Best 32 quotes of Gaelen Foley on MyQuotes

Alice?” She spun toward the door, her skirts whirling softly. “Yes?” she forced out. “Do you know what I am holding in my hand?” “No.” “Care to guess?” “A pitchfork?” she asked in a stilted attempt at levity, hoping to invoke his earlier, playful mood. “No, my dear,” he answered drily. “A key to your room.” “What?”she breathed, aghast. “I should hate to have to use it.” “You have a key to this room?” “Mm-hmm.” She took a step toward the door, panic rising up in her throat. “You’re bluffing!” “Do you wish me to prove it?

Have a policy of pre-emptive forgiveness. Refuse to get offended by petty things. Make a decision early on to cut the other person some slack in everyday life. Then you can take comfort in knowing they'll do it for you, as well. Accepting each other, flaws and all, is what love is all about.

I grew up in a haunted castle, boys. If you've never had a ghost try to push you down the stairs, you've never lived.

I see. So you playacted the role of a rake who was only pretending to be in earnest, knowing you would come across as though you had the lowest of motives, when in fact, you were sincere?” “Precisely.” She gave a short, wry laugh and shook her head at him. “Convoluted sir! You are a maze.” He shot her a sulky glance. “I thought you were going to say I was amazing.” “That, too,” she admitted with a rueful smile, capturing his square chin between her fingertips.

It signified nothing that the raw, male magnetism that emanated from him probably made compasses malfunction in his presence.

No man that good-looking could be a bachelor. Life wasn't that kind.

There are some people that we know all our lives and yet never really feel we know them at all. But there are other people—” Unable to resist the temptation, he ran a feather-light caress down the curve of her cheek with one leather-sheathed knuckle. The cobalt depths of her eyes flickered with response, but she said nothing, heeding his every word. “—people we meet in a day, and instantly, it feels as though we’ve known them all our lives.

When you find the one, my lad, grab her up in your arms and never let her go. You may never get another chance.

You could be a gambler. A thief, for all I know. Besides—” He captured her hand and stopped her from walking on, holding her in place. “Besides what, you insufferable prude?” “Prude, eh? Do you need another kiss to remind you what a prude I am?” “Don’t you dare.” “Then don’t call me names.” “You started it.

You’re not terrified of me. You’re terrified of letting yourself care for me, and I can’t say I blame you. People who love me usually end up dead. But you see, I’m not going to give you any choice. You belong to me now whether you like it or not.” “I don’t like it, not one bit!” “Try to escape,” he suggested coolly. “Go ahead. See what happens. Give me one excuse to take what I want from you, even if it is against your will. I want you that much. Too damned much.” He turned without warning and kissed her, flattening her back against the pine mast.

You saved me again," she told him with a starstruck gaze. He cupped her cheek and gave her a tender smile in the dark. "Because you are my princess and I am your knight.

You wrong yourself and me by assuming my interest in you is purely physical,” he went on. “I told you I am eager to further our acquaintance. I want to know what you think about things. What you want out of life. What you dream. -Lucien to Alice

Closing the distance between them, he had saved the modest allure of her walk and felt his body respond to the graceful sway of her hips as they approached the pool. He had envisioned her taking off her robe and showing him her slender nakedness, but instead, she had just stood there, as though searching for someone. It skipped through his mind that when he caught up to the girl, he would either apprehend or ravish her. He still wasn't sure which it would be as he stood before her, blocking her escape with a dark, slight smile. As she peered up at him fearfully from the shadowed folds of her hood, he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. He had only encountered that deep, dream-spun shade of cobalt once in his life before, in the stained glass windows of Chartres Cathedral. His awareness of the crowd them dimmed in the ocean-blue depths of her eyes. 'Who are you?' He did not say a word nor ask her permission. With the smooth self-assurance of a man who has access to every woman in the room, he captured her chin in a firm but gentle grip. She jumped when he touched her, panic flashing in her eyes. His hard stare softened slightly in amusement at that, but then his faint smile faded, for her skin was silken beneath his fingertips. With one hand, he lifted her face toward the dim torchlight, while the other softly brushed back her hood. Then Lucien faltered, faced with a beauty the likes of which he had never seen. His very soul grew hushed with reverence as he gazed at her, holding his breath for fear the vision would dissolve, a figment of his overactive brain. With her bright tresses gleaming the flame-gold of dawn and her large, frightened eyes of that shining, ethereal blue, he was so sure for a moment that she was a lost angel that he half expected to see silvery, feathered wings folded demurely beneath her coarse brown robe. She appeared somewhere between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two- a wholesome, nay, a virginal beauty of trembling purity. He instantly 'knew' that she was utterly untouched, impossible as that seemed in this place. Her face was proud and weary. Her satiny skin glowed in the candlelight, pale and fine, but her soft, luscious lips shot off an effervescent champagne-pop of desire that fizzed more sweetly in his veins than anything he'd felt since his adolescence, which had taken place, if he recalled correctly, some time during the Dark Ages. There was intelligence and valor in her delicate face, courage, and a quivering vulnerability that made him ache with anguish for the doom of all innocent things. 'A noble youth, a questing youth,' he thought, and if she had come to slay dragons, she had already pierced him in his black, fiery heart with the lance of her heaven-blue gaze.

