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Grace Felt the Heat (A When Honey Got Married novella) - Kindle edition by Kimberly Lang. Contemporary Romance Kindle eBooks @ leondumoulin.nl
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James-he's the last man on earth she'd want to share a room And why now after all these years? He has a reputation Southern belle Evie Harrison has learnt to disguise her rebelliousness and be ladylike at all times. But ladies are certainly not supposed to get pregnant from one sinful night with a drop-dead gorgeous stranger! The Marshalls A rich, powerful family that mixes business, politics If the U. The tabloids just couldn't get enough of A-list couple hotshot producer Finn Marshall and Hollywood wild child Introducing The Marshalls Any red-blooded woman would kill to be handcuffed to political hotshot Brady Marshall, but campa A rich, powerful family: if the U.

Running scared, Lily needs a fresh start -- and, fingers crossed, she's found one. After all, why would any of her new employers, members of th Life is good for marriage counsellor Megan Lowe -- until the media discover that she's the ex-wife of Devin Kenney, America's most famous divorce attorney!


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Now the paparazzi are digging for a scoop just in time for the launch of Devin's new book. The billionaire's business arrangement Jack Garrett enjoys biddable women -- sharing the vineyard he's inherited with his fiery ex-wife does not appeal. His agenda is clear -- visit Brenna, make her a deal Her steamy sur Pregnant by the wild and wicked billionaire! Ally Smith might have dumped her cheating fiance, but she refuses to waste her nonrefundable honeymoon in the Caribbean!

Trying to embrace her freedom, Ally meets sexy stranger Chris Wells Not recogn Perfect, polite As Dallas's most eligible bachelor and heir to his family's fortune, billionaire Will Harrison knows how to handle the paparazzi -- but his little sister Evie is a worry Miss Behavior, etiquette expert Gwen If even a little better, We want the Best in art now, or no art. The time is done for facile settings up [49] Of minnow gods, nymphs here, and tritons there; The polytheists have gone out in God, That unity of Bests.

No best, no God! None of all these things, Can women understand. You generalise Oh, nothing! Your quick-breathed hearts, So sympathetic to the personal pang, Close, on each separate knife-stroke, yielding up A whole life at each wound; incapable Of deepening, widening a large lap of life To hold the world-full woe. The human race To you means, such a child, or such a man, You saw one morning waiting in the cold, Beside that gate, perhaps. You gather up A few such cases, and, when strong, sometimes Will write of factories and of slaves, as if Your father were a negro, and your son A spinner in the mills.

Why, I call you hard To general suffering. You cannot count, That you should weep for this account, not you! You weep for what you know. A red-haired child Sick in a fever, if you touch him once, Though but so little as with a finger-tip, Will set you weeping; but a million sick You could as soon weep for the rule of three, Or compound fractions. Therefore, this same world Uncomprehended by you, must remain Uninfluenced by you. We get no Christ from you,—and verily We shall not get a poet, in my mind. What delicate discernment The book does honour to the sex, we hold.

Among our female authors we make room For this fair writer, and congratulate The country that produces in these times Such women, competent to I am young, And peradventure weak—you tell me so— Through being a woman. And, for all the rest, Take thanks for justice.

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I would rather dance At fairs on tight-rope, till the babies dropped Their gingerbread for joy,—than shift the types For tolerable verse, intolerable To men who act and suffer. Better far, Pursue a frivolous trade by serious means, Than a sublime art frivolously. We are young Aurora, you and I. The world Who, Being man and human, can stand calmly by And view these things, and never tease his soul For some great cure?

No physic for this grief, In all the earth and heavens too? A death-heat is The same as life-heat, to be accurate; And in all nature is no death at all, As men account of death, as long as God Stands witnessing for life perpetually, By being just God. Observe,—it had not much Consoled the race of mastodons to know Before they went to fossil, that anon Their place should quicken with the elephant; They were not elephants but mastodons: And I, a man, as men are now, and not As men may be hereafter, feel with men In the agonising present.

The world was always evil,—but so bad? Dear, my soul is grey With poring over the long sum of ill; So much for vice, so much for discontent, So much for the necessities of power, So much for the connivances of fear,— Coherent in statistical despairs With such a total of distracted life, To see it down in figures on a page, Plain, silent, clear The common blood That swings along my veins, is strong enough To draw me to this duty. I cannot judge these tides—I shall, perhaps.

Ah well, I know you men judge otherwise! You think a woman ripens as a peach,—In the cheeks, chiefly. Accept my reverence. Do you now turn round And ask for what a woman cannot give? Incompetent to sing, as blackbirds can, Yet competent to love, like him? Anything does for a wife. I do not contradict my thought of you Which is most reverent, with another thought Found less so.

