“Saul tapped his wife's obstinate chin. "Mrs. Benedict, you certainly are. You promised to obey.""That was thirty years ago! Before the wedding ceremony caught up with the modern age.""Well, I for one am holding you to that. Gondola for two, in the moonlight, with champagne and roses.”

“Two years ago, I was a twenty-nine year old secretary. Now I am a thirty-one year old writer. I get paid very well to sit around in my pajamas and type on my ridiculously fancy iMac, unless I'd rather take a nap. Feel free to hate me -- I certainly would.”

“Just lie back, wench."She snickered. "Did you call me wench? Well, you certainly dated yourself there, didn't you? Sometimes I forget how old you are. What's your age, anyway? Thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?""I'm thirty-three.”

“I used the phrase 'a certain age.' What I mean by this is the age people are in their heads. It's usually thirty to thirty-four. Nobody is forty in their head. When it comes to your internal age, chin wattles and relentless liver spots mean nothing.”

“But if he had indeed blushed-and his cheeks did feel a touch warm-neither of his brothers saw it, because they didn't say anything, and if there was anything in life as certain as, say, the sun rising in the east,it was that a Bridgerton never passed up the opportunity to tease and torment another Bridgerton."She's been talking about Penelope Featherington nonstop," Colin said with a scowl. "I tell you, I've known the girl since we were both in short pants. Er, since I was in short pants, at least. She was in..." He scowled some more, because both his brothers were laughing at him. "She was in whatever it is that young girls wear.""Frocks?" Anthony supplied helpfully."Petticoats?" was Benedict's suggestion. "The point is," Colin said forcefully, "that I have known her forever, and I can assure you I am not likely to fall in love with her."Anthony turned to Benedict and said, "They'll be married within a year.Mark my words."Colin crossed his arms. "Anthony!""Maybe two," Benedict said. "He's young yet.""Unlike you," Colin retorted. "Why am I besiged by Mother, I wonder? Good God, you're thirty-one-""Thirty," Benedict snapped."Regardless, one would think you'd be getting the brunt of it.”

“You are thirty minutes late.""Yes.""Would you be thirty minutes late to a wedding or a funeral?""No.""Why not, pray tell?""Well, if the funeral was mine I'd have to be on time. If the wedding was mine it would be my funeral.”