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~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
http://sl.glitter-graphics.net/pub/1...j9v9vbp9fx.gif كيفكم بنات هذا موضوع خاص بالمؤلفة Julia Quinn و هي من النوع التاريخي و هي من طلب الأخت الجديدة Korabica أتمنى تعجبكم سوف أضع مجموعة و اللي تحب تشارك فأهلاً و سهلاً sommanha :1HQ05157: :1HQ05157::1HQ05157: :1HQ05157::1HQ05157::1HQ05157::1HQ05157: :coolll::coolll: |
Julia Quinn
http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/3/17789.jpg Julia Quinn (Julie Cotler Pottinger) Julia Colter Pottinger is a best-selling American writer of historical romances, who says she chose the penname Julia Quinn so her Regency romances would be on bookshelves next to those of the successful romance writer Amanda Quick . She has appeared on the New York Times Bestseller List four times. :lol:Julia Colter obtained a degree in Art History form Harvard, later she decided to attend medical school. She started writing her first book one month after finishing college and she postponed medical school for two years while she wrote two more novels. After only a few short months of studying medicine in Yale University, however, she realized that she would much preferred writing to dissections. She left medical school and devoted herself full-time to her writing. Married to Paul Pottinger, she lives in Colorado. :lol::lol: :lol::lol::lol: :liilase::liilase: |
Julia Quinn - Minx
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:flowers2: :flowers2::flowers2: :flowers2: Julia Quinn - Minx It Takes a Minx to Tempt a Rogue... Beautiful and feisty Henrietta Barrett has never followed the dictates of society. She manages her elderly guardian's estate, prefers to wear breeches rather than dresses, and answers to the unlikely name of Henry. But when her guardian passes away, her beloved home falls into the hands of a distant cousin. And it Takes a Rogue to Tame Her William Dunford, London's most elusive bachelor, is stunned to learn that he's inherited property, a title...and a ward bent on making his first visit his last. Henry is determined to continue running the Cornwall estate without help from the handsome new lord, but Dunford is just as sure he can change things...starting with his wild young ward. But turning Henry into a lady makes her not only the darling of the ton, but an irresistible attraction to the man who thought he could never be tempted. http://img1.fantasticfiction.co.uk/i...n18/n91676.jpg http://www.fictiondb.com/coversth/th_0380785625.jpg sommanha http://covers.fictiondb.com/covers/0380785625.jpg :lol: :lol::lol: :lol::lol::lol: :liilase::liilase: |
Julia Quinn - It's In His Kiss
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:7_5_129: :7_5_129::7_5_129: :7_5_129: Julia Quinn - It's In His Kiss Meet Our Hero ... Gareth St. Clair is in a bind. His father, who detests him, is determined to beggar the St. Clair estates and ruin his inheritance. Gareth's sole bequest is an old family diary, which may or may not contain the secrets of his past .. and the key to his future. The problem is -- it's written in Italian, of which Gareth speaks not a word. Meet Our Heroine ... All the ton agreed: there was no one quite like Hyacinth Bridgerton. She's fiendishly smart, devilishly outspoken, and according to Gareth, probably best in small doses. But there's something about her -- something charming and vexing -- that grabs him and won't quite let go ... Meet Poor Mr. Mozart ... Or don't. But rest assured, he's spinning in his grave when Gareth and Hyacinth cross paths at the annual -- and annually discordant -- Smythe-Smith musicale. To Hyacinth, Gareth's every word seems a dare, and she offers to translate his diary, even though her Italian is slightly less than perfect. But as they delve into the mysterious text, they discover that the answers they seek lie not in the diary, but in each other ... and that there is nothing as simple -- or as complicated -- as a single, perfect kiss. http://img1.fantasticfiction.co.uk/i...27/n138340.jpg http://covers.fictiondb.com/covers/006053124X.jpg :flowers2: :flowers2::flowers2: :flowers2::flowers2::flowers2: :party0007::party0007: |
Julia Quinn - Mr Cavendish I Presume
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:lol: :lol::lol: :lol: Julia Quinn - Mr Cavendish I Presume Amelia Willoughby has been engaged to the Duke of Wyndham for as long as she can remember. Literally. A mere six months old when the contracts were signed, she has spent the rest of her life waiting. And waiting. And waiting . . . for Thomas Cavendish, the oh-so-lofty duke, to finally get around to marrying her. But as she watches him from afar, she has a sneaking suspicion that he never thinks about her at all . . . It's true. He doesn't. Thomas rather likes having a fiancée- all the better to keep the husband-hunters at bay - and he does intend to marry her . . . eventually. But just when he begins to realize that his bride might be something more than convenient, Thomas's world is rocked by the arrival of his long-lost cousin, who may or may not be the true Duke of Wyndham. And if Thomas is not the duke, then he's not engaged to Amelia. Which is the cruelest joke of all, because this arrogant and illustrious duke has made the mistake of falling in love . . . with his own fiancée http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51oZMWd%2BjHL.jpg sommanha http://covers.fictiondb.com/covers/0060876115.jpg :party0007: :party0007::party0007: :party0007::party0007::party0007::party0007: :liilase::liilase: |
Julia Quinn - The Lost Duke of Wyndham
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:flowers2: :flowers2::flowers2: :flowers2: Julia Quinn - The Lost Duke of Wyndham WILLTHE REAL DUKE OF WYNDHAM PLEASE STAND UP? Jack Audley has been a highwayman. A soldier. And he has always been a rogue. What he is not, and never wanted to be, is a peer of the realm, responsible for an ancient heritage and the livelihood of hundreds. But when he is recognized as the long-lost son of the House of Wyndham, his carefree life is over. And if his birth proves to be legitimate, then he will find himself with the one title he never wanted: Duke of Wyndham. Grace Eversleigh has spent the last five years toiling as the companion to the dowager Duchess of Wyndham. It is a thankless job, with very little break from the routine . . . until Jack Audley lands in her life, all rakish smiles and debonair charm. He is not a man who takes no for an answer, and when she is in his arms, she's not a woman who wants to say no. But if he is the true duke, then he is the one man she can never have . . . http://img1.fantasticfiction.co.uk/i...50/n252761.jpg sommanha http://covers.fictiondb.com/covers/0060876107.jpg :lol: :lol::lol: :lol::lol::lol: :party0007::party0007: |
Julia Quinn - Dancing at Midnight
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:flowers2: :flowers2::flowers2: :flowers2: Julia Quinn - Dancing at Midnight Defying the Rules sommanhaLady Arabella Blydon can sense the secrets smoldering behind the dark, penetrating gaze of Lord John Blackwood. Still she desires his handsome, mysterious stranger who stirs her passions like no other mann - even as he warns her to stay away. War scarred Lord John's body and soul. But this brazen, intoxicating, infuriating bluestocking poses an even greater threat: she is forcing him to care again. For Belle is a woman of bold, independent spirit, equally unconcerned about society's petty restrictions and love's hidden perils. And the beautiful, determined schemer will not rest until she returns joy and light to the damaged lord's life...and wins a place in his shuttered heart forever. http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51Vuw4mhCIL.jpg http://covers.fictiondb.com/covers/0380780755.jpg :lol: :lol::lol: :lol::lol::lol: :dancingmonkeyff8::dancingmonkeyff8: |
Julia Quinn -When He Was Wicked
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When He Was Wicked by Julia Quinn After years as London's most notorious rake, Michael Stirling took one look at Francesca Bridgerton and fell in love so fast and hard that it was a wonder he was able to remain standing. Unfortunately, she was the one woman he could never have... http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/n18/n91670.jpg |
Julia Quinn - To Sir Phillip, With Love
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To Sir Phillip, With Love by Julia Quinn After a year of secret correspondence, Eloise Bridgerton traveled halfway across England to meet Sir Phillip Crane, the man she hoped would be her perfect match. He wasn't. But she can't help but wonder... could this imperfect man be perfect for her? http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/n18/n91668.jpg |
The Viscount Who Loved Me
The Viscount Who Loved me 2nd Epilogue The second book in the Bridgerton series http://img1.fantasticfiction.co.uk/i...n18/n91683.jpg by Julia Quinn 1814 promises to be another eventful season, but not, This Author believes, for Anthony Bridgerton, London's most elusive bachelor, who has shown no indication that he plans to marry. And in all truth, why should he? When it comes to playing the consummate rake, nobody does it better... -Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, April 1814 But this time the gossip columnists have it wrong. Anthony Bridgerton hasn't just decided to marry-he's even chosen a wife! The only obstacle is his intended's older sister, Kate Sheffield-the most meddlesome woman ever to grace a London ballroom. The spirited schemer is driving Anthony mad with her determination to stop the betrothal, but when he closes his eyes at night, Kate's the woman haunting his increasingly erotic dreams... Contrary to popular belief, Kate is quite sure that reformed rakes to not make the best husbands-and Anthony Bridgerton is the most wicked rogue of them all. Kate's determined to protect her sister-but she fears her own heart is vulnerable. And when Anthony's lips touch hers, she's suddenly afraid she might not be able to resist the reprehensible rake herself... |
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Sorry I was not able to upload the file properly.
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what happens in london
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What Happens In London When Olivia Bevelstoke is told that her new neighbor may have killed his fiancée, she doesn't believe it for a second, but still, how can she help spying on him, just to be sure? So she stakes out a spot near her bedroom window, cleverly concealed by curtains, watches, and waits... and discovers a most intriguing man, who is definitely up to something. Sir Harry Valentine works for the boring branch of the War Office, translating documents vital to national security. He's not a spy, but he's had all the training, and when a gorgeous blonde begins to watch him from her window, he is instantly suspicious. But just when he decides that she's nothing more than a nosy debutante, he discovers that she might be engaged to a foreign prince, who might be plotting against England. And when Harry is roped into spying on Olivia, he discovers that he might be falling for her himself http://reneesbookaddiction.files.wor...-in-london.jpg |
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Splendid RECKLESS SPLENDOR American heiress Emma Dunster has always been fun-loving and independent with no wish to settle into marriage. She plans to enjoy her Season in London in more unconventional ways than husband-hunting. But this time Emma's high jinks lead her into dangerous temptation... Alexander Ridgely, the Duke of Ashbourne, is a notorious rake who carefully avoids the risk of love... until he plants one reckless kiss on the sensuous lips of this high-spirited innocent. . . and condemns himself to delicious torment. Little does he know that his passion has touched the very soul of the lovely enchantress... and committed them both to a lifetime of splendid ecstasy. http://g-ecx.images-amazon.com/image...82ec3010.L.jpg |
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To Catch an Heiress WHAT'S AN HEIRESS TO DO? When fetching Caroline Trent is kidnapped by Blake Ravenscroft she doesn't struggle to elude this dangerously handsome agent of the crown. After all, she's been spending most of her days running from the unwanted marriage proposals of her guardian's nitwit son. Yes, Blake believes she's a notorious spy named Carlotta de Leon, but, for six weeks until her twenty-first birthday, when she'll gain control of her fortune, hiding out in the titillating company of a dark mysterious captor is convenient-and romantic. WHO'S A SPY TO LOVE? Blake Ravenscroft's mission is to bring "Carlotta" to justice, not to fall in love. His heart has been hardened by years of intrigue and the loss of his beloved fiancee. But this little temptress proves oddly disarming and thoroughly kissable, and suddenly, the unthinkable becomes possible-that this mismatched couple might be destined for love. http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/n18/n91675.jpg |
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How to Marry a Marquis When James Sidwell, Marquis of Riverdale, offered to help her find a husband, he never dreamed that the only candidate he could propose would be himself.... SHE'S TRYING TO FOLLOW THE RULES When Elizabeth Hotchkiss- stumbles upon a most intriguing book, How to Marry a Marquis, in her employer's library, she's convinced someone is playing a cruel joke. With three younger siblings to support, she knows she has to marry for money, but who might have guessed how desperate she's become? A guidebook to seduction might be just the thing she needs--and what harm could there be in taking a little peek? BUT HE'S MAKING HIS OWN James Sidwell, the Marquis of Riverdale, has been summoned to rescue his aunt from a blackmailer, a task that requires him to pose as the new estate manager--and he immediately sheds suspicion on his aunt's companion, Elizabeth. Intrigued by the deliciously alluring young woman with the curious little rulebook, he gallantly offers to help her find herself a husband...by practicing her wiles on him. But when practice becomes all too perfect, James decides there's only one rule worth following--that Elizabeth marry her marquis. http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/n18/n91674.jpg |
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An Offer from a Gentleman Sophie Beckett never dreamed she'd be able to sneak into Lady Bridgerton's famed masquerade ball -- or that "Prince Charming" would be waiting there for her! Though the daughter of an earl, Sophie has been relegated to the role of servant by her disdainful stepmother. But now, spinning in the strong arms of the debonair and devastatingly handsome Benedict Bridgerton, she feels like royalty. Alas, she knows all enchantments must end when the clock strikes midnight. Who was that extraordinary woman? Ever since that magical night, a radiant vision in silver has blinded Benedict to the attractions of any other -- except, perhaps, this alluring and oddly familiar beauty dressed in housemaid's garb whom he feels compelled to rescue from a most disagreeable situation. He has sworn to find and wed his mystery miss, but this breathtaking maid makes him weak with wanting her. Yet, if he offers her his heart, will Benedict sacrifice his only chance for a fairy tale love? http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/n18/n91673.jpg download http://www.liillas.com/up2//uploads/...e012ceccd2.zip http://www.liillas.com/up2//uploads/...e012ceccd2.zip http://www.liillas.com/up2//uploads/...e012ceccd2.zip |
hi :flowers2: recently i found a link to all bridgerton family series Hope everyone enjoy reading them |
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hi ice princess, I only found these in my collection :
The Duke & I Romancing Mr. Bridgerton & An offer from a Gentleman :8_4_134: ط´ط¨ظƒط© ظ„ظٹظ„ط§ط³ ط§ظ„ط«ظ‚ط§ظپظٹط© |
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تفضلي عزيزتي بس الأولى غير متوفرة عندي حالياً للأسف
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اقتباس:
:liilas::liilase::liilas: :8_4_134: |
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للعزيزات يلي طلبوا الملفات مع التحية
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يعطيكي ألف عافيه ريمو :friends::flowers2::8_4_134:
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Julia Quinn - [Bridgerton3] - 2nd Epilogue - An Offer from a Gentleman
