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His low-pitched voice made Phoebe feel as if she were stretching across a deep feather mattress.
“I can’t sleep in your room,” he said indignantly. “Why not?” “People might think we were married!”
“As you wish, my lady.”
when he said “as you wish” what he meant was i love you
“Kindness counts the most when it’s given to people who don’t deserve it.”
“That’s why I married your mother—she’s kind enough for two people.”
“I can’t help but question how my spirited daughter could fix her choice, once again, on a tepid Larson male. Is your blood really so thin that it calls for such milk-warm companionship?”
“Henry did have one passion, and that was you. It’s why I eventually consented to the marriage, despite knowing the burden you would have to shoulder.
Opening the book with unsteady fingers, she found the words written on the inside cover in her own childish hand, long ago. Dear Henry, whenever you feel alone, look for the kisses I left for you on my favorite pages.
“I don’t deserve such kindness. I was born wicked, and I only grew worse after that.”
“Sweetheart . . . no.” His smile was edged with bitterness.
“I loved finding the marks you put on your favorite scenes. Forty-seven kisses, all totaled. I pretended they were for me.”
Before she could draw breath, his mouth was on hers.
This man was the storm and the shelter, pulling her into a deep, encompassing darkness where there was too much to feel—hot soft firm sweet hungry rough silken tugging. She strained helplessly in his arms, although she didn’t know whether she was trying to escape or press closer.
“The book was falling . . . I was reaching for it, and . . . your lips were in the way.”
“If I have only one chance in a lifetime to kiss you,” he said grimly, “I’ll be damned if it’s going to be second rate. A man has standards.”
He kissed like a man who had lived too fast, learned too late, and had finally found the thing he wanted.
Impulsively she stood on her toes and whispered in his ear, “There’s nothing wicked about you, except your kisses.” And she fled the room while she was still able.
“I mean for her to partner with Weston Ravenel. A healthy young buck with sharp wits and a full supply of manly vigor. He’ll do her much good.”
“Poor lamb, did I give you a fright?”
West came forward, reached down to clasp Stephen around the ribs, and lifted him from Phoebe’s lap. “What’s all this racket?” he asked, settling the baby against his chest.
“You’re all I think about. You’re all I see. You’re the center of a star, and the force of gravity keeps pulling me closer, and I don’t give a damn that I’m about to be incinerated.”
Knee-deep in quicksand. Need rope. Would you possibly have time to visit Essex?
“All this after only a fortnight,” she commented, still admiring the luxuriant beard. Poor Edward would have been incensed at the sight of it.
“If the hero hasn’t turned up, you may have to settle for the villain.” “If the villain’s the one who turns up, he is the hero.”
“But Garrett saved my life. She can do whatever she likes with me now. If she decides to put a ring through my nose, I’ll stand there docile as a lamb while she does it.”
He longed to tell her how completely he accepted her, wanted her, how he adored her every strength and frailty. “I’ve never thought of you as perfect,” he told her flatly, and she laughed. “Still,” he continued, his tone gentling, “it would be hard not to worship you. I’m afraid you don’t behave nearly badly enough to bring my feelings into proportion.”
Quickly West reached out to the toddler’s blond head, pulled him closer and crushed a brief kiss among the soft curls. Had there been any doubts lingering in Phoebe’s mind, they were demolished in that moment. Oh, yes . . . I want this man.
“I’m already yours, love.”
A heart could make as much room as love needed.
“Trust us,” she said quietly. “Trust me and my sons to love you.”
But then he spoke without looking at her, in a flat and unemotional tone. “How could I ever count on anyone to do that?”
“I think you should marry Uncle West,” he commented, startling her. Her voice came out breathless. “Why do you say that, darling?” “Then you would always have someone to dance with. A lady can’t dance by herself or she would fall over.”
“You should use some of Granny’s perfume,” Justin said. Phoebe suppressed a laugh as she looked into his earnest face. “Justin, don’t you like the way I smell?” “Oh, I do, Mama, but Granny always smells like cake. If you smelled like cake, Uncle West would want to marry you.” Torn between amusement and dismay, Phoebe didn’t dare look at West. “I’ll consider your advice, dear.” She gently eased Justin from her lap and stood.
She had loved and respected her husband and had always heeded his opinions. But from now on, she would trust her own sense of right and wrong. The sin was not love, but the lack of it. The thing to fear was not scandal, but the betrayal of one’s own morality.
You’re not yourself.” “Do you think so?” she asked. “Then you’ve never known me at all. I am wholly myself—and I will never marry a man who would want me to be any less than I am.”
Even I, his best friend, have been tempted to put an end to him on a multitude of occasions.” “You’re not my best friend,” West said, after taking a swallow of brandy. “You’re not even my third best friend.”
he recognized the smooth, dry voice with its cut-crystal tones, so elegantly commanding it could have belonged to the devil himself.
“Are you sure?” he asked in between kisses. “Somewhere out there, the perfect man you deserve is probably searching for you.” Phoebe laughed against his mouth. “Let’s hurry, then—we can be married before he gets here.”
