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“She climbed into the carriage and sat down across from the other lady. Pip hopped inside.
Miss Royle smiled down at the terrier. "Oh, what a sweet little dog!"
Pip wagged his tail and placed his front paws on Miss Royle's skirts for a pat and Bridget began to suspect he was a flirt.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Sin

“He started for the door, thinking of crimson velvet and burning eyes- and a woman's face swam into view.
Ah. A quarry. A victim of his plots and of his villainy.
He diverted his course, intercepting the woman. She was on the arm of an older man, her father.
Val swept her an abrupt bow. "Miss Royle. Sir."
Hippolyta Royle was the only daughter of Sir George Royle, who had gone to the East Indies to make his fortune and had done quite a good job indeed. The result was that Miss Royle had a dowry with few rivals in England.
"Your Grace." The lady's face, oval and proud and naturally olive-complexioned, paled at the sight of him.
Actually, he was rather used to that sort of reaction to his sudden appearance.
Blackmailer, and all.
He took her hand and brought it to his lips, peering over her knuckles. Her fingers were trembling. "Might I have the pleasure of this next dance, Miss Royle?"
Oh, she wanted to deny him, he could tell. Her full berry-red lips were pressed together, her dark brows gathered. The lady did not look entirely happy.
A state of affairs that didn't escape her father. "My dear?"
She patted the elderly man's hand. "It's nothing, Papa. It's just so hot in here."
"Then perhaps if we venture close to the windows-"
"Oh, but I insist on a turn on the floor," Val purred, his pulse racing, his nostrils flared. If she darted for cover he'd spring and sink his teeth into her. She was prey- his prey, and he'd not let her go. She was a prize and he'd parade her before all.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Sin

“As he brought her back to her waiting parent he lowered his head to hers and said, "I'll call on you next week, shall I?"
The hand on his arm jerked, but she kept her composure. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace?"
"I intend to court you," he informed her kindly, and then added to make it perfectly clear, "and make you my wife."
She swallowed. "Oh, no."
He smiled. "Oh, yes.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Sin