Julia Quinn An Offer from a Gentleman The Second Epilogue *******s Begin Reading About the Author Copyright About the Publisher At five-and-twenty, Miss Posy Reiling was considerednearly a spinster. There were those who might have considered her past the cutoff from young miss to hopeless ape leader; three-and-twenty was often cited as the unkind chronological border. But Posy was, as Lady Bridgerton (her unofficial guardian) often remarked, a unique case. In debutante years, Lady Bridgerton insisted, Posy was only twenty,maybe twenty-one. Eloise Bridgerton, the eldest unmarried daughter of the house, put it a little more bluntly: Posy’s first few years out in society had been worthless and should not be counted against her. Eloise’s youngest sister Hyacinth, never one to be verbally outdone, simply stated that Posy’s years between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two had been “utter rot.” It was at this point that Lady Bridgerton had sighed, poured herself a stiff drink, and sunk into a chair. Eloise, whose mouth was as sharp as Hyacinth’s (though thankfully tempered by some discretion), had remarked that they had best get Hyacinth married off quickly or their mother was going to become an alcoholic. Lady Bridgerton had not appreciated the comment, although she privately thought it might be true. Hyacinth was like that. But this is a story about Posy. And as Hyacinth has a tendency to take over anything in which she is involved…please do forget about her for the remainder of the tale. The truth was, Posy’s first few years on the Marriage Marthad been utter rot. It was true that she’d made her debut at a proper age of seventeen. And, indeed, she was the stepdaughter of the late Earl of Penwood, who had so prudently made arrangements for her dowry before his untimely death several years prior. She was perfectly pleasant to look at, if perhaps a little plump, she had all of her teeth, and it had been remarked upon more than once that she had uncommonly kind eyes. Anyone assessing her on paper would not understand why she’d gone so long without even a single proposal. But anyone assessing her on paper might not have known about Posy’s mother, Araminta Gunningworth, the dowager Countess of Penwood. Araminta was splendidly beautiful, even more so than Posy’s elder sister, Rosamund, who had been blessed with fair hair, a rosebud mouth, and eyes of cerulean blue. Araminta was ambitious, too, and enormously proud of her ascent from the gentry to the aristocracy. She’d gone from Miss Wincheslea to Mrs. Reiling to Lady Penwood, although to hear her speak of it, her mouth had been dripping silver spoons since the day of her birth. But Araminta had failed in one regard; she had not been able to provide the earl with an heir. Which meant that despite theLady before her name, she did not wield a terribly large amount of power. Nor did she have access to the type of fortune she felt was her due. And so she pinned her hopes on Rosamund. Rosamund, she was sure, would make a splendid match. Rosamund was achingly beautiful. Rosamund could sing and play the pianoforte, and if she wasn’t talented with a needle, then she knew exactly how to poke Posy, who was. And since Posy did not enjoy repeated needle-sized skin punctures, it was Rosamund’s embroidery that always looked exquisite. Posy’s, on the other hand, generally went unfinished. And since money was not as plentiful as Araminta would have her peers believe, she lavished what they had on Rosamund’s wardrobe, and Rosamund’s lessons, and Rosamund’severything. She wasn’t about to let Posy look embarrassingly shabby, but really, there was no point in spending more than she had to on her. You couldn’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, and you certainly couldn’t turn a Posy into a Rosamund. But. (And this is a rather large but.) Things didn’t turn out so well for Araminta. It’s a terribly long story, and one probably deserving of a book of its own, but suffice it to say that Araminta cheated another young girl of her inheritance, one Sophia Beckett, who happened to be the earl’s illegitimate daughter. She would have got away with it completely, because who cares about a bastard, except that Sophie had had the temerity to fall in love with Benedict Bridgerton, second son in the aforementioned (and extremely well-connected) Bridgerton family. This would not have been enough to seal Araminta’s fate, except that Benedict decided he loved Sophie in return. Quite madly. And while he might have overlooked embezzlement, he certainly could not do the same for having Sophie hauled off to jail (on mostly fraudulent charges). Things were looking grim for dear Sophie, even with intervention on the part of Benedict and his mother, the also aforementioned Lady Bridgerton. But then who should show up to save the day but Posy? Posy, who had been ignored for most of her life. Posy, who had spent years feeling guilty for not standing up to her mother. Posy, who was still a little bit plump and never would be as beautiful as her sister, but who would always have thekindest eyes. Araminta had disowned her on the spot, but before Posy had even a moment to wonder if this constituted good or bad fortune, Lady Bridgerton had invited her to live in her home for as long as she wished. Posy might have spent twenty-two years being poked and pricked by her sister, but she was no fool. She accepted gladly and did not even bother to return home to collect her belongings. And as for Araminta, well, she’d quickly ascertained that it was in her best interest not to make any public comment about the soon-to-be Sophia Bridgerton unless it was to declare her an absolute joy and delight. Which she didn’t do. But she didn’t go around calling her a bastard, either, which was really all anyone could have expected. All of this explains (in an admittedly roundabout way) why Lady Bridgerton was Posy’s unofficial guardian, and why she considered her a unique case. To her mind, Posy had not truly debuted until she came to live with her. Penwood dowry or no, who on earth would have looked twice at a girl in ill-fitting clothes, always stuck off in the corner, trying her best not to be noticed by her own mother? And if she was still unmarried at twenty-five, why, that was certainly equal to a mere twenty for anyone else. Or so Lady Bridgerton said. And no one really wanted to contradict her. As forPosy , she often said that her life had not really begun until she went to jail. This tended to require some explaining, but most of Posy’s statements did. Posy didn’t mind. The Bridgertons actuallyliked her explanations. They likedher. Even better, she rather liked herself. Which was more important than she’d ever realized. Sophie Bridgerton considered her life to be almost perfect. She adored her husband, loved her cozy home, and was quite certain that her two little boys were the most handsome, brilliant creatures ever to be born anywhere, anytime, any…well, anyany one could come up with. It was true that theyhad to live in the country because even with the sizable influence of the Bridgerton family, Sophie was, on account of her birth, not likely to be accepted by some of the more particular London hostesses. (Sophie called them particular. Benedict called them something else entirely.) But that didn’t matter. Not really. She and Benedict preferred life in the country, so it was no great loss. And even though it would always be whispered that Sophie’s birth was not what it should be, the official story was that she was a distant—and completely legitimate—relative of the late Earl of Penwood. And even though no onereally believed Araminta when she’d confirmed the story, confirmed it she had. Sophie knew that by the time her children were grown, the rumors would be old enough so that no doors would be closed to them should they wish to take their spots in London society. All was well. All was perfect. Almost. Really, all she needed to do was find a husband for Posy. Not just any husband, of course. Posy deserved the best. “She is not for everyone,” Sophie had admitted to Benedict the previous day, “but that does not mean she is not a brilliant catch.” “Of course not,” he murmured. He was trying to read the newspaper. It was three days old, but to his mind it was all still news to him. She looked at him sharply. “I mean, of course,” he said quickly. And then, when she did not immediately carry on, he amended, “I mean whichever one means that she will make someone a splendid wife.” Sophie let out a sigh. “The problem is that most people don’t seem to realize how lovely she is.” Benedict gave a dutiful nod. He understood his role in this particular tableau. It was the sort of conversation that wasn’t really a conversation. Sophie was thinking aloud, and he was there to provide the occasional verbal prompt or gesture. “Or at least that’s what your mother reports,” Sophie continued. “Mmm-hmm.” “She doesn’t get asked to dance nearly as often as she ought.” “Men are beasts,” Benedict agreed, flipping to the next page. “It’s true,” Sophie said with some emotion. “Present company excluded, of course.” “Oh, of course.” “Most of the time,” she added, a little waspishly. He gave her a wave. “Think nothing of it.” “Are you listening to me?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Every word,” he assured her, actually lowering the paper enough to see her above the top edge. He hadn’t actuallyseen her eyes narrow, but he knew her well enough to hear it in her voice. “We need to find a husband for Posy.” He considered that. “Perhaps she doesn’t want one.” “Of course she wants one!” “I have been told,” Benedict opined, “that every woman wants a husband, but in my experience, this is not precisely true.” Sophie just stared at him, which he did not find surprising. It was a fairly lengthy statement, coming from a man with a newspaper. “Consider Eloise,” he said. He shook his head, which was his usual inclination while thinking of his sister. “How many men has she refused now?” “At least three,” Sophie said, “but that’s not the point.” “Whatis the point, then?” “Posy.” “Right,” he said slowly. Sophie leaned forward, her eyes taking on an odd mix of bewilderment and determination. “I don’t know why the gentlemen don’t see how wonderful she is.” “She’s an acquired taste,” Benedict said, momentarily forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to offer a real opinion. “What?” “Yousaid she’s not for everyone.” “But you’re not supposed to—” She slumped a bit in her seat. “Never mind.” “What were you going to say?” “Nothing.” “Sophie,” he prodded. “Just that you weren’t supposed to agree with me,” she muttered. “But even I can recognize how ridiculous that is.” It was a splendid thing, Benedict had long since realized, to have a sensible wife. Sophie didn’t speak for some time, and Benedict would have resumed his perusal of the newspaper, except that it was too interesting watching her face. She’d chew on her lip, then let out a weary sigh, then straighten a bit, as if she’d got a good thought, then frown. Really, he could have watched her all afternoon. “Canyou think of anyone?” she suddenly asked. “For Posy?” She gave him a look. Awhom-else-might-I-be-speaking-of look. He let out a breath. He should have anticipated the question, but he’d begun to think of the painting he was working on in his studio. It was a portrait of Sophie, the fourth he’d done in their three years of marriage. He was beginning to think that he’d not got her mouth quite right. It wasn’t the lips so much as the corners of her mouth. A good portraitist needed to understand the muscles of the human body, even those on the face, and— “Benedict!” “What about Mr. Folsom?” he said quickly. “The solicitor?” He nodded. “He looks shifty.” She was right, he realized, now that he thought on it. “Sir Reginald?” Sophie gave him another look, visibly disappointed with his selection. “He’sfat. ” “So is—” “She isnot ,” Sophie cut in. “She is pleasantly plump.” “I was going to say that so is Mr. Folsom,” Benedict said, feeling the need to defend himself, “but that you had chosen to comment upon his shiftiness.” “Oh.” He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. “Shiftiness is far worse than excess weight,” she mumbled. “I could not agree more,” Benedict said. “What about Mr. Woodson?” “Who?” “The new vicar. The one you said—” “—has a brilliant smile!” Sophie finished excitedly. “Oh, Benedict, that’s perfect! Oh, I love you love you love you!” At that, she practically leapt across the low table between them and into his arms. “Well, I love you, too,” he said, and he congratulated himself on having had the foresight to shut the door to the drawing room earlier. The newspaper flew over his shoulder, and all was right with the world. The season drew to a close a few weeks later, and so Posy decided to accept Sophie’s invitation for an extended visit. London was hot and sticky and rather smelly in the summer, and a sojourn in the country seemed just the thing. Besides, she had not seen either of her godsons in several months, and she had beenaghast when Sophie had written to say that Alexander had already begun to lose some of his baby fat. Oh, he was just the most squeezable, adorable thing. She had to go see him before he grew too thin. She simply had to. And it would be nice to see Sophie, too. She’d written that she was still feeling a bit weak, and Posy did like to be a help. A few days into the visit, she and Sophie were taking tea, and talk turned, as it occasionally did, to Araminta and Rosamund, whom Posy occasionally bumped into in London. After over a year of silence, her mother had finally begun to acknowledge her, but even so, conversation was brief and stilted. Which, Posy had decided, was for the best. Her mother might have had nothing to say to her, but she didn’t have anything to say to her mother, either. As far as epiphanies went, it had been rather liberating. “I saw her outside the milliner,” Posy said, fixing her tea just the way she liked it, with extra milk and no sugar. “She’d just come down the steps, and I couldn’t avoid her, and then I realized I didn’t want to avoid her. Not that I wished to speak with her, of course.” She took a sip. “Rather, I didn’t wish to expend the energy needed to hide.” Sophie nodded approvingly. “And then we spoke, and said nothing, really, although she did manage to get in one of her clever little insults.” “I hate that.” “I know. She’sso good at it.” “It’s a talent,” Sophie remarked. “Not a good one, but a talent nonetheless.” “Well,” Posy continued, “I must say, I was rather mature about the entire encounter. I let her say what she wished, then I bid her good-bye. And then I had the most amazing realization.” “What is that?” Posy gave a smile. “I like myself.” “Well, of course you do,” Sophie said, blinking with confusion. “No, no, you don’t understand,” Posy said. It was strange, because Sophie ought to have understood perfectly. She was the only person in the world who knew what it meant to live as Araminta’s unfavored child. But there was something so sunny about Sophie. There always had been. Even when Araminta treated her as a virtual slave, Sophie had never seemed beaten. There had always been a singular spirit to her, a sparkle. It wasn’t defiance; Sophie was the least defiant person Posy knew, except perhaps for herself. Not defiance…resilience. Yes, that was it exactly. At any rate, Sophie ought to have understood what Posy had meant, but she didn’t, so Posy said, “I didn’t always like myself. And why should I have done? My own mother didn’t like me.” “Oh, Posy,” Sophie said, her eyes brimming with tears, “you mustn’t—” “No, no,” Posy said good-naturedly. “Don’t think anything of it. It doesn’t bother me.” Sophie just looked at her. “Well, not anymore,” Posy amended. She eyed the plate of biscuits sitting on the table between them. She really oughtn’t to eat one. She’d had three, and shewanted three more, so maybe that meant that if she had one, she was really abstaining from two… She twiddled her fingers against her leg. Probably she shouldn’t have one. Probably she should leave them for Sophie, who had just had a baby and needed to regain her strength. Although Sophie did look perfectly recovered, and little Alexander was already four months old… “Posy?” She looked up. “Is something amiss?” Posy gave a little shrug. “I can’t decide whether I wish to eat a biscuit.” Sophie blinked. “A biscuit? Really?” “There are at least two reasons why I should not, and probably more than that.” She paused, frowning. “You looked quite serious,” Sophie remarked. “Almost as if you were conjugating Latin.” “Oh, no, I should look far more at peace if I were conjugating Latin,” Posy declared. “That would be quite simple, as I know nothing about it. Biscuits, on the other hand, I ponder endlessly.” She sighed and looked down at her middle. “Much to my dismay.” “Don’t be silly, Posy,” Sophie scolded. “You are the loveliest woman of my acquaintance.” Posy smiled and took the biscuit. The marvelous thing about Sophie was that she wasn’t lying. Sophie really did think her the loveliest woman of her acquaintance. But then again, Sophie had always been that sort of person. She saw kindness where others saw…Well, where others didn’t even bother to look, to be frank. Posy took a bite and chewed, deciding that it was absolutely worth it. Butter, sugar, and flour. What could be better? “I received a letter from Lady Bridgerton today,” Sophie remarked. Posy looked up in interest. Technically, Lady Bridgerton could mean Sophie’s sister-in-law, the wife of the current viscount. But they both knew she referred to Benedict’s mother. To them, she would always be Lady Bridgerton. The other one was Kate. Which was just as well, as that was Kate’s preference within the family. “She said that Mr. Fibberly called.” When Posy did not comment, Sophie added, “He was looking for you.” “Well, of course he was,” Posy said. “Hyacinth is too young, and Eloise terrifies him.” “Eloise terrifies me,” Sophie admitted. “Or at least she used to. Hyacinth, I’m quite sure, will terrify me to the grave.” “You just need to know how to manage her,” Posy said with a wave. It was true, Hyacinth Bridgertonwas terrifying, but the two of them had always got on quite well. It was probably due to Hyacinth’s firm (some might say unyielding) sense of justice. When she’d found out that Posy’s mother had never loved her as well as Rosamund… Well, Posy had never told tales, and she wasn’t going to begin now, but let it be said that Araminta had never again eaten fish. Or chicken. Posy had got this from the servants, and they always had the most accurate gossip. “But you were about to tell me about Mr. Fibberly,” Sophie said, still sipping at her tea. Posy shrugged, even though she hadn’t been about to do any such thing. “He’s so dull.” “Handsome?” Posy shrugged again. “I can’t tell.” “One generally need only look at the face.” “I can’t get past his dullness. I don’t think he laughs.” “It can’t be that bad.” “Oh, it can, I assure you.” She reached out and took another biscuit before she realized she hadn’t meant to. Oh well, it was already in her hand now, she couldn’t very well put it back. She waved it in the air as she spoke, trying to make her point. “He sometimes makes this dreadful noise like, ‘Ehrm ehrm ehrm,’ and I think he thinks he’s laughing, but he’s clearly not.” Sophie giggled even though she looked as if she thought she shouldn’t. “And he doesn’t even look at my bosom!” “Posy!” “It’s myonly good feature.” “It is not!” Sophie glanced about the drawing room, even though there was precisely no one about. “I can’t believe you said that.” Posy let out a frustrated exhale. “I can’t say ‘bosom’ in London, and now I can’t do so in Wiltshire, either?” “Not when I’m expecting the new vicar,” Sophie said. A chunk of Posy’s biscuit fell off and fell into her lap. “What?” “I didn’t tell you?” Posy eyed her suspiciously. Most people thought Sophie was a poor liar, but that was only because she had such an angelic look about her. And she rarely lied. So everyone assumed that if she did, she’d be dreadful at it. Posy, however, knew better. “No,” she said, brushing off her skirts, “you did not tell me.” “How very unlike me,” Sophie murmured. She picked up a biscuit and took a bite. Posy stared at her. “Do you know what I’m not doing now?” Sophie shook her head. “I am not rolling my eyes because I am trying to act in a fashion that befits my age and maturity.” “You do look very grave.” Posy stared her down a bit more. “He is unmarried, I assume.” “Er, yes.” Posy lifted her left brow, the arch expression possibly the only useful gift she’d received from her mother. “How old is this vicar?” “I do not know,” Sophie admitted, “but he has all of his hair.” “And it has come to this,” Posy murmured. “I thought of you when I met him,” Sophie said, “because he smiles.” Because hesmiled ? Posy was beginning to think that Sophie was a bit cracked. “I beg your pardon?” “He smiles so often. And so well.” At thatSophie smiled. “I couldn’t help but think of you.” Posy did roll her eyes this time, then followed it with an immediate, “I have decided to forsake maturity.” “By all means.” “I shall meet your vicar,” Posy said, “but you should know I have decided to aspire to eccentricity.” “I wish you the best with that,” Sophie said, not