From Julia Quinn, the New York Times bestselling author of steamy historical romances, comes the third seductive installment of the Smythe-Smith Quartet, The. download the eBook The Sum of All Kisses, Smythe-Smith Quartet - Book 3 by Julia Quinn online from Australia's leading online eBook store. Download eBooks from . Written with Julia Quinn's trademark style, The Sum of All Kisses is a witty and lighthearted To read this book, upload an EPUB or FB2 file to Bookmate.
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"The Sum of All Kisses (Smythe-Smith Quartet, #3)" - by Julia Quinn Quinn Julia - Smythe-Smith Quartet 1 - Just Like Heaven ( Avon epub. MB. 8 Tháng Mười Một Which was why no one could understand (except Iris, but more on that later) how it came to pass that in three hours the Smythe-Smith Quartet. The Sum of All Kisses: Number 3 in series, EPUB eBook by Julia Quinn a UK issued credit card and all our eBooks (ePub and PDF) are DRM protected.
He would not have said it out loud. Hugh had never been the sort to speak merely for the sake of making his voice heard. But he would have thought it. And his expression would have changed. One corner of his lips would have twitched, and his right eyebrow might have arched—just the barest hint of a movement, but still, enough for a careful observer to think him smug.
An Offer From A Gentleman. The Sum of All Kisses. The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy. A Night Like This. Just Like Heaven. Facebook Twitter Pinterest YouTube.
Newsletter Sign up to the hive. Our Company What's Hive all About? Join the hive. Bookshop Finder Discover bookshops local to you. Enter your postcode. Company number: And yes, Iris did know how to say all that with a quirk of the brow. It was a remarkable talent, really. I mean, really. Iris gaped at her. She had spent the entire altercation writing everything down. It was her natural inclination to argue when accused of something, wrongfully or not. And in this case, not. He was sitting up now, his splinted leg thrust forward like a log.
He was quite certain he sounded better than he felt, but with the Marquess of Ramsgate, one must never show weakness. His father gave him a disgusted look but otherwise ignored the sarcasm.
Hugh smiled blandly. Lord Ramsgate sucked in his breath, his entire body shaking with rage. They even let him back into Oxford. Well, the first time. And with a far more pleasant outcome for myself. His father shook with fury, and a full minute passed before he was able to speak. He can rot in hell for all I care. Or France. Hugh clenched his teeth. Arguing with his father had always been exhausting, and he was far overdue for his laudanum.
The doctor thinks your leg got enough blood to survive, but God only knows about the rest of you. I can bloody well ruin his. His femur healed. Not that he wanted to. But when his father inquired—or rather, demanded,—or rather, yanked off the bedsheets in the presence of some German doctor Hugh would not have wanted to come across in a dark alley…. She looked like him, too. Or at least she had a face that Hugh imagined would be at home on Attila.
Eventually Hugh was well enough to leave Ramsgate House. He taught himself to walk again.
He needed a cane for any real distance, but he could make it the length of a ballroom on his own two feet. He learned to live with pain, the constant ache of a badly-set bone, the pulsing throb of a twisted muscle. And he forced himself to visit his father, to try to reason with him, to tell him to stop hunting Daniel Smythe-Smith. But nothing worked. His father clung to his fury with pinched white fingers.
He would never have a grandson now, he fumed, and it was all the fault of the Earl of Winstead. It did not matter when Hugh pointed out that Freddie was healthy and could still surprise them and get married. Lots of men took wives who would rather have remained unwed. The marquess just spat. He literally spat on the floor, and said that even if Freddie took a bride, he would never manage to sire a son. Hugh was supposed to have provided the Ramsgate heir, and now look at him.
He was a useless cripple. And Hugh, whose one constant in life had been his ability to look at a problem from all angles and sort out the most logical solution, had no idea what to do. Plus, he thought as he looked down at the ruin of his leg, what woman would have him? And then one day, something sparked in his memory—a fleeting moment from that conversation with Freddie, right after the duel.
Her companions were her younger sisters, Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances, who—at sixteen, fourteen, and eleven—were not of an age to worry about matrimonial prospects.
Still, one might think they would offer a bit of sympathy. Sarah turned slowly in her direction. Or at the very least, make a pretense of caring. Frances gasped. No one should have to walk down a church aisle with a bouquet of flowers unless she was the bride, already had been the bride, or was too young to be the bride.
