The Swirling Quill
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“I’m terribly sorry my champagne found your face so magnetic, Captain.” Theodore Ashford does not get angry. No — he smiles. Slow. Amused. Dangerous. “No apology necessary, Lady Cruelton. In fact, I insist you join us for dinner next week. I find you… fascinating.” — Beatrice Whitmore died once already. She wakes up inside a 1940s romance novel — not as the heroine, but…