It’s in His Kiss: The 2nd Epilogue (Bridgertons, #7.5) by Julia Quinn EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author Name: Julia Quinn
- Book Genre: Historical, Historical Fiction, Historical Romance, Regency, Romance
- ISBN # 9780061235504
- Date of Publication: 2006-6-6
- PDF File Size: 124 KB
- EPUB File Size: 48 KB
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 atMme. Langlois, Dressmaker, by far the most
fashionable modiste in all London.
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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 tothrottle 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 beused 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.”
“But—”
“No buts!”
“But—”
“Isabella.”
Isabella muttered something in Italian.
“I heard that,” Hyacinth said sharply.
Isabella smiled, a curve of lips so sweet that only her own mother
(certainlynot her father, who freely admitted himself wound around her
finger) would recognize the deviousness un-derneath. “But did you
understand it?” she asked, blinking three times in rapid succession.
And because Hyacinth knew that she would be trapped by her lie, she
gritted her teeth and told the truth. “No.”
“I didn’t think so,” Isabella said. “But if you’re interested, what I said
was—”
“Not—” Hyacinth stopped, forcing her voice to a lower volume; panic at
what Isabella might say had caused her outburst to come out overly loud.
She cleared her throat. “Not now.
Not here,” she added meaningfully. Good heavens, her daughter had no
sense of propriety.
She had such opinions, and while Hyacinth was always in favor of a
female with opinions, she was even more in favor of a female who
knewwhen to share such opinions.
Isabella stepped out of her dressing room, clad in a lovely gown of white
with sage green trimming that Hyacinth knew she’d turn her nose up at,
and sat beside her on the bench.
“What are you whispering about?” she asked.
“I wasn’t whispering,” Hyacinth said.
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