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Lauren Willig

Lauren Willig Books

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“Richard found his quarry in the library. ‘Selwick!’ The Honourable Miles Dorrington flung aside the news sheet he had been reading, leapt up from his chair and pounded his friend on the back. He then hastily reseated himself, looking slightly abashed at his unseemly display of affection. In a fit of temper, Richard’s sister Henrietta had once referred irritably to Miles as ‘that overeager sheepdog,’ and there was something to be said for the description. With his sandy blond hair flopping into his face, and his brown eyes alight with good fellowship, Miles did bear a striking resemblance to the more amiable varieties of man’s best friend. He was, in fact, Richard’s best friend. They had been fast friends since their first days at Eton.”

Friends
Book:The Secret History of the Pink Carnation
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“For a long moment, he held her gaze without speaking, simply letting the impact of words sink in, before adding rapidly, as though he wished to get it over with as quickly as possible, "I won't deny that you're beautiful. No mirror could tell you otherwise. But there are beautiful women for the buying in any brothel in London. Oh yes, and the ballrooms, too, if one has the proper price. It wasn't your appearance that caught me. It was the way you put me down in the gallery at Sibley Court." Vaughn's lips curved in a reminiscent smile. "And the way you tried to bargain with me after." "Successfully bargained," Mary corrected. "That," replied Lord Vaughn, "is exactly what I mean. Has anyone ever told you that you haggle divinely? That the simple beauty of your self-interest is enough to bring a man to his knees?" Mary couldn't in honesty say that anyone had. Vaughn's eyes were as hard and bright as silver coins. "Those are the reasons I want you. I want you for your cunning mind and your hard heart, for your indomitable spirit and your scheming soul, for they're more honest by far than any of the so-called virtues." "The truest poetry is the most feigning?" Mary quoted back his own words to him. "And the most feigning is the most true.”

Romance
Book:The Seduction of the Crimson Rose
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“Colin rubbed his neck with his hand, regarding me like a hopeful puppy dog. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer just to fling something at me and get it over with?" I leaned back against the cushioned back of the banquette, folded my arms across my chest, and waited. "Dempster?" I prompted. Colin considered for a moment, contemplated the olive plate, considered some more, and came out with, "We don't get on." "That much I figured out on my own." Colin shifted restlessly in his seat. "It's a long story." I patted the side of the glass carafe. "We have a large carafe of wine." Colin let himself relax into a rueful grin. "I really am sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into it." "Since I've already been dragged," I suggested, grasping the carafe with two hands and tipping it forwards over his glass, "it would be nice to know what's going on." "Thanks." Colin took the glass I held out to him. He raised it an ironic salute. "Cheers.”

ExcusesColin SelwickEloise KellyPersuation
Book:The Seduction of the Crimson Rose
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“Well?" inquired Jane. "What do think?" "I think," he said deliberately, "that if you have dragged me out to this inhospitable corner of the earth on nothing more than a bout of romantic whimsy, I shall be entirely unamused." "My dear lord Vaughn, I never matchmake." Jane smiled to herself as though at a private memory. "Well, very rarely." Vaughn arranged his eyebrows in their most forbidding position, the one that had sent a generation of valets scurrying for cover. "Don't think to number me among your exceptions." "I wouldn't dare." From the woman who had invaded Bonaparte's bedchamber to leave him a posy of pink carnations, that pledge was singularly unconvincing. "I believe there are very few things you wouldn't dare.”

MatchmakingCoynessJane WoolistonSebastian Vaughn
Book:The Seduction of the Crimson Rose
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“Sensing another maternal oration coming on, one of those I-bore-you-and-thus-know-what’s-best-for-you lectures, Richard made a pointed move towards the door. ‘If that’s all for the moment, Mother, I really must be off. The War Office…’ The marchioness gave another of her infamous harrumphs. ‘Have a good time at White’s, darling,’ she said pointedly. Richard paused halfway out the door and flashed her an incredulous look. ‘How do you always know?’ Lady Uppington looked smug. ‘Because I’m your mother. Now, shoo! Get along with you!”

Mother And SonGood Natured Banter
Book:The Secret History of the Pink Carnation
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“If you'd like to sit here and fume about Dempster or whatever else it is that's eating at you," I said, warming to my theme, "feel free to go right ahead. I'll just head off home and spend the evening watching the snooker championships." "It's not snooker season, actually," offered Colin, in a conciliatory way. "Fine. Darts, then." "Envisioning them thrown at my head?" he asked ruefully. Despite myself, I smiled back. "We were getting there.”

