The Beloved One Quotes

“Amy, listen to me.  Listen to me.  Don't you ever let them tell you you're ugly!  Don't ever let them tell you you're dirty.  You're a beautiful person, inside and out, thoughtful, sensitive and kind.  I don't care what Sylvanus says, or what anyone else thinks.  You'll find yourself a nice man to marry someday, and if your family's trying to convince you otherwise, it's only because they have an unpaid servant in you and they don't want to lose you." He heard what sounded like a gulp, then a sniffle. "Amy?" "I — I'm sorry, Ch-Charles.  No one's ever said anything like that to me before, and . . . and I j-just don't know what to make of it —" "Oh, God, don't cry.  I don't know how to deal with tearful females, truly I don't." "I c-can't help it, you're being so nice to me, saying that I'm beautiful when really, I'm not, and — "You are beautiful, Amy, and don't you ever forget it." "You can't say that, you've never even seen me!" "Come here." "I am here." "Come closer, then, and let me judge the issue for myself." She did. "Now, place my hands on your face." Sniffling, she took his hands within her own.  Or tried to, given that hers were half the size of his and dainty as a bird's foot. And then she raised them to her face, placing one on each hot, tearstained cheek. The minute he felt her flesh beneath his, Charles knew this was a mistake.  A big mistake.  But to stop now would crush her. "Ah, Amy.  How can you think you're ugly?  Your skin is so soft that it feels like roses after a morning rain." "It's too dark.  Bronzy.  Not at all the color of Ophelia's and Mildred's." "And who says skin has to be milk-white to be beautiful?" "Well . . . no one, I guess." He gently pressed his thumbs against her cheeks, noting that they were hot with blush, soft as thistledown, and that the delicate bones beneath were high and prominent.  "And look at these cheekbones!  I know women — aristocratic women, mind you — who'd kill for cheekbones like these.  High cheekbones are a mark of great beauty, you know." "High cheekbones are a mark of Indian blood." "Amy." "Yes?" "Stop it." "I'm sorry." He continued on, now tracing the curve of her brow, and the bridge of her nose.  He had lost his eyesight, but it was amazing what his hands could see. "You have a lovely nose," he said. "It's too strong." "No it isn't.  Close your eyes." She did.  He could feel the fragile veneer of her eyelids, trembling faintly beneath his fingertips, and long, long lashes that brushed those cheekbones he had so admired. "What color are your eyes, Amy?" "Brown." "What color brown?  Brown like conkers?  Brown like nutmeg?  Brown like black?" "Brown like mud." "Can you think of a more flattering word?" "No." His hands moved out over her face, learning its shape, before touching the plaited, pinned-up mass of her hair.  It was straight, he could tell that much.  Shiny like glass, as soft as a fern.  He wished it was down. Good God, man, whatever are you thinking?! "My hair's brown, too," Amy said, her voice now a tremulous, barely audible whisper. "Brown like mud?" he cajoled. "No.  Brown like black.  And when the sun comes out, it's got reddish undertones." "It sounds very pretty." "It's not, really.  It's just hair." "Just hair.  Do you ever wear it down?" "No." "Why not?" "It gets in the way of things." "Don't you think that someday, a man will wish to drag his fingers through all this hair?" "No . . . no respectable man." He shook his head, his heart aching for her.  "Oh, Amy." He”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“It's all right, Adam," she murmured, stroking the damp hair that still adorned all but the back of his head.  "Just relax." Adam stared fixedly at the wall, his lips just grazing the bloodstained pillow.  "Not Adam . . . Charles." It came out Chaaahles, on a deep and startlingly elegant drawl that left the "r" from the name and marked him as anything but the rebel they'd all assumed him to be. Amy's jaw dropped open and horrified, she whirled to stare at her brother.  "He's a —" "Redcoat."  Will went green and shot a terrified glance at the door through which the doctor had just passed.  "An officer, if you must know."  He hugged his arms to himself and stared at Amy, his lower lip thrust out, his eyes both fearful and defiant.  He looked like the frightened child he was.  "What would you have me do, leave him out in a field to die?" Amy, paling, grabbed Will by the sleeve.  "Do you realize what you've done?" Will looked as though he were about to cry.  "Now you know why I was half-hoping he wouldn't make it." "Why on earth did you bring him home?" "I felt guilty." "For heaven's sake, Will!" Beneath”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Amy?" he breathed. Two dancers, caught up in the dance, didn't see him standing there and collided with him, nearly knocking him down. "Lord Charles!  I beg your pardon!" But he never heard them.  He never saw them.  He had eyes only for the stunning beauty who was being swept around the dance floor by Gareth's friend Perry.  She was a ravishing young woman in shimmering peacock and royal blue whose beauty commanded the eye, the attention, the heart — and made every other woman in the room pale to insignificance. Charles's mouth went dry.  His heartbeat cracked his chest and he forgot to breathe. Another set of dancers collided with him, knocking him to his senses.  Angrily, he stared into the amused eyes of Gareth's friend Neil Chilcot, another Den of Debauchery member who was partnering a grinning Nerissa.  "Gorgeous young woman, isn't she?" quipped Chilcot, sweeping Nerissa past.  "You should've stuck around to see her announced, Charles.  Not that you'll ever have a chance of claiming a dance with her now, what with all the young bucks before you already waiting . . ." Charles had heard enough.  But as he stalked across the dance floor, he heard even more. "Well, His Grace told me she's an heiress . . ." "Not just an heiress, but a princess from some vast Indian nation in America . . ." ". . . came here to offer her tribe's help in the war against the Americans . . ." Charles clenched his fists.  Lucien.  No one else could have, would have, started and circulated such a preposterously crazy rumor!  