The Duke and I (Bridgertons, #1)

by Julia Quinn

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

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.

When she opened her mouth to speak, it looked as if her words were ripped from her very soul. “I-I’ve always known that I wasn’t the sort of woman men dream of, but I never thought anyone would prefer death to marriage with me.”

“It’s the truth,” he vowed. “Before I met you I was only half-alive.” “And now?” she whispered. “And now?” he echoed. “‘Now’ suddenly means happiness, and joy, and a wife I adore. But do you know what?” She shook her head, too overcome to speak. He leaned down and kissed her. “‘Now’ doesn’t even compare to tomorrow. And tomorrow couldn’t possibly compete with the next day. As perfect as I feel this very moment, tomorrow is going to be even better. Ah, Daff,” he murmured, moving his lips to hers, “every day I’m going to love you more. I promise you that. Every day . . .”