without sarcasm. “You don’t think I can?” “You’re the least eccentric person I know.” It was true, of course, but if Posy had to spend her life as an old maid, she wanted to be the eccentric one with the large hat, not the desperate one with the pinched mouth. “What is his name?” she asked. But before Sophie could answer, they heard the front door opening, then it was the butler giving her her answer, as he announced, “Mr. Woodson is here to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton.” Posy stashed her half-eaten biscuit under a serviette and folded her hands prettily in her lap. She was a little miffed with Sophie for inviting a bachelor for tea without warning her, but still, there seemed little reason not to make a good impression. She looked expectantly at the doorway, waiting patiently as Mr. Woodson’s footsteps drew near. And then… And then… Honestly, it wouldn’t do to try to recount it, because she remembered almost nothing of what followed. She saw him, and it was as if, after twenty-five years of life, her heart finally began to beat. Hugh Woodson had never been the most admired boy at school. He had never been the most handsome, or the most athletic. He had never been the cleverest, or the snobbiest, or the most foolish. What he had been, and what he had been all of his life, was the most well liked. People liked him. They always had. He supposed it was because he liked most everybody in return. His mother swore he’d emerged from the womb smiling. She said so with great frequency, although Hugh suspected she did so only to give her father the lead-in for: “Oh, Gertrude, you know it was just gas.” Which never failed to set the both of them into fits of giggles. It was a testament to Hugh’s love for them both, and his general ease with himself, that he usually laughed as well. Nonetheless, for all his likeability, he’d never seemed to attract the females. They adored him, of course, and confided their most desperate secrets, but they always did so in a way that led Hugh to believe he was viewed as a jolly, dependable sort of creature. The worst part of it was that every woman of his acquaintance was absolutely positive that she knew theperfect woman for him, or if not, then she was quite sure that a perfect woman did indeed exist. That no woman ever thoughtherself the perfect woman had not gone unnoticed. Well, by Hugh, at least. Everyone else was oblivious. But he carried on, because there could be no point in doing otherwise. And as he had always suspected that women were the cleverer sex, he still held out hope that the perfect woman was indeed out there. After all, no fewer than four dozen women had said so. They couldn’tall be wrong. But Hugh was nearing thirty, and Miss Perfection had not yet seen fit to reveal herself. Hugh was beginning to think that he should take matters into his own hands, except that he hadn’t the slightest idea how to do such a thing, especially as he’d just taken a living in a rather quiet corner of Wiltshire, and there didn’t seem to be a single appropriately aged unmarried female in his parish. Remarkable but true. Maybe he should wander over to Gloucestershire Sunday next. There was a vacancy there, and he’d been asked to pitch in and deliver a sermon or two until they found a new vicar. There had to be at least one unattached female. The whole of the Cotswolds couldn’t be bereft. But this wasn’t the time to dwell on such things. He was just arriving for tea with Mrs. Bridgerton, an invitation for which he was enormously grateful. He was still familiarizing himself with the area and its inhabitants, but it had taken but one church service to know that Mrs. Bridgerton was universally liked and admired. She seemed quite clever and kind as well. He hoped she liked to gossip. He really needed someone to fill him in on the neighborhood lore. One really couldn’t tend to one’s flock without knowing its history. He’d also heard that her cook laid a very fine tea. The biscuits had been mentioned in particular. “Mr. Woodson to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton.” Hugh stepped into the drawing room as the butler stated his name. He was rather glad he’d forgotten to eat lunch because the house smelled heavenly and— And then he quite forgot everything. Why he’d come. Who he was. The color of the sky, even, and the smell of the grass. Indeed, as he stood there in the arched doorway of the Bridgertons’ drawing room, he knew one thing, and one thing only. The woman on the sofa, the one with the extraordinary eyes who was not Mrs. Bridgerton, was Miss Perfection. Sophie Bridgerton knew a thing or two about love at first sight. She had, once upon a time, been hit by its proverbial lightning bolt, struck dumb with breathless passion, heady bliss, and an odd tingling sensation across her entire body. Or at least, that was how she remembered it. She also remembered that while Cupid’s arrow had, in her case, proven remarkably accurate, it had taken quite a while for her and Benedict to reach their happily ever after. So even though she wanted to bounce in her seat with glee as she watched Posy and Mr. Woodson stare at each other like a pair of lovesick puppies, another part of her—the extremely practical, born-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-blanket, I-am-well-aware-that-the-world-is-not-made-up-of-rain-bows-and-angels part of her—was trying to hold back her excitement. But the thing about Sophie was, no matter how awful her childhood had been (and parts of it had been quite dreadfully awful), no matter what cruelties and indignities she’d faced in her life (and there, too, she’d not been fortunate), she was, at heart, an incurable romantic. Which brought her to Posy. It was true that Posy visited several times each year, and it was also true that one of those visits almost always coincided with the end of the season, but Sophiemight have added a little extra entreaty to her recently tendered invitation. She might have exaggerated a bit when describing how quickly the children were growing, and there was a chance that she had actually lied when she said that she was feeling poorly. But in this case, the ends absolutely justified the means. Oh, Posy had told her that she would be perfectly ******* to remain unmarried, but Sophie did not believe her for a second. Or to be more precise, Sophie believed that Posy believed that she would be perfectly *******. But one had only to look at Posy snuggling little William and Alexander to know that she was a born mother, and that the world would be a much poorer place if Posy did not have a passel of children to call her own. It was true that Sophie had, one time or twelve, made a point of introducing Posy to whichever unattached gentleman was to be found at the moment in Wiltshire, butthis time… This time Sophie knew. This time it was love. “Mr. Woodson,” she said, trying not to grin like a madwoman, “may I introduce you to my dear sister, Miss Posy Reiling?” Mr. Woodson looked as if he thought he was saying something, but the truth was, he was staring at Posy as if he’d just met Aphrodite. “Posy,” Sophie continued, “this is Mr. Woodson, our new vicar. He is only recently arrived, what was it, three weeks ago?” He had been in residence for nearly two months. Sophie knew this perfectly well, but she was eager to see if he’d been listening well enough to correct her. He just nodded, never taking his eyes off Posy. “Please, Mr. Woodson,” Sophie murmured, “do sit down.” He managed to understand her meaning and lowered himself into a chair. “Tea, Mr. Woodson?” Sophie inquired. He nodded. “Posy, will you pour?” Posy nodded. Sophie waited, then when it became apparent that Posy wasn’t going to do much of anything besides smile at Mr. Woodson, she said, “Posy.” Posy turned to look at her, but her head moved so slowly and with such reluctance, it was as if a giant magnet had turned its force onto her. “Will you pour Mr. Woodson’s tea?” Sophie murmured, trying to restrict her smile to her eyes. “Oh. Of course.” Posy turned back to the vicar, that silly smile returning to her face. “Would you like some tea?” Normally, Sophie might have mentioned that she had already asked Mr. Woodson if he wanted tea, but there was nothing normal about this encounter, so she decided simply to sit back and observe. “I would love some,” Mr. Woodson said to Posy. “Above all else.” Really, Sophie thought, it was as if she weren’t even there. “How do you take it?” Posy asked. “However you wish.” Oh now, this was too much. No man fell so blindingly into love that he no longer held a preference for his tea. This was England, for heaven’s sake. More to the point, this wastea. “We have both milk and sugar,” Sophie said, unable to help herself. She’d intended to sit and watch, but really, even the most hopeless romantic couldn’t have remained silent. Mr. Woodson didn’t hear her. “Either of them would be appropriate in your cup,” she added. “You have the most extraordinary eyes,” he said, and his voice was full of wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was right there in this room, with Posy. “Your smile,” Posy said in return. “It’s…lovely.” He leaned forward. “Do you like roses, Miss Reiling?” Posy nodded. “I must bring you some.” Sophie gave up trying to appear serene and finally let herself grin. It wasn’t as if either of them were looking at her, anyway. “We have roses,” she said. No response. “In the back garden.” Again, nothing. “Where the two of you might go for a stroll.” It was as if someone had just stuck a pin on both of them. “Oh, shall we?” “I would be delighted.” “Please, allow me to—” “Take my arm.” “I would—” “You must—” By the time Posy and Mr. Woodson were at the door, Sophie could hardly tell who was saying what. And not a drop of tea had entered Mr. Woodson’s cup. Sophie waited for a full minute, then burst out laughing, clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound although she wasn’t sure why she needed to. It was a laugh of pure delight. Pride, too, at having orchestrated the whole thing. “What are you laughing about?” It was Benedict, wandering into the room, his fingers stained with paint. “Ah, biscuits. Excellent. I’m famished. Forgot to eat this morning.” He took the last one and frowned. “You might have left more for me.” “It’s Posy,” Sophie said, grinning. “And Mr. Woodson. I predict a very short engagement.” Benedict’s eyes widened. He turned to the door, then to the window. “Where are they?” “In the back. We can’t see them from here.” He chewed thoughtfully. “But we could from my studio.” For about two seconds neither moved. But only two seconds. They ran for the door, pushing and shoving their way down the hall to Benedict’s studio, which jutted out of the back of the house, giving it light from three directions. Sophie got there first, although not by entirely fair means, and let out a shocked gasp. “What is it?” Benedict said from the doorway. “They’re kissing!” He strode forward. “They are not.” “Oh, they are.” He drew up beside her, and his mouth fell open. “Well, I’ll be damned.” And Sophie, who never cursed, responded, “I know. Iknow. ” “And they only just met? Really?” “You kissed me the first night we met,” she pointed out. “That was different.” Sophie managed to pull her attention from the kissing couple on the lawn for just long enough to demand, “How?” He thought about that for a moment, then answered, “It was a masquerade.” “Oh, so it’s all right to kiss someone if you don’t know who she is?” “Not fair, Sophie,” he said, clucking as he shook his head. “I asked you, and you wouldn’t tell me.” That was true enough to put an end to that particular branch of the conversation, and they stood there for another moment, shamelessly watching Posy and the vicar. They’d stopped kissing and were now talking—from the looks of it, a mile a minute. Posy would speak, and then Mr. Woodson would nod vigorously and interrupt her, and then she would interrupt him, and then he looked like he was giggling, of all things, and then Posy began to speak with such animation that her arms waved all about her head. “What on earth could they be saying?” Sophie wondered. “Probably everything they should have said before he kissed her.” Benedict frowned, crossing his arms. “How long have they been at this, anyway?” “You’ve been watching just as long as I have.” “No, I meant, when did he arrive? Did they even speak before…” He waved his hand toward the window, gesturing to the couple, who looked about ready to kiss again. “Yes, of course, but…” Sophie paused, thinking. Both Posy and Mr. Woodson had been rather tongue-tied at their meeting. In fact, she couldn’t recall a single substantive word that was spoken. “Well, not very much, I’m afraid.” Benedict nodded slowly. “Do you think I should go out there?” Sophie looked at him, then at the window, then back. “Are you mad?” He shrugged. “She is my sister now, and itis my house…” “Don’t you dare!” “So I’m not supposed to protect her honor?” “It’s her first kiss!” He quirked a brow. “And here we are, spying on it.” “It’s my right,” Sophie said indignantly. “I arranged the whole thing.” “Oh you did, did you? I seem to recall thatI was the one to suggest Mr. Woodson.” “But you didn’tdo anything about it.” “That’s your job, darling.” Sophie considered a retort, because his tone was rather annoying, but he did have a point. She did rather enjoy trying to find a match for Posy, and she wasdefinitely enjoying her obvious success. “You know,” Benedict said thoughtfully, “we might have a daughter someday.” Sophie turned to him. He wasn’t normally one for such non sequiturs. “I beg your pardon?” He gestured to the lovebirds on the lawn. “Just that this could be excellent practice for me. I’m quite certain I wish to be an overbearingly protective father. I could storm out and tear him apart from limb to limb.” Sophie winced. Poor Mr. Woodson wouldn’t stand a chance. “Challenge him to a duel?” She shook her head. “Very well, but if he lowers her to the ground, I am interceding.” “He won’t—Oh dear heavens!” Sophie leaned forward, her face nearly to the glass. “Oh my God.” And she didn’t even cover her mouth in horror at having blasphemed. Benedict sighed, then flexed his fingers. “I really don’t want to injure my hands. I’m halfway through your portrait, and it’s going so well.” Sophie had one hand on his arm, holding him back even though he wasn’t really moving anywhere. “No,” she said, “don’t—” She gasped. “Oh, my. Maybe we should do something.” “They’re not on the ground yet.” “Benedict!” “Normally I’d say to call the priest,” he remarked, “except that seems to be what got us into this mess in the first place.” Sophie swallowed. “Perhaps you can procure a special license for them? As a wedding gift?” He grinned. “Consider it done.” It was a splendid wedding. And that kiss at the end… No one was surprised when Posy produced a baby nine months later, then at yearly intervals after that. She took great care in the naming of her brood, and Mr. Woodson, who was as beloved a vicar as he’d been in every other stage of his life, adored her too much to argue with any of her choices. First there was Sophia, for obvious reasons, then Benedict. The next would have been Violet, except that Sophie begged her not to. She’d always wanted the name for her daughter, and it would be far too confusing with the families living so close. So Posy went with Georgette, after Hugh’s mother, who she thought had just thenicest smile. After that was John, after Hugh’s father. For quite some time it appeared that he would remain the baby of the family. After giving birth every June for four years in a row, Posy stopped getting pregnant. She wasn’t doing anything differently, she confided in Sophie; she and Hugh were still very much in love. It just seemed that her body had decided it was through with childbearing. Which was just as well. With two girls and two boys, all in the single digits, she had her hands full. But then, when John was five, Posy rose from bed one morning and threw up on the floor. It could only mean one thing, and the following autumn, she delivered a girl. Sophie was present at the birth, as she always was. “What shall you name her?” she asked. Posy looked down at the perfect little creature in her arms. It was sleeping quite soundly, and even though she knew that newborns did not smile, the baby really did look as if it were rather pleased about something. Maybe about being born. Maybe this one was going to attack life with a smile. Good humor would be her weapon of choice. What a splendid human being she would be. “Araminta,” Posy said suddenly. Sophie nearly fell over from the shock of it. “What?” “I want to name her Araminta. I’m quite certain.” Posy stroked the baby’s cheek, then touched her gently under the chin. Sophie could not seem to stop shaking her head. “But your mother…I can’t believe you would—” “I’m not naming herfor my mother,” Posy cut in gently. “I’m naming herbecause of my mother. It’s different.” Sophie looked dubious, but she leaned over to get a closer peek at the baby. “She’s really quite sweet,” she murmured. Posy smiled, never once taking her eyes off the baby’s face. “I know.” “I suppose I could grow accustomed to it,” Sophie said, her head bobbing from side to side in acquiescence. She wiggled her finger between the baby’s hand and body, giving the palm a little tickle until the tiny fingers wrapped instinctively around her own. “Good evening, Araminta,” she said. “Very nice to meet you.” “Minty,” Posy said. Sophie looked up. “What?” “I’m calling her Minty. Araminta will do well in the family Bible, but I do believe she’s a Minty.” Sophie pressed her lips together in an effort not to smile. “Your mother would hate that.” “Yes,” Posy murmured, “she would, wouldn’t she?” “Minty,” Sophie said, testing the sound on her tongue. “I like it. No, I think I love it. It suits her.” Posy kissed the top of Minty’s head. “What kind of girl will you be?” she whispered. “Sweet and docile?” Sophie chuckled at that. She had been present at twelve birthings—four of her own, five of Posy’s, and three of Benedict’s sister Eloise. Never had she heard a baby enter this world with as loud a cry as little Minty. “This one,” she said firmly, “is going to lead you a merry chase.” And she did. But that, dear reader, is another story… About the Author JULIA QUINNstarted writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since. The New York Times bestselling author of nineteen novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. Please visit her on the web at Julia Quinn, Author of Historical Romance Novels. Visit Untitled Document for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. AN OFFER FROM A GENTLEMAN: THE SECOND EPILOGUE. Copyright © 2009 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-196556-2 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia HarperCollins e-books Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand HarperCollins New Zealand United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 HarperCollins e-books & e-audio |
