Once again, for those who do not know me, I have different standards for different genres. Historical Romance, having a special place in my heart, since it was the genre with which I learned to read as a child my grandma always had some dramatic HR with a boudoir cover art on her nightstand and those were my first valiant attempts to figure out the scribbles on the pages: , is usually the genre I cut most slack to authors, followed by UF. The reason why is that we read those for the tried and true formulas, which give us the good feels at the end and we can go on dealing with the daily grind with a little bit lighter heart. Eloisa James has so much talent, it is scary! I love, love, loooove the ease with which she can write a bucolic scene and make it just as fun as a passionate and flirtatious corset-ripper episode.

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Others resemble pigs, with pillowy cheeks and small eyes. Simon Darby turned into a Cossack. His eyes took on a slanted look. High cheekbones that spoke of generations of Darbys turned formidable, angular, and altogether foreign.

The last time the Honorable Gerard Bunge himself could remember being so enraged was when his doctor informed him that he had caught the pox. Even remembering the moment made him queasy. There was that uneasy sense of heavenly retribution, not to mention the unpleasant treatment lying ahead. But even less would he like to be told that his inheritance had disappeared. After all, diseases come and go, but life is so expensive. Even handkerchiefs are prohibitive.

Darby was probably in shock. So Bunge repeated himself. Your aunt is increasing. Definitely syphilis was preferable. I mean to say, the Countess of Trent paid her a visit in the country, and described the lady as waddling. Did you hear me, Darby? Tossing back his deep cuffs, he pushed the china dogs into a neat row.

There had to be fourteen or fifteen of the lolling, garishly painted little things. He swallowed a curse as the sharp edge of his starched linen collar nipped him in the neck. He had to remember not to turn his head so quickly. The new high collars were the devil to wear. I gather my uncle and aunt had an unexpected rapprochement before his death. Presumably they engaged in heir-making without speech. You will please me by squashing any such rumors. Their esteemed aunt is going to have a baby.

Josephine will be delighted. Lady Rawlings might have a girl. But anger swelled in his throat. And now the woman was increasing—waddling, even?

Doubtless the child would be born on the early side. The house party took place last July. And why would the elegantly slim Lady Rawlings be waddling at only six months, with three long months to go?

Damn her for a lying jade. Likely she sprouted the babe with another man and lured Miles into the room in order to confuse the issue of paternity. Miles never deserved that hussy of a wife he married.

But he stuck by his wife, never flinched as Esme Rawlings created scandal after scandal. Refused even to consider divorce. There were people in London who thought Darby was an uncaring, dispassionate man.

They judged him an Exquisite, given the eccentricity and elegance of his clothing. They noted the ease with which he played the fashionable games of the ton and the trail of broken hearts that followed him, judged him by whispered tales of debauchery and degenerate friends.

Told each other that the only emotion he ever displayed was vanity. He was an olive-skinned, broad, brawny brute of a man whose only signs of his aristocratic birth lay in a crumpled neck cloth and a pair of fine boots.

Darby glanced at him over his shoulder. Gerard Bunge just left the house. He suggested I marry a wool heiress otherwise known as the woolly breeder. He knew just how much his friend loathed pity. Darby stood at the mantelpiece staring down at the fire, a long lean body of coiled muscle clothed in superb fine cloth. Darby had two young stepsisters to raise. Whereas Rees himself was a shambling mess, sartorially speaking, and yet had three or four houses, and more money than he knew what to do with.

Darby swung around. He had a face that made women swoon, with lean hollows in both cheeks that emphasized his cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and lean chin. It was a look that was exquisitely aristocratic and dangerously male. And bastardy is the devil to prove. God only knows who the father is. Do you know how much Miles—my uncle—wanted an heir? Rees jerked his head. Miles was the kindest of men. Talk about opposites.

I clearly remember telling Rawlings that he should have booted Esme out as I did Helene, rather than allowing her to keep the house. Not divorce.

Could have been anyone. That woman with a place in East Cliff who fancies herself an art enthusiast and cobbles together a bunch of actors and dilettanti? Why do you think she got pregnant now? Better pray for a girl. Once Rees was following the lure of a musical line, there was no getting him back until it was on paper.

She was a lady, for all she was a trollop. And in an odd way, she and Miles had got along quite well. She never fussed over his mistresses—well, how could she?

In fact, she seemed fond of Miles in an odd way. Perhaps she got the wind up about moving to the dower house, and cooked up the pregnancy. The lady rarely left London. So what was she doing in a half-forgotten estate in Wiltshire? The housekeeper will buy some new shirts. She could buy one without a problem. Generally they scowled; now they looked skeptical.


Duchess in Love

Twitter Facebook Tumblr Pinterest Cam and Gina were married at a very young age eighteen and twelve, respectively. Gina looked down at her hands for a moment. Gina shivered. She looked away, tightening her lips against the sight of him. But he was moving, pulling her to her feet.


Fool for Love

Go back to Italy. His eyes had the fierce rage of an eagle. Your presence here, on my estate, threatens to make that truth known to all. He said that we had to live together, and we had to be discreet. She put her hand on his head, and a gold tendril curled around her finger as if to keep her there. She walked out the door without looking back. It was her favorite tale, about the angry little lampshade who traveled all the way to Paris.


Fool For Love

She has a passion for London, and will be easily satisfied by living there and riding in the Row a few times a week. In other words, in the presence of a man? We women are, by necessity, quite familiar with the concept of the marriage market. Darby — more affordable. And it made sense that she thought he needed to marry an heiress.



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