Colin SelwickEloise Kelly
Book:The Seduction of the Crimson Rose
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“Jane’s been captured?” Lady Henrietta surged forward like the statue on the prow of a ship. “She’s gone in,” Jack corrected shortly. “Voluntarily.” “And you let her?” Lady Henrietta’s eyes were as wide as they could go. A dry cackle came from the hatch that led to the nether regions of the yacht. “Have you ever seen anyone ‘let’ Jane do anything?” A parasol emerged first, a purple parasol, the point hitting the deck with a force that made Miles jump. The newcomer strode forward, blindingly purple skirts swishing around her legs. Jack had never seen that much purple all in one place before. It was like being assaulted by an aubergine. “If Jane is there, it’s because she chose to be there,” said the newcomer definitively. Jack wasn’t sure whether to appreciate or resent her support. “Jane does or she doesn’t. I would as soon try to yoke an aardvark.” Lady Henrietta cocked her head. “Does one yoke aardvarks?” “No,” said Jack shortly, putting an abrupt end to what might otherwise have become a fascinating and largely pointless discourse on natural history.”

PurpleJackHenriettaMiss Gwen
Book:The Lure of the Moonflower
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“Josephine!" A stentorian bellow shook the candles in their sconces. Unconsciously, Amy grabbed Richard’s arm, looking about anxiously for the source of the roar. About the room, people went on chatting as before. "Steady there." Richard patted the delicate hand clutching the material of his coat. "It’s just the First Consul." Snatching her hand away as though his coat were made of live coals, Amy snapped, "You would know." "Josephine!" The dreadful noise repeated itself, cutting off any further remarks. Out of an adjoining room charged a blur of red velvet, closely followed by the scurrying form of a young man. Amy sidestepped just in time, swaying on her slippers to avoid toppling into Lord Richard. The red velvet came to an abrupt stop beside Mme Bonaparte’s chair. "Oh. Visitors." Once still, the red velvet resolved into a man of slightly less than medium height, clad in a long red velvet coat with breeches that must once have been white, but which now bore assorted stains that proclaimed as clearly as a menu what the wearer had eaten for supper. "I do wish you wouldn’t shout so, Bonaparte." Mme Bonaparte lifted one white hand and touched him gently on the cheek. Bonaparte grabbed her hand and planted a resounding kiss on the palm. "How else am I to make myself heard?" Affectionately tweaking one of her curls, he demanded, "Well? Who is it tonight?" "We have some visitors from England, sir,"his stepdaughter responded. "I should like to present…" Hortense began listing their names. Bonaparte stood, legs slightly apart, eyes hooded with apparent boredom, and one arm thrust into the opposite side of his jacket, as though in a sling. Bonaparte inclined his head, looked down at his wife, and demanded, "Are we done yet?" Thwap! Everyone within earshot jumped at the sound of Miss Gwen’s reticule connecting with Bonaparte’s arm. "Sir! Take that hand out of your jacket! It is rude and it ruins your posture. A man of your diminutive stature needs to stand up straight." Something suspiciously like a chuckle emerged from Lord Richard’s lips, but when Amy glanced sharply up at him, his expression was studiedly bland. A dangerous hush fell over the room. Flirtations in the far corners of the room were abandoned. Business deals were dropped. The non-English speakers among the assemblage tugged at the sleeves of those who had the language, and instant translations began to be whispered about the room – suitably embellished, of course. "It’s an assassination attempt!" a woman next to Amy cried dramatically, swooning back into the arms of an officer who looked as though he didn’t quite know what to do with her, but would really be happiest just dropping her. "No, it’s not, it’s just Miss Gwen," Amy tried to explain. Meanwhile, Miss Gwen was advancing on Bonaparte, backing him up so that he was nearly sitting on Josephine’s lap. "While we are speaking, sir, this habit you have of barging into other people’s countries without invitation – it is most rude. I will not have it! You should apologise to the Italians and the Dutch at the first opportunity!" "Mais zee Italians, zey invited me!" Bonaparte exclaimed indignantly. Miss Gwen cast Bonaparte the severe look of a governess listening to substandard excuses from a wayward child. "That may well be," she pronounced in a tone that implied she thought it highly unlikely. "But your behaviour upon entering their country was inexcusable! If you were to be invited to someone’s home for a weekend, sirrah, would you reorganise their domestic arrangements and seize the artwork from their walls? Would you countenance any guest who behaved so? I thought not." Amy wondered if Bonaparte could declare war on Miss Gwen alone without breaking his peace with England. "So much for the Peace of Amiens!" she started to whisper to Jane, but Jane was no longer beside her.”

GuestsDecorumTreatyMiss GwenNapoleaon Bonaparte
Book:The Secret History of the Pink Carnation
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“If not hatred," put in her brother-in-law as the path broadened so that they could walk all abreast, "what of love?" Out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw her sister and brother-in-law exchange a sickeningly speaking glance. "Hmph," was Mrs. Fustian's eloquent opinion on that subject. For the first time that evening, Mary found herself in perfect agreement with her. "Good enough for shepherdesses, but not at all the thing for civilized folks. Love is a severely destabilizing emotion. Look at Paris," she finished, as though that said it all. "The city, or the Greek?" inquired Letty in a tone of suppressed laughter, her arm twined possessively through her husband's. "Either!" declared Mrs. Fustian.”