Closing the distance between them, he had savored the modest allure of her walk and felt his body respond to the graceful sway of her hips as they approached the pool. He had envisioned her taking off her robe and showing him her slender nakedness, but instead, she had just stood there, as though searching for someone. It skipped through his mind that when he caught up to the girl, he would either apprehend or ravish her. He still wasn't sure which it would be as he stood before her, blocking her escape with a dark, slight smile. As she peered up at him fearfully from the shadowed folds of her hood, he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. He had only encountered that deep, dream-spun shade of cobalt once in his life before, in the stained glass windows of Chartres Cathedral. His awareness of the crowd them dimmed in the ocean-blue depths of her eyes. 'Who are you?' He did not say a word nor ask her permission. With the smooth self-assurance of a man who has access to every woman in the room, he captured her chin in a firm but gentle grip. She jumped when he touched her, panic flashing in her eyes. His hard stare softened slightly in amusement at that, but then his faint smile faded, for her skin was silken beneath his fingertips. With one hand, he lifted her face toward the dim torchlight, while the other softly brushed back her hood. Then Lucien faltered, faced with a beauty the likes of which he had never seen. His very soul grew hushed with reverence as he gazed at her, holding his breath for fear the vision would dissolve, a figment of his overactive brain. With her bright tresses gleaming the flame-gold of dawn and her large, frightened eyes of that shining, ethereal blue, he was so sure for a moment that she was a lost angel that he half expected to see silvery, feathered wings folded demurely beneath her coarse brown robe. She appeared somewhere between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two- a wholesome, nay, a virginal beauty of trembling purity. He instantly 'knew' that she was utterly untouched, impossible as that seemed in this place. Her face was proud and weary. Her satiny skin glowed in the candlelight, pale and fine, but her soft, luscious lips shot off an effervescent champagne-pop of desire that fizzed more sweetly in his veins than anything he'd felt since his adolescence, which had taken place, if he recalled correctly, some time during the Dark Ages. There was intelligence and valor in her delicate face, courage, and a quivering vulnerability that made him ache with anguish for the doom of all innocent things. 'A noble youth, a questing youth,' he thought, and if she had come to slay dragons, she had already pierced him in his black, fiery heart with the lance of her heaven-blue gaze.

God, she looked adorable. She was clad in a loose-fitting morning gown covered by a pretty, frilled house apron, her luxurious hair flowing long and unbound over her shoulders in a most fetching state of dishabille. This was his beloved as he remembered her best, not the terrifyingly beautiful goddess in white from the ballroom the night before.

His muscled thighs and lean hips felt like warm steel under her hands as she caressed him on her knees, kissing his chiseled belly, while his large, gentle hands stroked her shoulders and her hair. She felt the mystery of his rock-hard manhood brush her throat. He was swollen solid behind the barrier of his tight black breeches. He needed her, she knew, and it pleased her.' There was no sound in her dream but his urgent whisper, 'Give it to me. Give it all to me.' 'Yes,' she thought, her body arching, 'yes.' She was naked beneath the brown robe and painfully aroused, acutely aware of the feel of coarse wool against her tender flesh. She wanted to be rid of it, but she waited patiently, weaving a wreath of careful, rosy kisses around his navel, for she knew he would sate her.

I heard that you struck Harry," she said through gritted teeth. "Oh? That bulldog-faced, old woman has been talking to you, I see. Well, do not concern yourself with my son- he is 'my' son, Alice. It is time he learned discipline." "And you who have never learned it yourself are the one to teach him?" she asked bitterly.

