Quotes About Beauty

You look like a butterfly that's just flown in from the garden," Hunt said softly.

A girl stood before the dressing table, pulling a brush through her long dark hair. The sight filled McKenna with a rush of pleasure. Lady Aline Marsden... the older daughter of the Earl of Westcliff. She was warm, high-spirited, and beautiful in all ways.

Because handsomeness is always accompanied by vanity. And I suppose ugliness is accompanied by a wealth of virtues?

No one ever calls me sharp. People always say Pandora's the sharp one." "What do they say about you?" She gave a self-deprecating little laugh. "Usually it's something about my looks." Mr. Severin was silent for a moment. "There's much more to you than that," he said gruffly.

She was already dressed for the day in a simple blue gown, her hair in a loose braid tied with a white ribbon. How apt it was that she'd been named for the showiest of wildflowers, rich and vivid, a gleaming finish to the bloom. Her blue eyes surveyed him with such attentive warmth that he felt a catch in his chest, a dart of pleasure-pain.

Although she didn't possess the robust sunstruck prettiness of her younger sisters, Helen was compelling in her own way, like the cool glow of moonlight. Her skin was very fair, her hair the lightest shade of blond. Kathleen found it interesting that although Lord and Lady Trenear had named all four of their children after figures of Greek mythology, Helen was the only one who had been given the name of a mortal.

She was beautiful in a bold, clean-featured way, as spirited and raffish as a female pirate. She and Rafe had always understood each other, perhaps because neither of them had been able to tolerate the stringent rules set by their parents.

Rhys tried to imagine what his mother would make of this subtle, incandescent creature with a mind full of books and music in her fingers. "She'll think you're too pretty. And too soft. She doesn't understand your kind of strength." Helen looked pleased. "You think I'm strong?" "I do," he said without hesitation. "You have a will like a steel blade.

When my wrinkles appear," Kathleen said ruefully, "those two will have caused most of them." "That day will be a long time coming." Looking down at her, Devon cupped her face with his hands. "But when it does, you'll be even more beautiful.

You are everything that's ever been my favorite thing," she wanted to tell him. "You are my love song, my birthday cake, the sound of ocean waves and French words and a baby's laugh. You're a snow angel, crème brulée, a kaleidoscope filled with glitter. I love you and you'll never catch up, because I've gotten a head start and my heart is racing at light speed." Someday

Tom stopped in his tracks as he saw Cassandra approaching from the opposite end of the hallway. She was unspeakably pretty in a pink velvet dress with pulled-back skirts that followed the shape of her waist and hips. The front hem kicked up in a froth of of white silk ruffles with every footstep. His mouth went dry with excitement. His heart writhed and struggled like some live thing he'd just trapped inside a dresser drawer.

Dressed in a lemon-colored gown made of cashmere, with sleeves of a silk so thin it was referred to by dressmakers as peau de papillon , or "butterfly skin," Lily was breathtakingly beautiful.

You'd be surprised what people say across the manicure table.

Mr. Bayning is not a frog," Poppy protested. "You're right," Beatrix said. "That was very unfair to frogs, who are lovely creatures." As

Devlin's disarming blue eyes were set in a face of such perfect masculine beauty that it should have come from a painting or a sculpture. Yet there was nothing aristocratic about his looks. He possessed an earthiness, a sensuality, that was impossible to ignore. If he resembled an angel, it was a fallen one.

Three hours later, Cassandra limped into the quiet, empty conservatory. Soft ripples of light reflected from the indoor stream and jostled against shadows cast by ferns and palm fronds. It looked like the room of some underwater palace. Painfully she made her way to the steps of a small stone bridge and sat in a billow of blue silk organza skirts. Tiny crystal beads had been scattered among the multiple layers of delicate fabric, casting glints across the floor.

Simon had never forgotten the first moment that he had seen her standing outside the panorama, digging through her purse with a little pucker on her forehead. The sun had picked out streaks of gold and champagne in her light brown hair and made her skin glow. There had been something so delicious... so touchable... about her, the velvety skin and shining blue eyes, and the slight frown that he had longed to soothe away.

St. Vincent was a handsome man with wheat-colored hair and pale blue eyes. Some claimed he had the most perfect form and features of any man alive. The looks of a saint, the soul of a scoundrel.

Perfection is impossible. Most mathematical truths can't be proved. The vast majority of mathematical relations can't be known. But you . . . standing here in your bare feet in that dress . . . you're perfect.

One glance was all it took to refute Gabriel's earlier speculation that Trenear had married her for financial gain. Or at least, she couldn't have been the only reason. She was a lovely woman, delicately feline, with tip-tilted brown eyes. The way her ruddy curls tried to spring free of their pins reminded him of his mother and older sister.

Her heart skipped a beat, and another, as she stared into the darkest eyes she had ever seen, a brown so deep it looked black, shadowed by thick lashes and set deep in a complexion of rich umber. His brutal handsomeness unnerved her. He could have been Lucifer himself, sitting there.

I've never seen such eyes," he said almost absently. "They remind me of the first time I saw the North Sea." His fingertips followed the edge of her jaw. "When the wind chases the waves before it, the water is the same green-gray your eyes are now... and then it turns to blue at the horizon.

Merritt was dumbstruck at the sight of his clean-shaven face. Dear God . He was beyond handsome. The cushioning thick beard was gone, revealing the brooding masculine beauty of a fallen angel. His features were strong but elegantly refined, the cheekbones high, the mouth full and erotic.

Beatrix looked at Christopher with an arrested expression. His smile faded, and he found himself staring into her blue-on-blue eyes. They were astonishingly direct and lucid... the eyes of a vagabond angel. One had the sense that no matter what she beheld of the sinful world, she would never be jaded. She reminded him that the things he had seen and done could not be polished away like tarnish from silver.