Bridgerton Collection, Volume 1 (Bridgertons #1-3)

by Julia Quinn

There were rules among friends, commandments, really, and the most important one was Thou Shalt Not Lust After Thy Friend’s Sister.

“Anthony here has said such insulting things about you,” Colin continued, his grin growing quite wicked, “that I know we’re sure to be great friends.”

Simon pictured laying Daphne down on a bed of rose petals. “Well, maybe roses,” he murmured.

Hyacinth pondered that for a moment. “If you decide to marry my sister—” she said. Daphne choked on a biscuit. “—then you have my approval.” Simon choked on air. “But if you don’t,” Hyacinth continued, smiling shyly, “then I’d be much obliged if you’d wait for me.”

“Any man, you’ll soon learn, has an insurmountable need to blame someone else when he is made to look a fool.”

She smiled the smile of a woman who knows she is wanted.

Many a woman has been ruined by a single kiss.

And so kissing her became a matter of self-preservation. It was simple. If he did not kiss her now, if he did not consume her, he would die. It sounded melodramatic, but at the moment he would have sworn it to be true. The hand of desire twisting around his gut would burst into flame and take him along with it.

Simon grabbed her with almost desperate arms, his mouth crashing down on hers with a force that drew a collective gasp from the small assemblage of guests. And then both sets of lips—bride and groom—burst into laughter, even as they remained entwined.

Hyacinth Bridgerton, who at ten should have known the least about kisses of anyone, just blinked thoughtfully, and said, “I think it’s nice. If they’re laughing now, they’ll probably be laughing forever.” She turned to her mother. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

To say that men can be bullheaded would be insulting to the bull.

“I love you,” he whispered. “In all my life, it’s been only you.”

(There was a certain history to this. While heavily pregnant with Amelia, she had asked him if she was radiant or if she just looked like a waddling duck. He told her she’d looked like a radiant duck. This had not been the correct answer.)

As much as it pains This Author to agree with the betting books (they are written by men, and thus inherently flawed), This Author must concur in the prediction.

“Sometimes . . .” Anthony said in a halting voice, “sometimes there are reasons for our fears that we can’t quite explain. Sometimes it’s just something we feel in our bones, something we know to be true, but would sound foolish to anyone else.”

Love was truly a spectacular, sacred thing.

He had fallen in love with his wife, and now the thought of dying, of leaving her, of knowing that their moments together would form a short poem and not a long and lusty novel—it was more than he could bear.

“You have to live each hour as if it’s your last,” she said, “and each day as if you were immortal.

“It means that love isn’t about being afraid that it will all be snatched away. Love’s about finding the one person who makes your heart complete, who makes you a better person than you ever dreamed you could be. It’s about looking in the eyes of your wife and knowing, all the way to your bones, that she’s simply the best person you’ve ever known.”

“We weren’t that bad,” Anthony protested. “We were dreadful.” She set the brush down and walked to his side. “We’re always dreadful. But at least we try.”

This Author has it on the finest authority that two days ago, whilst taking tea at Gunter’s, Lady Penwood was hit on the side of her head with a flying biscuit. This Author is unable to determine who threw the biscuit, but all suspicions point to the establishment’s youngest patrons, Miss Felicity Featherington and Miss Hyacinth Bridgerton. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 21 MAY 1817

She supposed there were women who could throw over respectability for passion and love. A very large part of her wished she were one of those women. But she was not. Love could not conquer all. At least not for her.

“It’s complicated.” “Nothing is ever as complicated as it is in one’s mind.”

He knew that he had won her. She wasn’t going to run away; she would be his wife. But he still wanted this to be perfect. A man only got one shot at declaring himself to his true love; he didn’t want to muck it up completely.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I have always loved you. I think I loved you before I even knew you.”

“At the masquerade,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shaky, “even before I saw you, I felt you. Anticipation. Magic. There was something in the air. And when I turned, and you were there, it was as if you’d been waiting for me, and I knew that you were the reason I’d stolen into the ball.” Something wet hit her cheek. A single tear, fallen from his eye. “You are the reason I exist,” she said softly, “the very reason I was born.”