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Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset—the baby who possessed more names than any baby could possibly need—was the heir to one of England’s oldest and richest dukedoms.
This line made me laugh
Men, she thought with disgust, were interested only in those women who terrified them.
There were rules among friends, commandments, really, and the most important one was Thou Shalt Not Lust After Thy Friend’s Sister.
“Now look here,” Simon said hotly, “I’m not some sacrificial lamb to be slaughtered on the altar of your mother.”
Simon gave her a startled look. “I don’t believe I have ever been condescended to by a woman before.” She shrugged. “It was probably past time.”
The Duke of Hastings. Daphne decided then and there that she’d be a fool if she didn’t fall in love with him.
“Mother, I am trying to have a conversation with the duke.” Violet looked at Simon. “Do you want to have this conversation with my son?” “Not particularly.” “Fine, then. Anthony, be quiet.”
As she spoke, she turned her face toward his, and in that instant, with the wind catching her hair and painting her cheeks pink, she looked so enchantingly lovely that Simon nearly forgot to breathe. Her lush mouth was caught somewhere between a laugh and a smile, and the sun glinted almost red on her hair. Here on the water, away from stuffy ballrooms, with the fresh air swirling about them, she looked natural and beautiful and just being in her presence made Simon want to grin like an idiot.
Instead, she was wondering why she had the most bizarre urge to throw her arms around the duke and never let go.
Hyacinth pondered that for a moment. “If you decide to marry my sister—” she said. Daphne choked on a biscuit. “—then you have my approval.” Simon choked on air. “But if you don’t,” Hyacinth continued, smiling shyly, “then I’d be much obliged if you’d wait for me.”
“Any man, you’ll soon learn, has an insurmountable need to blame someone else when he is made to look a fool.”
Then her relief turned into something a little more precious—joy. Because she had been the one to chase the shadows from his eyes. She wanted to banish them forever, she realized.
When his lips finally covered hers, he was not gentle. He was not cruel, but the pulse of his blood was too ragged, too urgent, and his kiss was that of a starving lover, not that of a gentle suitor.
To say that men can be bullheaded would be insulting to the bull. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 2 June 1813
He was coming to realize that he needed to hold on to something in life, and maybe she was right—maybe anger wasn’t the solution. Maybe—just maybe he could learn to hold on to love instead.
“And if you say that’s because you lot barged into her home like a herd of mentally deficient sheep, I’m disowning all three of you.”
“Sometimes,” he whispered, “I love you so much it scares me. If I could give you the world, you know I would do it, don’t you?”