LoveNewlywedsMiss GwenGeoffrey Pinchingdale SnipeLetty Pinchingdale SnipeMary Alsworthy
Book:The Seduction of the Crimson Rose
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“He smiled – a real smile. Damn. It was easier to deal with him when he was being thoroughly vile. "Look, I’m sorry for being so rude earlier today. Your presence came as something of a shock and I reacted badly." "Oh." Geared for battle, his apology took me utterly by surprise. I gaped. "Aunt Arabella spoke very highly of you," he added, heaping coals of fire on my head. "She was impressed by your work on the Purple Gentian." "Why all this sudden amiability?" I asked suspiciously, crossing my arms across my chest. "Are you always this blunt?" "I’m too tired to be tactful," I said honestly. "Fair enough." Stretching, Colin detached himself from the wall. "Can I make you some hot chocolate as a token of peace? I was just about to have some myself," he added. Suiting action to words, he loped over to the counter beside the sink and checked the level of water in a battered brown plastic electric kettle. Satisfied, he plugged it into the wall, flipping the red switch on the side. I followed him over to the counter, the linen folds of the nightgown trailing after me across the linoleum. "As long as you promise not to slip any arsenic in it." Colin rooted around in a cupboard above the sink for the cocoa tin and held it out to me to sniff. "See? Arsenic free." I leant back against the counter, my elbows behind me on the marble work surface. "I don’t think arsenic is supposed to have a smell, is it?" "Damn, foiled again." Colin spooned Cadbury’s instant hot chocolate into two mugs, one decorated with large purple flowers, and the other with a quotation that I thought might be Jane Austen, but the author’s name was hidden around the other side of the mug. "Look, if it makes you feel better, I promise to do a very bad job hiding your body." "In that case, carry on," I yawned.”

HumorApologyArsenicEloiseColin
Book:The Secret History of the Pink Carnation
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“I'm not sure intentions make much difference in the end. I hear the road to hell is paved with them. She meant it frivolously, but Olivia answered seriously, "Yes, but one does have to live with one's self." "Not necessarily...There are any number of ways to avoid living with one's self. Gin, for example." "Yes, but you're still there at the base of it aren't you. Only with a terrible head in the morning.”

IntentionsLiving With Yourself
Book:The Other Daughter
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“I know historians aren't supposed to fall in love with their own theories, but I was head over heels about the notion of an entire band of female French agents, like a nineteenth-century Charlie's Angels. Only better. It made the Pink Carnation's organization look positively humdrum.”

KnowsLooksMadeFallCenturyTheoryBandAngelFemaleOrganizationFalling In LoveNotionAgentsHistorianHeelsPositivelyCharlieNineteenth CenturyHumdrumHead Over HeelsCarnationsCharlie's Angels
Book:The Deception of the Emerald Ring
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“Whether I like it or not, most of my images of what various historical periods feel, smell, or sound like were acquired well before I set foot in any history class. They came from Margaret Mitchell, from Anya Seton, from M.M. Kaye, and a host of other authors, in their crackly plastic library bindings. Whether historians acknowledge it or not, scholarly history’s illegitimate cousin, the historical novel, plays a profound role in shaping widely held conceptions of historical realities.”

FeelsWellsPlayRealitySoundClassRolesNovelFeetPeriodsHistoricalProfoundLibraryVariousSmellAcknowledgeConceptionHistorianHostPlasticCousinBindingScholarlyHistorical NovelsHistory Class
Author:Lauren Willig
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“I love the sound of words, the feel of them, the flow of them. I love the challenge of finding just that perfect combination of words to describe a curl of the lip, a tilt of the chin, a change in the atmosphere. Done well, novel-writing can combine lyricism with practicality in a way that makes one think of grand tapestries, both functional and beautiful. Fifty years from now, I imagine I’ll still be questing after just that right combination of words.”

ThinkingWayFeelsWritingYearsWellsStillsDoneBeautifulSoundChallengesPerfectNovelImagineFindingsFlowLipsCombinationAtmosphereFiftyChinsCurlsNovel WritingTapestryPracticalityTiltPerfect Combination
Author:Lauren Willig
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“There is, I have heard, a little thing called sunrise, in which the sun reverses the process we all viewed the night before. You might assume such a thing as mythical as those beasts that guard the corners of the earth, but I have it on the finest authority, and have, indeed, from time to time, regarded it with my own eyes.”

LittlesMightEyeEarthNightProcessMy OwnSunHeardAuthorityAssumingCornersBeastLittle ThingsReverseSunriseFinest
Book:The Garden Intrigue: A Pink Carnation Novel
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“Hard to believe that so nearby, just across the Channel, such atrocities could still occur in their supposedly civilized world, that one could wake up one morning and find oneself bereft of brothers, parents, friends, all with the slice of an ax.”

WorldBelieveStillsHardParentMorningBrotherWake UpOneselfCivilizedAtrocitiesHard To BelieveBereft
Book:The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas
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