More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Roland Sutherland – Childhood nemesis turned gorgeous Sun God.
when one’s neighbour has a mysterious and clearly painful limp, one ought to have enquired if managing a heavy door would suit. Unless that would wound his pride. Even at the risk of greater injury to his leg. There seemed no way of bringing the matter forward without calling into question his capabilities. Which might result in him calling me out. I would accept, and ask Agnes to be my second. Mr. Pierce and I would duel in the street. I would die. Someone would write a verse commemorating the event.
July 4th Archibald is spending the day having Parian sing “God Save the Queen” while he—Archibald, not Parian—curses the Colonies. He is also dressed in full mourning.
I suppose when one has a peg leg and an eyepatch, one might scowl. Justifiably so. However, his auburn hair made it difficult to take such an expression with any degree of seriousness. Be a pirate, if you must, but do not try to do so as a ginger.
When one dances with a fiend, one finds toes are stepped on.
A lesser mortal might have hoped he would have passed quietly in the night. I, however, would have settled for him passing rather loudly.
“I am not convinced a quiet day is what you need.” “What on earth do you suggest? Shall we storm Parliament instead?” Arabella smiled. “My trouble never goes in a political direction, Emma.” “Well, my trouble doesn’t discriminate.”
As I passed the second floor hallway, I glared towards Archibald’s closed door. I may have even sent a hex. One cannot be sure.
“The state in which he exists? So, as we supposedly abide in grace, Mr. Flat abides in stupidity?” It was sound gospel to my ears. “I believe he abides in grace and stupidity. I imagine it’s not an uncommon human condition.”
God will not have his work made manifest by cowards.
Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of life from the highest point of view. I would not claim to have achieved such lofty heights in my oblations. Mine are usually hasty thoughts from the very low place I occupy.
Perhaps Evelyn has changed his personality complètement and, instead of a selfish creature, has transformed into an industrious soul who hasn’t time to reply as he’s too busy feeding the poor or teaching orphans to read. My doubts of such a thing are robust.
“There are many wars, Miss Lion. Not all of them are fought with rifles.”
If I were the heroine of a novel, I would have felt my heart clutch, the misery of what happened all those miles away causing me to freeze, perhaps closed my eyes tightly, hands shaking, feeling all the difficult corners of loss. But I am not the heroine of a novel. I am flesh, blood—interesting enough on occasion, with dull edges here and there, living a life of the expected and the unexpected, the wanted and the worst of the unwanted.
humble servitude to her Machiavellian plans, would happily see me married off to him so that I might produce tall babies.” “The threats you battle are real, Miss Lion.”
Then came the scent of storm on the horizon. For who should walk into the drawing room? Niall Pierce. Who apparently moves in the most unexpected heights and breadths of London’s social strata.
WHAT. NO. CANT BE. WHO IS THIS MAN.
Eventually he lifted his eyes, sensing he was being watched by more than strangers, and found me in my corner. Like a spy. His eyes crinkled. I grinned. It was nice to be found out by a friend.
“Pierce, why are we going to the conservatory?” I whispered. “I suspect that is where we will find the altar upon which you will be sacrificed,” he replied.
