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Happy birthday, Whitney Westmoreland. ♥
Source:
"As you instructed, your grace, we have made inquiries into the young woman's family and background. Miss Stone is the daughter of Susan Stone-who died when Miss Stone was five years old-and Martin Albert Stone, who is still living. She was born on June thirtieth, eighteen hundred, at the family home near the village of Morsham, approximately seven hours from London."
She is the most witting, brave, funny, clever, fashionable, lively character I've ever encountered.
So once again, I'll share my favorite quotes/scenes of Whitney:
Her chosen topic of conversation seemed to amuse him as he glanced at the horses. "Your black stallion tired too easily when I rode him the day of the picnic. I rode the sorrel because he's about equal in stamina and speed to your stallion, and I was trying to give you a fair chance to win. If I'd ridden this brute against you, you
wouldn't have had a prayer. On the other hand, if I'd ridden a vastly inferior horse against your stallion, you wouldn't have enjoyed winning."
Despite her dire predicament, Whitney's lips twitched with laughter. "Oh yes, I would. I would have enjoyed beating you in that race, even if you were riding a goat!"
Chuckling, he shook his head. "In the three years I've known you, you've never failed to amuse me."
"You must be Satan's own son!"
"My father would have been disappointed to think so," Clayton replied with an infuriating chuckle.
"Your father?" Whitney scoffed, stepping away from him. "If you think your mother even knew his name, you deceive yourself!" There was a moment of stunned silence white it registered on Clayton that he had just been called a bastard, followed by a shout of laughter as her ladylike slur on his legitimacy sank in. He was still
grinning as he strolled along in her indignant wake, admiring the sway of her slender hips.
"You have no quizzing glass, you don't wheeze and snort, and I doubt you have even a mild case of gout. Tm afraid you'll have to aspire to some other title, my lord."
"The phrases are 'yes, my lord'; 'no, my lord"; and 'as you wish, my lord.'" She lifted her chin and said, "I find it sad that most of my sex have been trained from babyhood to sound exactly like witless female butlers."
Okay, I'll stop now or else I'll start quoting the whole book & leave nothing for you all.
Once again, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO WHITNEY WESTMORELAND, THE 9TH DUCHESS OF CLAYMORE.
Statistics: Posted by Nazifa Jan — Sun Jun 30, 2013 2:27 am
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