The Irresistible Urge to Fall for Your Enemy (Dearly Beloathed, #1)

by Brigitte Knightley

Osric Mordaunt. Art. Acquisitions. Assassinations. By appointment only. The card was perfumed, which offended Aurienne more than the assassination appointments: Swanstone was a scent-free establishment.

There was such witchery in a pair of bright eyes. Pity they had to be hers.

“Besides, they threatened to kidnap you.” “And? You threatened to kidnap me.” “Exactly: only I can do that. You can’t tell me this lot will be a huge loss to the world.”

I don’t want further deaths on my conscience—” “Solution: stop having a conscience.”

“Is he dead, sir?” “Yes.” “Send his mother a toe, sir.” “Good idea.” Anyway, reflected Aurienne, it was nice of Mrs. Parson to confirm so early in their acquaintance that she, too, was unhinged.

“A foot. An ankle. Put it away. You’ll stir my loins.”

“I’d rather you hate me than not think of me at all.”

“You do realise,” said Wellesley, “that you’ve only got one man here.” “No,” said Aurienne, with ruefulness born of sad truth. “I’ve got a monster.”

Yaaaaaaaas

My near-death experience has left me humble and lamblike.”

Her touch was an aching, fragile beauty. It was a hinge that swung him into something else. An awareness. An understanding that came in a bursting, ecstatic, agonised thrill. He and she sat in the moonlight as lover and beloved. He hadn’t paid attention. He had been stupid—gods, so stupid. He no longer owned his heart.

It hadn’t been love at first sight, but at last sight—gods, at last sight—