The Duke Is Mine

He rarely saw a doorway without advancing through it as if he owned it. Since he owned a good many doorways, he would have pointed out that this was a reasonable assumption.

She's elegant," Olivia stated. "I would kill to have her figure." "Really?" "Of course. I have always wished to look precisely like her. Though obviously, not enough to avoid food," she added. "That's madness. You have everything she doesn't." Olivia opened her mouth, ready to argue. "Everything she hasn't." She frowned at him. "Including me.

I'm fat," she blurted out. "You are not fat. You're the most beautiful, voluptuous woman I know." His eyes moved down her body, deliberately, slowly, then back up to her face. What she saw in them sent fire squirming through her stomach and lower. "I want every inch of you," he said, growling it. "I want to fall on my knees and worship at your hips." He reach out, shaped her curves from breast to hips with a burning sweep of his hand that a man was allowed to give only his wife.

Dignity, virtue, affability, and bearing,” Mrs. Lytton recited over and over, turning it into a nursery rhyme. Georgiana would glance at the glass, checking her dignified bearing and affable expression. Olivia would sing back to her mother: “Debility, vanity, absurdity, and…brainlessness!

The only part of the evening I really enjoyed was when Lord Pomtinius told me a limerick about an adulterous abbot.” “Don’t you dare repeat it!” her sister ordered. Georgiana had never shown the faintest wish to rebel against the rules of propriety. She loved and lived by them. “There once was an adulterous abbot,” Olivia teased, “as randy-“ Georgiana slapped her hands over her ears. “I can’t believe he told you such a thing! Father would be furious if he knew.” “Lord Pomtinius was in his cups,” Olivia said. “Besides, he’s ninety-six and he doesn’t care about decorum any longer. Just a laugh, now and then.” “It doesn’t even make sense. An adulterous abbot? How can an abbot be adulterous? They don’t even marry.” “Let me know if you want to hear the whole verse,” Olivia said. “It ends with talk of nuns, so I believe the word was being used loosely.

Quin reached out, spun her back to him, and pulled her into his arms, held her tight, so tight that she could hardly breathe. "I need you," he said, low and fierce, into her hair. "Oh, God, Olivia, how did I ever live without you?" She reached up, pulled his face down to hers. "I'm yours, for good or ill." There was a little click as the door to the ballroom closed, but Olivia paid no mind. "You're the missing piece of me," Quin said. "You make me feel.

You really are going to become a duchess. The FF is about to become the BB!” “Foolish fiancés are often killed on the battlefield,” Olivia pointed out. “I think the term is ‘cannon fodder.’” Her sister gave a sudden laugh. “You could at least try to sound sad at the prospect.” “I would be sad,” Olivia protested. “I think.” “You’d have reason. Not only would you lose the prospect of being ‘Your Grace’d’ for the rest of your life, but our parents would hold hands as they jumped off Battersea Bridge to their watery deaths.

I decided that since my curves aren’t going to disappear due to gorging on lettuce, I might as well flaunt them. If men like the bovine appeal, as you said, they’re certainly going to get it.