To Love a Dark Lord Quotes

“And now, dear Emma, I'll show you just what you have to be wary of," he said, and his head moved down, blotting out the light.
This was no slow, sensuous caress of mouth and lip. This was no chaste salute, nor was it the wet awkwardness of an untried boy or a randy old man. He opened his mouth over hers and kissed her, using his tongue, his teeth, and all the clever weapons he had in his arsenal.
She told herself she was being kissed by a practiced rake. She told herself it meant nothing, it was a trick, an act, a small skill that anyone could acquire. She told herself that as her body trembled and melted beneath him, as her mouth opened to his skillful insistence. She told herself it meant absolutely nothing as his tongue pushed into her mouth, and the moan that came from deep inside her had to be one of displeasure, didn't it?
It wasn't one kiss, it was twenty, it was a long series of unending kisses, leading one into another, so that she barely had time to begin to regain her sanity when he stripped it away once more. He kissed her eyelids, the side of her mouth, the beating pulse at the base of her neck. He kissed her nose and her chin, he bit her earlobe, and then he covered her mouth once more, kissing her with a devastating thoroughness that had her damp and trembling in his arms.
His hands were on her petticoats, slowly drawing them up her long legs, and her hips cradled him. He was hard against her, she belatedly recognized that fact, and the knowledge panicked her.e wanted her, his body wanted to claim hers, and there was no way she could stop him. No way, God help her, that she wanted to stop him.
He broke the kiss, rising up over her as she lay on the bed, staring down at her with a hooded expression in his eyes. His mouth was wet from hers, and his breathing was slightly labored. It would have been the only sign of his arousal, had it not been for the heat pressing against her hips.
"Do you want me, Emma?" he murmured, his voice low and insistent. "You don't have to say a word. Just put your mouth against mine."
Oh, God, she did want him, as terrifying as that notion was. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin against hers, and she felt a dark burning deep inside her that she knew only he could assuage. She wanted his mouth, she wanted his heart, she wanted his soul.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Her skin was warm beneath his hand, and he could feel the ripe curves beneath the lawn nightdress. The material might be opaque, but it did little to disguise the feel of her.
He was not a man who resisted temptation. Nor was he a man who prided himself on honor, decency, or fair play. He thought of her eyes as she had listened to the opera, and he tilted his head and pressed his mouth against the base of her throat, beneath the ring of bruises.
The pulse leapt beneath his mouth, hammering wildly. In panic or in longing? He didn't care. He turned her in his arms, so that her front pressed up against his. She was a tall woman, taller than those he was used to, and he found she fit him quite nicely, her hips cradling his, her breasts against his chest, her neck within easy reach of his mouth as he traced his way along the abraded flesh. She shivered again, and he liked it. Releasing her face, he slid his hand down between their bodies, into the ripped-open front of her nightdress, and encountered soft female flesh, gently rounded, tantalizing, enchanting, mesmerizing. She was trembling in his arms, with fear, with longing, and the shiver that ran over her warm, scented flesh was irresistible.
He wanted her. Wanted to lose himself in her sweet body, wanted to kiss her mouth, her breasts. He wanted oblivion, hot and dark, but oblivion with her, and the hell with his plans, with waiting. He was going to swing her up in his arms and carry her over to the sofa, he was going to drag her upstairs to his bed and strip off her clothes, slowly, and then make love to her, making it last, over and over again, until they were both wet and shaking, and he wouldn't let her escape for days.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“What was it about her that caught at his soul, when he no longer had one?”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“I should leave your property." She tried to move, but he forestalled her, putting his hands on her shoulders. She felt thinner, more fragile beneath the thin green material, and there were shadows under here eyes.
"I thought you were my property as well."
"You don't want me."
"I may be cruel, heartless, and penniless, dear Emma," he said lightly. "I never said I was a fool.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“You're probably right," he whispered.
"About what?"
He looked up at him and managed a brief, farewell smile. "I rather think Emma did run off with my heart," he confessed.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He was still fully clothed, and she was naked, vulnerable. His eyes traveled slowly down the length of her, not missing a detail. He would see the abundance of her curves, the heart-shaped birthmark beneath her left breast, the scar on her hip from the time she'd fallen out of a tree. He would see what no man had ever seen before, her breasts, her belly, her...