Julia Quinn - [Bridgerton7] - 2nd Epilogue - It's In His Kiss
JULIA QUINN IT’S IN HIS KISS Epilogue II 1847, and all has come full circle. Truly. Hmmph. It was official, then. She had become her mother. Hyacinth St. Clair fought the urge to bury her face in her hands as she sat on the cushioned bench at Mme. Langlois, Dressmaker, by far the most fashionable modiste in all London. She counted to ten, in three languages, and then, just for good measure, swallowed and let out an exhale. Because, really, it would not do to lose her temper in such a public setting. No matter how desperately she wanted to throttle her daughter. “Mummy.” Isabella poked her head out from behind the curtain. Hyacinth noted that the word had been a statement, not a question. “Yes?” she returned, affixing onto her face an expression of such placid serenity she might have qualified for one of those pietà paintings they had seen when last they traveled to Rome. “Not the pink.” Hyacinth waved a hand. Anything to refrain from speaking. “Not the purple, either.” “I don’t believe I suggested purple,” Hyacinth murmured. “The blue’s not right, and nor is the red, and frankly, I just don’t understand this insistence society seems to have upon white, and well, if I might express my opinion—” Hyacinth felt herself slump. Who knew motherhood could be so tiring? And really, shouldn’t she be used to this by now? “—a girl really ought to wear the color that most complements her complexion, and not what some over-important ninny at Almack’s deems fashionable.” “I agree wholeheartedly,” Hyacinth said. “You do?” Isabella’s face lit up, and Hyacinth’s breath positively caught, because she looked so like her own mother in that moment it was almost eerie. “Yes,” Hyacinth said, “but you’re still getting something white.” “But—” “No buts!” “But—” “Isabella.” Isabella muttered something in Italian. “I heard that,” Hyacinth said sharply. Isabella smiled, a curve of lips so sweet that only her own mother (certainly not her father, who freely admitted himself wound around her finger) would recognize the deviousness underneath. “But did you understand it?” she asked, blinking three times in rapid succession. And because Hyacinth knew that she would be trapped by her lie, she gritted her teeth and told the truth. “No.” “I didn’t think so,” Isabella said. “But if you’re interested, what I said was—” “Not—” Hyacinth stopped, forcing her voice to a lower volume; panic at what Isabella might say had caused her outburst to come out overly loud. She cleared her throat. “Not now. Not here,” she added meaningfully. Good heavens, her daughter had no sense of propriety. She had such opinions, and while Hyacinth was always in favor of a female with opinions, she was even more in favor of a female who knew when to share such opinions. Isabella stepped out of her dressing room, clad in a lovely gown of white with sage green trimming that Hyacinth knew she’d turn her nose up at, and sat beside her on the bench. “What are you whispering about?” she asked. “I wasn’t whispering,” Hyacinth said. “Your lips were moving.” “Were they?” “They were,” Isabella confirmed. “If you must know, I was sending off an apology to your grandmother.” “Grandmama Violet?” Isabella asked, looking around. “Is she here?” “No, but I thought she was deserving of my remorse, nonetheless.” Isabella blinked and cocked her head to the side in question. “Why?” “All those times,” Hyacinth said, hating how tired her voice sounded. “All those times she said to me, ‘I hope you have a child just like you…’” “And you do,” Isabella said, surprising her with a light kiss to the cheek. “Isn’t it just delightful?” Hyacinth looked at her daughter. Isabella was nineteen. She’d made her debut the year before, to grand success. She was, Hyacinth thought rather objectively, far prettier than she had ever been. Her hair was a breathtaking strawberry blond, a throwback to some long-forgotten ancestor on heaven knew which side of the family. And the curls—oh, my, they were the bane of Isabella’s existence, but Hyacinth adored them. When Isabella had been a toddler, they’d bounced in perfect little ringlets, completely untamable and always delightful. And now…Sometimes Hyacinth looked at her and saw the woman she’d become, and she couldn’t even breathe, so powerful was the emotion squeezing across her chest. It was a love she couldn’t have imagined, so fierce and so tender, and yet at the same time the girl drove her positively batty. Right now, for example. Isabella was smiling innocently at her. Too innocently, truth be told, and then she looked down at the slightly poufy skirt on the dress Hyacinth loved (and Isabella would hate) and picked absently at the green ribbon trimmings. “Mummy?” she said. It was a question this time, not a statement, which meant that Isabella wanted something, and (for a change) wasn’t quite certain how to go about getting it. “Do you think this year—” “No,” Hyacinth said. And this time she really did send up a silent apology to her mother. Good heavens, was this what Violet had gone through? Eight times? “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.” “Of course I know what you were going to ask. When will you learn that I always know?” “Now that is not true.” “It’s more true than it is untrue.” “You can be quite supercilious, did you know that?” Hyacinth shrugged. “I’m your mother.” Isabella’s lips clamped into a line, and Hyacinth enjoyed a full four seconds of peace before she asked, “But this year, do you think we can—” “We are not traveling.” Isabella’s lips parted with surprise. Hyacinth fought the urge to let out a triumphant shout. “How did you kn—” Hyacinth patted her daughter’s hand. “I told you, I always know. And much as I’m sure we would all enjoy a bit of travel, we will remain in London for the season, and you, my girl, will smile and dance and look for a husband.” Cue the bit about becoming her mother. Hyacinth sighed. Violet Bridgerton was probably laughing about this, this very minute. In fact, she’d been laughing about it for nineteen years. “Just like you,” Violet liked to say, grinning at Hyacinth as she tousled Isabella’s curls. “Just like you.” “Just like you, Mother,” Hyacinth murmured with a smile, picturing Violet’s face in her mind. “And now I’m just like you.” An hour or so later. Gareth, too, has grown and changed, although, we soon shall see, not in any of the ways that matter… Gareth St. Clair leaned back in his chair, pausing to savor his brandy as he glanced around his office. There really was a remarkable sense of satisfaction in a job well done and completed on time. It wasn’t a sensation he’d been used to in his youth, but it was something he’d come to enjoy on a near daily basis now. It had taken several years to restore the St. Clair fortunes to a respectable level. His father—he’d never quite got ’round to calling him anything else—had stopped his systematic plundering and eased into a vague sort of neglect once he learned the truth about Gareth’s birth. So Gareth supposed it could have been a great deal worse. But when Gareth had assumed the title, he discovered that he’d inherited debts, mortgages, and houses that had been emptied of almost all valuables. Hyacinth’s dowry, which had increased with prudent investments upon their marriage, went a long way toward fixing the situation, but still, Gareth had had to work harder and with more diligence than he’d ever dreamed possible to wrench his family out of debt. The funny thing was, he’d enjoyed it. Who would have thought that he, of all people, would find such satisfaction in hard work? His desk was spotless, his ledgers neat and tidy, and he could put his fingers on any important document in under a minute. His accounts always summed properly, his properties were thriving, and his tenants were healthy and prosperous. He took another sip of his drink, letting the mellow fire roll down his throat. Heaven. Life was perfect. Truly. Perfect. George was finishing up at Cambridge, Isabella would surely choose a husband this year, and Hyacinth… He chuckled. Hyacinth was still Hyacinth. She’d become a bit more sedate with age, or maybe it was just that motherhood had smoothed off her rough edges, but she was still the same outspoken, delightful, perfectly wonderful Hyacinth. She drove him crazy half the time, but it was a nice sort of crazy, and even though he sometimes sighed to his friends and nodded tiredly when they all complained about their wives, secretly he knew he was the luckiest man in London. Hell, England even. The World. He set his drink down, then tapped his fingers against the elegantly wrapped box sitting on the corner of his desk. He’d purchased it that morning at Mme. LaFleur, the dress shop he knew Hyacinth did not frequent, in order to spare her the embarrassment of having to deal with salespeople who knew every piece of lingerie in her wardrobe. French silk, Belgian lace. He smiled. Just a little bit of French silk, trimmed with a minuscule amount of Belgian lace. It would look heavenly on her. What there was of it. He sat back in his chair, savoring the daydream. It was going to be a long, lovely night. Maybe even… His eyebrows rose as he tried to remember his wife’s schedule for the day. Maybe even a long, lovely afternoon. When was she due home? And would she have either of the children with her? He closed his eyes, picturing her in various states of undress, followed by various interesting poses, followed by various fascinating activities. He groaned. She was going to have to return home very soon, because his imagination was far too active not to be satisfied, and— “Gareth!” Not the most mellifluous of tones. The lovely erotic haze floating about his head disappeared entirely. Well, almost entirely. Hyacinth might not have looked the least bit inclined for a bit of afternoon sport as she stood in the doorway, her eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, but she was there, and that was half the battle. “Shut the door,” he murmured, rising to his feet. “Do you know what your daughter did?” “Your daughter, you mean?” “Our daughter,” she ground out. But she shut the door. “Do I want to know?” “Gareth!” “Very well,” he sighed, followed by a dutiful, “what did she do?” He’d had this conversation before, of course. Countless times. The answer usually had something to do with something involving marriage and Isabella’s somewhat unconventional views on the subject. And of course, Hyacinth’s frustration with the whole situation. It rarely varied. “Well, it wasn’t so much what she did,” Hyacinth said. He hid his smile. This was also not unexpected. “It’s more what she won’t do.” “Jump to your bidding?” “Gareth.” He halved the distance between them. “Aren’t I enough?” “I beg your pardon?” He reached out, tugged at her hand, pulled her gently against him. “I always jump to your bidding,” he murmured. She recognized the look in his eye. “Now?” She twisted around until she could see the closed door. “Isabella is upstairs.” “She won’t hear.” “But she could—” His lips found her neck. “There’s a lock on the door.” “But she’ll know—” He started working on the buttons on her frock. He was very good at buttons. “She’s a smart girl,” he said, stepping back to enjoy his handiwork as the fabric fell away. He loved when his wife didn’t wear a chemise. “Gareth!” He leaned down and took one rosy-tipped breast into his mouth before she could object. “Oh, Gareth!” And her knees went weak. Just enough for him to scoop her up and take her to the sofa. The one with the extra-deep cushions. “More?” “God, yes,” she groaned. He slid his hand under her skirt until he could tickle her senseless. “Such token resistance,” he murmured. “Admit it. You always want me.” “Twenty years of marriage isn’t admission enough?” “Twenty-two years, and I want to hear it from your lips.” She moaned when he slipped a finger inside of her. “Almost always,” she conceded. “I almost always want you.” He sighed for dramatic effect, even as he smiled into her neck. “I shall have to work harder, then.” He looked up at her. She was gazing down at him with an arch expression, clearly over her fleeting attempt at uprightness and respectability. “Much harder,” she agreed. “And a bit faster, too, while you’re at it.” He laughed out loud at that. “Gareth!” Hyacinth might be a wanton in private, but she was always aware of the servants. “Don’t worry,” he said with a smile. “I’ll be quiet. I’ll be very, very quiet.” With one easy movement, he bunched her skirts well above her waist and slid down until his head was between her legs. “It’s you, my darling, who will have to control your volume.” “Oh. Oh. Oh…” “More?” “Definitely more.” He licked her then. She tasted like heaven. And when she squirmed, it was always a treat. “Oh my heavens. Oh my…Oh my…” He smiled against her, then swirled a circle on her until she let out a quiet little shriek. He loved doing this to her, loved bringing her, his capable and articulate wife, to senseless abandon. Twenty-two years. Who would have thought that after twenty-two years he’d still want this one woman, this one woman only, and this one woman so intensely? “Oh, Gareth,” she was panting. “Oh, Gareth…More, Gareth…” He redoubled his efforts. She was close. He knew her so well, knew the curve and shape of her body, the way she moved when she was aroused, the way she breathed when she wanted him. She was close. And then she was gone, arching and gasping until her body went limp. He chuckled to himself as she batted him away. She always did that when she was done, saying she couldn’t bear one more touch, that she’d surely die if she wasn’t given the chance to float down to normalcy. He moved, curling against her body until he could see her face. “That was nice,” she said. He lifted a brow. “Nice?” “Very nice.” “Nice enough to reciprocate?” Her lips curved. “Oh, I don’t know if it was that nice.” His hand went to his trousers. “I shall have to offer a repeat engagement, then.” Her lips parted in surprise. “A variation on a theme, if you will.” She twisted her neck to look down. “What are you doing?” He grinned lasciviously. “Enjoying the fruits of my labors.” And then she gasped as he slid inside of her, and he gasped from the sheer pleasure of it all, and then he thought how very much he loved her. And then he thought nothing much at all. The following day. We didn’t really think that Hyacinth would give up, did we? Late afternoon found Hyacinth back at her second favorite pastime. Although favorite didn’t seem quite the right adjective, nor was pastime the correct noun. Compulsion probably fit the description better, as did miserable, or perhaps unrelenting. Wretched? Inevitable. She sighed. Definitely inevitable. An inevitable compulsion. How long had she lived in this house? Fifteen years? Fifteen years. Fifteen years and a few months atop that, and she was still searching for those bloody jewels. One would think she’d have given up by now. Certainly anyone else would have given up by now. She was, she had to admit, the most ridiculously stubborn person of her own acquaintance. Except, perhaps, her own daughter. Hyacinth had never told Isabella about the jewels, if only because she knew that Isabella would join in the search with an unhealthy fervor to rival her own. She hadn’t told her son George, either, because he would tell Isabella. And Hyacinth would never get that girl married off if she thought there was a fortune in jewels to be found in her home. Not that Isabella would want the jewels for fortune’s sake. Hyacinth knew her daughter well enough to realize that in some matters—possibly most—Isabella was exactly like her. And Hyacinth’s search for the jewels had never been about the money they might bring. Oh, she freely admitted that she and Gareth could use the money (and could have done with it even moreso a few years back). But it wasn’t about that. It was the principle. It was the glory. It was the desperate need to finally clutch those bloody rocks in her hand and shake them before her husband’s face and say, “See? See? I haven’t been mad all these years!” Gareth had long since given up on the jewels. They probably didn’t even exist, he told her. Someone had surely found them years earlier. They’d lived in Clair House for fifteen years, for heaven’s sake. If Hyacinth was going to find them, she’d have located them by now, so why did she continue to torture herself? An excellent question. Hyacinth gritted her teeth together as she crawled across the washroom floor for what was surely the eight-hundredth time in her life. She knew all that. Lord help her, she knew it, but she couldn’t give up now. If she gave up now, what did that say about the past fifteen years? Wasted time? All of it, wasted time? She couldn’t bear the thought. Plus, she really wasn’t the sort to give up, was she? If she did, it would be so completely at odds with everything she knew about herself. Would that mean she was getting old? She wasn’t ready to get old. Perhaps that was the curse of being the youngest of eight children. One was never quite ready to be old. She leaned down even lower, planting her cheek against the cool tile of the floor so that she could peer under the tub. No old lady would do this, would she? No old lady would— “Ah, there you are, Hyacinth.” It was Gareth, poking his head in. He did not look the least bit surprised to find his wife in such an odd position. But he did say, “It’s been several months since your last search, hasn’t it?” She looked up. “I thought of something.” “Something you hadn’t already thought of?” “Yes,” she ground out, lying through her teeth. “Checking behind the tile?” he queried politely. “Under the tub,” she said reluctantly, moving herself into a seated position. He blinked, shifting his gaze to the large claw-footed tub. “Did you move that?” he asked, his voice incredulous. She nodded. It was amazing the sort of strength one could summon when properly motivated. He looked at her, then at the tub, then back again. “No,” he said. “It’s not possible. You didn’t—” “I did.” “You couldn’t—” “I could,” she said, beginning to enjoy herself. She didn’t get to surprise him these days nearly as often as she would have liked. “Just a few inches,” she admitted. He looked back over at the tub. “Maybe just one,” she allowed. For a moment she thought he would simply shrug his shoulders and leave her to her endeavors, but then he surprised her by saying, “Would you like some help?” It took her a few seconds to ascertain his meaning. “With the tub?” she asked. He nodded, crossing the short distance to the edge of its basin. “If you can move it an inch by yourself,” he said, “surely the two of us can triple that. Or more.” Hyacinth rose to her feet. “I thought you didn’t believe that the jewels are still here.” “I don’t.” He planted his hands on his hips as he surveyed the tub, looking for the best grip. “But you do, and surely this must fall within the realm of husbandly duties.” “Oh.” Hyacinth swallowed, feeling a little guilty for thinking him so unsupportive. “Thank you.” He motioned for her to grab a spot on the opposite side. “Did you lift?” he asked. “Or shove?” “Shove. With my shoulder, actually.” She pointed to a narrow spot between the tub and the wall. “I wedged myself in there, then hooked my shoulder right under the lip, and—” But Gareth was already holding his hand up to stop her. “No more,” he said. “Don’t tell me. I beg of you.” “Why not?” He looked at her for a long moment before answering, “I don’t really know. But I don’t want the details.” “Very well.” She went to the spot he’d indicated and grabbed the lip. “Thank you, anyway.” “It’s my—” He paused. “Well, it’s not my pleasure. But it’s something.” She smiled to herself. He really was the best of husbands. Three attempts later, however, it became apparent that they were not going to budge the tub in that manner. “We’re going to have to use the wedge and shove method,” Hyacinth announced. “It’s the only way.” Gareth gave her a resigned nod, and together they squeezed into the narrow space between the tub and the wall. “I have to say,” he said, bending his knees and planting the soles of his boots against the wall, “this is all very undignified.” Hyacinth had nothing to say to that, so she just grunted. He could interpret the noise any way he wished. “This should really count for something,” he murmured. “I beg your pardon?” “This.” He motioned with his hand, which could have meant just about anything, as she wasn’t quite certain whether he was referring to the wall, the floor, the tub, or some particle of dust floating through the air. “As gestures go,” he continued, “it’s not too terribly grand, but I would think, should I ever forget your birthday, for example, that this ought to go some distance in restoring myself to your good graces.” Hyacinth lifted a brow. “You couldn’t do this out of the goodness of your heart?” He gave her a regal nod. “I could. And in fact, I am. But one never knows when one—” “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Hyacinth muttered. “You do live to torture me, don’t you?” “It keeps the mind sharp,” he said affably. “Very well. Shall we have at it?” She nodded. “On my count,” he said, bracing his shoulders. “One, two…Three.” With a heave and a groan, they both put all of their weight into the task, and the tub slid recalcitrantly across the floor. The noise was horrible, all scraping and squeaking, and when Hyacinth looked down she saw unattractive white marks arcing across the tile. