I decided long ago that my family absolutely comes first, and I don’t regret that. I do, however, sometimes wish I had an extra five hours or so in the day!
If I’m good enough to bed, surely I’m good enough to wed.
Every word you have ever uttered, is engraved upon my heart. -Lazarus to his mother.
All her life she’d been warned that men were slaves to their desires, that they held their impulses in barely controlled check. A woman – a lady – must be very, very careful of her actions so she did not put spark to the gunpowder that was a man’s libido.
You say my name like a lover, so soft, so sweet. I want to lick the word from your lips, sip the exhaled breath from your mouth. I want to possess you utterly. Right now. Right here.
It was a strange thing, this feeling of empathy. He’d never experienced it before. He realized that what hurt this woman hurt him as well, that what made her bleed caused a hemorrhage of pain within his soul.
There are no heroes on the battlefield, my lady; there are only survivors.
But Sir Alistair’s gaze was different. Those other men had looked at her with lust or speculation or crass curiosity, but they hadn’t been looking at her really. They’d been looking at what she represented to them: physical love or a valuable prize or an object to be gawked at. When Sir Alistair stared at her, well, he was looking at her.
He grinned, looking not a little wicked. “Have you looked at my books? Glanced at my titles? Fondled my spines?
His eyes were dark, dangerous, and not at all cold. He burned with an internal inferno she wanted to touch. She stared into the gaze of a tiger and knew, even as she watched the cat retreat into the camouflage of a gentleman: The Duke of Wakefield was the Ghost of St. Giles.
Behave, Miss Greaves,” he murmured under his breath, his voice husky and deep. “Fine words for a man who runs about St. Giles at night in a mask,” she whispered. He frowned, glancing around. “Hush.
Fear had a tendency to drive away the courtesy of civilization.
Seraphine, Seraphine, Seraphine. O most beloved of women, most fiery of saints, never leave me, please. I’ll erect columns of white marble to you, build gardens of delights for you, cause ships to sail and warriors to rise for you, if you’ll only remain by my side.
Never sleep anywhere but in my bed.” She might have protested, but he turned her roughly so that she lay on her stomach, her cheek pressed into his pillow. He lay on top of her, his upper body braced on his arms but his hips and legs weighing her down. Trapping and holding her. “You’re mine,” he said, laying his cheek against hers. “Mine and no one else’s.
Darling,” she said and caught his face between her hands, making him meet her eyes. He didn’t want to. He didn’t like the look in her eyes – a grim determination. “I love you,” she whispered and his soul soared until she uttered her next words. “But I must leave you.” “No.” He clutched at her hips as if he were a child of three refusing to give up his toy sword. “No.” “Yes,” she replied.
He pulled back, his chest heaving, and looked at her angrily. “Don’t start something you mean to stop.” She met his gaze squarely. “I don’t mean to stop.” His eyes narrowed. “I cannot give you marriage.” She’d known. She’d never thought he could – she would’ve sworn so had she been asked a minute earlier – but his blunt words were an arrow of pain piercing her heart nonetheless. She bared her teeth in a smile. “Have I asked you to?” “No.” “And I never shall,” she vowed.
Diana,” he whispered. “My Diana.
He’d forgotten, in those long years in Bedlam, through fear and grief and pain, what it was like to simply be with a pretty woman. To tease and flirt and yes, perhaps steal a kiss. He didn’t know how she felt about that kiss – or if she’d let him kiss her again, but he was certainly going to try. He had lost time to make up – much of life itself to live. He’d spent four years in limbo, simply existing, while others found lovers and friends, even started families. He wanted to live again.
She couldn’t very well get up and leave him without causing a scene, but she dearly wanted to. “Well, then, in the interests of fairness, perhaps you ought to know, Your Grace, that I have no intention of yielding the field to you.” Beside her he inclined his head a fraction of an inch. “Then en garde, Miss Greaves.
Good Lord, His Grace the Ass hiding in the bushes,” Apollo muttered. “Whatever are you doing here?” “Ah, Kilbourne, you’ve regained your voice,” Wakefield drawled. “Pity, but I presume my wife is thrilled. And you are?” He looked pointedly at Montgomery.