Sublime

“The popular press has named her as one of London’s ‘Reigning Beauties’ for the last two years. Her name is Arabella Fermor.”

Stepping closer to her, Gabriel nuzzled the upswept locks near her temple. “I love your hair,” he murmured. “It’s like midnight in my hands.” She twisted away with a stifled laugh. “No, don’t be romantic in the middle of the toy department.” “It’s not working?” “It is, that’s the problem.”

grok

“You are too late for the duke,” she repeated, knowing, even as she spoke, that she must stop the words from coming. Except they were a runaway horse—loosed and free and wild. “Because I’ve already landed him.”

Westcliff didn’t appear to hear the comment, his gaze locked on Lillian’s unrepentant face. “Good God—is there nothing you won’t stoop to?” “If there is,” Lillian replied smartly, “I haven’t discovered it yet.” Had her own circumstances not been quite so mortifying, Annabelle would have dissolved into laughter at the earl’s expression.