What the hell was his brother trying to do, get Amy married off to some handsome young swain and out of Charles's life forever?  This was no training for a lady's maid, that was for damned sure! His jaw tight, he stormed across the dance floor toward Amy.  He saw her hooped petticoats swirling about her legs and exposing a tantalizing bit of ankle with every step she took, the laughter in her face even though she kept glancing over Perry's shoulder in search of someone, the studied grace in her movements that, a week ago, he would've sworn she didn't have. She had not seen him yet, and as Perry, a handsome man who had something of a reputation with the ladies, led her through the steps, Charles felt a surge of jealousy so fierce, so violent, that it made him think of doing something totally irrational. Such as calling Perry out for dancing with his woman. Such as killing Lucien for whatever little game he was playing. Such”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Oh, my," said Nerissa, when she could speak. Juliet, smiling, murmured, "Would you just look at her." "I don't think we can help but look at her," murmured an urbane voice, and gasping, all three women turned to see Lucien standing in the doorway, arms crossed and his black eyes gleaming in the candlelight. He lifted his hand.  "Turn around, my dear," he said, giving a negligent little wave.  Her eyes huge, Amy slowly did as he asked, staring down at herself in awe and disbelief.  The gown, an open-robed saque of watered silk, shimmered with every movement, a vibrant purplish-blue in this light, a vivid emerald-green in that.  Its robed bodice open to show a stomacher of bright yellow satin worked with turquoise and green embroidery, it had tight sleeves ending in treble flounces just behind the elbow, which, combined with the chemise's triple tiers of lace, made Amy feel as though she had wings.  She smoothed her palms over the flounced and scalloped petticoats of royal blue silk, and then, with impulsive delight, threw back her head on a little laugh, extended her arms and spun on her toe, making gauzy sleeves, shining hair, and yards upon yards of shimmering fabric float in the air around her. Hannah, who did not think such behavior was quite appropriate, especially in front of a duke, frowned, but Lucien was trying hard to contain his amusement.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd made anyone so happy, and it touched something deep inside him that he'd long thought dead.  He exchanged a look of furtive triumph with Nerissa. "Oh!  Is it really me?" Amy breathed, reverently touching her sleeve and then raising wide, suddenly misty eyes to her small audience. "It is really you," Juliet said, smiling. "Only someone with your coloring could wear such bold shades and make them work for instead of against you," said Nerissa, coming forward to tie a black ribbon around Amy's neck.  "Lud, if I tried to wear those colors, I daresay they would overwhelm me!" "Speaking of overwhelmed . . ."  Amy turned to face the man who still lounged negligently in the doorway, his fingers trying, quite unsuccessfully, to rub away the little smile that tugged at his mouth.  "Your Grace, I don't know how to thank you," she whispered, dabbing away one tear, then another.  "No one has ever done anything like this for me before and I . . . I feel like a princess." "My dear girl.  Don't you know?"  His smile deepened and she saw what was almost a cunning gleam come into his enigmatic black eyes.  "You are a princess.  Now dry those tears and if you must thank me, do so by enjoying yourself tonight." "I will, Your Grace." "Yes," he said, on a note of finality.  "You will." And”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“I hope you love my little brother with all the strength of your heart," he said, gazing deeply into her eyes.  "Gareth has suffered much pain in his life, and he deserves no less than what I know you can give him.  He deserves someone like you, Juliet." "I do love him, Charles."  A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and began a slow path down her cheek.  "I do love him, and I pray that you find someone to make you as happy as he has made me."  She swiped away the tear.  "But I think you already have." He smiled, gently.  "Yes . . . I think I have." And then she reached deeply into her pocket and drew something out which she held tightly in her closed hand for a long moment. "I've been keeping these for you.  Waiting for the right moment to give them back to you.  They once belonged to you, but they really should be hers now." And then she held her hand over his and dropped two objects into his palm.  One was the miniature he'd had painted two years ago in Boston.  And the other was the signet ring with which they had sealed their betrothal that fateful night in April. Her smile was a little watery.  "You're a free man now, Charles.  Take these and be happy.”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“A few feet away, Gareth gazed down at the child cradled in his arm, kissed her forehead, and tenderly brushed aside a lock of pale blonde hair. ”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“You can’t go back and change what happened, so why not just forgive yourself and try to make the best of things? Aren’t you as deserving of forgiveness as anyone else?”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“My, my, have you ever seen such a nauseatingly tender, sickeningly domestic, scene?" drawled a voice that was, despite the words, ripe with amusement.  Turning, Charles saw Lucien, with Gareth, Nerissa, and Juliet standing beside him.  "Congratulations.  And what will our newest de Montforte be named, eh?" "Mary," said Charles, getting to his feet.  "After both our mothers." "Mary Elizabeth," Amy added, gazing at her husband and daughter. "A girl, then," murmured Lucien. "A girl."  Charles came forward, holding a fold of the blanket back so that everyone could see his daughter.  He was beaming with excitement.  Bursting with pride.  "Isn't she just beautiful?  Have you ever seen anything so precious?  Look at her little fingers!  Look at that head of black hair!  Look how perfect, how sweet, how exquisite she is —" Lucien shook his head, secretly amused that something so tiny could reduce not only a de Montforte, but an army major, to this.  