So with Just Like Heaven, A Night Like This, The Sum of All Kisses, and The Quinn Julia - Smythe-Smith Quartet 2 - A Night Like This ( Avon).epub. A Night Like This - There's the back of a girl in a blue dress running. When I read the first Smythe-Smith book, Just Like Heaven, I wrote in my. Julia Quinn Author Rosalyn Landor Narrator (). cover image of Just Quartet (Series). Book 1. Julia Quinn Author (). cover image of A Night Like This.
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A Night Like This [Julia Quinn] on sidi-its.info *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. books are available for instant access. view Kindle eBook | view Audible audiobook .. Get your Kindle here, or download a FREE Kindle Reading App. Nora Roberts calls Julia Quinn's novels, “Delightful.” The #1 New York Times bestselling creator of the irresistible Bridgerton family, Quinn offers historical. It's in His Kiss takes place one year after A Night Like This, so I had a lot of fun As you can probably imagine, the privilege of the free frank was . He'd been as surprised as anyone else when he'd laid down the winning hand. sidi-its.info uk Kindle · sidi-its.info eBook · sidi-its.info eBook · Apple Books.
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It was wet. Not if Hugh died. Bloody hell, they were friends. That was the most asinine part of it all. They were friends, he and Hugh. Daniel swallowed. No matter what happened, he would be a pariah, and it would rub off on his family. His older sisters were married, but Honoria had just made her debut. Who would have her now? He swung his legs over the side and had almost touched down by the time Marcus reached him.
He would finish. There were some things that had to be said. He turned to Marcus with flashing eyes. It did not take long for Daniel to ascertain that he was not welcome.
Daniel held himself very still. Ramsgate had a right to be angry. He was in shock. He was grieving. You think an apology is going to save you from the gallows if my son is dead? He aimed wide. Why would you do that? For a moment Ramsgate did nothing but stare. That is your explanation? Daniel said nothing. It sounded weak to his own ears, as well. But it was the truth. And it was awful.
He looked to Marcus, hoping for some sort of silent advice, something to indicate what to say, how to proceed. Again, if he avoids infection. But he will limp, and he may very well be lame. The bone was splintered. The doctor drew back in shock, and then in self-preservation as Ramsgate stalked across the room. You have ruined my son. Even if he lives, he will be ruined, with a ruined leg, and a ruined life.
He knew Ramsgate was upset; he had every right to be. But something more was at work here. The marquess looked unbalanced, possessed. You will die. Do you understand me?
He put his arm between the two men and carefully widened the space between them. He wanted to make this right. He needed to try. There is no place you will be able to hide. Ramsgate looked at Marcus as if he were an idiot. The price of a life is low indeed.
So you will never see them coming. Those were the words that haunted Daniel for the next three years. He heard them in his sleep, in the rustle of the trees, and in every footfall that came from behind.
He learned to keep his back to walls, to trust no one, not even the women with whom he occasionally took his pleasure.
And he accepted the fact that he would never again step foot on English soil, or see his family, until one day, to his great surprise, Hugh Prentice came limping toward him in a small village in Italy.
He knew that Hugh had lived. He received the occasional letter from home. For a lady who had spent the last eight years trying not to be noticed, Anne Wynter was in an awkward position. That she would be sharing the stage with three other young women was some consolation.
The other musicians—members of the infamous Smythe-Smith quartet— all played stringed instruments and would have to face the audience. Anne, at least, could focus on the ivory keys and keep her head bowed.
With any luck, the audience would be too focused on how horrific the music was to pay any attention to the dark-haired woman who had been forced to step in at the last minute to take the place of the pianist, who had as her mother declared to anyone who would listen taken dreadfully— nay, catastrophically— ill.
But Lady Sarah had convinced her mother, who had decided that the show must go forth. It did not seem to matter that Anne had not played the piece in question in over eight years, or that she had never played it in its entirety. Indeed, her only aim for the evening was that she not be noticeable. To be noticed. For any number of reasons. Who did realize.
We are a family. You have truly saved the day. She rather liked Lady Honoria. Unlike Daisy, she did realize how dreadful they were, but unlike Iris, she still wished to perform. It was all about family, Honoria insisted.
Family and tradition. Seventeen sets of Smythe-Smith cousins had gone before them, and if Honoria had her way, seventeen more would follow. Honoria jabbed her cousin lightly with her violin bow. She was hopping from foot to foot like a frenetic magpie, and Anne had already backed up twice, just to preserve her toes.
Honoria, who was closer to the spot from which they would make their entrance, nodded. Or wonder aloud if the concerts were always this dreadful or if this year was particularly bad. And one definitely did not ask— If the concerts are always so horrific, why do people keep coming? Just then fourteen-year-old Harriet Pleinsworth came skidding in through a side door. Anne turned away so no one would see her roll her eyes.
Those two had never gotten along. Daisy took herself too seriously, and Harriet took nothing seriously. Dear God, she had never worked so hard in her life. Her fingers raced across the keys, trying desperately to keep up with Daisy, who played the violin as if in a footrace.
This is ridiculous ridiculous ridiculous, Anne singsonged in her mind. It was the strangest thing, but the only way to get through it was to keep talking to herself. It was an impossibly difficult piece of music, even for accomplished players. Ridiculous ridiculous— Ack!
Anne flung out her right pinkie finger and hit the key just in time. Which was to say, two seconds later than it should have been. And on she played, half wondering if she should just make up her part.
Daisy was flying through her section, her volume modulating between loud and extremely loud; Honoria was plodding on, each note like a determined footfall; and Iris—. We all have a friend like this! That friend who acts like an angel infront of parents..
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Maybe you just need a different kind of romance or a different genre altogether. I cut the paragraph because I went on to say that I usually forget what I read, and after a while I was digressing into my memory issues to such an extent that I feared the Bitches would order an intervention. Even by my standards of forgetfulness, the Smythe-Smith books are fluffy forget-fullness to the core. Also it bugged me that they went on and on about his scar.
A Night Like This | Julia Quinn
Now you must Dieeeeeee! I think this depends on the social gap. What annoys me is when the author treats it as no big deal and avoids dealing with it, even more so if it was part of the original conflict. It put me off Quinn for life. Rape is never ok, not even when you reallyreallyreally want a baby.
She may have written it that way to increase dramatic tension or… something. I HATE that scene! But Snidely Whiplash is my favorite cartoon villain! He has an awesome mustache! His name is totally badass! He ties people to railroad tracks! Granted, none of those things would make him the Best Romance Villain Ever.
Except, maybe, for the mustache. Upon further reflection, I realized that maybe Quinn threw in all the justifications in an attempt to make the heroine less repulsive.
Oh yes, that was the end of the road for me reading Julia Quinn. Not because of the rape, but because I was reading the book as a warm and fuzzy post miscarriage. It is passed off as oh, just a little hiccup. Book met wall. I read it, gosh, years ago.
Before starting SBTB. With age came a totally different perspective on that scene, and I have struggled to recommend it since I re-read it. I felt something like grief and disappointment that one of my favorites was no longer my favorites because I saw it in such a negative manner now. I seem to be very much in the minority on the mismatched stations conflict. As it was, her reputation was thoroughly trounced in whatever backwater section of the English countryside she came from but since she disappeared entirely and no one ever talked about it, there was never a major scandal.
The only people who knew were Dastardly Villian and her own family. And DV Hey! So, basically, nobody knew. It was only if everyone found out that there would be a problem. That left DV as the only loose end and he was dispatched by the end of the book. I DID think he read like a cartoon character, though. I swear if they had had railroads in the Regency era he would have tied her to the tracks, rubbed his hands in glee, and twirled his mustache.
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