Quotes from Julie Anne Long

Would you be shocked? she asked him. If you ate your lunch? I might be. If my mother was an opera dancer. On the contrary. I'd be delighted. He looked up and smiled at her expression. Come now, Miss Makepeace. Very little shocks me. Except the word 'wife,' she said tartly.

A few deep breaths would take care of that. She studied the horse and took deep breaths.

Just a vicar. And with those words she'd tried to reduce him to something manageable, maneuverable, understandable. She'd given no thought as to what the word truly meant. Or why his control was so necessary. It was in proportion to how much he felt and how much he needed to give day after day.

Sometimes the only choices we have, even the ones made out of love, isolate us.

She suspected she looked upon greatness for the first time in the form of a dusty, weary, rueful vicar, who did things like hold the hand of an old woman as she breathed her last breath and throw his fist into the jaw of a man who slurred her questionable honor and came in the dead of night to sit by the bed of her maid.

they were coming into focus to each other. As though each of them was a sun, burning away each other's obscuring mists.

All the shiny surfaces reflected the other shiny surfaces, as though the house was in love with itself and couldn't stop winking and preening.

I did 'not' plan... last night. And now he was sincere. She could tell by the falter. He was almost bemused. And the way he said last night made the words seem like a euphemism for splendor. They encompassed a world of sensations and memories, those words. It was one of the most terrifying, exhilarating conversations she'd ever had.

Should I apologize for my species for trotting out the same compliment again and again? Isn't it better than having none at all? When you hear the same one again and again, it's difficult not to come to the conclusion that it's the only thing of note about one's person.

the moon. Just a curved sliver of light, like the door of heaven had been left slightly ajar.

For a moment in time she'd expected his narrative to end the way Cinderella's story had, and not the way a Greek myth would.

Still, this particular vision of Genevieve Eversea required reconciling with the quiet girl in the morning dress, the moor pony with the determined gait. As though they were not quite the same thing, or were perhaps variations of the same thing, like verb tenses.

it was understood that the word "Redmond" would be treated in their house rather as though someone had silently broken wind in company. Its occurrence was distasteful but occasionally unavoidable, and while it could be politely ignored, it was certainly not encouraged or enjoyed.

Still, there was something he'd wanted to know for some time now, and he found he couldn't deny himself this particular opportunity. Very gently, almost stealthily, he leaned forward and rested the backs of his fingers against Susannah's cheek. He regretted it instantly. For her skin was every bit as soft as he'd dreamed.

It hurt. And just as there seemed to be no end in the kinds of pleasure he could give or to the ways in which she loved him, and because of this, no end to the way he could hurt her, again and again and again.

He reached out and drew his finger lightly from her ankle right up the curve of her calf. When his finger reached the crook of her knee, he stopped. Astonished to see it there. Silently, a little frantically, he considered excuses: An insect was crawling up your stocking, Susannah. I was checking to see if you were injured, Susannah. I was--- Don't stop. It was her voice. Husky, abstracted. And the words roared like a brushfire over his senses.

Just a little, a voice in his head urged him. He could show her just a little of passion, he reasoned; he could show her gently, skillfully, give her just a taste. Because lord knew what would become of her, and what sort of man would ultimately have the taking of her. He was certain he could give her pleasure, and she deserved that. He was distantly amused, even a little alarmed, at how reason and lust had conspired to make his desire to crawl beneath Susannah Makepeace's skirts seem noble.

the firelight threw his shadow nearly to where she stood at the door. Elise took an unconscious step back from it, as though it were a spill of lava.

the biggest lie people tell themselves is that they prefer to know the truth.

They regarded each other somberly, making internal adjustments to accommodate the mere glorious fact of each other.

She slid her arms

And then two footmen staggered forward. They were bearing between them a flower arrangement so brilliant it was nearly 'sentient.' A profusion of roses, the heads of which were nearly as pulsatingly crimson and large as actual hearts sprung from a luxurious froth of ferny greenery and minuscule lacy white flowers. It was magnificently intimidating and almost indecently sensual. The whole thing was the height of a three-year-old child.

Does she make you laugh?" He thought about this. "She laughs a good deal when I'm about," he allowed. Did Colin Eversea really want to be laughed at rather than with his entire life? He was the most maddening person she'd ever met, but his humor contained angles; he used it both to deflect and persuade. And if one could see around it, one would see into vulnerability.

Such a blue, his eyes were. Like the center of a flame, as though some internal furnace lit them. She was tempted to hold her hand up to them, to see if she could feel heat.