With a heavy sigh, he raised a brow and looked at the Wild One.  "It would seem, my dear Gareth, that I owe you ten pounds after all," he murmured, with a rueful smile that could not disguise his delight in having yet another niece to spoil.  "Though how you knew it would be a girl is beyond me." A sudden gust of wind lashed the window, peppering it with rain.  "That's how I knew," said Gareth, handing Gabriel to Juliet and picking up a squirming Charlotte.  "With a storm on the make, how could we have expected anything but a female!" Laughter rang around the room at his wry observation.  Congratulations and well-wishes were said, and Mary Elizabeth de Montforte was passed around so that all could see her.  After inspecting his new niece, Lucien, feeling more than a little smug for his part in getting yet another brother safely married off, moved to the door. "I say, Luce, where are you going?" Charles asked. Lucien smiled.  "Well, someone's got to tell Andrew,”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Charles stood frozen, afraid to come any closer.  Amy turned her head on the pillow and smiled at him, her eyes suddenly misty beneath their fan of thick black lashes.  For a long moment the two gazed at each other; then Charles moved forward, toward the bed, toward the crying child.  He never noticed that Juliet and the midwife stole from the room. "Amy," he breathed, staring down at the tiny, wailing bundle that their love had made.  "Oh, Amy . . ." "Want to hold her?" Charles paled, unable to forget when Gareth had asked him much the same thing before placing Charlotte in his arms.  He remembered the terrible awkwardness of that moment, the crushing love he'd thought to feel for the toddler but hadn't, the mixed hurt and relief when Charlotte had suddenly started crying and reached for Gareth.  Now, he stood frozen and uncertain, desperately wanting to hold the baby, desperately afraid to for fear that it would be a repeat of the last time he'd held his own flesh-and-blood.  Especially as this one was a red-faced, black-haired, puckered bundle of screaming misery. "Go ahead," Amy prompted.  "She won't bite." Swallowing hard, Charles reached down. Put his hands around his tiny daughter. And gingerly picking her up, cradled her tiny body to his chest. Instantly, the baby stopped crying — and Charles felt as though the mallet of the gods had just smote him across the heart.  A wall of emotion nearly cracked his chest and closed his throat, and for a moment he could do nothing but gulp back the huge lump there as he cupped the baby's head in his palm and stared reverently down at her.  With a shaking hand, he touched one curled, tiny fist.  Smoothed the downy-soft hair.  Kissed the red and wrinkled brow and then, moisture sparkling on his own gold lashes, he looked over at Amy, whose eyes were dark with love as she watched the two of them together. "I think she's going to be Papa's little girl," she said softly. "Oh, Amy," he blurted, in a raw, hoarse voice.  "Oh, dearest, the world itself is not big enough to hold all the love I have for you . . . for this little girl.  Thank you for making me the happiest man in England — not just once this year, but twice."  Still cradling his daughter, he got down on his knees before the bed, took Amy's arm, and, kissing her palm, pressed it to his cheek to stop the sudden flood of emotion. A”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Moments later, a particularly harsh scream came from above, followed by the thin, lusty wail of a child.  Charles dropped his glass and bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time as he sprinted to his wife's aid. In his wake, Gareth and Lucien merely exchanged amused glances. "A girl," said Gareth.  "I'll bet you ten pounds on it." "No, no, Gareth.  It will be a boy.  It has to be a boy.  I hope to God it's a boy, since it seems that the next heir to Blackheath is going to have to come down through Charles, not me." "Come now, Luce, you have plenty of time to marry and get an heir of your own." Lucien arched a brow.  "What, and put myself through the hell that you two go through every time you become a father?  I think not . . ." Upstairs, Charles was running headlong down the corridor toward the closed door of Amy's room.  Nerissa stood just outside, arms folded, barring his way.  She saw his panicked face, his wild eyes, as from behind the door, the baby's wailing intensified.  "Really, Charles.  Are you all right?" "Never mind me, are they all right?!" His sister smiled with infuriating sweetness.  "Why don't you go in and see for yourself?" He lunged for the door. Nerissa grabbed the handle, laughing.  "Ah!  Sedately, brother dear!"  He willed himself to calm down, his hands, his body, his very nerves, shaking.  His throat felt dry and he feared his knees were going to give out and he had to take several gulping breaths to get himself under control. Nerissa, smiling, opened the door. And there was Amy, propped up on pillows, her face pale, wan, exhausted — radiant.  Juliet stood beside the bed, sponging her brow and grinning as the midwife wrapped the tiny, squalling bundle in a blanket and placed it on Amy's chest.  The old woman raised her head as she saw the lord of Lynmouth standing there, looking as though the gods had just struck him to stone with a bolt of lightning. "Congratulations, m'lord.  You 'ave a little girl." Charles”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“And in an upstairs bedroom of the elegant house, the newest de Montforte was being born. Charles was as distraught as Lucien had ever seen him, pacing back and forth in the drawing room while above, Amy screamed in pain as another contraction seized her. Charles blanched.  Droplets of sweat beaded his brow. "Do sit down, Charles," Lucien murmured, not looking up from where he sat calmly writing a letter.  The duke, along with his siblings and Juliet — whose presence Amy had specifically requested — had arrived a fortnight ago so they could all be together for the grand event.  "I daresay you're expending as much effort on delivering this child as Amy is." "Yes, I wonder which one will be more exhausted when it's over?" teased Gareth, lounging on a nearby sofa and bouncing a leg over one bent knee. Charles kept pacing.  "I won't sit down, I can't sit down, I can't rest, I can't eat, I can't think until I know that both of them are all right!" Gareth, with his new son Gabriel in his arms and Charlotte playing on the floor nearby, fought hard to contain his laughter.  Having recently gone through the same hell as Charles was currently experiencing — and behaving just as abominably — he considered himself quite the expert on such matters.  He looked at Charles and grinned. "Yes, Luce is quite right, Charles.  All you're doing is wearing a hole in the carpet.  Amy'll be just fine." "But those screams!  I cannot bear to hear them!" Lucien dipped his quill in the ink bottle.  "Then go outside, my dear Charles, so that you do not have to hear them." For answer, Charles only threw himself down in the nearest chair.  Raked a hand through his hair.  Jumped to his feet, poured himself a drink, and continued his pacing. Moments”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“And at that moment Charles's thoughts raced back to the time he'd lain blind and helpless in Sylvanus Leighton's house, with only Amy to look after him in his days of darkest despair.  He recalled how many moments they'd shared together, how much they'd come to mean to each other, and a huge knot of emotion closed the back of his throat as the full magnitude of his love for this woman nearly crushed him beneath its weight.  He could never live without her.  Ever.  And this time, of course, he had no guilt over Juliet, no feelings of self-doubt, and absolutely no reason this side of heaven not to give in to his most fervent desire:  to be with Amy, always. He had come full circle, then. He was the man he had always been. The Beloved One. Charles tilted his head back within Amy's arms and, looking up into her eyes, saw such a wealth of love for him there that he thought his heart was going to come bursting right out of his chest. He lifted her hand to his lips.  "Amy.  My dearest, precious Amy.  I love you.  Will you marry me?" Her eyes suddenly misty, she looked up at Lucien. He only smiled.  "I believe, my dear, that the traditional reply is 'I will."  ”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Pity," he said, with a rueful little smile, still gazing at the conflagration.  "But I suppose that part of the house was due for renovation anyhow.  I think I shall have it redone in the new classical style . . . what do you think, Major?" "I think that's the last ball of yours I will ever attend." "Now really, Charles.  You wound me."  He knelt down, and, lifting one of Charles's hands, turned it palm upward, shaking his head as he examined the blistered red flesh through the burned-out glove.  "And you have wounded yourself.  How fortunate that you have someone to take such good care of you."  His black eyes, which gave away nothing, found Amy's as he stood up.  "You will take care of him, won't you, my dear?" "Oh, I'll take care of him, Your Grace," she vowed, tenderly smoothing Charles's singed wet hair from his face.  "After all, I've done it before, haven't I, Charles?" "You certainly have."  He shut his eyes, pulled her head down to his, and found her lips in a deep, searching kiss.  And when he finally broke it and looked up, there was everyone gazing down at him, grinning so fiercely he thought their faces would split.  Lucien, one brow raised, but otherwise as composed as ever.  Gareth and Juliet, standing arm and arm, their eyes shining.  A battered Andrew, Nerissa, Perry, Chilcot, the villagers, and everyone else whom Lucien must have used — either directly or indirectly, knowingly or unknowingly — to prove to Charles that he was not only forgiven, but loved, respected and admired. ”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“My dear Miss Leighton.  Are you enjoying yourself tonight?" "I am, Your Grace.  This has been the most magical night of my life and —" she looked at Charles — "now that your brother's here, it just got a hundred times better." "Have I misled you in any way, disappointed you in any form?" "No, Your Grace.  I don't know what Lord Charles is so upset about." "There.  You see, Charles?  There is no harm done.  If you truly cared about Miss Leighton, you wouldn't begrudge her the chance to enjoy herself — and perhaps make an advantageous match.  It's obvious that you don't have the courage to make an immediate offer for her, but I daresay there are many here tonight who would." Charles's eyes narrowed; he had caught the wicked little gleam in Lucien's eyes, and suddenly, belatedly, he understood. "You conniving wretch," he said, his eyes blazing as he began to see how neatly he'd been manipulated. Lucien, knowing the game was up, only raised a brow and smiled. "You set this all up to try and force my hand, didn't you?" "Now, really, Charles.  What reason would I have to do that?"  He looked up as Gareth approached through the throngs.  "Why hello, Gareth.  Your brother here has just accused me of interfering in Amy's life.  Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculously absurd?" Gareth's mouth dropped open; he was caught in the middle and he knew it. Lucien straightened one glove.  "And here I was having such fun watching her enjoying herself.  Really, Charles, the look on your face when you first saw her in that gown was worth more than all the tea in China —" Sudden”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“For once in his life, Charles didn't care what anyone thought of his behavior.  He marched straight up to Perry, tapped him on the shoulder, and jerked his thumb to indicate that Perry had better relinquish Amy to him. Now. Perry, grinning, bowed and backed off.  At the same time, Amy turned her head and saw Charles, her face breaking into such an expression of joy that he was nearly undone. "Charles!" she cried, and he knew then that if they weren't in the middle of a crowded ballroom, with everyone staring at them, she would've thrown herself straight into his arms.  As it was, she stumbled such that he had to catch her and set her on her feet, a move that he managed to carry off such that she barely missed a step.  "Oh, Charles, I've been waiting all evening for you to arrive!  Where have you been?" "Looking for you."  He stared at her.  "Amy, you look . . . ravishing," he said, and it was all he could do not to claim those smiling, carmine-rouged lips and kiss her senseless. "For once in my life, I actually feel ravishing!  Oh, Charles — will you look at all these powdered heads, the jewels and silks and satins, everyone having such a good time!  Isn't it just wonderful?  Isn't this just the most magical place on earth?" He swung her through the steps.  "Amy, I do not wish to spoil your enjoyment, but exactly what are you doing?" "I'm dancing!" she said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling as he led her through the steps.  "Oh, Charles, this is such fun!  Your brother was so kind to give me this night . . . I feel like Cinderella!" "What?" "Lucien!  He was so grateful for what I did for you back in America that he gave me this night, this gown, a new identity, and . . . and, even these diamonds at my ears!  Well, he didn't actually give them to me, I understand that they belonged to your grandmother but he said that only someone with my coloring would be able to carry them off. . . ."  She blushed.  "Charles, you don't think everyone's staring at me because I'm the only one here with unpowdered hair, do you?  Lucien said that I really should leave it natural, and —" "No, Amy," he said tightly, realizing that everyone was staring at her, and it had nothing to do with her hair. It was because she was the most strikingly beautiful woman in the room and one couldn't help but stare at her. "Charles, are you angry?" "Yes, Amy, I am angry, quietly furious, in fact, but not with you." "Then with who?  Certainly, not Perry I hope, because he's now dancing with your sister — she has a tendre for him, you know." "And where did you learn that word, Amy?" "Oh, Nerissa taught it to me.  I understand it is quite the thing to know some French.  Oh, Charles, please don't be angry with Perry, he did nothing wrong —" "It's not Perry I'm angry with, it's Lucien."  The dance ended.  "And by God, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind." His”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“But Charles, at that very moment, was roving the house in search of Amy.  He had stayed at the ball only long enough to claim the first dance with his sister; then, when the dancing was in full swing, he'd melted into the crush, strode through the doors leading back to the main part of the castle, and gone looking for Amy. But she was not in her rooms.  She was not in the dining room, the library, or wandering the halls.  It wasn't until he strode into the Gold Parlor and found Juliet — who would not, of course, be attending the ball in her advanced condition — quietly working on a piece of embroidery, that Charles got the first clue to her whereabouts. He bowed to his sister-in-law, who looked up at him in some surprise. "Why, hello, Charles.  What are you doing out here?  You look most annoyed." "Amy.  I can't find her anywhere, haven't seen her all day and I'm sick to death of everyone monopolizing her time.  You haven't seen her, have you?" Juliet looked at him peculiarly, then lowered her needlework, a little smile touching her lips.  "Actually, I have.  You might try checking the ballroom." "She wouldn't be in there." Juliet's eyes sparkled with mirth.  "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure." At that moment Gareth, who was dividing his time between his wife and the ball, entered the room, fashionably splendid in raspberry silk, tight breeches, and shoes sporting huge Artois buckles.  In his hand were two glasses, one of sherry, the other of cider, the latter of which he handed to his wife.  He had caught the tail end of the conversation. "Yes, you really should check the ballroom, Charles," he said, his own blue eyes twinkling. Was there some damned conspiracy going on here? ”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“And to add insult to injury, there was the matter of Amy. Every morning right after breakfast, Nerissa and her maid, Hannah, had spirited Amy off, depriving Charles of any and all time spent alone with her.  It was almost as if his family knew what had happened out in the stable, and were contriving to keep them apart until Amy could be safely packed off to some new employer as a lady's maid. And now, with the ball only a matter of hours away, they had taken her off yet again, teaching her how to dress another woman, how to arrange the hair of another woman, how to make herself indispensable to another woman, another woman who would be having all the fun while Amy, who had never had any fun, watched wistfully from the wings.  Charles wanted to hit something in his frustration.  True, he had brought her to England so she could have a better life, and now that Nerissa was preparing her for a position that would carry no small degree of prestige in itself, he was beginning to realize that perhaps that wasn't quite what he wanted for Amy after all. Back in America, when he'd allowed her to come to England with him, he might have told himself it was, but now, with no promises to Juliet to bind him, with nothing standing in his way, it wasn't — and he knew it.  He did not want her to leave Blackheath.  He did not want her to leave him.  Yet what excuse did he have to keep her here? The”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Oooh!  I just felt him kick again!" "Now Juliet, how can you know it's a 'he'?" "I know because I'm not nearly as sick as I was with Charlotte.  Boys are easier to carry than girls, you know.  Or so they say.  Oh!"  An excited little squeal.  "Put your hand right there, Gareth." "Here?" "Yes, right there — do you feel it?" A tense, expectant silence.  And then, "Oh, Juliet . . ." Charles”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Remember what I told you, Nerissa.  Spare no expense when it comes to dressing her.  I want her out of those hideous colors and fabrics she's in now, and into something that will show her coloring to greatest advantage." "Silks, satins, velvets?" "Yes, and the finest, most expensive ones Madame has."  Lucien's enigmatic black eyes had gleamed with sly delight before he'd turned away and, his forefinger tapping his lips once, twice, continued on.  "And dramatic colors only — no pastels for that girl, no more washed out yellows and wretched browns that only make her look sallow and ill.  She's no English rose and shouldn't be dressed like one.  No, I want her in blazing scarlet, brilliant turquoise, emerald green, magenta — loud, startling hues that will flatter her exotic coloring and make every man at the ball unable to take his eyes off her."  He'd given a dangerous little smile.  "Especially Charles . . ." Nerissa had returned his grin.  "Especially Charles." "Just take care, my dear, that he does not learn of the purchases you'll make for the girl at Madame Perrot's.  Let him think the shopping trip is for you, and that Amy is along as . . . as training to be a lady's maid.  Ah, yes.  That will throw him off the scent quite nicely, I think — as well as make him seriously begin to question, if he has not already, whether he wants her to be a lady's maid or his lady."  He had grinned then, as delighted with his machinations as he must've been when he'd brought Gareth and Juliet together.  "It is imperative that he is, shall we say, pleasantly surprised when he sees his little friend at Friday night's ball . . ." Even”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“My dear Charles," he said, expansively.  "I wonder if I might ask a favor of you?" "What would you like?" "Nerissa and Amy wish to go to London, and I simply don't have time to accompany them.  You wouldn't mind going instead, just to ensure that they come to no harm, would you?" "What do they need to go to London for?" Lucien gave a dramatically heavy sigh.  "Oh, female pursuits, of course.  Shopping, gossip, maybe a visit to that infernal French dressmaker of Nerissa's.  You know how your sister just has to have the latest fashions from the Continent."  He raised his brows as Charles eyed him narrowly.  "But of course, if you don't feel . . . up to it, I suppose I could always send Andrew instead." "What do you mean, if I don't feel up to it?" "Oh, nothing.  I was just thinking about our little conversation last night.  The one where you made it quite obvious that you are no longer, shall we say, capable of the things you once were.  But never mind.  I'm sure that Andrew will be delighted to lend his protection to the girls, instead.  He has become quite a handsome young lad, don't you think?"  His black eyes gleamed.  "I do wonder what your little friend will think of him . . ."  He whistled for the dogs and raised his walking stick to Charles in mock salute.  "Good day, Charles.  I will see you at teatime, I hope." And then he moved off, leaving Charles staring after him in rising fury, his hands balled into fists and a little muscle ticking in his jaw. What the devil was that all about?! Well, one thing was for sure.  Andrew was not going to be the one escorting the girls into London! ”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Lucien is throwing a ball next Friday in honor of Charles's homecoming, and he wants you to be there." "Wants?" Juliet drawled, "Demands is more like it." "It's his way of thanking you for all you've done for Charles," Nerissa added.  "He wants to give you a magical, Cinderella night-at-the-ball as his way of expressing his gratitude for saving Charles's life." "But — but I can't attend, I — I don't even know how to dance!" "Then you will learn," said Nerissa, blithely. "And . . . I don't know the correct things to say to people, or how to address them properly . . . or — or . . . anything!" "We will teach you." "And I can't afford fancy new clothes, let alone a ball gown!" "Ah, but I can, and I would be very offended if you do not accept them as a small token of my appreciation for saving my brother's life," intoned a smoothly urbane, aristocratic voice.  Gasping, Amy whirled to see the duke of Blackheath standing in the doorway, an amused little smile playing about his otherwise severe face. Amy sank in a curtsey.  "Your Grace!" "My dear girl.  Are you giving my sister trouble?" "No, but I really can't go to a ball, I'll look the fool and I've got no business being there anyhow and —" "Do you want to go to the ball?" "Well of course, it'll be magical, wondrous, but I'll feel like a chicken amongst a flock of peacocks!" The duke folded his arms and leaned negligently against the door jamb, his black eyes holding her captive.  "Do you remember the conversation we had last night . . . about helping Charles?" That soft, suave tone was enough to make Amy's heart still.  "Well yes, but I don't see how this has anything to do with him . . ." "Of course you don't.  And so I will tell you.   Nerissa wants a new gown for the ball.  As a lady's maid, you will want some new clothes.  And I —" he gave a silky smile — "I will want Charles to ride alongside your coach to provide safe escort to and from London."  He smiled, but the gesture was just a little bit sinister.  "It would benefit him greatly to feel . . . useful, don't you think?" And Amy, standing there feeling nervous and dry-mouthed and very, very intimidated indeed, suddenly understood.  By sending the girls off to London and asking Charles to go along as protection, Lucien was setting things up so that Charles would have opportunity to regain some of his feelings of self-worth. She only hoped he wasn't lining up a highwayman to rob them, as well! She returned the duke's smile, suddenly feeling like a co-conspirator instead of a scared ninny.  "Yes, your Grace.  I quite understand." "Good.  I knew that you would.”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Well, he was a bit intimidating." "A bit?"  Juliet laughed.  "We're talking about a man who conceals a rapier in his walking stick, who appears to be as omniscient as God, who faithfully practices his dueling skills every week, and who loves nothing more than to move and manipulate those around him as he might the pieces in a game of chess.  Add to that the fact he is one of the most powerful — and dangerous — men in England, and I fear that intimidating doesn't even begin to describe him!  But he loves and is very protective of his family, I'll give him that.  If you could have seen him when he found out that Gareth had taken up pugilism for a living . . ." Humming to herald her imminent arrival, Nerissa reappeared, all smiles. "Well, well, I see that you two Yankee Doodles have found something to talk about!" "Yes, your infamous brother," Juliet said wryly. "Lucien?  