I should never have made you stay here," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I could not help myself." Alice took a step toward him. "I know. You are tired of being alone. You told me." "You don't know," he said in a low, almost hostile voice. He shook his head. "I don't even know what I'm doing with you. You're not like anyone else who's in my life-" He stopped abruptly. "Did you ever drink too much wine, Alice?" He held up the glass in his hand and waggled it idly, making the ruby contents swirl. "I'm not one to overindulge." "No, you wouldn't be," he said wryly. "Allow me to explain, then, that the more you drink, the more thirsty you become. Not all the wine in the world can assuage the thirst for water. Water. Wine makes you merry, but a man needs water to keep him alive. Pure, clean, sweet water." He sighed, silent for a moment. He stared almost bitterly into the fire. "I am parched, Alice, scorched like a wasteland, burning like a damned soul in hell. I thirst." "I know," she whispered.

Lucien saw all heads turn curiously toward the entrance; then his jaw dropped as a graceful beauty in white walked in, her chin high, a strand of pearls draped artfully over her strawberry-blond hair. 'Alice!' He stared, flabbergasted, transfixed. 'What the hell is she doing here?' He couldn't believe his eyes. Joy and panic crashed in on him from opposite directions. Oh, God, how he had missed her. 'What the hell is she doing in London?' Caro sidled into the ballroom beside her. The baroness was dressed in a tight black velvet dress, but Alice commanded the room, poised, slender, and cool. With her airy evening gown of white silk wafting sensually against her skin, she was an aloof marble goddess who had just stepped down to life from atop her pedestal. She seemed an entirely different creature than the serious, shy young thing who had ventured into his library last week and had been so easily charmed by a bit of Donne poetry. Now she was a force to be reckoned with.

Lucien?” “Yes, Alice?” Her heart was pounding, but she willed herself to muster the courage to reach out to him— unpredictable, dangerous as he was. “I think it’s real.

Papa wants you to marry some decrepit old wigsby?” She gave him a charmingly rueful smile, all tousled golden curls like some angel who had rolled off a cloud in her sleep, he thought, and had fallen to earth with a thud. “Something like that,” she said in vague amusement. “I see. Well, surely we can find a solution.” He snapped his fingers and gave her a grin. “Shall I ruin you? That should solve your problem. The old wigsby won’t want you if you’re used goods, and I assure you, I’d be happy to oblige.

She likes me. The shock of it sent a jolt of wild joy through him that stole his breath and robbed him momentarily of his common sense. He, Blade, who stared down cutthroat thugs in the meanest streets of the city, who laughed at death and snapped his fingers in the hangman’s face, found himself nervous and jumpy in the presence of a pretty girl. How utterly stupid. He felt like an ass. He didn’t care.

She slipped her hands into her apron pockets and stood very still, the sunlight warming her skin, glistening upon her bright, reddish-gold hair. She tensed her body tightly, trying to get rid of the well-hidden tension that plagued her, then forced her shoulders to relax and took deliberate pleasure in gazing upon the vase of dried hydrangeas that she had arranged just yesterday. The flowers graced the center of the table. Beside them lay the elegant silk purses she was sewing as Christmas gifts for a few of her London friends, and her delicate japanning tools, perched well out of Harry's reach. Her latest piece, an intricate jewel box, sat in a middle stage of completion. All of her hobbies ran in an artistic vein, but in her heart, she knew in a sense they were merely distractions, her way of trying to burn off her restlessness.

She turned absently from her contemplative study of the lily pads. "Your garden is beautiful." He shrugged and glanced around at it. "It is overgrown." "Yes, but it has a lost, eerie beauty that quite pleases me. I wish I had my watercolor set." Lucien lifted his eyebrows. "Ah, are you an artistic young lady, Miss Montague?" She smiled reluctantly. "I have been known to dabble." He laughed softly, tickled by the revelation. 'An artist. Of course.' Those beautiful hands. That penetrating gaze. The seething passion under her cool, demure surface. "What sort of work do you most enjoy?" he asked as they sauntered past rows of one-conical yews that had grown into huge, dark green lumps. "Sketching faces." "Really?" "Portraits in charcoal are my forte, but I love watercolors and all sorts of crafts. Japanning, fancy embroidery.

