He had just brought Richelieu back down to the ground after a frolicsome attempt to touch a cloud with his front hooves.
Connie Brockway[S]he hardly deserved to be labeled a witch.'
'I find it hard to believe anyone could take such a thing seriously. This isn't the Dark Ages.'
'All ages are dark, Hayden,' Grey said gently.
Robin had never been in love before, which is precisely how he recognized the sensation with such absolute certainty.
Connie BrockwayNo mask you might don, whether cast in gold or comprised of dust, can disguise you from me.
In a thousand ways you are revealed to me: The way you illustrate a comment with your fingertips; the manner in which you tilt your head while listening to music; the quick intake of breath that precedes your laughter; the quality of your stillness.
I have only to lift my hand to mimic the slope of your shoulder; close my eyes to map the blue-filigreed veins inside your wrist; inhale to recall the fragrance of you. I am an expert on the texture of your skin, a scholar on the changing hues of your eyes, and an authority on the cadence of your breath. And yet I do not need eyes or ears or hands to know you. Shut away, blinded and deaf, I would still know you. I would still hear you, see you, feel you in my very core.
You may as well accuse the sky of not knowing the moon, for that is how fixed you are in the firmament of my heart. And like the moon, whether you choose to shine or not, here you will remain forever.
So I pray you, Lady Lydia, do not ever say again, I do not know you.
And just what sort of gentlemen do you imagine now will be paying me court? ... I see ... In other words, social climbers who will not care that I am desperate or old men as desperate as I ... I refuse to marry a mushroom for the manure from which he's sprung. Nor shall I marry an old man to be his broodmare.
Connie Brockwayshe was as unused to seeing tenderness in a man's eyes as she was to being caught off guard. Admiration? Amusement? Yes. Even desire. But those looks could be leveled at any inanimate object: a beautiful painting, a political cartoon, a French postcard. Tenderness was far more intimate, reserved for beings, not things.
Connie BrockwayBecause every time you said my name, it would touch
your lips.” His voice lost its hard edge, grew as dark and
smoky as his gaze. “Like a kiss.
Ignorance is never better. I may not like what I learn, but I would rather know the truth than naively give credence to something that does not exist.
Connie Brockway« first previous
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