The silence built and grew. She'd shut her eyes tightly, momentarily embarrassed out of the sensual lassitude he'd instilled in her. But finally she could stand it no longer, and she opened her eyes once more, to glance up at him, trying to gauge his reaction.
For the moment there was no telling. His eyes were hooded as he stared down at her, and she was suddenly terrified that she was being judged by a connoisseur and found wanting. No wonder he hadn't taken her to his bed. It had been no great battle to preserve her innocence. Indeed, the battle had been to lose it.
And then he leaned forward, and the mask was gone from his eyes, his face, if just for the moment, and the longing was back. "A true redhead," he murmured. "My love, you're magnificent.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He was sitting on her thighs, and his silk breeches were cool against her bare skin. His hands slid up her body, her buttocks, up the line of her back, and she arched in pleasure, like a cat, unable to help herself.
"You like that, do you?" he murmured. "I thought you might. You're a sensual creature, dear heart, no matter how you try to fight it. You were made for this.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Yes," she said simply, waiting for him. And she held out her hands to him. They trembled slightly; she couldn't help it. He could turn his back on her, walk away, and there'd be nothing she could do. All she could do was offer herself, and wait.
The mask closed down over his face once more, and she felt despair and sorrow fill her. The pain, the need, were gone. Instead he looked at her from unreadable eyes, and his thin mouth curved in a mocking smile. "So be it," he murmured. "Far be it from me to deny a lady pleasure."
She dropped her hands , as if they burned but it was too late. He caught them, his long, strong white fingers wrapping around them. "It will be pleasure, you know," he continued, his voice low and mesmerizing.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“She longed for him. He knew it, much as it astounded him. Not that he was unused to being sought after by women. He'd been blessed with a certain combination of form and face which seemed to draw both women and men to him, even as they fought against the pull.
But Emma wasn't like other women. She was too determined, too sensible to fall for his clever ploys. But she looked at him with her heart in her eyes, and he knew that he'd found the one thing he couldn't resist. A taste of innocence, after a lifetime of jaded pleasures.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“What was it about her that caught at his soul, when he no longer had one? What was it that fascinated him, weakened him, made him start believing in things that didn't exist? She was just a girl. A young woman, who'd lived a sheltered life with a religious fanatic and a lecher. A woman of courage, determination, and astonishing sangfroid, who could skewer a man without fainting, who could stand up to Killoran himself- who had terrified far braver creatures.
She was just a girl.
And he wanted her.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“You're sinfully handsome, women everywhere fall at your feet, you have a beautiful house, friends, companions, anything you might desire. Surely you could be happy...?"
For a moment there was real humor in his dark green eyes. "Sinfully handsome, Emma? Women fall at my feet? Then why, pray tell, aren't you there?"
"I'm not interested in being one of your conquests."
"I don't conquer women, Emma," he said in a low, sinuous voice. "I seduce them. Charm them into doing exactly what I want them to do. Does that surprise you, that I would hold that much charm?"
She looked up at him. Indeed, she had no choice- he was still holding her close against his body, and she could either look at him or close her eyes. She wasn't sure which was more dangerous.
"No," she said. "It doesn't surprise me."
"Then why haven't you succumbed yet?"
"I'm stronger than most women."
"So you are," he agreed. "But you're no match for me."
She hadn't realized he'd been moving her slowly, carefully, backward, until her body came up against the side of the high bed. She halted in sudden panic, but it was too late. He carried her down onto it, his body covering hers, his weight warm and solid.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He pulled her up against him, his hands not the slightest bit gentle, and his body was hard and strong against her softness. "Let me give you a little demonstration of what I'm sparing you," he whispered against her mouth.
She'd been kissed before.
She'd fought Frederick Varienne's assaults, and her uncle's too fond salutes, and she had always thought she didn't like kissing.
She was wrong.
He put one hand behind her neck, his long fingers holding her head still, while his other arm encircled her waist. He lowered his mouth to hers, leisurely, brushing his lips against hers, back and forth, slowly, oh, so slowly. She wanted to push him away, she wanted to draw him closer, so instead she simply let her hands rest at her sides. As long as she didn't respond, didn't participate, there could surely be no harm in it. Besides, she didn't have much choice in the matter. If Killoran decided to kiss her, for whatever dark reasons, then kiss her he would.