Otherwise, it was just cruel. Maybe you can write a scene like this in your play, Harriet. The new character must look like Sarah. That stopped the conversation cold. People really do turn greenish when they are queasy. I wonder why that is. You get to walk down the aisle. Frances stood and came over to her side, peering down over the sofa back. At least, not unless it was at her own wedding. But it was difficult to talk to her sisters about this; there was such a gap in their ages, and there were some things one could not share with an eleven-year-old.
Sarah was sure that her parents were disappointed not to have a living son, but to their credit, they had never complained. They just seemed to accept it as the way it was. And there was not a chance that Sarah was going to wait five years.
Not an inch of a chance. Not a fraction of a fraction of an inch of a—. She looked up. And just in time. Elizabeth appeared to be aiming a volume of poetry in her direction. Elizabeth gave a little frown of disappointment and lowered the book. The ceremony was to be held here at Fensmore, the ancestral Chatteris home in northern Cambridgeshire. As family, the Pleinsworths had been the first to be allotted rooms at Fensmore, and they had arrived nearly a week ahead of time to help with the preparations.
Or perhaps more accurately, their mother was helping with the preparations. Sarah had been tasked with the job of keeping her sisters out of trouble. As Daniel was also an earl, it was going to be a huge affair. Two huge affairs. Two grand opportunities for Sarah to dance and frolic and be made painfully aware that she was not one of the brides.
Every year, like clockwork, the four eldest unmarried Smythe-Smith cousins were forced to gather their nonexistent musical talents and play together in a quartet. It was hell. She was fairly certain the appropriate word had not yet been invented. The noise that came forth from the Smythe-Smith instruments could also be described only by words yet to be invented.
And the rest of the audience…. Surely one had to attend only once to realize that nothing good could ever come of a Smythe-Smith musicale. But Sarah had examined the guest lists; there were people who came every single year. What were they thinking? They had to know that that they were subjecting themselves to what could only be termed auditory torture. Or one could have been born a boy. But back to marriage. Her three seasons in London had not been complete failures. Just this past summer, two gentlemen had asked for her hand in marriage.
She was far too practical to believe that everyone found her true love—or even that everyone had a true love. As for the other proposal… Sarah sighed. The gentleman had been an uncommonly affable fellow, but every time he counted to twenty and he seemed to do with strange frequency he skipped the number twelve.
Hugh Prentice paused briefly at the doorway to the drawing room, then shook his head and moved on. Sarah Pleinsworth, if his ears were correct, and they usually were. Hugh had always been a solitary soul, and there were very few people whose company he deliberately sought. Sarah Pleinsworth was one of those dramatic females, given to hyperbole and grand announcements. Hugh did not normally study the speech patterns of others, but when Lady Sarah spoke, it was difficult to ignore her.
Plus, she despised him. This was not conjecture on his part. He had heard her utter the words. He much preferred when people said what they meant and left it at that.
But Daniel was right about one thing. In this case, appearances were important. It had been an scandal of unimaginable proportions when the two men had dueled three and a half years earlier. Daniel had been forced to flee the country, and Hugh had spent a full year learning to walk again. Then there was another year of trying to convince his father to leave Daniel alone, and then another of trying to actually find Daniel once Hugh had deduced the only way to get his bullheaded father to call off his spies and assassins and leave bloody well alone.
Spies and assassins.
Had his existence truly descended that far into melodrama? He could ponder the words spies and assassins, and they were actually relevant? Hugh let out a long sigh. He had subdued his father, and he had located Daniel Smythe-Smith and brought him back to Britain.
Now Daniel was getting married and would live happily ever after, and all would be just as it should have been. He looked down at his leg. It was only fair. He should be the one with the permanent repercussions. But damn, it hurt today. He really did not understand why he needed to put in an appearance at this wedding. Hugh was not too proud to admit that in this case, at least, he cared what society thought. It had not bothered him when people thought him an eccentric, with more aptitude with cards than he had with people.
What did bother him, however, was being thought a villain. And if the only way to redeem his reputation was to make sure that society knew that Daniel had forgiven him, then Hugh would attend this wedding, and whatever else Daniel deemed appropriate.