If your sex is weak for art, And I who said so, did but honour you [57] By using truth in courtship it is strong For life and duty. With all my talk I can but set you where You look down coldly on the arena-heaps Of headless bodies, shapeless, indistinct! The Judgment-Angel scarce would find his way Through such a heap of generalised distress, To the individual man with lips and eyes— Much less Aurora.

Just so much; No more indeed at all. I have not seen So much love since, I pray you pardon me, As answers even to make a marriage with, In this cold land of England. What you love, Is not a woman, Romney, but a cause: You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sir,— A wife to help your ends You have a wife already whom you love, Your social theory. Bless you both, I say.

For my part, I am scarcely meek enough To be the handmaid of a lawful spouse. Do I look a Hagar, think you? A sister of charity. And was I so far wrong In hope and in illusion, when I took The woman to be nobler than the man, Yourself the noblest woman,—in the use And comprehension of what love is,—love, That generates the likeness of itself Through all heroic duties?

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With quiet indignation I broke in. You forget too much That every creature, female as the male, Stands single in responsible act and thought, As also in birth and death. It takes a soul, To move a body: it takes a high-souled man, To move the masses I Who love my art, would never wish it lower To suit my stature. I may love my art. He, His eyes, the motions in his silent mouth, Were fiery points on which my words were caught, Transfixed for ever in my memory For his sake, not their own. And yet I know I did not love him And what I said, is unrepented of, As truth is always.

He bears down on me through the slanting years, The stronger for the distance. If he had loved, Ay, loved me, with that retributive face, I might have been a common woman now, And happier, less known and less left alone; Perhaps a better woman after all,— With chubby children hanging on my neck [62] To keep me low and wise. Ah me, the vines That bear such fruit, are proud to stoop with it.

The palm stands upright in a realm of sand. And I, who spoke the truth then, stand upright, Still worthy of having spoken out the truth, By being content I spoke it, though it set Him there, me here. Does every man who names love in our lives, Become a power for that? A potential love, forsooth!

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We are not so vile. No, no—he cleaves, I think, This man, this image, Come, sweep my barns, and keep my hospitals,— And I will pay thee with a current coin Which men give women. He answered for me calmly, with pale lips That seemed to motion for a smile in vain. With that he vanished. I could hear his heel Ring bluntly in the lane, as down he leapt The short way from us. I could not mean to tell her to her face [64] That Romney Leigh had asked me for a wife, And I refused him?

He never asked. Why, you child, God help you, you are groping in the dark, For all this sunlight. You suppose, perhaps, That you, sole offspring of an opulent man, Are rich and free to choose a way to walk? Pray, Pray, child,—albeit I know you love me not,— As if you loved me, that I may not die! Men do not think Of sons and daughters, when they fall in love, So much more than of sisters; otherwise, He would have paused to ponder what he did, And shrunk before that clause in the entail Excluding offspring by a foreign wife, The clause set up a hundred years ago By a Leigh who wedded a French dancing-girl And had his heart danced over in return ; But this man shrunk at nothing, never thought Of you, Aurora, any more than me— Your mother must have been a pretty thing, For all the coarse Italian blacks and browns, To make a good man, which my brother was, Unchary of the duties to his house; But so it fell indeed.

Remember how he drew you to his knee The year you came here, just before he died, And hollowed out his hands to hold your cheeks, And wished them redder,—you remember Vane? And now his son who represents our house And holds the fiefs and manors in his place, To whom reverts my pittance when I die, Except a few books and a pair of shawls The boy is generous like him, and prepared To carry out his kindest word and thought To you, Aurora. Yes, a fine young man Is Romney Leigh; although the sun of youth Has shone too straight upon his brain, I know, And fevered him with dreams of doing good To good-for-nothing people.

I broke in at that. The dream of doing good to But stay, I write a word, and counteract this sin. She would have turned to leave me, but I clung. Cousin Vane did well, And cousin Romney well,—and I well too, In casting back with all my strength and will The good they meant me. O my God, my God! She seized my hands with both hers, strained them fast, And drew her probing and unscrupulous eyes Right through me, body and heart.

Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, Half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, And flare up bodily, wings and all.

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What then? I blushed. Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps, another! After all, We cannot be the equal of the male, Who rules his blood a little. For although I blushed indeed, as if I loved the man, And her incisive smile, accrediting That treason of false witness in my blush, [69] Did bow me downward like a swathe of grass Below its level that struck me,—I attest The conscious skies and all their daily suns, I think I loved him not Nor ever.