Quotes from Anna Campbell

He'd stared into her eyes, dark with confusion and unwilling passion, and for one stark, horrible instant, he'd wished to be that different man. He'd wished to be worthy of her.

You promise to stop if I say so?" she asked doubtfully, even while she lay down. "I promise. Though never trust anything a man tells you when he's got his head between your legs.

I want you to want me the way I want you. I want you to come to me and tell me that. Then I want you to show me it's true. - Duke Kylemore to Verity Ashton -

You love me," he said slowly, wonderingly. Then with greater certainty, "By God, you love me." His astonished laugh ended on a choked note as he snatched her hand. "So much," she said huskily. Her fingers curled hard around his. "So very, very much.

He was ready to embrace a radiant new world. She was ready to snap his head off.

And if you must sacrifice yourself, do that by marrying me. I'm not an easy man. You'll earn your martyr's crown before you're done. Don't condemn both of us to an eternity of unhappiness just because you're too stiff-necked to face society's censure.

He wasn't good enough for her. But by God, he meant to make her happy while he had her.

He'd been unhappy, restless, irritable since leaving Surrey. He'd lived on memories of her. Her absence slowly strangled him. The instant he took Antonia in his arms, he breathed again.

Verity, you have a choice," he said gently. "We eat, we talk, we pass the evening with an attempt at civility. Or we fuck. It's up to you.

Lydia finally found it in herself to forgive her mother for seizing what small joy she could, whatever the consequences. Love, it seemed, had its own imperatives.

He'd been right about her determination to save the people she loved. He wondered with a sudden pang he couldn't identify how it would feel having someone like Antonia on his side.

He'd always loved how she fought him. He loved the crackle and spark of her wit. Now he discovered he also loved the way she lay against him in what felt like perfect trust. … Antonia was a tall, vital woman, no shrinking miss. Now she felt brittle and vulnerable. He tightened his hold and told himself the surge of protectiveness meant nothing. Again he couldn't quite believe it.

We have a week, Miss Forsythe. Time's winged chariot and all that.

Then she'd stared at him with those radiant blue eyes and asked him to let her go. And bugger, bugger, bigger, he'd suddenly imagined he was sodding Sir Galahad.

She loved his laughter. She loved that he faced the world with a reckless smile on his scarred face. Her heart crashed against her chest. A revelation descended. A revelation unrelated to the desire heating her blood.

He swallowed again and tightened his grip so even if she wanted to leave, she couldn't. It astonished him how difficult it was to find the one word he needed after these exquisite days. The one word he had no right to say. He forced the forbidden syllable from his tight throat. "Stay.

She shook her head. "No, Jonas." " 'No, Jonas' is all you ever say," he responded with a hint of savagery. He knew he was unfair, but he was just so damned miserable. Her smile wavered into a warmth that calmed his anger. "Not always." He shut his eyes as the memory of wild nights overpowered him. Good God, at this rate, he'd be bawling like a motherless calf.

You're breathtakingly exciting. You've turned my nights to fire. You've lit my whole world with flame.

Open your mouth, tesoro." He angled her face higher. "Open your mouth for me." At his raw demand, her eyes flared wide. For a drunken moment, he drowned in glorious brown, rich, autumnal, sensual.

The tension drained from her face and she softened in his hold until she was again the fluid, responsive woman who had kissed him within an inch of his life. This time he knew better than to restrain her when she slipped from the bed. He bit back an appeal for her to stay with him. If his life depended on it, he couldn't say whether he wanted her to stay an hour, a day, or forever.

He looked younger, kinder, a brighter image of the man she knew. A man life hadn't mistreated or betrayed. Whatever the pain of this union, she loved that she gave him this momentary peace. This encounter lurched from the physical onto a different plane. A plane revealing a new emotional landscape. She felt lightheaded, lost.

Tarquin Vale. The Earl of Ashcroft. Plotocrat. Collector. Devotee of reformist politics. Rake. Debauchee. Hellspawn. Unwitting key to a future greater than she'd dreamed was possible.

Her jaw ached with tension. "Surely you don't respond to all women who...invite you this way?" "Only strangers who remain anonymous and shrouded from my sight." The snap was still there, astonishing her. Anger was the last reaction she'd expected. "Do you intend to wear your veils when you fuck me, madam?

With brief amusement, she recalled how she'd assumed a rogue of his decadent reputation would be pale and weak from too many late nights, too much brandy, and too many women. If that regime resulted in this superb specimen, every doctor in the country should recommend it.