Always a Scoundrel Quotes

“So you intend to spend the remainder of your life whoring, drinking, wagering, and being as outrageous as you can manage?"
Bram shook himself. He made it a point to be serious as little as possible, and neither did he want to argue with two newly married men about the meruts of being leg-shackled."Please Phin," he said aloud. "I would never think so small. You know my ultimate goal is to lower the standards of morality enough that everything I do becomes acceptable.”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“I don't want a well-ordered life.... I would die from boredom in a fortnight.”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“Perhaps his next task should be to concoct an eighth deadly sin. Or he could work toward finding even a dozen. The devil knew he'd worn out the original seven.”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“What did he do?" he murmured.
"He said something about if his words didn't put me in my place, he would find something that would. And then he slapped me."
Bram abruptly regretted not making use of the knife he'd carried in his boot to the Hampton soiree. He could understand Cosgrove desiring her and wanting to control her. But to strike her... Bram was accustomed to being angry; he'd spent most of the past ten years in varying states of it. What he felt as he listened to Rosamund, though, to the shake of her words and the despair in her voice, was deeper and hotter than anything he'd ever experienced. Plainly and simply, it was fury. White-hot, blood-boiling fury.
"Hope that he enjoyed hitting you, Rosamund," he said in a low voice, "because he will never touch you again.”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“You are a very interesting man," Rosamund stated. "And you have female friends. Actual friends. I don't think Lord Cosgrove can claim that."
He smiled, sincerely complimented. "Why thank you, my lady. So, as long as I'm here, shall we kiss again, or do you wish to proceed along the garden path a bit further?"
She backed up a step. "That's not very romantic."
It took more control than he expected to remain where he was and not pursue her. "Neither is your prospective husband. Don't expect posies. If you do receive them, they're more than likely deadly nightshade.”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“Obsidian eyes met hers, unreadable and assessing. Men didn't generally pay her much attention except to make an even number in a dance. And now she had a secret nearly-betrothed and a supposed teacher, one who looked like an angel and one a devil, and both with awful reputations. Best to remember that neither of them likely had anything good in mind for her.”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“The book jolted loose from her arm and fell to the ground. Opening her mouth to apologize to the man she'd bumped into, Rose turned around. And stopped.
"A History of the New World," he read, straightening with the book in his hands.
Eyes black as pitch regarded her. She'd never seen eyes like that before. The effect of their direct, level gaze was... unsettling. Beside her, Maggie gave a small gasp. "Thank you for retrieving my book, sir," she said, finding that her voice wanted to quaver and fighting against it. "May I have it back?"
His head tilted a little to one side, a strand of coal black hair falling forward across his forehead. He was all in black, she realized, from his beaver hat to his gloves to the soles of his boots. Only a white shirt collar and simply tied white cravat leavened his stark appearance. No, not stark, she amended as he glanced down at the book again. Predatory. All six lean feet of him.
"Do the Americas interest you?" he asked, his voice a low, cultured drawl that seemed to resonate down her spine.
"Learning things interests me," she replied, and held out her hand.
The corner of his mouth quirked, and he slowly placed the book into her fingers. "Well, then. I could teach you such things, Lady Rosamund," he murmured.”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“As Phin eyed his friend, Alyse handed him a pair of trousers. With a grateful glance at her, he tossed the pistol onto the bed and shrugged into them. Evidently she'd grabbed the sheet as she fled the bed, because her slender figure was securely swathed in gold. A very good thing for all of them, considering the way Bram was eyeing her.
"It's part three o'clock in the morning, Bram," he said finally. "What's happened that couldn't wait another three or four hours?"
"I need to speak with you," his friend replied, still brushing the overzealous servants' fingerprints from his sleeves. "In private. Without any chits about."
Alyse motioned at the two of them. "I am going back to bed. You," and she motioned to Phin, "keep him out of here."
"The morning room, I think," he said, turning Bram toward the door. He agreed with Alyse. Bram sober could be relied on to honor a very few things, among them keeping his hands off a friend's wife. Drunk, he became much less predictable and much more dangerous.
"Good night, sweet Alyse."
"Good night, Bram.”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“If Cosgrove means to play games, then so do I. I will marry him because I must, but I shall not be a lamb- or a cow- led to the slaughter. If he intends to destroy my spirit, he will find it a difficult task. I am not some fly whose wings he can pull off and then step on. I'm... I'm a bee, and I shall sting him back.”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“If a marriage is valued at ten thousand, surely I might have a waltz for three hundred."
Her fingers clenched into very determined-looking fists. "So you know about the debt."
He nodded. "If I'd known the prize, I might have wagered a larger sum against your brother."
"I am not for sale."
Clearly he could argue with that, but from the abrupt horror in her grass green eyes, she'd realized that at the same moment she'd spoken. 'Horror.' He'd been forced into things he didn't relish by the lure of funds- or of having them cut off- but the blunt had been the reward for compliance. What was her reward? Marriage to Cosgrove?”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel

“tantalus was locked, but just as Phin braced himself”
― Suzanne Enoch, Always a Scoundrel