There was a moment of tenderness between them, and for a moment he experienced the most rare, ridiculous emotion- hope.

This wasn't her first kiss. He could tell that much, though he doubted any of the young men who'd kissed her had known what the hell they were doing. He felt a vague, stupid sort of rage toward them. It made him all the more resolved to make this kiss sublime. Sufficiently long and slow and sweet and deep to obliterate those embraces from her memory.From this day forward-when she thought of kisses, she would think only of him.

Perhaps... Perhaps he could make her happy. Not with the Granville money or his social cachet, but just by being the man he was, at his core. Sometimes, when he looked deep into those blue eyes, it felt like anything was possible.

He laced his hands behind his neck and propped his boots on the opposite arm of the sofa. If an artist were to capture this image, it would have been labeled,Smugness: A Portrait. She wanted to shake him.

You’re my home, Susanna. My home, my heart, my dearest love. Wherever you are, that’s where I belong. Always.” - Victor Bramwell, Earl of Rycliff

Cleverness is like rouge - liberal application makes a woman look common and desperate. Wit is knowing how to apply it.

He kissed her. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn't have done anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him, and he wanted it back.

If I choose to make a darling of you, there is nothing you can do about it.”“Of course there’s something I can do about it. I can have you sent to an institution for the feebleminded and insane.”She shrugged. “If you say so, cherub.

You’re here,”he repeated, taking her hand and drawing it against his chest, right above his pounding heartbeat. “In my heart. Somehow you crashed your way into it when I wasn’t looking. The same way you barged into my library, I suppose. But you’re here now, inside. Emma, you’re the very life of me.