More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
She’d lowered him to cursing. He never cursed. Rakehells and dockhands cursed. Not dukes. But she perplexed him still, after all these weeks.
His attention was trained solely on Miss Priscilla Imogen Jonathan Tabitha Ichabod Pickles Joggs Hampton.
Sally Jask-eh liked this
The ringing I am doomed quieted in her head, and she could sort through the warring emotions in her breast.
First, guilt and shame. She’d been caught.
Second, mortification. She’d made up nonsense and slung it at him as fact. Repeatedly.
Which led to the third emotion—attraction.
Once she admitted to having a memory that sucked up everything around it, most men—her father and uncle excluded—backed away slowly, as if giving her enough time to fully memorize the scene of rejection.
I’m worth more than being forgotten. I’m worth more than being dismissed and discarded.”
“What is it you want?” he asked. “You.” “You can’t have me.”
Eyes off him, ladies. He’s mine.
“Oh, that was likely the worst proposal known to womankind.” “It was perfect, in fact. It hit all the important points.” “And those are?” She schooled her features but looked ready to burst into laughter once more. He presented a finger. “A summation of the courtship so far—unconventional.” He added a second finger to the first. “A suggestion of a successful future—a productive marriage.” He added a third finger. “The proposal itself.” He added a fourth and final finger. “And the fact that your father has given his permission.” “I stand corrected. Entirely perfect.”
“No? My dear duke, I dare you—” “Oh no, not this again.” “I dare you to gossip with me about the patronesses of Almack’s.”
She could watch his muscles move all day long. Jackets were mostly useless. She’d encourage him to give them up.
sometimes no matter how perfect you are, you still fail. Perfection was no meter for success, or even happiness.
