The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister, #3)

by Courtney Milan

“And for future reference, my heart is an ass.” He stared at her. “I see. It carries heavy burdens long distances.”

“But I also like kissing,” he said, leaning down and pressing his lips to her breastbone. “And touching. Between the extremes of playing vingt-et-un and doing my damnedest to get you with child, there are innumerable possibilities. And I’m very, very, very…” he paused, his lips pressing against her. “Very,” he repeated, “very interested in discovering which ones you like.”

She smiled as only Sebastian had ever seen her smile before, a smile that filled the room, fierce and powerful. This is not a joke, that smile said. You will have to deal with me on my own terms, from here on out.

They can’t hurt me if I know you’re safe,” he told her. “You are my heart, Violet. You’re the most important person in my life. Let them throw me in prison and I’ll go with a smile and a quip. I could not bear it if I had to watch you suffer.”

But you tell me you love me, that you’ll do anything to keep me safe, and you expect me to turn around and go to my bed alone? What kind of rake are you?”

A life without risk is one where I tell myself I’m not worthy of taking a chance. It’s a life without hope for the future.”

“Tomorrow—” he began. She set her fingers on his lips. “No talk of tomorrow. I want tonight.” He let out a heated breath and pulled her to him. “God, Violet. I should say no. I should—” “You should take me to bed.”

“I love you,” she said. He kissed her back. “I know.”

“I never, ever want to hear you say that Sebastian is good for nothing. He’s…precious.”

“Codswallop.” Violet felt her throat close. “Utter codswallop. This long I’ve known you, and you think one little attempt to save me from pain will turn me from you forever? Don’t be ridiculous, Sebastian. I love you. I have for years. Even when I couldn’t let myself love at all, I loved you.”

It is almost impossible to trace all the female contributions to science in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, mainly because many of those contributions went unrecorded.

From the author’s note at the end

For Rosalind Franklin, whose name we know. For Anna Clausen, whom I discovered while writing this book. For every woman whose name has disappeared without recognition. This book is for you.

Dedication