Forget birds singing, bells ringing, brooks quaintly babbling over rocks. Choirs of angels could go hang. Her voice, even scratchy and weak, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
My goodness,” she whispered. “Are you truly so afraid of asking for help? It’s that terrifying?” He balked. “I’m not afraid at all.” “I hear you saying that.” She pressed a hand to his shirtfront. “But this frantic, pounding thing in your chest is saying otherwise.” Little minx. There was exactly one reason his blood was pounding, and it had nothing to do with “please.” It had to do with “yes” and ”God, yes” and “just like that, but harder.
She couldn’t help being a weasel. She was born that way.
Rothbury stood over her. He was shirtless, wet, wild-haired. Handsome as sin and angry as Lucifer. A duke accustomed to having his way. Now she’d not only defied him, she’d directly challenged him. His words were low and even, but they smoldered like a fuse burning toward gunpowder. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.” He propped his hands on his hips. One of his pectoral muscles twitched angrily. As if registering an indignant harrumph.
I don’t suppose there are eggs? If I do say it myself, I make a very good pancake.” Oh, no. This just grew worse and worse. I make a very good pancake.
She rolled toward him, nestling close and throwing her arm over his chest. Her fingers toyed idly with the hair there, sifting.
Oh, dear. She did have such a weakness for a pair of well-traveled boots.
But I couldn’t discern what it was you needed to feel safe. I tried everything. Finally, tonight, you gave me the answer. Light. So now you have as many candles as you please. But now it’s gone all wrong. Because you’re here in this bed. But I’m here, too. And God help me, Izzy. I don’t know how to leave.
She tasted of ambrosia. Like peaches and blossoms and honey and musk. And just a touch of salt, to make the unbearable sweetness even sweeter still.
Izzy laughed. She waited for him to laugh, too. He didn’t.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a titled man in possession of a fortune should steer clear of me.
Emotions were so much easier to sort through one at a time, or so Louisa supposed. She wouldn’t know. Her life always delivered them in bundles, tied with impossibly knotted string.
Oh, Colin.” She dabbed a fingertip to his sticky abdomen, then rubbed her fingers together, as though testing the quality of his seed. “That was fascinating.
It’s safe,” she continued, anticipating his concerns. “It’s safe to speak this way. You can trust me. I won’t tell a soul. My Breton is poor, but my French is quite good.” Her French was impeccable. He could have closed his eyes and imagined her to be a native speaker. But damned if he’d close his eyes when she was so near.
An appointment? With whom?” He swept her with a warm, caressing gaze. “With an angel, apparently.” She clucked her tongue. “More teasing.” “No teasing. I am here for you.” “If that’s not teasing, it’s a flat-out lie.” He inched the chair forward, desperate to close the distance between them. He spoke to her quietly, honestly. From the depths of his cold, longsuffering heart. “I’m here for you, mon ange. Violet. I would cross a world for you.
She turned to him in disbelief. “Why would you spoil the ending?” “I didn’t spoil it. It’s a Shakespearean tragedy. They’re all that way. Everyone dies; the end.
I do not believe every problem can be cured with a kitten. I do believe in love. And perhaps love can’t cure every problem, but it makes the wounds heal a bit faster, with fewer scars.
Was it a ruthless seduction or a simple mistake?” Her companion scowled. And unleashed a robust chain of what sounded like pure Breton blasphemy. Violet glanced in Finn and Fosbury’s direction, reassuring them with a mild smile. When she spoke again, she kept her voice hushed and her manner calm. “I wasn’t unwilling, if that’s what you’re thinking. Quite the opposite.” “Even so. He was a devil to take advantage. And a fool to ever let you go.
That’s because there are no simple answers. Can it be divine bliss? Yes. Can it be a dismal trial? Yes. It’s like conversation. With the wrong person, it can feel forced, perfunctory. Boring as hell. But sometimes you find someone with whom the discussion just flows. You never run out of ideas. There’s no awkwardness in honesty. You surprise each other and yourselves.
And he didn’t require any nuzzling, thank you. He had a dog.