His thumb was stroking the side of her face. He was pressing his hand against the small of her back, so that her hips were thrust up against his, and she let her eyelids flutter closed as he just touched the surface of her lips, his brandy-flavored breath warming her.
The sensation was disturbing and enchanting, and she wanted more of it.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“So you're entirely protected from my random lusts."
"Random lusts?"
"I usually have more control in these matters. You do seem to have a habit of affecting me strangely." His cool tone was entirely deceptive. His body was hot and hard against hers, and she could feel the tension running through him. Odd, to realize that it was somehow she who had made him tense.
"I'm sorry," she said, staring up at him.
"Oh, don't be." He moved his head toward hers, and she had the strange notion that he was going to kiss her. "At least it breaks my boredom.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“I won't tell you."
Killoran sighed wearily. "Of course you will, my angel," he said in a deceptively pleasant voice. "I have any number of ways of discovering that which I desire to know. I can do it nicely." He'd come closer, too close, and his hand caught hers, his long fingers stroking her palm, slowly, insistently, cleverly. "I can touch you in ways that you can't even imagine." His voice was low, heated, and she felt a disturbing, answering shimmer deep inside. "I can take your darkest secrets, I can take anything I want from you, and you'd be willing, eager, to give me. Everything."
For a moment she was unable to speak. Her pulse leapt in her throat, and she knew he could feel it, pounding beneath her pale skin. "You underestimate me," she said in a hushed voice, struggling against the hypnotic effect he had on her.
His smile was small, cynical, and heartbreaking. "No, my love. I know you very well indeed. Better, perhaps, than you know yourself. You want me to let go of your hand, don't you?"
"Yes," she said hoarsely.
"You want me to go away and leave you alone?"
"Yes."
His other arm slid around her waist as he bent over her. "You want me to kiss you, don't you?"
"Yes," she whispered, helpless, angry. Angry at herself, for making no effort to escape. Angry at him, for making her want him.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Killoran strolled into the darkness, paused before her locked door, and casually considered his alternatives. He could knock. He could leave her alone. The sanest course would be to dismiss her from his mind, leave her alone for the night. But he'd never prided himself on his sanity. It was a vastly overrated commodity.
And then he kicked the door open, splintering the wood with the force of his blow.

He filled the doorway to her bedroom. The broken doorway, Emma amended, staring at him. She kept forgetting how very tall he was. How intimidating. Despite his not being the slightest bit bulky, there was a lean and deadly power to his body, one that disturbed her far more than brute mass.
And then, belatedly, she realized how little she was wearing. She'd torn off the ruined black dress and now stood in only her petticoats. The bowl of water on the dresser in front of her was dark with the blood she'd been washing from her skin. The water had soaked through the fine lawn underclothing, molding it to her flesh, and she felt half naked.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Cowardice, child? You don't strike me as that sort. You have the heart of a lioness. I can see it in your eyes." The old woman nodded. "He'll need a lioness. To save him from his demons. You could do it, child. If you were brave enough and strong enough. Willing to risk it all. Risk heartbreak and death and even your soul for him. With little assurance of reward."
"Why should I want to?"
Lady Seldane laughed, the fat chuckles rolling from her body. "Because you love him, child. Any fool can see that. And it dooms you. Even if you wanted to escape, it's too late. You'll save him. Or destroy yourself in the attempt.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He reached out his hand and moved her heavy mane of hair away from her neck, stroking her, and he shifted his chair closer, so that his leg pressed against hers through the heavy layers of black silk. His fingers slid lower, brushing against the neckline of her dress, drifting against the swell of breasts.
"Stop it," she hissed, trying to keep all expression from her face. "What will people think?"
"Exactly what I want them to think, my pet," he said.
She tried to scoot her chair away from him, but beneath the flow of her skirts, he'd managed to hook one foot around her chair leg, effectively trapping her against him. In the distance the soprano screeched, the accompanist pounded, and Emma felt uncharacteristically close to tears.
"You said you were doing it for Darnley," she shot back. "He isn't even here."
"But he'll be well informed." He slid his hand up her neck and caught her chin. The strength in those long, pale fingers was palpable, but he wasn't hurting her. Shaming her, arousing her, tormenting her. But there was no brute force in his touch.
