
She wanted to pick him up and dunk him, headfirst, in English upper-class manners and vocabulary and sounds. While he sat there, his mind heavily entrenched in his own ways; rough, uncouth, unmovable.
♥♥♥♥
Oh, he liked her like this: waltzing in the byways of one of life’s finer moments, in one of its little contentments.
♥♥♥♥
…hell, if a man’s hot thoughts and stares counted for anything, her skirts should’ve bloody well been on fire by now.
♥♥♥♥
She could send other little boats out upon the sea of English high society. She could teach them to sail, to skim along the water with style and grace. While her own sails only luffed in the wind.
♥♥♥♥
“And perhaps I might mention”—he mocked himself—“it ain’t a widge, loov. Not now.” When she knit her brow, he explained, “It’s a widge when it’s quiet. Or when it’s nosing around just a bit. At some point, though, Win, it becomes a cock: mine especially.”
♥♥♥♥
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