“It wasn‟t even desire. It was far more than that.It was love.Love. With a capital L and swirly script and hearts and flowers and whatever else the angels—and yes, all those annoying little cupids—wished to use for embellishment.”

“I’ll talk to my mother,” she promised. “If I’m sufficientlyannoying, I’m sure I can get the engagement periodcut in half.”“It makes me wonder,” he said. “As your future husband,should I be concerned by your use of the phrase ifI’m sufficiently annoying?”“Not if you accede to all of my wishes.”“A sentence that concerns me even more,” he murmured.She did nothing but smile.”

“Above all else, be true to your heart. When you marry, whether it be a marquis or an estate manager (or both!), it will be for life. You must go where your heart leads and never forget that love is the most precious gift of all. Money and social status are poor substitutes for a warm, tender embrace, and there is little in life more fulfilling than the joy of loving and knowledge that you are loved in return.”

“What is there not to like about cupids?""You don't find them rather dangerous?""Chubby little babies?""Carrying deadly weapons.”

“We plan to avoid cupids," Mr. Audley said."Cupids?" Amelia echoed. Good heavens, he did move from topic to topic.He shrugged. "I have discovered that I am not fond of them."How could anyone not be fond of cupids?”

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice even and intense, “and listen well, because I’m only going to say this once. I desire you. I burn for you. I can’t sleep at night for wanting you. Even when I didn’t like you, I lusted for you. It’s the most maddening, beguiling, damnable thing, but there it is. And if I hear one more word of nonsense from your lips, I’m going to have to tie you to the bloody bed and have my way with you a hundred different ways, until you finally get it through your silly skull that you are the most beautiful and desirable woman in England, and if everyone else doesn’t see that, then they’re all bloody fools.”

“and he stopped going to church entirely, because there seemed no point now in even contemplating prayer for his soul. Besides, the parish church near Kilmartin dated to 1432, and the crumbling stones certainly couldn‟t takea direct strike of lightning.And if God ever wanted to smite a sinner, he couldn‟t do better than Michael Stirling.Michael Stirling, Sinner.He could see it on a calling card. He‟d have had it printed up, even—his was just that sort of black sense of humor—if he weren‟t convinced it would kill his mother on the spot.Rake he might be, but there was no need to torture the woman who‟d borne him.”