An Impossible Impostor (Veronica Speedwell, #7)

by Deanna Raybourn

He snorted, marking his place in the book with a thumb. “You? Tame? My dearest Veronica, it would take a better man than I to accomplish such a feat.”

He carefully laid the book aside. “Well, if it is adventure you seek . . .” He reached for me with a singularly determined look. He settled me across his lap, his lips brushing the pulsebeat just below my ear. “‘Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honey’d roses / When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication. / Ah! I will taste that dew . . .

“You had a wife,” I spat. “Or did it strike you as a trifling matter to leave me behind with everything else you had grown tired of?” “Tired of you! Never,”

You madden me. You distract me. You enrage me. I cannot think of any person of my acquaintance who has so often and so thoroughly driven me to the brink of endurance. And yet you saved me. Whatever that melancholy state, it has been banished, and I know it is because I wake every day knowing that you are there.”