A Wicked Kind of Husband (Longhope Abbey, #1)

by Mia Vincy

The trouble began with brandy. Or perhaps it was fairer to say—fairer to the brandy, at least, which ought not be blamed for all human failings—that the trouble was already there, and the brandy simply brought it to light.

In vino veritas.

How confounding to hear her husband spoken of thus; it was as if he were a real person after all.

“I realize you are both married.” The duke looked from one to the other. “But do you realize you are married to each other?”

“This is a colonization, Das. That woman is colonizing my house. Do you know what that means?” “Years of bloodshed, oppression, and exploitation, perhaps?”

anachronistic use of the concept of colonization, but excellent nonetheless

“Shaving is a waste of time. Bloody beard just grows back again. You object to my whiskers, Cordelia?” “Cats have whiskers, Jonah. Men have scruff. You look…” “Disreputable? Do say I look disreputable. I adore looking disreputable.”

The British Museum was laughing at her, for it turned out to be full of bare-chested, muscular men.

Cassandra could wield politeness like a scimitar.

Then, watching her, he saw her perform her trick: She picked up her yearning and loneliness and disappointment and hope, and she packed them away, tied them up tight inside her, and sealed it all with an amiable smile.

“My husband is teaching me to open doors all by myself,”

“It is very liberating.”

“Apt, really. He tends to be willful and poorly behaved at times, but he is lovely if you rub his belly the right way.” His own belly tightened at the thought of her rubbing it, any way at all. Of him rubbing her belly. Of their bellies rubbing each other.

“Let’s go cut off his kneecaps.”

“How much is wasted when men decide that certain babies are worth nothing because of their birth or class or sex or skin? How much do we all lose, as a nation, as humans, by dismissing people simply because they are not like us?”