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The next time he sees her is on the news as a missing person. Whitehead skillfully brings each character to life even as they suffer physical and emotional horrors. For fans of Panopticon by Jenni Fagan. They cannot be awoken and family and friends must accompany them on their journey while the CDC tries to find the cause and cure. For fans of Cryptonomicon and The Windup Girl. Strong character development and sizzling love scenes combine for a swoon-worthy read. Desperate for a byline, Maddie triggers a domino effect of tragic consequences when she becomes part of the story instead.

I'm here to see Smith. Take me to him. With a raised brow, the gaoler frowned then turned toward the long hall leading to the bowels of the prison. Smith's not on the list for tomorrow's ropes. Curious, ye wanting to see him.

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Barrington followed. The sour scent of urine hit him, reminding him of years long past. Bad years. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped his face, savoring the hint of lavender. Amora's fragrance.

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A symbol of their blooming love, of easier days. He wasn't the same either, changed by war and the positioning of London politics. The gaoler stopped and unlocked an iron door. He stepped in front of Barrington. Mighty funny, ye trying to save the man ye convicted. Is that fickleness a custom for you people? Barrington glared at the man. He made his tone tight, a notch below menacing. Did you mean mulattos or barristers? Barrington stepped around the gaoler. We fight for truth. The fellow didn't retort with a more open slur.

He shrugged and closed the cell behind Barrington as he went inside. Smith lay on a small cot. He jerked up and raised his fists, storming towards Barrington. The words he'd struggled over still hadn't materialized. He coughed and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. Barrington didn't move, staring, daring him to strike. Every muscle strained, pulling tight, tight, tighter, burning all the way to the missing bullet in his hip. You let the runners charge you with counterfeiting money. You let the sentence fall, started to dispute it, then stopped. I need to know why you chose to die.

Barrington knew that regret-filled look. It shoved his gut from hot indignation to sweet winning. He hovered over Smith using his height to crowd and corner him against the block wall. Hear the hammering. He mimicked the sound again, exaggerating the echo, as if it were Justice Burn's gavel knocking against his desk. Tell me what you are hiding, and I'll get the sentence re-examined.

I am your one chance to live. Smith pushed past him and sank onto the mattress.

All a Woman Wants (Regency Love and Laughter, book 4) by Patricia Rice

They're going to help me, not the man who put me here. Die with the truth. Whoever made you look guilty will die laughing. They will save me? You're dressed for a fancy party, barrister. Take your top hat and go. A board or the platform's trap door must've fallen outside. It might as well have been the bailiff shutting up the doors to the Old Bailey. Barrington lost the argument. He turned and almost pressed upon the cell bars.

Instead, he fished in his pocket and dropped onto a rickety table a couple of leaves of a Psalm, pages taken from the Bible he took to war. If you change your mind, send for me. I'll come. This visit was hopeless. A waste of precious time, time meant for Amora. He knocked on the bars to be let out. There wasn't a blasted thing Barrington could do. An innocent man was going to hang. Amora Norton waited for the servants to clear her dinner setting as she sat next to her husband in the grand ballroom of Lord and Lady Cheshire. The soft strain of the violin's concerto caressed her ear as nineteen men with poufy powdered wigs and shiny blue liveries made the plates laced with garlicky fish remnants disappear.

Tonight, no shaking dread, no shivers of isolation seized her lungs, just a small swish of joy swirled at her middle. The pressure that pricked her high in the stomach eased when she shifted to the left against the dark stiles of her chair.

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Still not quite pain free, she pushed back in her dinner chair only to have its scrolled feet squeal and announce her restlessness. Her husband continued his conversation with the gentleman on the other side of the crisp white tablecloth. Thank goodness he hadn't noticed the noise. Disappointing Barrington would ruin everything. He'd been late to arrive at Mayfair, their London residence, but still wished to drag her to this ball.

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A deep frown marred his face. The stewing in his grey eyes whispered he needed care. This proud man was her world, her anchor in shadow-filled London. So Amora didn't question him. She made him his favorite tea, wore his favorite bland dress. By the last course, the smelly fish, his mood had lifted. The sultry tone of the songstress, Cynthia Miller, floated in the air, the lyrics haunting, soulful, man-snaring. She must be exhibiting to catch some new lover as she'd done for the beaus in their small Clanville village.

Wanting to pinch herself for dwelling on the tart and not her husband's tall form, she blinked and looked up at Barrington.

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Shyly-smiling, she caught his gaze, counted the slow rises of his chest. Could he see how hard she'd worked to be pleasing? Like a slow, distant wave, the chairs were pushed away from the tables. A set formed. Would they dance? Usually he'd go politic or leave Amora for time with his patroness. Can you see over the crowd? Her pulse ticked to the timing of the violins.

She came to his side savoring the crisp smell of his bergamot soap. The scent hung about his broad shoulders, wrapping him with appeal that stole everything -- good-sense, decorum, and the desire to stay at this ball. The lenses of his spectacles reflected the tall candelabras brightening the room. He tugged on his gloves. This is my least favorite of the books in the series.

It's fast paced, well written and sometimes quite humorous. However, I'm less than convinced of the hero's sudden change of heart, nor do I particularly like the concept of rakes trying to seduce virgins. For rescuing me. At the tavern. It was unbelievably luck that you were there. I belonged there. You did not. I was there purely by accident. And you surely do not belong among such uncouth ruffians. You are a duke, Rafe. They leave me alone to my business. After a fire kills his beloved parents, a distraught Rafael Marlowe, now the new duke, withdraws from society.

At a tavern he rescues Grace, his old friend Jason's youngest sister. Grace, who feels her name's been changed to Disgrace, is a runaway when she meets Rafe, whom she's been in love with since her childhood. They get snowed in at Rafe's deserted hunting box, but he shows a distressing disinclination to take advantage of the situation and has her bundled off to his aunt as soon as the snow lets up.

But vague Aunt Myrtle has her own way of assuring a happy ending. This book is closely tied to Choice deceptions where we meet the main characters as well as most of the supporting cast. It can still be read alone although the reader may be confused by quite a few allusions to the previous books in the series and particularly the first one. All the more reason to wait before introducing you to Chloe. We will do it sometime when her father is not present. I find I am almost eager to make the lady's acquaintance. Now which one is Lady Chloe? She then lifted one arm toward Liam and used the other to tug at an older man's sleeve.

Now her father has decided that it's time for his most troublesome offspring to marry. He doesn't much care whom she marries as long as he had a rank of earl or better.

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It seems an impossible task until Chloe meets the new Earl of Montraith and realizes he is the man she wishes to marry. Unfortunately, Liam is not equally struck by Cupid's arrow and now Chloe has to convince him that what Chloe wants is the best for both of them. I like this book and Chloe is truly an unique character created by the author. Sometimes funny but with serious undertones. Deidre had never in their many years of acquaintance heard Lady Leverham fail to complete a word. But the lady was, at the moment, staring at the top of the stairs, mouth agape.

He silence did not last long. You are not going to faint, are you, Deidre? But of course you are, and I haven't vinaigrette about.

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How very odd, she thought as she studied the figure who had materialized not three feet away, that she should be so calm. It was, after all, a scene from a nightmare. She could not quite decide what was worse: facing the man whom she had jilted quite literary at the altar seven years earlier, or facing the man who had killed her husband.