I heard your guts had been blasted out,” he said to Sebastian. “But since you don’t look to be a ghost, I suppose the story was false.” “Actually, it’s true,” Sebastian replied, his gaze chilling. “But the devil wouldn’t have me.

Go to hell,” Sebastian muttered. “No doubt that was what you came to tell me tonight. If so, you’re about a month too late.” “That was my intention,” Westcliff admitted. “Now, however, I’ve decided to stay and have a snifter of brandy while you tell me what in God’s name you’re doing.

Brooding, Gabriel reached over to adjust the front brim of her hat. "What do you think, redbird?" It was a pet name that only he and their father used for her.

As Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent, stared at the young woman who had just barged her way into his London residence, it occurred to him that he might have tried to abduct the wrong heiress last week at Stony Cross Park.

I rarely dislike people for things they can't change, they usually give me sufficient cause to dislike them for other reasons.

I don't share my body heat indiscriminately.

I suppose now I'm obliged to wish you happiness in your new life. Although happiness in the absence of indoor plumbing is a debatable concept.

Following Westcliff, Lord St. Vincent paused just long enough to murmur to Amelia, "Although most advice should be distrusted, particularly when it comes to myself... keep an open mind, Miss Hathaway. One should never look a rich husband in the mouth." He winked at her and left, striding to the back terrace along with Westcliff.

St. Vincent was a handsome man with wheat-colored hair and pale blue eyes. Some claimed he had the most perfect form and features of any man alive. The looks of a saint, the soul of a scoundrel.