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Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset,
“I’ll lay the blame wherever I choose,” Violet muttered.
“I don’t like your tone, Daphne Bridgerton,” Violet said, her eyes narrowing. Daphne bit back another smile. “I don’t like your tone” was Violet’s standard answer when one of her children was winning an argument.
I-Am-Your-Mother-Don’t-You-Dare-Defy-Me gaze.
“Now, Mother,” Daphne said quickly, “I know what you’re thinking, and I assure you that you don’t have to worry about Gregory putting creamed potatoes on Francesca’s chair again. I’m certain he has outgrown such childish behavior.” “He did it last week!” “Well, then,” Daphne said briskly, not missing a beat, “then I’m sure he’s learned his lesson.”
(It had looked as if the pea in question had originated at Hyacinth’s end of the table, but the littlest Bridgerton had looked so innocent and angelic that Simon had difficulty believing she had actually aimed the legume at her brother.)
“If you think I am going to say, ‘Am not,’ you are sadly mistaken.”
“You know,” Anthony finally said, “cold milk might be quite refreshing.” “I was just thinking that very thing!”
“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.”
He told her she’d looked like a radiant duck. This had not been the correct answer.)