In a way, that almost made it worse, Emma thought. Cruelty, brutality, pain could be dealt with, shut out, endured. They were straightforward, something you could fight. But the velvet caress, the banked glance, the knowledge that it was all an elaborate game and she was nothing more than a convenient pawn, a toy to be moved back and forth on the chessboard, made the situation unbearable.
She couldn't help it. A stifled murmur of misery escaped her before she could stop it, and Killoran suddenly stilled. His fingers still cupped her chin, but they were no longer stroking her. He simply stared at her, and for once there was no mockery, no wickedness, in his dark green eyes. He stared at her as if seeing for the first time, and if she didn't know better, she would have thought it was his conscience making a belated appearance.
And then the moment passed, so swiftly it might have never existed. He leaned forward and put his mouth against the swell of her breast. His hand caught hers, holding her there, and her eyes fluttered closed as she felt the shocking caress. He used his tongue.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Am I considered a virtuous young lady?"
He surveyed her thoughtfully. The stark black of her dress molded to her lush form, and the neckline, though demure by Lady Barbara's standards, was scandalously low for a proper young lady. Her gorgeous hair hung down her back, and her mouth was soft, damp, abominably kissable.
There were also her eyes. Honey-brown, staring up at him with an unassailable innocence that only a complete fool would miss.
But then, how many people would their time looking in her eyes when there were so many other delectable attributes to gaze upon? "Not likely," he said. "Anyone who spends time in my presence is tainted." He advanced on her slowly, giving her time to run.
She didn't, but she wanted to. He could see the faint startled reflex in her eyes, the momentary flash of panic. But she held firm, tilting her chin up with just a trace of defiance. Poor child. Little did she know that her defiance enchanted him as much as her panic.
He fastened the pearls around her neck, their rich luster luminous against her skin. He resisted the temptation to stroke her bruised flesh, the need to touch his mouth to that abrasion. He resisted the impulse to turn away from her, lock himself in his study, and immerse himself in brandy.
He stepped back, a deceptive half smile on his face. "Lovely," he said.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He pushed away from the door, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He looked like the devil, he thought with a trace of wry amusement. And dear, sweet, murderous Emma was a Botticelli angel, ripe for debauching.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“His cool fingers were under her chin, tilting her face up to his. "You dance very well," he said, but instead of the usual mockery, there was a faintly husky note in his voice, and his eyes were intent on her. "You have the gift of grace."
She stared up at him, caught in his gaze. And then, almost without volition, she turned her face, pressing her cheek against his hand.
His fingers cupped her long, cool fingers and his thumb feathered her lips, lightly. She opened them beneath the faint pressure, and she knew she was trembling, captured in a moment of magic and wonder, with his hand on her mouth, their eyes caught, and she waited, breathless, knowing that the world was about to change.
He bent down, blotting out the light, and she closed her eyes the moment before his mouth touched hers, his lips warm, damp, open against hers, and the shock of it sent her senses reeling, and she was falling into a hot velvet mass of glorious confusion.
She was falling toward the hard parquet floor. His mouth left hers, almost before the brief kiss had begun, and his hand wrapped around her wrist, hauling her to her feet before she could collapse entirely.
"A word to the wise, dear Emma," he said in a voice as cool and unmoved as the frozen ground outside. "When you engage in a dalliance on the dance floor, remember to keep your balance. It's better not to let your partner kiss you while you're still in a curtsy."
"I wasn't expecting to be kissed," she said swiftly, hating him.
"Weren't you? Another lesson, my dear. Always expect to be kissed. You have the mouth for it.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He reached over and with one deft gesture stripped the black ribbon from her hair, freeing it around her shoulders. "Will you dance or will you play?"
She rose abruptly, angry, though she wasn't quite sure why. He was so determined to prove himself a villain- she could hardly have expected him to admit to honorable impulses. Still, she'd half hoped for a gentle word. Silly, of course.
"Neither, my lord," she said, pushing away from the clavichord and starting past him, carefully out of reach.
She should have known better. He barely seemed to move, but her hand was caught in his. "Dancing it is," he murmured.
She had learned long ago that there was no escape from a man like Killoran. The hand holding hers was neither tight nor painful, but it was a prison as he led her through the same, intricate moves that Nathaniel had.