She was momentarily distracted by the way he held the book in his hands, his fingertips subtly caressing the kid-leather binding. He had princely hands; they were large and manly, full of strength, yet ineffably elegant. She routed a shivery-sweet memory of those smooth, warm hands gliding up under her skin. "You wished to see me, my lord?" she asked in a studiedly formal tone, one hand still on the door latch. " 'Come live with me and be my love, And we will some some new pleasures prove, Of golden sands and crystal brooks, With silken lines and silver hooks.' " Alice blinked in surprise. "I beg your pardon?" He slid her a disarming, rather wily smile, and continued in a low, magical singsong: " 'Thee will the river whispering run, Warmed by thine eyes more than the sun. And there the enamored fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray. When thou wilt swim in that live bath, Each fish, which every channel hath, Will amorously to thee swim, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.' " A blush crept into her cheeks as pink as the rose he had sent her, but she gave him an arch look. Did the cad really expect her to fall for this?

The Alice Montague I love is not the kind of woman who uses her body to get what she wants." Her eyes widened in surprise. "What?" he asked insolently. "Y-you just said you love me.

Their bodies glided together in trembling harmony. Heated skin, rhythmic panting, slamming heartbeats. They made love as if their lives depended on it. "Oh, God-Rohan!" "Yes, Kate," he whispered raggedly in smitten agreement. "Oh... my..." "Surrender to me," he breathed against her lips.

They had crossed the terrace where weeds, ivy, and goldenrod had run amuck in the flowerbeds that lined the weather-beaten stone balustrade. Mounds of blue hydrangeas nearly as tall as Lucien crowded the three mossy steps that led down into the formal garden. He went down them, and Alice followed him toward the circular fountain. As they approached, two doves that had perched on the stately stone fountain urn fluttered away, cooing. Alice stopped beside the fountain pool and gazed down with a faraway expression at the lily pads, driven with dreamlike slowness over the surface of the shallow water like tiny sailing vessels. She studied the scene as though memorizing it, while Lucien gazed at her, watching the wind toy with her clothes and the tendrils of her hair that it had worked free from her neat coif. Her waving red-gold hair, blue eyes, and ivory skin, and the chaste, faraway serenity of her face, put him in mind of Botticelli's Venus, rising from the sea upon her scallop shell.

This city was going to burn,' he thought with a narrow smile. Going out the door with Lady Glenwood, however, he did not like the defiant way her young sister-in-law held his gaze as she picked up the child and braced him against her hip. Though Miss Montague looked as delicate and demure as any young English gentlewoman, he read a strength of character in her wary blue eyes that gave him pause. Bardou turned away, shrugging off the odd sensation that the girl could somehow see through his charade as a Prussian nobleman. 'Absurd.' Eager to escape her cool, blue stare, he escorted Lady Glenwood out to the Stafford's waiting carriage, which he had borrowed.

Trying to retain his enthusiasm, he led her toward the opening in the overgrown boxwood hedge where a pair of musk rose bushes formed a thorny turnstile, marking the exit from the garden to the fallow fields and woods beyond. They stopped to take deep, lung-filling inhalations of the musk roses' delicious, honeylike perfume. Exclaiming with unaffected joy at the roses' late-blooming beauty, Alice cupped one of the creamy white blossoms gracefully in her gloved hand. He picked one, pulled off the thorns, and offered it to her. She took it in silence, searching his face warily, then turned away and walked on. Lucien just stood there watching her, praying he wouldn't do anything wrong.

Were you close?" She nodded. "Losing our parents at a young age drew us together." Lucien tensed, scanning her face. She looked away. "He lingered for three weeks before he died. He was twenty-nine." "I'm sorry," he whispered. She gazed at him for a long moment as though sizing him up while the wind riffled through their hair and clothes. Then she smiled wryly. "Don't be. If Phillip were alive, he would have challenged you to a duel and shot you dead for all of this." "Ah," he said in chagrin as she turned away with a chiding smile and walked on.

You're no grenadier. Grenadiers are big, stalwart souls, the first into battle, or so I've been told." He raised his eyebrow at her, unsure if he was being insulted. "No," she concluded, "you must have been captain of the light infantry company. The quick-witted ones, the sharpshooters." "How ever did you guess?" "I know these things," she said with a sage look, then turned and walked on, entirely pleased with herself. Lucien gazed after her with a smile on his face. God help him, he was utterly charmed.