When He Was Wicked (Bridgertons, #6)

by Julia Quinn

In every life there is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that

one feels as if one’s been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and one knows, absolutely knows without the merest hint of a shadow of a doubt that one’s life will never be the same.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Cousin’s Wife. Moses must have forgotten to write that one down.

when a man asks for your hand, you will have to judge him on his merits and not by some arbitrary standard you have set out ahead of time.”

“It isn’t gossip,” Hyacinth retorted. “It’s the honest dissemination of information.”

It was the sort of kiss that seduced with subtlety, sent tingles through her body and left her desperate for more.

Nothing had the power to irritate like the reflection of one’s own behavior in someone else.

“You do realize, Kilmartin,” Colin said, his voice so soft it was almost chilling, “that there is no reason you can’t marry her. None at all. Except, of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “the reasons you manufacture for yourself.”

“Did you wonder?” he whispered. “Did you leave me and wonder what I hadn’t told you?” He leaned in, just so she’d feel his lips move whisper-light against her ear. “Did you want to know,” he whispered, “what I did when I was wicked?”

And he, who had slept with countless women, suddenly realized that he’d been nothing but a green boy.

Because it had never been like this. That had been his body. This was his soul.

“Why? It’s because I love you, damn me to hell. Because I’ve always loved you. Because I loved you when you were with John, and I loved you when I was in India, and God only knows I don’t deserve you, but I love you, anyway.”

“If you’re not mine, I don’t want you anymore.”

And I hope you will not think me foolish when I also extend my thanks. Thank you, Michael, for letting my son love her first.