There was no music, no off-tune humming, no sound at all but the rhythmic swish of her black skirts against the floor. The gathering darkness, broken only by the candlelight, threw eerie shadows that danced with them, ghosts of a darker time, hovering, watching them, mimicking their footsteps, embracing them with the chill of night.
Emma sank into a deep curtsy as Killoran bowed, all mocking flourish. She stayed down. Her heart was racing, her pulses pounding, her face flushed. Without music the silent dance had been strangely, frighteningly intimate.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He could have broken the man's neck with little difficulty, and it had taken a portion of his legendary self-control to keep from giving in to the impulse. Particularly when the cold, killing rage that had sustained him for ten long years had suddenly burned white-hot at the sight of his enemy mauling Emma.
Perhaps that was what was troubling him. He'd ruthlessly stripped himself of all weakness, all emotion, anticipating little from this life except a passably entertaining evening and the bloody death of Jasper Darnley. And yet, suddenly, desires were churning inside him, stronger than he'd felt in years. He didn't like it.
Emma didn't like it either, he thought absently. He had felt her animosity, hot, intense, almost sexual, radiating out at him during the ride home. It had been very... arousing. That, and the memory of her face at the opera, eyes shining with delight. He'd wanted to reach for her, put his hands on her, and pull her against him, to touch her and wipe out the touch of Darnley's fat-fingered hands. She'd have fought him, of course, and he had yet to find the struggles of an unwilling woman to be the slightest bit entertaining.
But the interest lay in how long it would take him to make her cease struggling. What kind of sounds would she make when he pulled the black silk down to her waist and freed her breasts from the soft chemise he'd bought her? What kind of sounds would she make when he pushed her down on the bed upstairs and drove into her? Would she be easy to pleasure? Or would she be shy, wary, making him seduce her oh, so carefully?”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“She fairly vibrated with pleasure. He sat at an angle so he could watch her, and he saw the delight in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, her dreamy, dazed expression as the music flowed around her. Beneath the diamonds her creamy chest rose and fell, and her red hair streamed over her shoulders like a shawl. Her mass of unbound hair was a lure and an affront to proper society. Exactly as he wished.
Her lips were parted in wonder, and he felt his own sense of wonder: what those lips would taste like.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“I'm not your sister."
He was still touching her breasts. The dark smile that lit his face was far from reassuring. He leaned closer, so close she could sense the warmth of his breath against her parted lips, and she felt herself weaken. If the wall weren't at her back, she would have been unable to stand. As it was, she held herself very still, not daring to breathe, aware only of his dark green eyes staring into hers, his breath on her mouth, his hands on her breasts.
"Remember that," he whispered, so close, so desperately close.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“You will wear what I choose, do what I choose," he said in a silken voice. "You know that, don't you?"
She wanted to agree. She wanted to do anything to get him to move away from her, release her from his impaling gaze. She felt like a hunted rabbit caught in a snare, facing the inexorable death in her hunter's eyes.
But she couldn't. She couldn't cower and waffle and let him know how very much he terrorized her. "And elf I refuse?" Her voice quavered slightly, but at least she fought.
The dress was very low-cut, exposing a great deal of her chest. Her tangled red hair lay around her shoulders, and he picked up a strand, running it between his long, bejeweled fingers like a merchant testing silk. And then he brushed it slowly across the exposed swell of her breast.
She couldn't control her start of shock at the subtle caress. It shouldn't have affected her, it was only her own lamentably red hair, yet the touch against her soft skin was shocking, arousing, and she made a frightened little noise.
"You won't refuse, Emma," he said softly, repeating the caress. "You're a very clever child, far too wise for your own good. You know when you can win a battle, and you know when the price of putting up a fight is too high. You'll wear what I want you to wear. Won't you?" For a third time the lock of hair danced across her breast, dipping below the décolletage to slip inside the bodice of the dress. Emma wanted to scream.
Instead she bit her lip. "For now," she said, amazed that her voice didn't shake. She kept her expression stonily unmoved, but he was too observant to miss the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the heightened color of her cheeks. Doubtless he would make of it what he wanted.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He has a very strong sense of beauty, he has. You're to dress entirely in black and white and silver."
"Why?"
"Ask him yourself, miss. He'll be here in a minute."
