Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith, #1)

by Julia Quinn

“You need to get better,” she whispered. “I don’t know where I’ll be if you don’t.” And then, so softly that he barely heard her: “I think you might be my touchstone.”

But he was glad she was here. He had a feeling she might be his touchstone, too.

People saw what they expected to see. It was one of the most basic truisms of life.

The Smythe-Smith musicale. It finished off what the Crusades had begun. There wasn’t a man alive who could maintain a romantic thought when faced with the memory—or the threat—of a Smythe-Smith musicale.