He glanced at her. “You were the moon of my existence; your moods dictated the tides of my heart.”The tides of her own heart surged at his words, even though his words were nothing but lies.

The Castle. He’d seen this expression far too many times during their marriage. The Castle was Bryony drawing up the gates and retreating deep into the inner keep. And he’d always hated it. Marriage meant that you shared your goddamn castle. You didn’t leave your poor knight of a husband circling the walls trying to find a way in.

It was a few minutes before Helena could stop panting. She dared not read any further, or she’d crash through the connecting door and ravish Hastings—and she was far from sure how she felt about him.-- As she was reading the manuscript of The Bride of Larkspear

This time he could no longer hold back his tears. And with them came words that he’d never been able to say to her his entire life. “I love you, Helena. I have always loved you. Wake up and let me prove it to you.

He felt like a pilgrim standing on the shores of Lake Sahara, having walked barefoot over hundreds of miles, yet all the hardships forgotten, filled with only wonder and reverence at the marvel of it all.

He climbed into bed himself and kissed his way up her legs. Instincts she didn’t even know she possessed made her clench her thighs together. Without any hesitation, he pushed them apart, exposing her to his gaze.“The doors of the temple, darling, never close to the devout acolyte.

His voice, however, was utterly velvety—if an upholstered wrecking ballcould be called velvety. “I won’t need to try, my dear. My touch will burn away his.”She couldn’t breathe.“You were always quiet in his bed,” he went on, “but you won’t be in mine. You will scream with pleasure—and you will do it again and again.

Millie was never possessive, never effusive, and never demonstrative. Her even-tempered approach to her marriage should have been enough to convince everyone that she admired, but did not love, her husband. Yet for years now, his sisters had suspected something else.Perhaps unrequited love was like a specter in the house, a presence that brushed at the edge of senses, a heat in the dark, a shadow under the sun.

And why, exactly, was she in no danger from him? Why didn’t he want her with the fervor of a thousand over-heating engines? She ought to be constantly ogled and groped, having to beat him off with her parasol, her fan, and maybe one of her walking boots.