She Had Been Born For This Man,

Men. The Day They Learned To Admit To A Mistake Was The Day They Became Women.

Phillip Looked To Eloise. "perhaps Introductions Are In Order?" "oh," Eloise Said, Gulping. "yes, Of Course. These Are My Brothers." "i'd Gathered," He Said, His Voice As Dry As Dust. She Shot Him An Apologetic Look, Which, Phillip Thought, Was Really The Least She Could Do After Nearly Getting Him Tortured And Killed, Then Turned To Her Brothers And Motioned To Each In Turn, Saying, "anthony, Benedict, Colin, Gregory. These Three," She Added, Motioning To A, B, And C, "are My Elders. This One"—she Waved Dismissively At Gregory—"is An Infant.

But She Was Already In. Gareth Couldn't Help But Stand Back In Admiration. Hyacinth Bridgerton Was Clearly A Natural Born Athlete. Either That Or A Cat Burglar.

It Wasn‟t Even Desire. It Was Far More Than That. It Was Love. Love. With A Capital L And Swirly Script And Hearts And Flowers And Whatever Else The Angels— And Yes, All Those Annoying Little Cupids—wished To Use For Embellishment.

To Call That Writing, Madam, Is An Insult To Quills And Ink Across The World.