“If she says goodbye perhaps adieu. Adieu - like those old time songs she sang. Always adieu (and all songs say it). If she too says it, or weeps, I'll take her in my arms, my lunatic. She's mad but mine, mine. What will I care for gods or devils or for Fate itself. If she smiles or weeps or both. For me.”

“And what was the song which she sang? Ah, my little man, I am too old to sing that song, and you too young to understand it.”

“Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year.Weep no more! oh, weep no more!Young buds sleep in the root’s white core.Dry your eyes! oh, dry your eyes!For I was taught in ParadiseTo ease my breast of melodies,— Shed no tear.Overhead! look overhead!‘Mong the blossoms white and red—Look up, look up! I flutter nowOn this fresh pomegranate bough.See me! ’tis this silvery billEver cures the good man’s ill.Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year.Adieu, adieu—I fly—adieu!I vanish in the heaven’s blue,— Adieu, adieu!- Fairy Song”

“She sang that night like - I cannot say like an angel, for her songs were all of champagne suppers and strolling in the Burlington Arcade; perhaps, then, like a fallen angel - or yet again like a falling one: she sang like a falling angel might sing with the bounds of heaven fresh burst behind him, and hell still distant and unguessed. And as she did so, I sang with her - not loudly and carelessly like the rest of the crowd, but softly, almost secretly, as if she might hear me the better if I whispered rather than bawled.”

“I daresay he is not happy that his daughter is now unchaperoned. A gentleman would bid his adieu.""You can't leave!"The words hung in the air.Sophia hid a wince and said again, in a more measured tone, "I'm sorry. I'm distraught over my father."MacLean gave her a devastatingly sexy half-smile. "You misunderstood me; I said, a gentleman would bid his adieu." His voice, low and soft, rolled over her senses like liguid silk. "Fortunately for us both, I am not a gentleman.""No?" She flicked a finger at the lace on his wrist. "You dress like one.""I dress like a dandy. Or,as my oldest brother, Alexander, often says, like a 'damned dandy.'"Her lips quirked. "Your brother sounds a bit harsh.""You have no idea." He smiled. "As I was saying, dressing fashionably does not make me a gentleman.""Fine.You are not a gentleman, and I am far from a child," she returned with a lofty wave of her hand. "I don't need my father's presence for protection.""But perhaps I do."She had to smile. "You don't need protection from me, Lord MacLean. I don't bite-though if I don't get something to eat soon, I may change my mind."His eyes sparkled with laughter. "By all means, then, let us eat." He led the way to the dining room, standing aside to allow her to enter.As she brushed past him, a hot sensation told her that his gaze was lingering on her posterior. She glanced back and found that she was correct. "Lord MacLean!"He reluctantly lifted hia gaze. "Yes?""Is something wrong with my gown?""No.There's absolutely nothing wrong with your gown. Or what's in it."She should have been shocked by his impropriety but instead was pleased he'd noticed. "Thank you. I must say..." She allowed her gaze to travel across him. "You fill your clothes well, too.”

“Astrud Gilberto sang an old bossa nova song. “Take me to Aruanda,” she sang. I closed my eyes, and the clatter of the cups and saucers sounded like the roar of a far-off sea. Aruanda—what’s it like there?”