conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Wicked All Day about York, Times, Karen with the genre: Literature & Fiction, United States
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "the author weaves passion and intrigue with a master's touch." -- New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Wicked All Day
  Lady Hauxton cut an askance look at the maids. "Dear heaven!" She leaned nearer. "To Lord Robert Rowland?"
  Lady Hauxton gave a sympathetic smile. "Oh, Zoë, my dear, did I not recently warn you it might come to this?" she said in a low undertone. "Now do send the chambermaids away, and ring for tea."
  Zoë swallowed hard, then nodded. In a moment, the maids were gone, leaving only Trudy, who had been with Zoë since childhood, and who knew more of her mistress than did Zoë herself.
  Phaedra relaxed into her chair with a faintly exasperated expression. Zoë jerked the bedcovers up to her chin. "Oh, please do not cut up at me, Phae!" she said pitifully. "Not you, too!"
  And so Zoë did. The tea was brought in, Zoë sat up, and soon was confessing the worst in a small, pathetic voice while Phaedra poured, and Trudy looked on with what could only be called indulgent disapproval.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: four more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She swallowed hard as she looked up at him, the slender muscles in her throat working. "You are scowling," she whispered, blinking back tears. "Always, you seem to be scowling at me. But I'm not sure, Mercer, that I mind it anymore. I know I've been nothing but trouble."
  She held his gaze in the firelight, her eyes wide and limpid. "What, Mercer?" she whispered. "Just say it."
  He couldn't say it. Couldn't find the words. When it came to Zoë, the whole of his life had been like this—a tangled-up enigma of emotions. His notorious dispassion failed him, leaving him irritable and a little disoriented. What he felt for Zoë was something more than lust. More than frustration. And it was not remotely akin to familial affection.
  No, the truth—the truth he'd tried to deny all these years—had cut through him like a lightning strike the instant he'd seen Zoë in this brother's embrace that terrible night in Brook Street. It had stunned him. Driven the breath from his lungs, and almost unmanning him even as he had striven to keep himself from throttling Robin dead with his bare hands.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She swallowed hard as she looked up at him, the slender muscles in her throat working. "You are scowling," she whispered, blinking back tears. "Always, you seem to be scowling at me. But I'm not sure, Mercer, that I mind it anymore. I know I've been nothing but trouble."
  She held his gaze in the firelight, her eyes wide and limpid. "What, Mercer?" she whispered. "Just say it."
  He couldn't say it. Couldn't find the words. When it came to Zoë, the whole of his life had been like this—a tangled-up enigma of emotions. His notorious dispassion failed him, leaving him irritable and a little disoriented. What he felt for Zoë was something more than lust. More than frustration. And it was not remotely akin to familial affection.
  No, the truth—the truth he'd tried to deny all these years—had cut through him like a lightning strike the instant he'd seen Zoë in this brother's embrace that terrible night in Brook Street. It had stunned him.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There was such sorrow in those eight little words. Zoë inhaled a ragged breath. "Mercer," she whispered, "would you truly be unhappy?"
  Zoë's fingers flew to her mouth. "I never knew," she whispered, her voice almost inaudible. "Oh, Mercer. I never knew. I just thought you were angry."
  But Zoë could not speak. Her fingertips were still pressed to her lips—her suddenly wobbly lips—and the hot, urgent press of tears was burning behind her eyes. And then one leaked out, running not elegantly down her cheek, but awkwardly, meandering toward her nose.
  The word seemed to explode, unbidden, from her lips. And then Zoë's arms went round him as she buried her face against his neck. "Yes, Mercer. I will marry you, and make your life a living madhouse."