Love Was The Best Present Of All.

Stirlings Of Old Had Been So Damned Besotted With Their Newfound Earldom That They Couldn't Think To Put Any Other Name On Anything...it Was A Wonder He Didn't Drink Kilmartin Tea And Sit On A Kilmartin-style Chair. In Fact, He Probably Would Be Doing Just That If His Grandmother Had Found A Way To Manage It Without Actually Taking The Family Into Trade.

He’d Spent His Life Being A Perfect Gentleman. He’d Never Been A Flirt. He’d Never Been A Rogue. He Hated Being The Center Of Attention, But By God, He Wanted To Be The Center Of Her Attention. He Wanted To Do The Wrong Thing, The Bad Thing. He Wanted To Pull Her Into His Arms And Carry Her To Her Bed. He Wanted To Peel Every Last Inch Of Her Clothing From Her Body, And Then He Wanted To Worship Her. He Wanted To Show Her All The Things He Wasn’t Sure He Knew How To Say.

Interesting, He Later Reflected, Was Perhaps Not The Correct Word.by The Time He And Henry Arrived Back At The House For Their Midday Meal-a Scrumptious Bowl Of Hot, Sticky Porridge-he Had Mucked Out The Stable Stalls, Milked A Cow, Been Pecked By Three Separate Hens, Weeded A Vegetable Garden, And Fallen Into A Trough.

This Thing Between Them, This Bond—it Wasn’t Just Passion, And It Wasn’t Wicked. It Was Love, And It Was Divine.

He Shook His Head In Wonder. "you Are Magnificent." "i Keep Telling Everyone That," She Said With A Nonchalant Shrug, "but You Seem To Be The Only One To Believe Me.