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. Gareth twisted around, his face creasing into a peeved expression when he saw that they’d moved the tub a mere four inches. “I would have thought we’d have made a bit more progress than that,” he said. “It’s heavy,” she said, rather unnecessarily. For a moment he did nothing but blink at the small sliver of floor they’d uncovered. “What do you plan to do now?” he asked. Her mouth twisted slightly in a somewhat stumped expression. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Check the floor, I imagine.” “You haven’t done so already?” And then, when she didn’t answer in, oh, half a second, he added, “In the fifteen years since you moved here?” “I’ve felt along the floor, of course,” she said quickly, since it was quite obvious that her arm fit under the tub. “But it’s just not the same as a visual inspection, and—” “Good luck,” he cut in, rising to his feet. “You’re leaving?” “Did you wish for me to stay?” She hadn’t expected him to stay, but now that he was here…“Yes,” she said, surprised by her own answer. “Why not?” He smiled at her then, and the expression was so warm, and loving, and best of all, familiar. “I could buy you a diamond necklace,” he said softly, sitting back down. She reached out, placed her hand on his. “I know you could.” They sat in silence for a minute, and then Hyacinth scooted herself closer to her husband, letting out a comfortable exhale as she eased against his side, letting her head rest on his shoulder. “Do you know why I love you?” she said softly. His fingers laced through hers. “Why?” “You could have bought me a necklace,” she said. “And you could have hidden it.” She turned her head so that she could kiss the curve of his neck. “Just so that I could have found it, you could have hidden it. But you didn’t.” “I—” “And don’t say you never thought of it,” she said, turning back so that she was once again facing the wall, just a few inches away. But her head was on his shoulder, and he was facing the same wall, and even though they weren’t looking at each other, their hands were still entwined, and somehow the position was everything a marriage should be. “Because I know you,” she said, feeling a smile growing inside. “I know you, and you know me, and it’s just the loveliest thing.” He squeezed her hand, then kissed the top of her head. “If it’s here, you’ll find it.” She sighed. “Or die trying.” He chuckled. “That shouldn’t be funny,” she informed him. “But it is.” “I know.” “I love you,” he said. “I know.” And really, what more could she want? Meanwhile, six feet away… Isabella was quite used to the antics of her parents. She accepted the fact that they tugged each other into dark corners with far more frequency than was seemly. She thought nothing of the fact that her mother was one of the most outspoken women in London or that her father was still so handsome that her own friends sighed and stammered in his presence. In fact, she rather enjoyed being the daughter of such an unconventional couple. Oh, on the outside they were all that was proper, to be sure, with only the nicest sort of reputation for high-spiritedness. But behind the closed doors of Clair House…Isabella knew that her friends were not encouraged to share their opinions as she was. Most of her friends were not even encouraged to have opinions. And certainly most young ladies of her acquaintance had not been given the opportunity to study modern languages, nor to delay a social debut by one year in order to travel on the continent. So, when all was said and done, Isabella thought herself quite fortunate as pertained to her parents, and if that meant overlooking the occasional episodes of Not Acting One’s Age—well, it was worth it, and she’d learned to ignore much of their behavior. But when she’d sought out her mother that afternoon—to acquiesce on the matter of the white gown with the dullish green trim, she might add—and instead found her parents on the washroom floor pushing a bathtub… Well, really, that was a bit much, even for the St. Clairs. And who would have faulted her for remaining to eavesdrop? Not her mother, Isabella decided as she leaned in. There was no way Hyacinth St. Clair would have done the right thing and walked away. One couldn’t live with the woman for nineteen years without learning that. And as for her father—well, Isabella rather thought he would have stayed to listen as well, especially as they were making it so easy for her, facing the wall as they were, with their backs to the open doorway, indeed with the bathtub between them. “What do you plan to do now?” her father was asking, his voice laced with that particular brand of amusement he seemed to reserve for her mother. “I’m not sure,” her mother replied, sounding uncharacteristically…well, not unsure, but certainly not as sure as usual. “Check the floor, I imagine.” Check the floor? What on earth were they talking about? Isabella leaned forward for a better listen, just in time to hear her father ask, “You haven’t done so already? In the fifteen years since you moved here?” “I’ve felt along the floor, of course,” her mother retorted, sounding much more like herself. “But it’s just not the same as a visual inspection, and—” “Good luck,” her father said, and then—Oh, no! He was leaving! Isabella started to scramble, but then something must have happened because he sat back down. She inched back toward the open doorway—carefully, carefully now, he could get up at any moment. Holding her breath, she leaned in, unable to take her eyes off of the backs of her parents’ heads. “I could buy you a diamond necklace,” her father said. A diamond necklace? A diamond… Fifteen years. Moving a tub? In a washroom? Fifteen years. Her mother had searched for fifteen years. For a diamond necklace? A diamond necklace. A diamond… Oh. Dear. God. What was she going to do? What was she going to do? She knew what she must do, but good God, how was she supposed to do it? And what could she say? What could she possibly say to— Forget that for now. Forget it because her mother was talking again and she was saying, “You could have bought me a necklace. And you could have hidden it. Just so that I could have found it, you could have hidden it. But you didn’t.” There was so much love in her voice it made Isabella’s heart ache. And something about it seemed to sum up everything that her parents were. To themselves, to each other. To their children. And suddenly the moment was too personal to spy upon, even for her. She crept from the room, then ran to her own chamber, sagging into a chair just as soon as she closed the door. Because she knew what her mother had been looking for for so very long. It was sitting in the bottom drawer of her desk. And it was more than a necklace. It was an entire parure—a necklace, bracelet, and ring, a veritable shower of diamonds, each stone framed by two delicate aquamarines. Isabella had found them when she was ten, hidden in a small cavity behind one of the Turkish tiles in the nursery washroom. She should have said something about them. She knew that she should. But she hadn’t, and she wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was because she had found them. Maybe because she loved having a secret. Maybe it was because she hadn’t thought they belonged to anyone else, or indeed, that anyone even knew of their existence. Certainly she hadn’t thought that her mother had been searching for them for fifteen years. Her mother! Her mother was the last person anyone would imagine was keeping a secret. No one would think ill of Isabella for not thinking, when she’d discovered the diamonds—Oh, surely my mother must be looking for these and has chosen, for her own devious reasons, not to tell me about it. Truly, when all was said and done, this was really her mother’s fault. If Hyacinth had told her that she was searching for jewels, Isabella would immediately have confessed. Or if not immediately, then soon enough to satisfy everyone’s conscience. And now, speaking of consciences, hers was beating a nasty little tattoo in her chest. It was a most unpleasant—and unfamiliar—feeling. It wasn’t that Isabella was the soul of sweetness and light, all sugary smiles and pious platitudes. Heavens, no, she avoided such girls like the plague. But by the same token, she rarely did anything that was likely to make her feel guilty afterward, if only because perhaps—and only perhaps—her notions of propriety and morality were ever-so-slightly flexible. But now she had a lump in the pit of her stomach, a lump with peculiar talent for sending bile up her throat. Her hands were shaking, and she felt ill. Not feverish, not even aguish, just ill. With herself. Letting out an uneven breath, Isabella rose to her feet and crossed the room to her desk, a delicate rococo piece her namesake great-grandmother had brought over from Italy. She’d put the jewels there three years back, when she’d finally moved out of the top-floor nursery. She’d discovered a secret compartment at the back of the bottom drawer. This hadn’t particularly surprised her; there seemed to be an uncommon number of secret compartments in the furniture at Clair House, much of which had been imported from Italy. But it was a boon and rather convenient, and so one day, when her family was off at some ton function they had deemed Isabella too young to attend, she’d sneaked back up to the nursery, retrieved the jewels from their hiding place behind the tile (which she had rather resourcefully plastered back up), and moved them to her desk. They’d remained there ever since, except for the odd occasion when Isabella took them out and tried them on, thinking how nice they would look with her new gown, but how was she to explain their existence to her parents? Now it seemed that no explanation would have been necessary. Or perhaps just a different sort of explanation. A very different sort. Settling into the desk chair, Isabella leaned down and retrieved the jewels from the secret compartment. They were still in the same corded velvet bag in which she’d found them. She slid them free, letting them pool luxuriously on the desktop. She didn’t know much about jewels, but surely these had to be of the finest quality. They caught the sunlight with an indescribable magic, almost as if each stone could somehow capture the light and then send it showering off in every direction. Isabella didn’t like to think herself greedy or materialistic, but in the presence of such treasure, she understood how diamonds could make a man go a little bit mad. Or why women longed so desperately for one more piece, one more stone that was bigger, more finely cut than the last. But these did not belong to her. Maybe they belonged to no one. But if anyone had a right to them, it was most definitely her mother. Isabella didn’t know how or why Hyacinth knew of their existence, but that didn’t seem to matter. Her mother had some sort of connection to the jewels, some sort of important knowledge. And if they belonged to anyone, they belonged to her. Reluctantly, Isabella slid them back into the bag and tightened the gold cord so that none of the pieces could slip out. She knew what she had to do now. She knew exactly what she had to do. But after that… The torture would be in the waiting. One year later. It had been two months since Hyacinth had last searched for the jewels, but Gareth was busy with some sort of estate matter, and she had no good books to read, and, well, she just felt…itchy. This happened from time to time. She’d go months without searching, weeks and days without even thinking about the diamonds, and then something would happen to remind her, to start her wondering, and there she was again—obsessed and frustrated, sneaking about the house so that no one would realize what she was up to. And the truth was, she was embarrassed. No matter how one looked at it, she was at least a little bit of a fool. Either the jewels were hidden away at Clair House and she hadn’t found them despite sixteen years of searching, or they weren’t hidden, and she’d been chasing a delusion. She couldn’t imagine how she might explain this to her children, the servants surely thought her more than a little bit mad (they’d all caught her snooping about a washroom at one point or another), and Gareth—well, he was sweet and he humored her, but all the same, Hyacinth kept her activities to herself. It was just better that way. She’d chosen the nursery washroom for the afternoon’s search. Not for any particular reason, of course, but she’d finished her systematic search of all of the servants’ washrooms (always an endeavor that required some sensitivity and finesse), and before that she’d done her own washroom, and so the nursery seemed a good choice. After this she’d move to some of the second floor washrooms. George had moved into his own lodgings and if there really was a merciful God, Isabella would be married before long, and Hyacinth would not have to worry about anyone stumbling upon her as she poked, pried, and quite possibly pulled the tiles from the walls. Hyacinth put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath as she surveyed the small room. She’d always liked it. The tiling was, or at least appeared to be, Turkish, and Hyacinth had to think that the eastern peoples must enjoy far less sedate lives than the British, because the colors never failed to put her in a splendid mood—all royal blues and dreamy aquas, with streaks of yellow and orange. Hyacinth had been to the south of Italy once, to the beach. It looked exactly like this room, sunny and sparkly in ways that the shores of England never seemed to achieve. She squinted at the crown molding, looking for cracks or indentations, then dropped to her hands and knees for her usual inspection of the lower tiles. She didn’t know what she hoped to find, what might have suddenly made an appearance that she hadn’t detected during the other, oh, at least a dozen previous searches. But she had to keep going. She had to because she simply had no choice. There was something inside of her that just would not let go. And— She stopped. Blinked. What was that? Slowly, because she couldn’t quite believe that she’d found anything new—it had been over a decade since any of her searches had changed in any measurable manner, she leaned in. A crack. It was small. It was faint. But it was definitely a crack, running from the floor to the top of the first tile, about six inches up. It wasn’t the sort of thing most people would notice, but Hyacinth wasn’t most people, and sad as it sounded, she had practically made a career of inspecting washrooms. Frustrated with her inability to get really close, she shifted to her forearms and knees, then laid her cheek against the floor. She poked the tile to the right of the crack, then the left. Nothing happened. She stuck her fingernail at the edge of the crack, and dug it in. A tiny piece of plaster lodged under her nail. A strange excitement began to build in her chest, squeezing, fluttering, rendering her almost incapable of drawing breath. “Calm down,” she whispered, even those words coming out on a shake. She grabbed the little chisel she always took with her on her searches. “It’s probably nothing. It’s probably—” She jammed the chisel in the crack, surely with more force than was necessary. And then she twisted. If one of the tiles was loose, the torque would cause it to press outward, and— “Oh!” The tile quite literally popped out, landing on the floor with a clatter. Behind it was a small cavity. Hyacinth squeezed her eyes shut. She’d waited her entire adult life for this moment, and now she couldn’t even bring herself to look. “Please,” she whispered. “Please.” She reached in. “Please. Oh, please.” She touched something. Something soft. Like velvet. With shaking fingers she drew it out. It was a little bag, held together with a soft, silky cord. Hyacinth straightened slowly, crossing her legs so that she was sitting Indian style. She slid one finger inside the bag, widening the mouth, which had been pulled tight. And then, with her right hand, she upended it, sliding the *******s into her left. Oh my G— “Gareth!” she shrieked. “Gareth!” “I did it,” she whispered, gazing down at the pool of jewels now spilling from her left hand. “I did it.” And then she bellowed it. “I DID IT!!!!” She looped the necklace around her neck, still clutching the bracelet and ring in her hand. “I did it, I did it, I did it.” She was singing it now, hopping up and down, almost dancing, almost crying. “I did it!” “Hyacinth!” It was Gareth, out of breath from taking four flights of stairs two steps at a time. She looked at him, and she could swear she could feel her eyes shining. “I did it!” She laughed, almost crazily. “I did it!” For a moment he could do nothing but stare. His face grew slack, and Hyacinth thought he might actually lose his footing. “I did it,” she said again. “I did it.” And then he took her hand, took the ring, and slipped it onto her finger. “So you did,” he said, leaning down to kiss her knuckles. “So you did.” Meanwhile, one floor down… “Gareth!” Isabella looked up from the book she was reading, glancing toward the ceiling. Her bedchamber was directly below the nursery, rather in line with the washroom, actually. “I did it!” Isabella turned back to her book. And she smiled. |
