Don’t Tell Me Your Name. It’s Likely

His Mouth Captured Hers, Trying To Show Her With His Kiss What He Was Still Learning To Express In Words. He Loved Her. He Worshipped Her. He'd Walk Across Fire For Her. He— —still Had The Audience Of Her Three Brothers. Slowly Breaking The Kiss, He Turned His Face To The Side. Anthony, Benedict, And Colin Were Still Standing In The Foyer. Anthony Was Studying The Ceiling, Benedict Was Pretending To Inspect His Fingernails, And Colin Was Staring Quite Shamelessly.

It Suddenly Made Sense. Only Twice In His Life Had He Felt This Inexplicable, Almost Mystical Attraction To A Woman. He’d Thought It Remarkable, To Have Found Two, When In His Heart He’d Always Believed There Was Only One Perfect Woman Out There For Him. His Heart Had Been Right. There Was Only One.

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.

And I Hope You Will Not Think Me Foolish When I Also Extend My Thanks. Thank You, Michael, For Letting My Son Love Her First. —from Janet Stirling, Dowager Countess Of Kilmartin, To Michael Stirling, Earl Of Kilmartin

Elizabeth, You Resemble Nothing So Much As A Hen Trying To Hatch A Book.