Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women, #3)

by Evie Dunmore

But perhaps every woman had known a moment when she felt as though she were drowning, and the only comfort was that there could be some beauty, some dignity, in that, too.

she couldn’t help but think that this was how Persephone would be dragged into the underworld in 1880s London: not screaming, not twisting wildly, but painfully composed while Hades wore a velvet jacket.

“Much that I despise,” he said hoarsely, “and all that I desire, meets in you. And it frustrates me beyond reason.”

and it had occurred to her that she smiled more often to preempt someone else’s displeasure than to express her joy. Any remotely self-determined woman should claim control over the curve of her own mouth.

It seems that labor, once it crosses the door into a home, is magically transformed into a priceless act of love or female duty—meanwhile, women’s hands are raw from very real chores.”

Hattie brazenly slipped her whole hand into Lucian’s. “I am the orange to your blue,” she said. He gently pressed her fingers. “My fanciful lass.” “It means we are fine on our own,” she said. “But side by side, we’re brilliant.”