Julia Quinn - [Bridgerton5] - 2nd Epilogue - To Sir Philip With Love
Julia Quinn To Sir Phillip, with Love The Second Epilogue *******s Begin Reading About the Author Copyright About the Publisher Iam not the most patient of individuals. And I have almost no tolerance for stupidity. Which was why I was proud of myself for holding my tongue this afternoon while having tea with the Brougham family. The Broughams are our neighbors and have been for the past six years, since Mr. Brougham inherited the property from his uncle, also named Mr. Brougham. They have four daughters and one extremely spoiled son. Luckily for me, the son is five years younger than I am, which means I shall not have to entertain notions of marrying him. (Although my sisters, Penelope and Georgiana, nine and ten years my junior, will not be so lucky.) The Brougham daughters are all close in age, beginning two years ahead of me and ending two behind. They are perfectly pleasant, if perhaps a touch too sweet and gentle for my taste. But lately they have been too much to bear. This is because I, too, have a brother, and he is not five years younger than they are. In fact, he is my twin, which makes him a matrimonial possibility for any of them. Unsurprisingly, Oliver did not elect to accompany my mother, Penelope, and me to tea. But here is what happened, and here is why I am pleased with myself for not saying what I wished to say, which was:Surely you must be an idiot . I was sipping my tea, trying to keep the cup at my lips for as long as possible so as to avoid questions about Oliver, when Mrs. Brougham said, “It must be so very intriguing to be a twin. Tell me, dear Amanda, how is it different than not being one?” I should hope that I do not have to explain why this question was so asinine. I could hardly tell her what the difference was, as I have spent approximately one hundred percent of my life as a twin and thus have precisely zero experience at not being one. I must have worn my disdain on my face because my mother shot me one of her legendary warning looks the moment my lips parted to reply. Because I did not wish to embarrass my mother (and not because I felt any need to make Mrs. Brougham feel cleverer than she actually was), I said, “I suppose one always has a companion.” “But your brother is not here now,” one of the Brougham girls said. “My father is not always with my mother, and I would imagine that she considers him to be her companion,” I replied. “A brother is hardly the same as a husband,” Mrs. Brougham trilled. “One would hope,” I retorted. Truly, this was one of the more ridiculous conversations in which I had taken part. And Penelope looked as if she would have questions when we returned home. My mother gave me another look, one that said she knew exactly what sort of questions Penelope would have, and she did not wish to answer them. But as my mother had always said, she valued curiosity in females… Well, she’d be hoist by her own petard. I should mention that, petard-hoisings aside, I am convinced that I have the finest mother in England. And unlike being a nontwin, about which I have no knowledge, I do know what it’s like to have a different mother, so I am fully qualified, in my opinion, to make the judgment. My mother, Eloise Crane, is actually my stepmother, although I only refer to her as such when required to for purposes of clarification. She married my father when Oliver and I were eight years old, and I am quite certain she saved us all. It is difficult to explain what our lives were like before she entered them. I could certainly describe events, but thetone of it all, the feeling in our house… I don’t really know how to convey it. My mother—my original mother—killed herself. For most of my life I did not know this. I thought she died of a fever, which I suppose is true. What no one told me was that the fever was brought on because she tried to drown herself in a lake in the dead of winter. I have no intention of taking my own life, but I must say, this would not be my chosen method. I know I should feel compassion and sympathy for her. My current mother was a distant cousin of hers and tells me that she was sad her entire life. She tells me that some people are like that, just as others are unnaturally cheerful all the time. But I can’t help but think that if she was going to kill herself, she might as well have done it earlier. Perhaps when I was a toddler. Or better yet, an infant. It certainly would have made my life easier. I asked my uncle Hugh (who is not really my uncle, but he is married to the stepsister of my current mother’s brother’s wifeand he lives quite closeand he’s a vicar) if I would be going to hell for such a thought. He said no, that frankly, it made a lot of sense to him. I do think I prefer his parish to my own. But the thing is, now I have memories of her. Marina, my first mother. I don’twant memories of her. The ones I have are hazy and muddled. I can’t recall the sound of her voice. Oliver says that might be because she hardly spoke. I can’t remember whether she spoke or not. I can’t remember the exact shape of her face, and I can’t remember her smell. Instead, I remember standing outside her door, feeling very small and frightened. And I remember tiptoeing a great deal, because we knew we mustn’t make noise. I remember always feeling rather nervous, as if I knew something bad were about to happen. And indeed it did. Shouldn’t a memory be specific? I would not mind a memory of a moment, or of a face, or a sound. Instead, I have vague feelings, and not even happy ones at that. I once asked Oliver if he had the same memories, and he just shrugged and said he didn’t really think about her. I am not sure if I believe him. I suppose I probably do; he does not often think deeply about such things. Or perhaps more accurately, he does not think deeply about anything. One can only hope that when he marries (which surely will not come soon enough for the sisters Brougham) that he will choose a bride with a similar lack of thoughtfulness and sensibility. Otherwise, she shall be miserable. He won’t be, of course; he wouldn’t even notice her misery. Men are like that, I’m told. My father, for example, is remarkably unobservant. Unless, of course, you happen to be a plant, then he notices everything. He is a botanist and could happily toddle about in his greenhouse all day. He seems to me a most unlikely match for my mother, who is vivacious and outgoing and never at a loss for words; but when they are together, it is obvious that they love each other very much. Last week I caught them kissing in the garden. I was aghast. Mother is nearly forty, and Father older than that. But I have digressed. I was speaking of the Brougham family, more specifically of Mrs. Brougham’s foolish query about not being a twin. I was, as previously mentioned, feeling rather pleased with myself for not having been rude, when Mrs. Brougham said something thatwas of interest. “My nephew comes to visit this afternoon.” Every one of the Brougham girls popped straighter in her seat. I swear, it was like some children’s game with snaps. Bing bing bing bing…Up they went, from perfect posture to preternaturally erect. From this I immediately deduced that Mrs. Brougham’s nephew must be of marriageable age, probably of good fortune, and perhaps of pleasing features. “You did not mention that Ian was coming to visit,” one of the daughters said. “He’s not,” replied Mrs. Brougham. “He is still at Oxford, as you well know. Charles is coming.” Poof. The daughters Brougham deflated, all at once. “Oh,” said one of them. “Charlie.” “Today, you say,” said another, with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm. And then the third said, “I shall have to hide my dolls.” The fourth said nothing. She just resumed drinking her tea, looking rather bored by the whole thing. “Why do you have to hide your dolls?” Penelope asked. In all truth, I was wondering the same thing, but it seemed too childish a question for a lady of nineteen years. “That was twelve years ago, Dulcie,” Mrs. Brougham said. “Good heavens, you’ve a memory of an elephant.” “One does not forget what he did to my dolls,” Dulcie said darkly. “What did he do?” Penelope asked. Dulcie made a slashing motion across her throat. Penelope gasped, and I must confess, there was something rather gruesome in Dulcie’s expression. “He is a beast,” said one of Dulcie’s sisters. “He isnot a beast,” Mrs. Brougham insisted. The Brougham girls all looked at us, shaking their heads in silent agreement, as if to say—Do not listen to her. “How old is your nephew now?” my mother asked. “Two-and-twenty,” Mrs. Brougham replied, looking rather grateful for the question. “He was graduated from Oxford last month.” “He is a year older than Ian,” explained one of the girls. I nodded, even though I could hardly use Ian—whom I had never met—as a reference point. “He’s not as handsome.” “Or as nice.” I looked at the last Brougham daughter, awaiting her contribution. But all she did was yawn. “How long will he be staying?” my mother asked politely. “Two weeks,” Mrs. Brougham answered, but she really only got out, “Two wee—” before one of her daughters howled with dismay. “Two weeks! An entire fortnight!” “I was hoping he could accompany us to the local assembly,” Mrs. Brougham said. This was met by more groans. I must say, I was beginning to grow curious about this Charles fellow. Anyone who could inspire such dread amongst the Brougham daughters must have something to recommend him. Not, I hasten to add, that I dislike the Brougham daughters. Unlike their brother, none of them was granted her every wish and whim, and thus they are not at all unbearable. But they are—how shall I say it—placid and biddable, and therefore not a natural sort of companion for me (about whom such adjectives have never been applied). Truthfully, I don’t think I had ever known any of them to express a strong opinion about anything. If all four of them detested someone that much—well, if nothing else, he would be interesting. “Does your nephew like to ride?” my mother asked. Mrs. Brougham got a crafty look in her eye. “I believe so.” “Perhaps Amanda would consent to showing him the area.” With that, my mother smiled a most uncharacteristically innocent and sweet smile. Perhaps I should add that one of the reasons I am convinced that mine is the finest mother in England is that she is rarely innocent and sweet. Oh, do not misunderstand—she has a heart of gold and would do anything for her family. But she grew up the fifth in a family of eight, and she can be marvelously devious and underhanded. Also, she cannot be bested in conversation. Trust me, I have tried. So when she offered me up as a guide, I could do nothing but say yes, even as three out of four Brougham sisters began to snicker. (The fourth still looked bored. I was beginning to wonder if there might be something wrong with her.) “Tomorrow,” Mrs. Brougham said delightedly. She clapped her hands together and beamed. “I shall send him over tomorrow afternoon. Will that do?” Again, I could say nothing but yes, and so I did, wondering what exactly I had just consented to. The following afternoon I was dressed in my best riding habit and was lolling about the drawing room, wondering if the mysterious Charles Brougham would actually make an appearance. If he didn’t, I thought, he’d be entirely within his rights. It would be rude, of course, as he was breaking a commitment made on his behalf by his aunt, but all the same, it wasn’t as if he’d asked to be saddled with the local gentry. Pun unintended. My mother had not even tried to deny that she was playing matchmaker. This surprised me; I would have thought she’d put up at least a feeble protest. But instead she reminded me that I had refused a season in London, and then began to expound upon the lack of appropriately aged, eligible gentlemen here in our corner of Gloucestershire. I reminded her that she had not foundher husband in London. She then said something that began with “Be that as it may,” then veered off so quickly and with such twists and turns that I could not follow a thing she said. Which I am fairly certain was her intention. My mother wasn’t precisely upset that I had said no to a season; she was rather fond of our life in the country, and heaven knows my father would not survive in town for more than a week. Mother called me unkind for saying so, but I believe that she secretly agreed with me—Father would get distracted by a plant in the park, and we’d never find him again. (He’s a bit distractible, my father.) Or, and I confess this is more likely, he would say something utterly inappropriate at a party. Unlike my mother, my father does not have the gift of polite conversation, and he certainly does not see the need for double entendre or cunning twists of phrase. As far as he is concerned, a body ought to say what a body means. I do love my father, but it is clear that he should be kept away from town. I could have had a season in London, if I wished. My mother’s family is extremely well-connected. Her brother is a viscount, and her sisters married a duke, an earl, and a baron. I should be admitted to all of the most exclusive gatherings. But I really didn’t wish to go. I should have no freedom whatsoever. Here I may take walks or go for a ride by myself so long as I tell someone where I am going. In London, a young lady may not so much as touch her toe to her front steps without a chaperone. I think it sounds dreadful. But back to my mother. She did not mind that I had refused the season because this meant that she would not have to be apart from my father for several months. (Since, as we have determined, he would have to be left at home.) But at the same time, she was genuinely concerned for my future. To that end, she had launched into a bit of a crusade. If I would not go to the eligible gentlemen, she would bring them to me. Hence Charles Brougham. At two o’clock, he had still not arrived, and I must confess, I was growing irritable. It was a hot day, or at least as hot as it gets in Gloucestershire, and my dark green habit, which had felt so stylish and jaunty when I had donned it, was beginning to itch. Iwas beginning to wilt. Somehow my mother and Mrs. Brougham had forgotten to set a time for the nephew’s arrival, so I had been obligated to be dressed and ready at noon precisely. “What time would you say marks the end of the afternoon?” I asked, fanning myself with a folded-up newspaper. “Hmmm?” My mother was writing a letter—presumably to one of her many siblings—and wasn’t really listening. She looked quite lovely sitting there by the window. I have no idea what my original mother would have looked like as an older woman since she did not deign to live that long, but Eloise had not lost any of her beauty. Her hair was still a rich, chestnut color and her skin unlined. Her eyes are difficult to describe—rather changeable in color, actually. She tells me that she was never considered a beauty when she was young. No one thought she was unattractive, and she was in fact quite popular, but she was never designated a diamond of the first water. She tells me that women of intelligence age better. I find this interesting, and I do hope it bodes well for my own future. But at present I was not concerned for any future outside that of the next ten minutes, after which I was convinced I would perish from the heat. “The afternoon,” I repeated. “When would you say it ends? Four o’clock? Five? Please say it isn’t six.” She finally glanced up. “What are you talking about?” “Mr. Brougham. We did say the afternoon, did we not?” She looked at me blankly. “I may stop waiting for him once the afternoon passes into evening, may I not?” Mother paused for a moment, her quill suspended in air. “You should not be so impatient, Amanda.” “I’m not,” I insisted. “I’mhot. ” She considered that. “It is warm in here, isn’t it?” I nodded. “My habit is made of wool.” She grimaced, but I noticed she did not suggest that I change. She was not going to sacrifice a potential suitor for anything as inconsequential as the weather. I resumed fanning myself. “I don’t think his name is Brougham,” Mother said. “I beg your pardon?” “I believe he is related to Mrs. Brougham, not Mister. I don’t know what her family name is.” I shrugged. She went back to her letter. My mother writes an inordinate number of letters. About what, I cannot imagine. I would not call our family dull, but we are certainly ordinary. Surely her sisters have grown bored ofGeorgiana has mastered French conjugation andFrederick has skinned his knee . But Mother likes to receive letters, and she says that one must send to receive, so there she is at her desk, nearly every day, recounting the boring details of our lives. “Someone is coming,” she said, just as I was beginning to nod off on the sofa. I sat up and turned toward the window. Sure enough, a carriage was rolling up the drive. “I thought we were meant to go for a ride,” I said, somewhat irritably. Had I sweltered in my riding habit for nothing? “You were,” Mother murmured, her brow knitting together as she watched the carriage draw near. I did not think that Mr. Brougham—or whoever was in the carriage—could see into the drawing room through the open window, but just in case, I maintained my dignified position on the sofa, tilting my head ever so slightly so that I could observe the events in the front drive. The carriage came to a halt, and a gentleman hopped down, but his back was to the house, and I could see nothing of him other than his height (average) and his hair (dark). He then reached up and assisted a lady down. Dulcie Brougham! “What is she doing here?” I said indignantly. And then, once Dulcie had both feet safely on the ground, the gentleman aided another young lady, then another. And then another. “Did he bring all of the Brougham girls?” my mother asked. “Apparently so.” “I thought