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“My dear, an accomplishment is inventing the hydraulic press or investigating the properties of nitrous oxide.
violently reminded that the hydraulic press was invented in 1795. do yall think mr darcy would have enjoyed hydraulic press videos
No-one will be looking for a dead soldier in a lady’s companion.” Lady Marleigh leaned forward conspiratorially. “The truth is, outside of sentimental novels, nobody looks at a lady’s companion at all.”
“A child who can’t even make it past the age of seven without drowning itself in some brook or other,” she would have said, “is likely to make a very annoying adult.”
“What other options? Men and women are permitted to interact in three ways: marriage, ruination, and polite indifference.”
She had left him only once, and only because the vicissitudes of war had torn her from him. She could not abandon him again.
“You are not responsible,” she was saying, “for your friend’s choices.” “I left him to die.” “You were injured.”
I knew him better than my own soul. He may well have been my soul, for what little I am worth without him.”
He gazed at her, bewildered, lost, helplessly enthralled. Discourteous, of course, to stare. But that was the least of tonight’s improprieties. And how could he not? When her mouth was made for laughing. And the darkness of her eyes was as restless as the sea at midnight. And down the side of her neck trailed a comet’s tail of freckles.
“Because”—and here his tone grew rueful—“I’ve been far from gentlemanly.” Her mouth quirked. “Oh, I’m not so sure. Is not running around with guns and shouting the very essence of masculinity?” “None I would aspire to.” “And yet…” “Miss Carroll,” he said softly, torn between the sting of mortification and something close to amusement, “you are unkind.” “You know I do not mean it.” And, to his surprise, he did.
“You don’t deserve your ghosts, Gracewood. Your place is with the living.”
“I’m agreeing because you’re asking,” she managed finally. “Not because I need to be protected from… from anything about you.”
“I suppose I shall have to forgive you yet again.” “Indeed. I am the worst of hosts. Can’t shoot my guests. Can’t swear at them properly.”
Oh God, this was a torment. Wanting so terribly to be seen, and terrified of what it might mean if she was.
if he is truly lost… I am sorry, Viola, but while you and Gracewood were marching up and down France fighting for King and country, Badger and I were caring for Mira, and so I fear that she is my priority, not her brother.”
He had never paid much attention to fashion before—in men or women—but now he was half-obsessed, lost in the mysteries of a piece of ribbon or the edge of a hem, the flicker of an earring that caught the pattern of a gown. It made him want to take her apart with the same exquisite carefulness she used to put herself together,
“I want you to be happy also.” Her voice was wavering. She took a second to steady it. “Perhaps we could promise each other?” He lifted his brows. “Promise each other to be happy?” “Promise each other to try,” she finished desperately.
You could wear breeches and none would look askance, or if they did, I would have them shot. Because I’m a duke.”
“So you see,” Miss Carroll went on, awkwardly, “if you would like to shave, I am at your service. And the likelihood of my inadvertently murdering you is very low.” He gave a little cough. “I take comfort in knowing that when you murder me it will not be inadvertent.”
“Why is it virtue in women to preserve what it is virtue in men to pursue?
Tell me you feel nothing for me, and I will honour it without question. But I will not yield to less.”
“I would marry you tomorrow if I thought you would have me.” In that moment she knew, starkly, that he meant every word, and it terrified her. “You… you’re mad.” That made him laugh. “I know madness, and this is not it. A word from you, a glance, and I would lay all I have—all I am, or at the very least what’s left of me—at your feet.
Your happiness was my happiness. Where you led, I followed with all my heart. I would have died for you—and I nearly did—but I could not live for you.”
“I don’t want to go back.” Gracewood reached for his cane and struggled upright. “I want to go forward. And I’m not looking for perfect. Only for you.”
“You are rich, titled, and beautiful,” Viola pointed out. “Anybody who dislikes you will be required to do it from a safe distance.”
“If he was not already dead,” Viola said softly, “I would wish him so.” “My sweetest friend.” His fingers tightened around hers. “When we are next at Morgencald we shall spit on his grave together.”
“Gracewood”—she could not help the sharpness of her tone—“we used to wrestle and fight with swords. You think because I’m a woman I am suddenly weak?” “God. Never.”
“I believe it eminently possible to find some things beautiful even when we understand them.”
“Suffering isn’t something we earn, Gracewood. It’s something we bear.”
“That the world expects weakness from women is an inequity that we can sometimes twist to our favour.”
“Next time,” he said, “leave the shoes. You always wear such pretty shoes.”
“I know I am no practised coquette,” she told him, shaking her head in exasperated amusement, “but you are utterly hopeless. I am trying to seduce you. Can’t you tell?”
“We tell ladies that their virtue is their shield, when it is no such thing. When the only true protection against the predations of powerful men is—” “A pistol?” suggested Miranda. “I was going to say a society of laws, the companionship of loyal friends, and a world that knows better.” Viola had joined them upon the road. “A pistol may prove easier to come by.”
“I know your debts are substantial. I will buy them all. And then I will take apart everything you have. Sell off every last shred of this life you would threaten my sister to keep. I will own you, Stirling, and you will have nothing. You will be nothing. And”—a pause—“I am increasingly tempted to let Mira hit you with another vase.
