongruity of the scene. Besides the pale green of the candelabras, the only other color to be found in the living room was in the large, garish, floral Oriental rug covering most of the floor; the bright red, glowing eyes of a deeply creepy stuffed wolf's head hanging over the mantel; and the deep-red velvet drapes hanging on either side of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

La gente era más pobre entonces y carecía de las comodidades, las diversiones y los conocimientos que tenemos hoy en día; y a pesar de todo, eran más felices. Lo que parece sugerir que la felicidad depende en mayor medida del estado de la mente —y quizás del cuerpo— que de las circunstancias y eventos que nos rodean.

Con su mirada le decía que podía bailar con quien quisiera. Podía hacerlo con sus amigas o con cualquier caballero. Vestida de hombre o de mujer. No importaba, siempre y cuando reservase para él su último baile.

Nada es personal en estos bailes, ¿verdad? Y, en el fondo, todo lo es.

He wore the clothing of the Regency era—breeches and boots and a wide cravat, like a portrait of Mr. Darcy. There

I would offer to share my knowledge of locks, which, despite your mockery, is actually quite considerable, in a private tutorial, but I fear your aunt would insist on joining that as well,” he said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

When taking a suitor to task for not demonstrating sufficient impatience to declare himself so as to scale the wall outside your bedchamber and enter your room through the window, which, you will recall, you did last night,” he said with conversational ease as if arriving to take tea in her sitting room, “it’s commonly accepted courtesy to have a window through which he may enter. In the absence of just such an aperture, I was forced to sneak into the house through the front door.

I don't think I could bear to say goodbye after I let you into my heart. - John Easton from Rose Through Time

Christmas trees and Santa Claus didn’t become part of the holiday season until the Victorian era, circa 1837. Christmas in Regency-era England was celebrated over twelve days, starting on December 25th (Christmas Day) and culminating on January 6th, the festival of the Epiphany (Twelfth Day).

Beginning in the late 18th century, a very large candle would be lit at nightfall on Christmas Eve and allowed to burn through the night.