they hated him.” I shook my head. “Apparently not.” The reason for the sisters’ about-face became clear a few moments later, when Gunning announced their arrival. I do not know what Cousin Charlesused to look like, but now…well, let us just say that any young lady would find him pleasing. His hair was thick and with a bit of wave, and even from across the room, I could see that his eyelashes were ridiculously long. His mouth was the sort that always looks as if it is about to smile, which in my opinion is the best sort of mouth to have. I am not saying that I felt anything other than polite interest, but the Brougham sisters were falling all over themselves to be the one on his arm. “Dulcie,” my mother said, walking forth with a welcoming smile. “And Antonia. And Sarah.” She took a breath. “And Cordelia, too. What a pleasant surprise to see all of you.” It is a testament to my mother’s skills as a hostess that she did indeed sound pleased. “We could not let dear Cousin Charles come over by himself,” Dulcie explained. “He does not know the way,” added Antonia. It could not have been a simpler journey—one had only to ride into the village, turn right at the church, and it was only another mile until our drive. But I did not say this. I did, however, look over at Mr. Brougham with some sympathy. It could not have been an entertaining drive. “Charles, dear,” Dulcie was saying, “this is Lady Crane, and Miss Amanda Crane.” I bobbed a curtsy, wondering if I was going to have to climb into that carriage with all five of them. I hoped not. If it was hot in here, it would be beastly in the carriage. “Lady Crane, Amanda,” Dulcie continued, “my dear cousin Charles, Mr. Farraday.” I cocked my head at that. My mother was correct—his name was not Brougham. Oh dear, did that mean he was related toMrs . Brougham? I found Mr. Brougham the more sensible of the two. Mr. Farraday bowed politely, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes caught mine. I should say at this point that I am not a romantic. Or at least I do not think I am a romantic. If I were, I would have gone to London for that season. I would have spent my days reading poetry and my nights dancing and flirting and making merry. I certainly do not believe in love at first sight. Even my parents, who are as much in love as anyone I know, tell me that they did not love each other instantly. But when my eyes met Mr. Farraday’s… As I said, it was not love at first sight, since I do not believe in such things. It was not anything at first sight, really, but there was something…a shared recognition…a sense of humor. I’m not certain how to describe it. I suppose, if pressed, that I would say it was a sense of knowing. That somehow I already knew him. Which was of course ridiculous. But not as ridiculous as his cousins, who were trilling and frilling and fluttering about. Clearly they had decided that Cousin Charles was no longer a beast, and if anyone was going to marry him, it was going to be one of them. “Mr. Farraday,” I said, and I could feel the corners of my mouth pinching in an attempt to hold back a smile. “Miss Crane,” he said, wearing much the same expression. He bent over my hand and kissed it, much to the consternation of Dulcie, who was standing right next to me. Again, Imust stress that I am not a romantic. But my insides did a little flip when his lips touched my skin. “I am afraid that I am dressed for a ride,” I told him, motioning to my riding habit. “So you are.” I glanced ruefully at his cousins, who were most assuredly not dressed for any sort of athletic endeavor. “It’s such a lovely day,” I murmured. “Girls,” my mother said, looking squarely at the Brougham sisters, “why don’t you join me while Amanda and your cousin go for a ride? I did promise your mother that she would show him the area.” Antonia opened her mouth to protest, but she was no match for Eloise Crane, and indeed she did not make even a sound before my mother added, “Oliver will be down shortly.” That settled it. They sat, all four of them, in a neat row on the sofa, descending as one, with identically placid smiles on their faces. I almost felt sorry for Oliver. “I did not bring my mount,” Mr. Farraday said regretfully. “That is no matter,” I replied. “We have an excellent stables. I’m certain we can find something suitable.” And off we went, out the drawing-room door, then out of the house, then around the corner to the back lawn, and then— Mr. Farraday sagged against the wall, laughing. “Oh, thank you,” he said, with great feeling. “Thank you. Thank you.” I was not sure if I should feign ignorance. I could hardly acknowledge the sentiment without insulting his cousins, which I did not wish to do. As I have mentioned, I do not dislike the Brougham sisters, even if I found them a bit ridiculous that afternoon. “Tell me you can ride,” he said. “Of course.” He motioned to the house. “None of them can.” “That’s not true,” I replied, puzzled. I knew I had seen them on horseback at some point. “They can sit in a saddle,” he said, his eyes flashing with what could only be a dare, “but they cannot ride.” “I see,” I murmured. I considered my options and said, “I can.” He looked at me, one corner of his mouth tilted up. His eyes were a rather nice shade of green, mossy with little brown flecks. And again, I got that odd sense of being in accord. I hope I am not being immodest when I say that there are a few things I do quite well. I can shoot with a pistol (although not with a rifle, and not as well as my mother, who is freakishly good). I can add up sums twice as quickly as Oliver, provided I have pen and paper. I can fish, and I can swim, and above all, I can ride. “Come with me,” I said, motioning toward the stables. He did, falling into step beside me. “Tell me, Miss Crane,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “with what were you bribed for your presence this afternoon?” “You think your company was not enough reward?” “You did not know me,” he pointed out. “True.” We turned onto the path toward the stables, and I was happy to feel that the breeze was picking up. “As it happens, I was outmaneuvered by my mother.” “You admit to being outmaneuvered,” he murmured. “Interesting.” “You don’t know my mother.” “No,” he assured me, “I am impressed. Most people would not confess to it.” “As I said, you don’t know my mother.” I turned to him and smiled. “She is one of eight siblings. Besting her in any sort of devious matter is nothing short of a triumph.” We reached the stables, but I paused before entering. “And what about you, Mr. Farraday?” I asked. “With what were you bribed for your presence this afternoon?” “I, too, was thwarted,” he said. “I was told I’d escape my cousins.” I let out a snort of laughter at that. Inappropriate, yes, but unavoidable. “They attacked just as I was departing,” he told me grimly. “They are a fierce lot,” I said, utterly deadpan. “I was outnumbered.” “I thought they didn’t like you,” I said. “So did I.” He planted his hands on his hips. “It was the only reason I consented to the visit.” “What exactly did you do to them when you were children?” I asked. “The better question would be—what did they do to me?” I knew better than to claim that he held the upper hand because of his gender. Four girls could easily trounce one boy. I had gone up against Oliver countless times as a child, and although he would never admit it, I bested him more often than not. “Frogs?” I asked, thinking of my own childhood pranks. “That was me,” he admitted sheepishly. “Dead fish?” He didn’t speak, but his expression was clearly one of guilt. “Which one?” I asked, trying to imagine Dulcie’s horror. “All of them.” I sucked in my breath. “At the same time?” He nodded. I was impressed. I suppose most ladies would not find such things attractive, but I have always had an unusual sense of humor. “Have you ever done a flour ghosting?” I asked. His eyebrows rose, and he actually leaned forward. “Tell me more.” And so I told him about my mother, and how Oliver and I had tried to scare her off before she’d married my father. We’d been utter beasts. Truly. Not just mischievous children, but utter and complete blights on the face of humanity. It’s a wonder my father hadn’t shipped us off to a workhouse. The most memorable of our stunts was when we’d rigged a bucket of flour above her door so that it would dust her when she stepped out into the hall. Except that we’d filled the bucket quite high, so it was more of a coating than a dusting, and in fact more of a deluge than anything else. We also hadn’t counted on the bucket hitting her on the head. When I said that my current mother’s entry into our lives had saved us all, I meant it quite literally. Oliver and I were so desperate for attention, and our father, as lovely as he is now, had no idea how to manage us. I told all this to Mr. Farraday. It was the strangest thing. I have no idea why I spoke so long and said so much. I thought it must be that he was an extraordinary listener, except that he later told me that he is not, that in fact he is a dreadful listener and usually interrupts too often. But he didn’t with me. He listened, and I spoke, then I listened, and he spoke, and he told me of his brother Ian, with his angelic good looks and courtly manners. How everyone fawned over him, even though Charles was the elder. How Charles never could manage to hate him, though, because when all was said and done, Ian was a rather fine fellow. “Do you still want to go for a ride?” I asked, when I noticed that the sun had already begun to dip in the sky. I could not imagine how long we had been standing there, talking and listening, listening and talking. To my great surprise Charles said no, let’s walk instead. And we did. It was still warm later that night, and so after supper was done, I took myself outside. The sun had sunk below the horizon, but it was not yet completely dark. I sat on the steps of the back patio, facing west so I could watch the last hints of daylight turn from lavender to purple to black. I love this time of the night. I sat there for quite some time, long enough so that the stars began to appear, long enough so that I had to hug my arms to my body to ward off the chill. I hadn’t brought a shawl. I suppose I hadn’t thought I’d be sitting outside for so long. I was just about to head back inside when I heard someone approaching. It was my father, on his way home from his greenhouse. He was holding a lantern, and his hands were dirty. Something about the sight of him made me feel like a child again. He was a big bear of a man, and even before he’d married Eloise, back when he didn’t seem to know what to say to his own children, he’d always made me feel safe. He was my father, and he would protect me. He didn’t need to say it, I just knew. “You’re out late,” he said, sitting beside me. He set his lantern down and brushed his hands against his work trousers, shaking off the loose dirt. “Just thinking,” I replied. He nodded, then leaned his elbows on his thighs and looked out at the sky. “Any shooting stars tonight?” I shook my head even though he wasn’t facing me. “No.” “Do you need one?” I smiled to myself. He was asking if I had any wishes to be made. We used to wish on stars together all the time when I was small, but somehow we’d got out of the habit. “No,” I said. I was feeling introspective, thinking about Charles and wondering what it meant that I’d spent the whole of the afternoon with him and now could not wait to see him again tomorrow. But I didn’t feel as if I needed any wishes granted. At least, not yet. “I always have wishes,” he remarked. “You do?” I turned to him, my head tilting to the side as I took in his profile. I know that he’d been terribly unhappy before he’d met my current mother, but that was all well behind him. If ever a man had a happy and fulfilled life, it was he. “What do you wish for?” I asked. “The health and happiness of my children, first and foremost.” “That doesn’t count,” I said, feeling myself smile. “Oh, you don’t think so?” He looked at me, and there was more than a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I assure you, it’s the first thing I think about in the morning, and the last before I lay myself down to sleep.” “Really?” “I have five children, Amanda, and every one of them is healthy and strong. And as far as I know, you’re all happy. It’s probably dumb luck that you’ve all turned out so well, but I’m not going to tempt any fates by wishing for something else.” I thought about that for a moment. It had never occurred to me to wish for something I already had. “Is it scary being a parent?” I asked. “The most terrifying thing in the world.” I don’t know what I thought he might say, but it wasn’t that. But then I realized—he was speaking to me as an adult. I don’t know if he’d ever really done so before. He was still my father, and I was still his daughter, but I’d crossed some mysterious threshold. It was thrilling and sad at the same time. We sat together for a few minutes more, pointing out constellations and not saying anything of import. And then, just when I was about to head back inside, he said, “Your mother said that you had a gentleman caller this afternoon.” “And four of his female cousins,” I quipped. He looked over at me with arched brows, a silent scolding for making light of the topic. “Yes,” I said. “I did.” “Did you like him?” “Yes.” I felt myself grow a bit light, as if my insides had gone fizzy. “I did.” He digested that, then said, “I’m going to have to get a very large stick.” “What?” “I used to say to your mother that when you were old enough to be courted, I was going to have to beat away the gentlemen.” There was something almost sweet about that. “Really?” “Well, not when you were very small. Then you were such a nightmare I despaired of anyone ever wanting you.” “Father!” He chuckled. “Don’t say you don’t know it’s true.” I couldn’t contradict. “But when you were a bit older, and I started to see the first hints of the woman you would become…” He sighed. “Good Lord, if ever being a parent is terrifying…” “And now?” He thought about that for a moment. “I suppose now I can only hope I raised you well enough to make sensible decisions.” He paused. “And, of course, if anyone even thinks about mistreating you, I shall still have that stick.” I smiled, then scooted over slightly, so that I could rest my head on his shoulder. “I love you, Father.” “I love you, too, Amanda.” He turned and kissed me on the top of my head. “I love you, too.” I did marry Charles, by the way, and my father never once had to brandish a stick. The wedding occurred six months later, after a proper courtship and slightly improper engagement. But I am certainly not going to put into writing any of the events that made the engagement improper. My mother insisted upon a premarital chat, but this was conducted the night before the wedding, by which time the information was no longer exactly timely, but I did not let on. I did, however, get the impression that she and my father might also have anticipated their marriage vows. I was shocked. Shocked. It seems most unlike them. Now that I have experienced the physical aspects of love, the mere thought of my parents… It is too much to bear. Charles’s family home is in Dorset, rather close to the sea, but as his father is very much alive, we have let a home in Somerset, halfway between his family and mine. He dislikes town as much as I do. He is thinking of beginning a breeding program for horses, and it’s the oddest thing, but apparently the breeding of plants and the breeding of animals are not entirely dissimilar. He and my father have become great friends, which is lovely, except that now my father visits quite often. Our new home is not large, and all of the bedrooms are quite near to one another. Charles has devised a new game he calls, “See how quiet Amanda can be.” Then he proceeds to do all measure of wicked things to me—all while my father sleeps across the hall! He is devil, but I adore him. I can’t help it. Especially when he… Oh, wait, I wasn’t going to put any such things in writing, was I? Just know that I am smiling very broadly as I remember it. And that it wasnot covered in my mother’s premarital chat. I suppose I should admit that last night I lost the game. I was not quiet at all. My father did not say a word. But he departed rather unexpectedly that afternoon, citing some sort of botanical emergency. I don’t know that plantshave emergencies, but as soon as he left, Charles insisted upon inspecting our roses for whatever it was my father said was wrong with his. Except that for some reason he wanted to inspect the roses that were already cut and arranged in a vase in our bedroom. “We’re going to play a new game,” he whispered in my ear. “See how noisy Amanda can be.” “How do I win?” I asked. “And what is the prize?” I can be quite competitive, and so can he, but I think it is safe to say that we both won that time. And the prize was lovely, indeed. About the Author JULIA QUINNstarted writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since. The New York Times bestselling author of nineteen novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. Please visit her on the web at Julia Quinn, Author of Historical Romance Novels. Visit Untitled Document for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. TO SIR PHILLIP, WITH LOVE: THE SECOND EPILOGUE. Copyright © 2009 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-196555-5 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia HarperCollins e-books Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand HarperCollins New Zealand United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 HarperCollins e-books & e-audio |
الف شكر ع المجموعة الروعة دي الكلمات مش توفيكي حقك صراحة
اكتر قصة بحبهاللكاتبة دي هي every thing and the moon دورت عليها لحد ما لقيتها وحبيت اني اشارككم فيها واتمني انها تعجبكم وده اللينك بتاعها ومعاها روايات تانية بس موجودة بالفعل ف مجموعتكم RapidShare: 1-CLICK Web hosting - Easy Filehosting http://img1.fantasticfiction.co.uk/i...n18/n91677.jpg STARCROSSED It was indisputably love at first sight. But Victoria Lyndon was merely the teenaged daughter of a vicar. . .while Robert Kemble was the dashing young earl of Macclesfield. Surely what their meddlesome fathers insisted must have been true-that he was a reckless seducer determined to destroy her innocence. . . and she was a shameless fortune hunter. So it most certainly was for the best when their plans to elope went hopelessly awry. MOONSTRUCK Even after a seven-year separation, Victoria-now a governess-still leaves Robert breathless. But how could he ever again trust the raven-haired deceiver who had shattered his soul? And Victoria could never give her heart a second time to the cad who so callously trampled on it the first. But a passion fated will not be denied, and vows of love yearn to be kept. . . even when one promises the moon. |
