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I thought you wanted food, she gasped. I do, he murmured, tugging on the bodice of her dress. But I want you more.

Julia Quinn

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Julia Quinn
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: January 12
Author
Writer
Evergreen State
Julie Cotler
Julie Pottinger
Wanted
Gasped
Tugging
Murmured
Dress
Dresses
Food
Thought

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And for the rest of the night, he couldn’t quite forget the smell of her perfume. Or maybe it was the soft sound of her chuckle. Or maybe it was neither of those things. Maybe it was just her.
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No. Haven’t you been listening?” Marcus would always remember that moment. It was to be the first time he would ever be faced with that most vexing of female quirks: the question that had nothing but wrong answers.
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Oh, very well, do you want to know why I really think you should keep a journal? She nodded. Because someday you're going to grow into yourself, and you will be as beautiful as you already are smart.
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I didn't think I should die but I did not know how I would Live.
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If he was planning to attack and ravish, he gave no indication of being in a hurry to do so.
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He shook his head in wonder. You are magnificent. I keep telling everyone that, she said with a nonchalant shrug, but you seem to be the only one to believe me.
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Blake took a small roll from the tray on the table, then put it back in favor of a larger one. And maybe a little butter. It certainly couldn't hurt. And jam...no, he drew the line at jam. She was a spy, after all.
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She needed him to be him. Even if he could not be hers.
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This is why I didn't get married last year, she said to him. I wouldn't be here to nurse you. She thought about that for a moment. Of course, one could make the argument that you wouldn't be in this situation if not for me. But we're not going to dwell upon that.
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It suddenly made sense. Only twice in his life had he felt this inexplicable, almost mystical attraction to a woman. He’d thought it remarkable, to have found two, when in his heart he’d always believed there was only one perfect woman out there for him. His heart had been right. There was only one.
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And I hope you will not think me foolish when I also extend my thanks. Thank you, Michael, for letting my son love her first. —from Janet Stirling, dowager Countess of Kilmartin, to Michael Stirling, Earl of Kilmartin
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Anthony sneezed and pushed them aside. Mother, I am trying to have a conversation with the duke. Violet looked at Simon. Do you want to have this conversation with my son? Not particularly. Fine, then. Anthony, be quiet.
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He sucked his lips in an attempt not to laugh. Aren't you Spanish? She raised one arm in a salute. Viva la Queen Isabella! I see. Then why are you speaking with a French accent?
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Francesca: It's still a bit cold yet. Michael: Never stopped John and me. Francesca: Yes, well, you're Scottish. Your blood circulates quite well half frozen.
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I don't like your tone, was Violet's standard answer when one of her children was winning an argument.
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It was funny, he reflected later, how one’s life could alter in an instant, how one minute everything could be a certain way, and the next it’s simply ... not
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You have a mother? He quirked a brow. Did you think mine was some sort of divine birth? My father was a remarkable man, but even he was not that talented.
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She smelled like England, of soft rain and sun-kissed meadows. And she felt like the best kind of heaven. He wanted to wrap himself around, bury himself within her, and stay there for all of his days. He hadn’t had a drop to drink in three years, but he was intoxicated now, bubbling with a lightness he’d never thought to feel again.
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To say that men can be bullheaded would be insulting to the bull.
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Don’t tell me your name. It’s likely to awaken my conscience, and that’s the last thing we want.
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