Quotes from Julie Anne Long

Ah, and that . . . that had been a mistake. If not for that, she might have been able to anticipate what happened next. Reveries made one soft. She never should have forgotten that the world was on the side of the planners, not the dreamers.

Czechoslovakian

She turned to him as though he were the sun and she a sunflower.

And she reached out with trembling fingers and touched one of the roses. It was, surprisingly... unconscionably soft. A message was sent along with it, Miss Genevieve. Harriet handed over the sheet of folded foolscap, closed with a blob of wax. No seal was pressed into it. Genevieve slid her finger beneath it to break the seal. 'My esteemed Venus- These reminded me of you. In my dreams, your lips are just this soft. - Your devoted servant, Mars

I feel that if one is properly living life . . . an excess of rumination and metaphor can put you at a remove from all that's beautiful about it. If one takes advantage of all the senses—breathing, feeling, seeing . . . touching . . . tasting . . ." he tried not to look at Lillias ". . . then merely being alive is poetry.

Love.' What a wilderness of pain, of yearning, of loss could be contained in that word. Patient and kind nonsense, is how Lady Fennimore had put it. Love wasn't for cowards; he wondered if it was for the wise. He supposed love itself made you stupid at first, or no one, no one would ever fall in love at all.

Sometimes being heroic means showing uncommon grace in the face of untenable circumstances.

In his presence, unanticipated corners of her character seemed to be unfolding like a secret letter written long ago.

As much as I would enjoy inspecting your... rosette more closely, Miss Makepeace--- and the smile spread, becoming that intimating, preternaturally confident smile of the night before, ---I'll forego that pleasure for the moment.

Ah, now, he soothed in his low, easy voice, the way he would a spooked horse or a woman whose bodice he was about to slip lower. It worked a treat. Her pupils dilated in sudden interest, for it was 'that' kind of voice and she was a woman after all. She'd decided he was attractive and pleasant and she visibly softened. When he bothered to use that tone on women they generally did.

the kind of pounding in his skull that made him immediately wish he could twist it off his neck and hurl it out the window.

One minute with her is better than a lifetime with anyone else.

When she drew near, the rich musk of him wrapped her again: shaving soap, ale, and that delicious, darker something--- him . It might as well have been opium for what it did to the run of her thoughts.

she would be incapable of not broaching. It took

Why does anyone love anyone?" she said. He shifted on the bench and blew out a breath. "I don't know. I know it's the only thing that makes life bearable. And it's the only thing that makes life unbearable.

They really 'did,' you know, he said softly, suddenly. Did? She was puzzled. The roses. Remind me of you. They're precisely the sort of flowers you ought to have. Those spectacular, throbbing, lush blooms that now stood guard over her bed. With petals unconscionably soft.

confidence. He contained worlds.

But she bravely kept her eyes open; she was both lost and found in the soft, burning depths of his eyes.

She did draw and paint and did both diligently, but possessed modest talent. She didn't mind. Her gift and passion lay in the observation and recognition of talent and beauty, whether it was found in the work of an Italian master or the profile of a viscount-to-be.

What brings you to Eversea House, Moncrieffe? Very polite the question, but strain pitched it nearly an octave higher than Ian's usual voice. His nostrils had flared; white lines made dents on either side of them. Opportunity, Moncrieffe said simply. And smiled the sort of smile that wolves do, when they have their prey neatly cornered.

She'd removed her gloves to sketch, and what a soft little paw she had; he was tempted to linger over it for a moment, as he would any small pleasure, and allow his imagination to complete for him how soft the rest of her would be.

Everything has a rhythm, Moncrieffe couldn't help but think, watching. The sea, our breathing, our anguish, our love. We couldn't endure the force of any of it all at once.

Time took on a peculiarly viscous quality.

She didn't want to need anything, particularly something—or someone—she quite simply couldn't have. Too much had been taken from her already, and she'd had enough of accommodating pain, of straightening her spine, of soldiering on