Quotes from Julia Quinn

And it had been a long, long while since her life had felt nice.

Hyacinth looked at her mother with a surprised expression. "Biscuits. Are. Good." She cocked her head to the side. "Noun. Verb. Adjective.

She enjoyed all of her names, and she was proud of every last one, but the one she liked best was Lottie. Lottie. It was the simplest of the bunch, but that wasn't why she liked it. Her tastes rarely ran to the simple, after all. She liked her wigs tall and her dresses grand and she was quite certain no one in her household appreciated the complexities of music or art as keenly as she did.

termagant tendencies?

morningtide.

His passions were never so out of control that he couldn"t manage a quick and decisive departure.

It isn't gossip, it's the honest dissemination of information.

I have found that happy people are dull. You two, on the other hand, looked ready to spit nails. Naturally I came right over." She looked from Hugh to Sarah and then said plainly, "Entertain me.

You could think about a woman every day for years, imagine what she might feel like in your arms, but it never, ever matched the real thing.

Hyacinth generally bore her mother's matchmaking with good humor since, as she had told Penelope, it wasn't as if she didn't want to get married eventually. Might as well let her mother do all the work and then she could choose a husband when the right one presented himself.

What were you going to say?" "It's nothing." He took both of her hands and tugged her toward him. "It's not nothing," he murmured. "When it's you, and when it's me, it's never nothing.

You're a hard woman, Daphne Bridgerton." "It's Daphne Basset, and I've had good teachers.

And then there was Kate Sheffield. The bane of his existence. And the object of his desires.

He had fallen in love with his wife.

Francesca," he said, and he had no idea why he was saying it, just that her name was the most important thing in the world right then. Her name, and her body, and the beauty of her soul.

She enjoyed writing notes, especially to people she hadn't seen in years (she'd always liked to imagine their surprise when they opened her envelope) (...)

No one should have to walk down a church aisle with a bouquet of flowers unless she was the bride, already had been the bride, or was too young to be the bride. Otherwise, it was just cruel.

The one before her was some sort of study, with a wall of books, all leather-bound and smelling like knowledge.

do not tell you often enough, dear Mother, how very grateful I am that I am yours. It is a rare parent who would offer a child such latitude and understanding. It is an even rarer one who calls a daughter friend. I do love you, dear Mama.

He had fallen in love with his wife, and now the thought of dying, of leaving her, of knowing that their moments together would form a short poem and not a long and lusty novel—it was more than he could bear.

Thank you, Michael, for letting my son love her first. —from Janet Stirling, dowager Countess of Kilmartin, to Michael Stirling, Earl of Kilmartin, June 1824.

Anthony stared at her for a long moment, his eyes locking with hers until he felt they must be one person. Then, with a shaking hand, he cupped the back of her head and leaned down to kiss her. His lips worshiped hers, offering her every ounce of love and devotion and reverence and prayer that he felt in his soul.

Instead he said something like: "Oh, well." Or perhaps, "Quite so." Either way, it served the purpose of making a noise without saying anything at all.

So Hermione was the siren, and Lucy was the trusty friend, and all was right with the world. Or if not right, then at least quite predictable.