He wasn't unkind to you, was he, Amy?" Amy nearly laughed.  "I don't understand why everyone thinks he's such a monster!" The other two exchanged knowing glances.  "You will," they chorused.”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“I see you've brought a friend back from America with you," he said, after some time. "Yes.  Amy.  She's been my polestar, and my salvation." "She's striking.  Quite exotic, if I do say so myself." "Yes, she is." Another pause.  And then, Gareth asked impulsively, "Do you love her?" Charles dragged his head up and regarded his brother with what was almost a smile.  "Yes."  He looked beyond Gareth's shoulder, out the window and over the downs, his gaze fixed on some distant point that only he could see.  "And this time, it is for real, I think." "You ought to marry her." "I can't." "Why not?" "I am not ready to be anyone's husband."  As Gareth started to protest, Charles murmured, "She deserves more than a washed out shell of a man whose courage and confidence are in tatters, who can't offer her much of anything, who is less than perfect." "What a load of bollocks." "I beg your pardon?" "I said, what a load of bollocks.  Really, Charles, you haven't changed a damn bit, have you?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "Look at you, striving to be perfect, just as you ever were.  Won't do anything unless you can do it to your own ridiculous standards of excellence.  Well, let me tell you something.  Being a husband means learning as you go along; you don't go into it already knowing everything there is to know, and can't expect to.  You make mistakes, and you learn by them.”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Charles ventured into the room — and saw then that Gareth was not alone.  Cradled in his left arm and smiling adoringly up at him was the little girl he'd glimpsed last night, the little girl that he, Charles, had sired — and who would grow up calling Gareth "Papa" instead of him. Dear God.  Dear God, above.  His gaze flashed to the door. Gareth noted the direction of his suddenly unsure gaze. "Want to hold her?" Charles swallowed, hard.  "I . . . I am not sure." "Charlotte," murmured Gareth, and Charles saw his own uncertainty reflected in his brother's eyes.  "Charlotte, this is … this is, uh … your uncle, Charles." The child turned her guileless blue gaze on Charles.  The smile that dimpled her cheeks abruptly faded. "Here."  Gareth stood up and walked around the table, the little girl securely in his arms.  "Say hello." After all, if things had gone differently, she'd have been yours. Charles tensed as his brother placed the toddler in his lap.  He looked down into eyes as blue, at hair as blond, as his own, and was assailed by a hundred different emotions, none of which he could name, none of which he could, in his current state of mind, of heart, understand.  Panic assailed him.  This was too much.  Too fast.  Too unexpected, and too damned awkward.  He looked helplessly up at Gareth, and in that moment Charlotte, unsure, and now fearful, screwed up her face and began to cry.  Struggling in Charles's arms, she reached for Gareth in a desperate plea to be rescued by the only man she would ever know as her father. Gareth all but grabbed the child from him, making a lame and embarrassed comment about "having to get used to them first," while Charles retreated, stiff-backed, rejected, and confused. "Uncle," he murmured, softly. "Yes, and that is how it must remain," Gareth said, with a level look that brooked no dispute.  "I am her father, Charles.  Not you." "Yes … yes, you are." His heartbeat was returning to normal, but it was too painful to look at the toddler, this solid and unmistakable evidence of a "mistake" that he had once made, a mistake that his own brother had taken it upon himself to fix.  In time, maybe he would come to regard little Charlotte with affection.  With love.  He certainly hoped so.  But right now … right now, his heart was too raw, his guilt too great.  It had been like holding a stranger's child, not his own flesh and blood.  She might look like him, but the baby was Gareth's, not his.  She would always be Gareth's. What”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“You are the most exotically beautiful woman I have ever met," he whispered against her forehead.  "Don't ever leave me, Amy.  I beg of you, never leave me." "I couldn't Charles, not even if I wanted to." And”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Amy — what are you trying to do to me?" he asked, in a hoarse, strained voice. "I'm trying to make you more comfortable, Charles.  You must be in pain, all bundled up like that . . . I mean, we wouldn't want to cut off the blood supply or anything . . .  You don't mind, do you?" "Mind?"  He gave a little half-laugh.  "No, no, I certainly don't mi —" he sucked in his breath as she undid the last button and his hard, hot flesh sprang free against her hand — "mind at all . . ." "Do you still want me to touch you, Charles?  Does this part of you enjoy it as much as the rest of you?" "Amy . . . yes . . . that part of me enjoys it more than all the rest of me combined, which is why — oh — which is why . . . dear God! — which is why you really cannot p-play with it the way you're doing . . ." "I'm not trying to play with it, Charles, I'm just rubbing it to restore the circulation since it was pushing so hard against your breeches that it now looks a little blue." He made a strangled sound.  "Rubbing it to . . . to restore the circulation . . . will, I think, put a premature end to this act — oh-h-h-h — Amy — Amy, I think I must ask you not to do that." "Do what?" "What you're doing . . ." "You don't want me to rub it, then?" "It's not that I don't want you to, it's that I'm about to crack a tooth with the force with which I'm clamping my jaws shut.  Please . . . I am not strong enough to hold out against such . . . such sweet torment, I swear, I am not . . .”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“You weren't just teasing me, were you?" "About what?" "About your having wanted to do this for nearly two years?" She paused, her fingertips still against his lips, and gazed into his eyes.  "No, I wasn't just teasing you.  I once told you that I've always loved you, Charles.  But I would never, ever have acted on that.  Not with you betrothed to Juliet." "And how do you feel about me now that I am a free man?" "I still love you.  Of course." "Would you marry me if I asked you?" "I . . . I don't know, Charles.  You were born to something I will never know, can never be.  I'm afraid that I could never fit into your world.  That you would, eventually, come to resent me." "Juliet was not of my world either.  Do you think I would have resented her?" "Yes, but for different reasons." "Well then, do you think that Gareth will come to resent her?" "I don't know," she said honestly.  And then, in a little voice:  "Are you asking me to marry you?" "I . . . I am asking myself if I am ready to ask you to marry me.  Does that make sense, Amy?  With all my heart, I want you as my wife, as my lifelong companion, as my best friend forevermore — but I am so afraid, after all that has happened to me, that I will let you down.  That I am not worthy of you.  You think you don't deserve me, because of the differences in our backgrounds.  Well, I don't think I deserve you, because I'm but a mere shell of the man I once was, and you are entitled to far more than that." "Charles —" "No, please.  Hear me out.  When I feel confident in my abilities again, when I am once again the man I was before that fateful day in April, then . . . then, Amy, I will feel worthy of you.  Then I will ask you to be my wife, and by God, you had better accept." She shook her head and gazed at him with a mixture of love, frustration, and affection.  "Oh, Charles." "What?" "You're doing it again.  Being the perfectionist, all or nothing." "I know."  He grinned.  "But you're doing it again, too." "Doing what?" "Belittling yourself." He”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“She touched him.  First the soft, wavy hair that swept back from his brow, then his temple, then his cheek, slightly rough beneath her palm, a man's cheek.  His skin was warm, the faint light making his hair seem darker than it really was.  He was splendid.  Unbearably handsome.  Beautiful in a very masculine sort of way.  Oh, Lord Gareth with his good looks and easy charm, he was handsome, too.  Lord Andrew with his defiant eyes and warm russet coloring — he would turn any woman's head.  And Lucien, the duke — enigmatic, fascinating, everything about him emanating danger, power, omniscience — there was no word to describe him.  But Charles . . . none of them, as far as Amy was concerned, held a candle to The Beloved One.”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“She covered his heartbeat with her hand and gazed down, her eyes misty with a sudden wistfulness.  "Oh Charles, my love — my Beloved One.  Will we ever be together?" "We are together now, dear Amy." Her gaze flew to his face, for she hadn't realized that he'd woken and was now watching her from beneath half-lowered lashes.  "I thought you were sleeping!" "An impossible pursuit, I think, given the circumstances," he murmured, with a little smile.  He had his far leg drawn up, the near one outstretched in front of him, and now he took her hand and rested it on the hard thigh of the latter, covering it with his own.  Amy caught her breath, but his expression was kind, even a little teasing.  He looked down at himself, and at her hand, imprisoned beneath his and resting so near to his arousal, and raised one brow ever so slightly, as though he wasn't sure whether to be amused or concerned about his very noticeable reaction to her.  "Hmmm.  I recall that we have acted out this scene before," he mused. "I'm sorry," she breathed, trying to pull away. "Are you?  I'm not."  He kept her hand where it was, resting solidly atop his thigh, and stroked the back of her knuckles with his thumb.  "I daresay I was rather enjoying that." "You were talking in your sleep.  Dreaming, I think, about that night you asked me to wipe the soap from your skin." "Ah, yes.  I remember that night well, Amy."  His head still resting against the wall behind him, he turned it ever so slightly and looked at her, his down-tilted, sleepy eyes romantic in the scattered moonlight, in any light.  "Do you?" She smiled, her face suddenly warm.  "Of course." "And do you remember all those nights we used to sit up and talk together, long after everyone went to bed?" "I do." "And the way you coerced me into eating that broth when I wouldn't dine in front of others for fear of making a fool of myself?" "How could I forget?" He smiled and gazed once more at her hand, still caught beneath his, resting oh-so-close to that ever-growing bulge beneath his white leather breeches. "Amy," he said softly. "Charles?" "That talk we had earlier . . . I have been thinking.  Thinking about what you said, as compared to my own standards of perfection, my own belief that if something isn't done correctly, it isn't worth doing at all." "Yes?" "Well, I beg your forgiveness for what I am about to ask, that is, for what I am about to suggest . . . and this, out here in a rather damp winter stable, certainly not the most comfortable of settings, certainly not perfect by anyone's stretch of the imagination, least of all mine —" "Charles, what are you trying to say?" she chided with a little laugh, though everything inside her tensed with expectation, with hope, with desperate, fervent longing — "What I am trying to say, Amy, it that I would like to make love to you.”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One

“Amy."  He looked at her with his heart in his eyes.  "You say the wisest and most understanding things . . . What did I ever do to end up with someone like you?" She grinned, playfully.  "You lost your balance and hit your head on a stone wall, remember?  You made a mistake, Charles, which has worked out better than anything you could have planned.  I just wish you could see it that way for yourself.  Now — how about coming inside, eh?" From somewhere above their heads, came the sound of rain beginning to fall on the roof.  It was a light, gentle sound, full of comfort and healing. "Yes . . . I suppose I should," Charles murmured, but made no move to get up. Amy didn't pursue the issue. ”
― Danelle Harmon, The Beloved One