The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)

by Julia Quinn

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.

Anthony was suddenly gripped by the most insane desire to see her toes. It was a horrible thought.

There is nothing like a spot of competition to bring out the worst in a man—or the best in a woman.

He knew well the singularly strange sensation of loving one’s family to distraction, and yet not feeling quite able to share one’s deepest and most intractable fears. It brought on an uncanny sense of isolation, of being remarkably alone in a loud and loving crowd.

was ironic, but death was the one thing he wasn’t afraid of. Death wasn’t frightening to a man alone. The great beyond held no terror when one had managed to avoid attachments here on earth. Love was truly a spectacular, sacred thing. Anthony knew that. He’d seen it every day of his childhood, every time his parents had shared a glance or touched hands.

of her back and guided her toward the stairs, her heart was racing, and for

And Anthony, who’d only just learned what it was to love, learned what it was to die inside.

“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.”