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Caroline Trent hadn't meant to shoot Percival Prewitt, but she had, and now he was dead. Or at least she thought he was dead.

Julia Quinn

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Julia Quinn
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: January 12
Author
Writer
Evergreen State
Julie Cotler
Julie Pottinger
Dead
Least
Thought
Caroline
Trent
Hadn
Shoot
Meant

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Just be quiet and accept the praise.
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Society is capricious and rewards the bad as often as the good. But it never rewards the quiet.
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Besides, he said breezily, were it not for misunderstandings, we would be sadly lacking in great literature. She looked at him questioningly. Where would Romeo and Juliet be? Alive.
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This is why I didn't get married last year, she said to him. I wouldn't be here to nurse you. She thought about that for a moment. Of course, one could make the argument that you wouldn't be in this situation if not for me. But we're not going to dwell upon that.
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There were a lot of things in life to be afraid of, but strangeness ought not be among them.
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Michael nodded tersely, eyeing a table across the room. It was empty. So empty. So joyfully, blessedly empty. He could picture himself a very happy man at that table. Not feeling very conversational this evening, are we? Colin asked, breaking into his (admittedly tame) fantasies.
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His brows rose. “And how is it that you have come to be such an expert on scrapes and bruises?” “I’m a governess,” she said. Because really, that ought to be explanation enough.
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She needed him to be him. Even if he could not be hers.
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He gave her his best smile. His best I-almost-died-so-how-can-you-deny-me smile. Or at least that’s how he hoped it appeared. The truth was, he wasn’t a very accomplished flirt, and it might very well have come across as an Iam- mildly-deranged-so-it’s-in-all-of-our-best-interests-if-youpretend- to-agree-with-me smile.
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You’re going to be my grandmother.” “You silly child. In my heart, I’ve been your grandmother for years. I’ve just been waiting for you to make it official.
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I have thoroughly compromised your niece, Alex declared. Will you plase insist that she marry me? Caroline didn't bat an eyelash. This, she announced, is most peculiar.
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Rehearsels, actually. Rehearsals? For the- Oh,no. -musicale. The Smythe-Smith musical.It finished off what the Crusades had begun.There wasn't a man alive who could maintain a romantic thought when faced with the memory-or the threat-of a Smythe-Smith musicale.
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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.
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There were only so many ways a man‟s heart could break, and he had a feeling his couldn‟t survive another puncture.
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It was heaven. Forget angels, forget St. Peter and glittering harpsichords. Heaven was a dance in the arms of one's true love.
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Not that I wish to give you any ammunition, but the sad fact of it is-most men are sheep. Where one goes, the rest will follow. And didn't you say you wished to be married?' 'Not to someone who follows you as the lead sheep.
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Do I look like a mess?” she asked. He nodded. “But you’re my mess,” he whispered.
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This has to be the most self-centered thing I've ever said, but no, I think you just wanted to vex me.
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