By Julia Quinn
Nora Roberts calls Julia Quinn’s novels, “Delightful.” the number 1 New York instances bestselling author of the impossible to resist Bridgerton relations, Quinn deals historic romance readers new delights with A evening Like This—the moment ebook (following the exceptional Just Like Heaven) to add the affairs, romantic and melodic, of the endearing, if painfully untalented, Smythe-Smith musicians. On A evening Like This in Regency England, something can take place, specifically whilst a stunning pianist sitting in on the annual Smythe-Smith musicale catches the attention of a haunted, hunted guy in determined want of redemption. there's easily no writer within the realm of old romance fiction warmer than the outstanding Julia Quinn—and someone who has ever been swept away via the affection tales of Amanda quickly, Lisa Kleypas, or Jill Barnett will cherish A evening Like This.
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Additional info for A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet, Book 2)
Die Sargträger bewegten sich ehrerbietig mit angemessen betrübtem Lächeln, Antoine konnte sich kaum auf den Beinen hal ten, die anderen trugen eine den Umständen ent sprechende Miene zur Schau, mein Vater biss die Zähne aufeinander. Ich weiß nicht, was ihn plötz lich trieb, seinen Bruder auf dem Betonvorplatz zu schlagen, dass diesem das Blut aus der Nase spritzte. Ich erinnere mich nur an das Geschrei des Geschlagenen, meiner Tanten und eines älte ren Cousins, der ihn festhielt, an sein hochrotes, wütendes Gesicht zwei Fingerbreit neben dem schwarzen Leichenwagen mit den abgedunkelten Scheiben.
Alles schien plötzlich innezuhalten, zu stocken, es war wie kurz vor einem Asthmaanfall oder beim Stottern. Eine schleierhafte Traurigkeit, die an einen nicht enden wollenden November erinnerte, ließ uns innerlich gefrieren, meine Kehle war wie zugeschnürt, und ich wusste nicht, warum. An solchen Vormittagen irrte meine Mutter bleich und ziellos durchs Haus, wanderte untätig von einem Zimmer ins andere, 39 Olivier Adam setzte den Wasserkessel auf und vergaß ihn, fegte mit dem Besen oder wischte mit dem Scheuer lappen herum, obwohl alles sauber war, räumte auf, obwohl kaum etwas herumlag.
Danach ruhte Claire sich aus, und Chloé war ein unendlich zerbrechliches und violettes Etwas, ab und zu schlug sie die Augen auf, und drei Tage lang spuckten ihre Lungen Schleim aus, gelbe, kleb rige Klümpchen. Schläuche verschwanden in den winzigen Adern ihrer geröteten Armchen, andere verliefen unter ihrer Nase und versorgten sie mit Sauerstoff. « Dieser Gedanke war wie ein kopfloses Gebet. Ein Gebet für Claire, nicht für mich oder Chloé. Noch heute frage ich mich, wie dieses Flehen gemeint war und wem es eigentlich galt.