"He certainly won't!" Emma cried, leaping for the black dress and pulling it over her head, slapping away Mrs. Rumson's clumsy attempts to assist her. The gown was barely around her shoulders when the door opened, without so much as a knock. Beneath the yards of filmy material, Emma allowed herself a quiet snarl.
"Arguing with Mrs. Rumson again, my angel?"
Emma yanked the gown down, half hoping it would rip. It didn't, and the clinging black silk gauze settled around her curves perfectly. "I'm not used to dressing in front of an audience," she said sternly.
Killoran had already availed himself of the most comfortable chair and seemed prepared to enjoy himself. "Accustom yourself, Emma," he said. "It is quite the fashion. Great beauties have their cicisbeis to guide their choices of jewelry and maquillage. Think of me as merely a servant to your exquisite loveliness."
She scowled. "I am not a great beauty," she said, advancing on him as Mrs. Rumson struggled behind her, trying to fasten the myriad of tiny black buttons. "I don't wear maquillage, and I have no jewelry."
She halted, her anger carrying her so far and no farther. She was already dangerously close to him, and he simply looked up at her, that cool, assessing expression on his face. He said nothing for a long moment, merely let his eyelids droop as he surveyed the length of her.
"Perhaps you're right," he said finally. "You are no common beauty. You are, however, quite... magnificent." There was an undercurrent of heat in his words that terrified her, but a moment later it had vanished, and he was leaning back, watching her with detached interest.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Make certain you tell them you are not my sister."
"Your sister? Why should anyone believe such an absurdity?" she said hotly, shaken by the very notion.
He touched her then. His elegant, pale hand reached out and touched her chin, tilting her face up to his. He looked at her carefully, his dark green eyes revealing only cursory interest. "I cannot imagine," he said after a moment.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“I don't suppose you care to enlighten me as to who you are?"
"Do you really care?"
He smiled then. "No."
"I thought not. Miss Brown will do."
"On the contrary- 'Miss Brown' will not do at all. I refuse to have someone living under my protection with such a tedious name. 'Emma' will suffice. You seem rather like an Emma, despite your exotic appearance. There's something definitely well ordered about the name Emma. Calm and reasonable, warmhearted and generous."
"You think I'm calm and reasonable?" She was astounded. While that sounded a bit more flattering than she tended to view herself, he'd painted a fairly accurate picture of the real Emma. Well ordered, sensible, kind, and serene, despite the storms that surrounded her. But how could he possibly know that?”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Leave her alone, Killoran. I promised her you meant no ill will."
"And did she believe you?"
"Not for a moment."
Killoran looked back at her. "Wise girl," he murmured. "But for now, she's safe. I promise to keep my marauding hands off her fair young body. For the time being.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He had moved closer to the fire and was turning his laced sleeves back when he saw her.
Her red hair was a blaze across the white ermine lap throw in which she was wrapped. She was sound asleep, lying on the settee, and he could see the pinched white misery of her face, the paleness of her lips, the faint spattering of freckles against her skin. He wondered if he could redden those lips.
Would she pay the logical price for rescue? She was in his house, in his power, and if she were even the slightest bit knowledgeable about the way the world worked, she'd know what was expected of her. She was probably lying naked beneath that soft white fur, expecting him.
A sudden rush of desire washed over him, and he examined it, surprised. It had been a very long time since the thought of a soft, sweet body had aroused his interest, not to mention another, more demanding part of him. But Emma Brown, with her murderous ways, her soft, shy mouth, and her astonishing bravery, had done just that.
He moved to stand over her. He considered unfastening his breeches and taking her there on the sofa. After all, she must be a doxy, despite that innocence. No one could look as she did, find herself in the situations she did untouched, and remain untouched.
He reached out a hand, tugging the fur down, hoping to see exposed skin. Instead he saw that miserable gray serge that he'd wanted to rip off her when he'd unfastened it earlier. She wasn't made for gray serge. She was made for silks and satins and furs. And the pristine whiteness of bed linen and smooth skin.
"What are you doing?"
His damnable guest, Nathaniel, appeared in the doorway, his brown hair ruffled from sleep, a glowering expression on his face.
"Admiring Miss Brown," Killoran said lazily, turning his gaze back to the sleeping woman.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord