The Romantic Englishwoman の小説・ストーリー

She whisked past me, but I shoved her backward. “Is there a part of my English you don’t understand?” I growled. “Vas-y.” She looked like a French woman: petite frame, brunette hair, and corporate clothes. Probably here to visit someone, and grabbed the chance to drag traffic to her page. Something carnal twitched under my skin, and someone decided to flip my kill switch.

On the contrary, the woman looked gentle and noble even though she looked white and could disappear at any time. “Have everyone here spooked you?” The woman sat down to face Roxanne and smiled. Roxanne immediately shrank and looked at the woman warily. “Who are you?” The woman let out a small laugh and stroked Roxanne's face. The cold hand made Roxanne shiver. She felt her whole body go cold with each woman's caress. "I am the wife of Sir Edward Dieter, Miss Dieter."

I felt someone’s presence beside me and quickly turned around. The one I saw in the portrait was standing right in front of my eyes as if she had stepped out of the frame. Her brown hair cascaded down in curled waves, wrapping her shoulders, her posture radiating a certain femininity that was both graceful and strong. She looked young and her skin polished like glass. The length of her long maroon gown swayed on the floor as she approached me with light footsteps, a kind smile on her face. “Oh, how I awaited this day to come. Finally, the Prima is here.” her voice was soft to the ears, with a touch of a British accent on it.

Damien muttered, his voice barely a whisper as he stumbled back towards the door, his expression unreadable. As Damien left, a whirlwind of emotions swept over me. What was that about? I paced the room, trying to make sense of Damien's cryptic behavior, but a sharp knock on the door jolted me from my thoughts. I turned quickly, my heart racing with apprehension, as the door creaked open to reveal a woman standing in the doorway. She was dressed in an elegant, flowing dress that seemed straight out of a '90s royal fashion catalog, and I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at her outdated attire. Was this woman supposed to be Damien's wife? I wondered, silently waiting for her to explain her pr

The woman introduced herself as Katya. She was tall and severe, gray streaking through dark hair pulled back without vanity, hands that moved with the particular precision of someone who had stopped being gentle a long time ago because precision mattered more. Her accent was thick — Eastern European, maybe Russian — but her English was clear enough to cut.

Strong enough to change a person into a better version of himself. She was only her mother’s daughter if she exchanged true love for a counterfeit. She was her mother’s daughter if she believed that all she deserved was something less than what love really was; less than what she had found with Drew. A particular old woman had randomly whispered these words to her when she was still at Bruce’s: “if you get a chance to find love, don’t let it go. Instead, grab it with both hands. If you don’t, it will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

They will stand by and watch and then increase their bids for you. Romero froze as the stunningly beautiful young woman walked into the ballroom, he knew her instantly even though he had not seen her since she was a year old but he would recognise that hair anywhere. His heart flipped as he looked at her and he felt his defences break, she belonged to him, not that monster who had created her. He watched Santini parade her around like a prize racehorse showing her off to the Dons who raked their eyes over her hungrily. It was so sick and he felt his anger building as Santini headed toward him,

‘She could be identical to my mother Visenna if not for the fading scar in her neck…’ Rozelyn thought. The woman tightened her black choker that has triquetra as its lavaliere before speaking, “I am Rosette Richards. The supreme of the English coven.” She then extended her right hand for a gesture of a handshake—a respectful way of introducing one’s self to a fellow vampire.

She’s the kind of woman who can pin a grown wolf twice her size during sparring and still look pretty afterward. Meanwhile, I once pulled a muscle reaching for bread. “I’m just appreciating the ambiance,” I reply, adjusting the collar of my dark coat. “Nothing says romance quite like a cold February morning filled with a bunch of hyper-masculine wolves practically dripping pheromones onto the snow. It’s truly magical.” “Come on, keep your head up,” she says, though her tone lacks its usual certainty. “You don’t know how today is going to go. Someone might surprise you.”

Member of the infamous League of Rogues, the marquess is rumored by ladies of the ton as a fiery-haired devil capable of shocking delights behind closed doors. It has come to Lady Society's attention that no lady has held Rochester's interest for long. Does he secretly pine for someone of good breeding and good sense, perhaps? Lady Society would like to learn the answer to this most fascinating question. Perhaps Rochester indulges himself to ease the pangs of unrequited love for some mystery woman. Should one hazard a guess as to the unluckyor perhaps luckymaiden who has stolen our dark marquess's heart? London, December 1820