Shefali S

“Tom looked at St. Vincent. “I assume the editor at the Chronicle refused to divulge the writer’s identity?”
St. Vincent looked rueful. “Categorically. I’ll have to find a way to pry it out of him without bringing the entire British press to his defense.”
“Yes,” Tom mused, tapping his lower lip with a fingertip, “they tend to be so touchy about protecting their sources.”
“Trenear,” Lord Ripon said through gritted teeth, “will you kindly throw him out?”
“I’ll see myself out,” Tom said casually. He turned as if to leave, and paused as if something had just occurred to him. “Although … as your friend, Trenear, I find it disappointing that you haven’t asked about my day. It makes me feel as if you don’t care.”
Before Devon could respond, Pandora jumped in. “I will,” she volunteered eagerly. “How was your day, Mr. Severin?”
Tom sent her a brief grin. “Busy. After six tedious hours of business negotiations, I paid a call to the chief editor of the London Chronicle.”
St. Vincent lifted his brows. “After I’d already met with him?”
Trying to look repentant, Tom replied, “I know you said not to. But I had a bit of leverage you didn’t.”
“Oh?”
“I told him the paper’s owner would dismiss him and toss him out on the pavement if he didn’t name the anonymous writer.”
St. Vincent stared at him quizzically. “You bluffed?”
“No, that is what the business negotiations were about. I’m the new owner. And while the chief editor happens to be a staunch advocate for freedom of the press, he’s also a staunch supporter of not losing his job.”
“You just bought the London Chronicle,” Devon said slowly, to make certain he hadn’t misheard. “Today.”
“No one could do that in less than a day,” Ripon sneered.
Winterborne smiled slightly. “He could,” he said, with a nod toward Tom.
“I did,” Tom confirmed, picking idly at a bit of lint on his cuff. “All it took was a preliminary purchase agreement and some earnest money.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Chasing Cassandra

“I’ll marry you,” Tom told her. “Any time. Any terms.”

West gently nudged Cassandra toward the door. “Go, darling, while I talk with the insane man.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Chasing Cassandra

“It’s about to rain forks and knives,” Winterborne reported, water drops glittering on his hair and the shoulders of his coat. He reached for a glass of champagne from a silver tray on the table, and raised it in Tom’s direction. “Good luck it is, for the wedding day.”
“Why is that, exactly?” Tom asked, disgruntled.
“A wet knot is harder to untie,” Winterborne said. “The marriage bond will be tight and long lasting.”
Ethan Ransom volunteered, “Mam always said rain on a wedding day washed away the sadness of the past.”
“Not only are superstitions irrational,” Tom said, “they’re inconvenient. If you believe in one, you have to believe them all, which necessitates a thousand pointless rituals.”
Not being allowed to see the bride before the ceremony, for example. He hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of Cassandra that morning, and he was chafing to find out how she was feeling, if she’d slept well, if there was something she needed.
West came into the room with his arms full of folded umbrellas. Justin, dressed in a little velveteen suit, was at his heels.
“Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs in the nursery with your little brother?” St. Vincent asked his five-year-old nephew.
“Dad needed my help,” Justin said self-importantly, bringing an umbrella to him.
“We’re about to have a soaker,” West said briskly. “We’ll have to take everyone out to the chapel as soon as possible, before the ground turns to mud. Don’t open one of these indoors: It’s bad luck.”
“I didn’t think you were superstitious,” Tom protested. “You believe in science.”
West grinned at him. “I’m a farmer, Severin. When it comes to superstitions, farmers lead the pack. Incidentally, the locals say rain on the wedding day means fertility.”
Devon commented dryly, “To a Hampshireman, nearly everything is a sign of fertility. It’s a preoccupation around here.”
“What’s fertility?” Justin asked.
In the sudden silence, all gazes went to West, who asked defensively, “Why is everyone looking at me?”
“As Justin’s new father,” St. Vincent replied, making no effort to hide his enjoyment, “that question is in your province.”
West looked down into Justin’s expectant face. “Let’s ask your mother later,” he suggested.
The child looked mildly concerned. “Don’t you know, Dad?”
― Lisa Kleypas, Chasing Cassandra

“I wonder how many orgasms I could have consecutively before I imploded?” I ask offhandedly, and Siah laughs as he rinses his hair out. “I don’t think I could handle more than four before I shriveled up into nothing. Pretty sure males aren’t meant for multiple back-to-back releases.” “Yeah, that is a lot of magical ball butter to lose in one go,” I agree, and Siah barks out a laugh.”
― Ivy Asher, The Marked and the Broken