Tarquin, the powerful Duke of Sconce, knows perfectly well that the decorous and fashionably slender Georgiana Lytton will make him a proper duchess. So why can’t he stop thinking about her twin sister, the curvy, headstrong, and altogether unconventional Olivia? Not only is Olivia betrothed to another man, but their improper, albeit intoxicating, flirtation makes her unsuitability all the more clear.
Determined to make a perfect match, he methodically cuts Olivia from his thoughts, allowing logic and duty to triumph over passion…Until, in his darkest hour, Tarquin begins to question whether perfection has anything to do with love.
To win Olivia's hand he would have to give up all the beliefs he holds most dear, and surrender heart, body and soul…
Unless it’s already too late.
The Duke Is Mine (Fairy Tales 3.) 3 csillagozás
Eredeti megjelenés éve: 2011
Enciklopédia 3
Szereplők népszerűség szerint
Georgiana Lytton · Olivia Lytton · Tarquin Brook-Chatfield, Duke of Sconce
Kívánságlistára tette 1
Népszerű idézetek
Rupert was a buffle-headed fool and he wasn’t going to change.
Her hips weren’t going to change, either.
“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.”
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.
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