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تسلم الأيادى سيمراد , تعيشى و تجيبى يا حلوه بس ياريت بعد كده تحملى أى روايه على ليلاس , لأن الروابط دى بتعطل كتير و بتحذف من الرابيدشير على العموم الروايه أنا حملتها هنا و لو عندك أى سؤال عن طريقة التحميل فى ليلاس أنا تحت أمرك سلااااااام |
Brighter Than the Sun
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Brighter Than the Sun The second book in the Lyndon Sisters series SWEETER THAN A DREAM Charles Wycombe, the dashing--if incorrigible-- Earl of Billington, needs a bride before his upcoming thirtieth birthday if he hopes to earn his inheritance. The vicar's vivacious, determined daughter, Miss Eleanor Lyndon, needs a new home, since her father's insufferable fiancee is making her old one intolerable. Destiny has brought Charles and Ellie together--though their match at the outset appears to have been made somewhere rather hotter than heaven. BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN Their first meeting is less than auspicious--with a somewhat soused Charles falling from a tree and landing at Eleanor's feet. While they agree to marry for their mutual convenience, Charles is not prepared to let a woman command his household. And certainly strong-willed Ellie refuses to let a rogue run her life. Yet the rakish earl can be quite charming--and even tender--when he puts his mind to it. And there's no denying the sensuous allure of his enchanting, innocent, yet utterly stubborn wife. Even though mad mishaps and very real dangers threaten their fragile union, they must follow where passion leads--to the rapturous warmth and brilliance of love. http://img1.fantasticfiction.co.uk/i...n18/n91679.jpg |
The Duke and I
The Duke and I The first book in the Bridgerton series HAS THE DEVASTATING DUKE FINALLY FOUND A BRIDE? All the society papers say so. But, only the Duke of Hastings and "his "intended" know the truth. For the irresistible Simon Basset has hatched a plan to keep himself free from all those marriage-minded society mothers by pretending an attachment to the lovely Daphne Bridgerton. After all, it isn't as if the brooding rogue has any real plans to marry--though there is something about the alluring miss that sets Simon's heart beating a bit faster. And as for Daphne, surely the clever debutante will attract some very worthy suitors now that it seems a duke has declared her desirable... But as Daphne waltzes across ballroom after ballroom with Simon, she soon forgets that their courtship is a complete sham. Maybe it's the mesmerizing look in his intense blue eyes, or the way she feels in his gong arms, but somehow Daphne is falling for the dashing duke ... for real! And now she has to do the impossible and keep herself from losing her heart and soul completely to the handsome hell-raiser who has sworn off marriage forever! awards 2000 AAR Top 100 Romances 2004 AAR Top 100 Romances 2007 AAR Top 100 Romances http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41Vwp%2BTx9NL.jpg http://www.liillas.com/up3//./extension/zip.gif |
Romancing Mr. Bridgerton
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Romancing Mr. Bridgerton The fourth book in the Bridgerton series "Everyone knows that Colin Bridgerton is the most charming man in London." Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, March 1824 Penelope Featherington has secretly adored her best friend's brother for ... well, it feels like forever. After half a lifetime of watching Colin Bridgerton from afar, she thinks she knows everything about him, until she stumbles across his deepest secret ... and fears she doesn't know him at all. Colin Bridgerton is tired of being thought nothing but an empty-headed charmer, tired of the neverending sameness of his life, and, most of all, tired of everyone's preoccupation with the notorious gossip columnist Lady Whistledown, who can't seem to publish an edition without mentioning him in the first paragraph. But when Colin returns to London from a trip abroad, he discovers nothing in his life is quite the same -- especially Penelope Featherington! The girl who was always simply ... there is suddenly the girl haunting his dreams. But when he discovers that Penelope has secrets of her own, this elusive bachelor must decide ... is she his biggest threat -- or his promise of a happy ending? awards 2002 AAR Best Couple 2002 AAR Best Heroine 2007 AAR Top 100 Romances http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51I2aNoR4vL.jpg |
On the Way to the Wedding (The eighth book in the Bridgerton series)
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On the Way to the Wedding (The eighth book in the Bridgerton series) A funny thing happened... Unlike most men of his acquaintance, Gregory Bridgerton believes in true love. And he is convinced that when he finds the woman of his dreams, he will know in an instant that she is the one. And that is exactly what happened. Except... She wasn't the one. In fact, the ravishing Miss Hermione Watson is in love with another. But her best friend, the ever-practical Lady Lucinda Abernathy, wants to save Hermione from a disastrous alliance, so she offers to help Gregory win her over. But in the process, Lucy falls in love. With Gregory! Except... Lucy is engaged. And her uncle is not inclined to let her back out of the betrothal, even once Gregory comes to his senses and realizes that it is Lucy, with her sharp wit and sunny smile, who makes his heart sing. And now, on the way to the wedding, Gregory must risk everything to ensure that when it comes time to kiss the bride, he is the only man standing at the altar... http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/...BL._SS500_.jpg |
Thirty-Six Valentines by Julia Quinn
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Thirty-Six Valentines by Julia Quinn Lady Whistledown Tells All! Society is abuzz when the Season's most promising debutante is jilted by her intended only to be swept away by the deceitful rogue's dashing older-brother- in New York Times bestseller JULIA QUINN's witty, charming, and heartfelt tale. http://img1.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/c1/c9345.jpg |
روعة هوبي ياعسل الله يخليك يارب تعيشي وتجيبي
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A Tale of Two Sisters by Julia Quinn
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A Tale of Two Sisters by Julia Quinn Where's My Hero? An omnibus of novels by Lisa Kleypas, Kinley MacGregor and Julia Quinn Dear avon books, Where are my heroes? Whenever I'm reading a book by one of my favorite authors I find I'm falling for the wrong guy -- not the hero, but the other man -- and what I really want is for him to have his own story. Like Jake Linley, from Someone to Watch Over Me by Lisa Kleypas...that doctor could sit by my bedside if I ever got sick. And Ned Blydon in Splendid by Julia Quinn...he makes me want to learn to waltz! I never thought living in a drafty castle would be much fun until Simon of Ravenswood in Master of Desire by Kinley MacGregor came along. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that these are my men -- when do they get their stories? Sincerely, A Romance Fan Some books are so special that there is more than one hero to love, but only a single story is told. So if you find yourself asking, "Where is my hero?" you'll discover the answer right here in this delicious collection by New York Times bestseller Lisa Kleypas, New York Times bestseller Julia Quinn and USA Today bestseller Kinley MacGregor. awards 2003 AAR Best Short Story http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51R3S1rzxDL.jpg |
The First Kiss by Julia Quinn
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The First Kiss by Julia Quinn Who Stole Lady Neeley's Bracelet? Was it the fortune hunter, the gambler, the servant, or the rogue? All of London is abuzz with speculation, but it is clear that one of four couples is connected to the crime. Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, May 1816 Julia Quinn enchants: A dashing fortune hunter is captivated by the Season's most desired debutante...and must prove he is out to steal the lady's heart, not her dowry. http://img1.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/c1/c9347.jpg |
The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever
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The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever 2 March 1810 . . . Today, I fell in love. At the age of ten, Miranda Cheever showed no signs of Great Beauty. And even at ten, Miranda learned to accept the expectations society held for her--until the afternoon when Nigel Bevelstoke, the handsome and dashing Viscount Turner, solemnly kissed her hand and promised her that one day she would grow into herself, that one day she would be as beautiful as she already was smart. And even at ten, Miranda knew she would love him forever. But the years that followed were as cruel to Turner as they were kind to Miranda. She is as intriguing as the viscount boldly predicted on that memorable day--while he is a lonely, bitter man, crushed by a devastating loss. But Miranda has never forgotten the truth she set down on paper all those years earlier--and she will not allow the love that is her destiny to slip lightly through her fingers . . . awards 2007 Rita -- Regency Historical http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51cFRIgD6oL.jpg |
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انا فعلا مبعرفش احمل ع الموقع انا لسة جديدة ف المنتدي بس اتمني فعلا تعرفيني الطريقة عشان اذا لقيت جديد احب اني اشاركم بيه وشكرا لانك حملتي الرواية واتمني انها تعجبك وتعجب رواد المنتدي
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سيمراد أهلين بيكي حبيبتي تفضلي دا موضوع أحنا عملينه عشان الشرح لطريقة التحميل سواء مرفقات أو عن طريق مركز التحميل و فيه كمان طريقة تحميل الصور أن شاء تستفيدي منه و منتظرين مشاركاتك معانا حبيبتي سلاااااااااام http://www.liilas.com/vb3/t105832.html |
مغرقانا بجمايلك كوكو , الله يعطيــــــــــــــــــــــــكي الف عافيه ياباشا :friends::flowers2::8_4_134:
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شكرا يا جميل ع المساعدة وشكرا ع الاهتمام
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ربنا يعطيكمـ العافيــهـ يارب
اشكركم على جهودكـمـ الرائعــهـ |
thanx 4 the novels girls |
hi girls how are u
i thank u all for all the beatiful efforts Julia Quinn is a lovely writer I was wondering if you have her new novel TEN THINGS I LOVE ABOUT YOU it is about Sebastian Grey,Harry's friend in WHAT HAPPENS IN LONDON THANK YOU |
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الله يعطيكي الف الف عافيه غزولتي الحبيبه :friends::flowers2::55::8_4_134:
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ريما يا حياتي شكرا على المفاجأة الحلوة
من زمان خاطري أقرأها تسلمي يا قلبي على القصة |
thanxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx:flowers2:
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another link ,hope enjoy Ten_Things_I_Love_About_You.html - 4shared.com - online file sharing and storage - download
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What Happens in London
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http://img1.fantasticfiction.co.uk/i...58/n290779.jpg
What Happens in London Rumors and Gossip . . . The lifeblood of London When Olivia Bevelstoke is told that her new neighbor may have killed his fiancÉe, she doesn't believe it for a second, but, still, how can she help spying on him, just to be sure? So she stakes out a spot near her bedroom window, cleverly concealed by curtains, watches, and waits . . . and discovers a most intriguing man, who is definitely up to something. Sir Harry Valentine works for the boring branch of the War Office, translating documents vital to national security. He's not a spy, but he's had all the training, and when a gorgeous blonde begins to watch him from her window, he is instantly suspicious. But just when he decides that she's nothing more than an annoyingly nosy debutante, he discovers that she might be engaged to a foreign prince, who might be plotting against England. And when Harry is roped into spying on Olivia, he discovers that he might be falling for her himself . |
hii
I would like to order The Lady Most Likely by a group of writers: Julia Quinn ELoise James Connie Brockway thank u |
thanks lovely girls
god bless u all :liilase::liilase::liilase::liilase: |
u r the best girls |
يسلمو هالإيدين و الله حبيت أساعد بس الصبايا ما قصروا
يسلمووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووووو ملاحظة الرابط لرواية Ten things I love about u مو شغال ممكن الموقع اللي نزلتي الرواية منه و شكراً :110::c8T05285: |
Just Like Heaven
http://viprasys.org/xfs/image/direct...PF/n366229.jpg HONORIA SMYTHE-SMITH IS: A) a really bad violinist B) still miffed at being nicknamed "Bug" as a child C) NOT in love with her older brother's best friend D) All of the above MARCUS HOLROYD IS: A) the Earl of Chatteris B) regrettably prone to sprained ankles C) NOT in love with his best friend's younger sister D) All of the above TOGETHER THEY: A) eat quite a bit of chocolate cake B) survive a deadly fever AND world's worst musical performance C) fall quite desperately in love. It's Julia Quinn at her best, so you KNOW the answer is... D) All of the above CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD |
the link 4 just like heven isn't working
thanx |
I tried it when I wrote it and it was working I don't know why it says that now anyway here is the link again I hope it works for you now. I can't upload it here cause It is more than the allowed size. MEGAUPLOAD - The leading online storage and file delivery service Enjoy :) |
I liked every one of them
thanks a lot :wookie::wookie::wookie: |
رد: ~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
Thank you all very much
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رد: ~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
بليز آخر رواية لايك هيفن ماعم اقدر نزلها من موقع التحميل الرجاء المساعدة
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The Bridgerton Series
Julia Quinn's The Bridgerton Series
Bridgertons Family Tree 01 The Duke and I 02 The Viscount Who Loved Me 03 An Offer from a Gentleman 04 Romancing Mister Bridgerton 05 To Sir Phillip, with Love 06 When He Was Wicked 07 It's in His Kiss 08 On The Way To the Wedding 09 Happily Ever After 04.2 The Bridgerton - 2nd Epilogue Series 2.5 The Viscount who Loved Me 3.5 An Offer from a Gentleman II 4.5 Romancing Mr. Bridgerton 5.5 To Sir Phillip, With Love 6.5 When He was Wicked 7.5 It's in His Kiss 04.5 The Bridgerton Honorary Anthology Series 01 The Further Observation of Lady Whistle 02 Lady Whistledown Strikes Back Series link http://www.mediafire.com/download/45...ton_Series.rar http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1252049102l/6799700.jpg http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1348358042l/4411509.jpg http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1346380157l/9408584.jpg |
Smythe-Smith Quartet series
Julia Quinn's Smythe-Smith Quartet series
Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet, #1) A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet, #2) The Sum of All Kisses (Smythe-Smith Quartet, #3) The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (Smythe-Smith Quartet, #4) Series Link http://www.mediafire.com/download/u6...xhy3q/TSSQ.rar http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1388292051l/9571478.jpg http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1326735102l/12925200.jpg http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1356091342l/15702268.jpg http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1404443434l/22046656.jpg |
THE BEVELSTOKE SERIES
THE BEVELSTOKE SERIES
A wallflower and her best friend, followed by the hero's cousin The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever What Happens in London Ten Things I Love About You series link http://www.mediafire.com/download/ag.../TBS1_-_JQ.rar http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...iaries_276.jpg http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...london_276.jpg http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/ten/ten_276.jpg |
THE TWO DUKES OF WYNDHAM
THE TWO DUKES OF WYNDHAM Because there are two sides to every story THE LOST DUKE OF WYNDHAM MR. CAVENDISH, I PRESUME series link http://www.mediafire.com/download/ff.../TDOW_-_JQ.rar http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...yndham_350.jpg http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...endish_450.jpg |
AGENTS OF THE CROWN
AGENTS OF THE CROWN
Who says spies can't fall in love? To Catch An Heiress 01 How to Marry a Marquis 02 series link http://www.mediafire.com/download/c4.../AOTC_-_JQ.rar http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...ss-new_276.jpg http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...uis_new276.jpg |
THE LYNDON SISTERS
THE LYNDON SISTERS Two very different sisters, two very different love stories. Everything and the Moon Better than the Sun series link http://www.mediafire.com/download/u1...7/TLS_-_JQ.rar http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...on-new_276.jpg http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/sun/sun-new_276.jpg |
THE SPLENDID TRILOGY
THE SPLENDID TRILOGY
JQ's first three novels, with her signature wit and warmth. Splendid Dancing at Midnight Minx .and a related novella Where's my Hero series link http://www.mediafire.com/download/hp...p/TST_-_JQ.rar http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...id-new_276.jpg http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/dam/dam-mm_276.jpg http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...nx-new_276.jpg |
رد: ~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
THE LADY MOST LIKELY… THE LADY MOST WILLING… SCOTTISH BRIDES novels link http://www.mediafire.com/download/11...74/Ot_-_JQ.rar http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...illing_450.jpg http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...likely_450.jpg http://juliaquinn.com/images/covers/...brides_450.jpg |
رد: ~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
Million Thanxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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رد: ~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
Thanx a million girls
love you elina |
رد: ~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
مشكوره جهودكم يا جماعة الخير.
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رد: ~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
Please can you get new link for Everything and the Moon |
رد: ~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
1 مرفق
اقتباس:
Everything and the Moon (The Lyndon Sisters #1) https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1...51l/110390.jpg |
رد: ~~~ Julia Quinn ~~~
اقتباس:
تسلم ايديكي :0041::0041::0041: |
| الساعة الآن 09:36 AM. |
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