It’s In His Kiss Epilogue II
Julia Quinn
Meet Our Hero…
Gareth St. Clair is in a bind. His father, who detests him, is determined to beggar the St. Clair estates and ruin his inheritance. Gareth's sole bequest is an old family diary, which may or may not contain the secrets of his past… and the key to his future. The problem is-it's written in Italian, of which Gareth speaks not a word.
Meet Our Heroine…
All the ton agreed: there was no one quite like Hyacinth Bridgerton. She's fiendishly smart, devilishly outspoken and according to Gareth, probably best in small doses. But there's something about her-something charming and vexing-that grabs him and won't quite let go…
Meet Poor Mr. Mozart…
Or don't. But rest assured, he's spinning in his grave when Gareth and Hyacinth cross paths at the annual-an annually discordant-Smythe-Smith musicale. To Hyacinth, Gareth's every word seems a dare, and she offers to translate his diary, even though her Italian is slightly less than perfect. But as they delve into the mysterious text, they discover that the answers they seek lie not in the diary, but in each other… and that there is nothing as simple-or as complicated-as a single, perfect kiss.
Julia Quinn
It’s In His Kiss Epilogue II
A book in the Bridgerton 2nd Epilogues series, 2006
1847, and all has come full circle. Truly.
Hmmph.
It was official, then.
She had become her mother.
Hyacinth St. Clair fought the urge to bury her face in her hands as she sat on the cushioned bench at Mme. Langlois, Dressmaker, by far the most fashionable modiste in all London.
She counted to ten, in three languages, and then, just for good measure, swallowed and let out an exhale. Because, really, it would not do to lose her temper in such a public setting.
No matter how desperately she wanted to throttle her daughter.
“Mummy.” Isabella poked her head out from behind the curtain. Hyacinth noted that the word had been a statement, not a question.
“Yes?” she returned, affixing onto her face an expression of such placid serenity she might have qualified for one of those pietà paintings they had seen when last they'd traveled to Rome.
“Not the pink.”
Hyacinth waved a hand. Anything to refrain from speaking.
“Not the purple, either.”
“I don’t believe I suggested purple,” Hyacinth murmured.
“The blue’s not right, and nor is the red, and frankly, I just don’t understand this insistence society seems to have upon white, and well, if I might express my opinion-”
Hyacinth felt herself slump. Who knew motherhood could be so tiring? And really, shouldn’t she be used to this by now?
“-a girl really ought to wear the color that most complements her complexion, and not what some over-important ninny at Almack’s deems fashionable.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Hyacinth said.
“You do?” Isabella’s face lit up, and Hyacinth’s breath positively caught, because she looked so like her own mother in that moment it was almost eerie.
“Yes,” Hyacinth said, “but you’re still getting something white.”