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The Last Vampire (The Last Vampire #1) Lord Loss (The Demonata #1)

For those gentle (and ignorant) readers who are new to town this year, Mr. Bridgerton is third in the legendary string of eight Bridgerton siblings (hence the name Colin, beginning with C; he follows Anthony and Benedict, and precedes Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth).

What were you going to say? Gareth asked.He leaned forward, his blue eyes sharp and unwavering. What were you going to say?

Someone Like You

What makes you think I was going to say something?I could see it in your face.She cocked her head to the side. You know me that well?

The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)

Frightening though it may seem, apparently I do.She watched as he sat back in his seat. He reminded her of her brothers as he shifted in the too-small chair; they were forever complaining that her mother’s sitting room was decorated for tiny females. But that was where the resemblance ended. None of her brothers had ever possessed the daring to wear his hair back in such a rakish queue, and none of them ever looked at her with that blue-eyed intensity that made her forget her own name.

He seemed to be searching her face for something. Or maybe he was just trying to stare her down, waiting for her to crack under the pressure.

Hyacinth caught her lower lip between her teeth—she wasn’t strong enough to maintain the perfect picture of composure. But she did manage to keep her back straight, and her chin high, and perhaps most importantly, her mouth shut as he pondered his options.Chin up, Isabella, she muttered, wincing as she read about the latest altercation—something about an addition of mussels to the menu, despite the fact that shellfish made Isabella develop hives.

You need to make it clear who’s in charge, Hyacinth said to the book. You—She frowned, looking down at the latest entry. This didn’t make sense. Why was Isabella talking about her bambino?

A Drop of the Hard Stuff (Matthew Scudder #17)

Hyacinth read the words three times before thinking to glance back up at the date at top. 24 Ottobre, 1766.1766? Wait a minute…

She flipped back one page.Isabella had skipped two years. Why would she do that?

Hyacinth looked quickly through the next twenty or so pages. 1766…1769…1769…1770…1774…You’re not a very dedicated diarist, Hyacinth murmured. No wonder Isabella had managed to fit decades into one slim volume; she frequently went years between entries.

Hyacinth turned back to the passage about the bambino, continuing her laborious translation. Isabella was back in London, this time without her husband, which didn’t seem to bother her one bit. And she seemed to have gained a bit of self-confidence, although that might have been merely the result of the death of the dowager, which Hyacinth surmised had happened a year earlier.I found the perfect spot, Hyacinth translated, jotting the words down on paper. He will never… She frowned. She didn’t know the rest of the sentence, so she put some dashes down on her paper to indicate an untranslated phrase and moved on. He does not think I am intelligent enough, she read. And so he won’t suspect…

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