Olivia Lytton személy
Idézetek
Rupert was a buffle-headed fool and he wasn’t going to change.
Her hips weren’t going to change, either.
Of course, Olivia probably had every lecherous man in London panting after her, given her voluptuous figure. That gown she wore was made up of different panels that somehow swept around and under, and there was just a touch of lace over her breasts . . . perhaps they could call it the Olivia Syndrome.
The question was . . . what was the question? It was unusual for Quin to feel as if he were floundering between incoherent thoughts.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured, slipping her leg around the pommel and tweaking her skirts.
“I prefer to be called Quin.”
Startled, she looked down at him. “That would be quite improper.”
“ ‘Improper’ would be if I pulled you off this horse in front of four servants and kissed you senseless.”
Tarquin Brook-Chatfield, Duke of Sconce, made a fool of himself that night in France. He always remembered it, and looked back with a tinge of embarrassment.
The man who never cried, not even at his own son’s funeral, wept.
And when Olivia Mayfair Lytton came to, coughing and hurting, but otherwise fine, she—who never cried either—wept as well.
For Tarquin Brook-Chatfield, Duke of Sconce, complicated words never had the same incantatory force as they had before his second marriage. He never worried if he couldn’t find just the right ones.
There were only three that truly mattered, and they bore repeating: “I love you; I love you; I love you.”
“I love you.”