The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin, #4)

by Elisa Braden

Bloody stupid to imagine anyone was worthy of faith or capable of loyalty.

“I suppose my Tannenbrook hunt must continue another day.”

one might even find her appealing. Not him, of course. But another man. One who enjoyed having his soul dissected by green-and-gold eyes and his skin flayed by a witch’s tart tongue.

Me thinks the man doth protest too much

“I would never hire you to work for me; do you know why?” “Hmm. An irrational dislike of properly pronounced R’s?”

“You have been distracted by your mannish notions about entering trade. ‘Preposterous’ is imagining that a woman can manage an enterprise such as mine. You have only yourself to blame that we have come to this pass.”

Fck the patriarchy

“Debauchery is best when shared, love.”

“I have landed in a pile of horse shit, Papa.” “Out of your damnable head, girl. That’s what you are. And mind your language. What would your mother think?” She glanced at the spot where the top of his boots met the bottoms of his breeches. Both were black. “Perhaps a question you should have asked before you decided to sell her daughter for a title,” Charlotte observed.

“Let us wallow in this pile of horse shit together, shall we?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Her lips were tight, her eyes studiously trained on his chin. “Begging is always welcome, love.”

He had the strangest urge to devour her bite by bite until he knew the final ingredient.

“There is nothing wrong with you. If you do not fit, perhaps it is England that is the problem.”

With a sigh, he pulled away and took up his father’s journal, determined to focus on something other than her. Charlotte. The woman who deserved better than to be seduced and used as a brood mare. Better than to have been shipped to England and sold to the loftiest title her father’s money could buy. Better than to have married him. From Chatham, to whom she had offered kindness and acceptance and friendship, she deserved no less than equal measures in return. And he would give them to her, he decided. He would grant her the protection such a lady merited—no matter how he must deny himself. Charlotte would remain his wife, his friend. When their year together was over, he would let her go so that she could return to America. He would let her go, he vowed. Even if it killed him.

He needed her, she decided. He might not want her, particularly, but he required manly relief, and she was his wife. Her decision to offer herself was an act of compassion, really. A practical measure. Nothing to do with how her body flushed and yearned when his eyes raked over her and settled upon her bosom, or her eyes consumed his newly broadened shoulders and thickening arms.

Girl

But now, he loathed him.

I should hate jealousy but I love it

Viola Darling. The diamond-of-the-first-water over whom many young lords had lost their collective senses during the season. He did not see the attraction, frankly. She was entirely devoid of freckles.

She had shattered him, fired the pieces, and forged a new man.

Naturally, he would be merciless in his efforts to coax her to stay with him, but the final decision must be hers.

“I am sorry.” “And well you should be. You’ve insulted not only me but also Tannenbrook. His honor is unimpeachable.” “You misunderstand. I am not sorry for my suspicions. I am sorry I have failed to convey the magnitude of lust you inspire in me.”

a brush of a hand here, a whispered conversation there, a heated glance, which led to a heated dance, which led to a stolen kiss, which led to a stolen tryst.

This is so flowy

“Apologies,” Charlotte murmured. “I seem to have spilled something upon your gown.”