Alexander Moncrieffe Quotes

“He was buoyant with the triumph of the roses. He'd bestowed pearls upon women he'd courted before, he'd indulgently paid lengthy bills for all manner of folderol presented to him by modistes and run up by mistresses, he'd given jewels to his wife, but never, never had he enjoyed giving a gift as much as he'd had this morning, regardless of its strategic purpose. He'd enjoyed the giving as much as Genevieve clearly had enjoyed the getting, judging from the colors she'd turned and that glow in her eyes. A man could grow almost too accustomed to seeking that response to a gift, the way one grew to love opium (not that 'he' was familiar with that particular vice) or drink. He could spend sleepless nights imagining how to go about getting it again.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Fear. Alex knew he was a fine one to pontificate about fear. He'd issued the world's most tepid, careful marriage proposal. Because he'd been afraid to tell Genevieve he loved her.
Not that it would have made much of a difference.
She loved Harry.
Harry in his youthful innocence had put his finger right on it. And Moncrieffe pushed the realization away. He took in a sharp breath.
Harry took Moncrieffe's silence as a reason to go on.
"God help me, it was only because I was afraid of losing her. And I honestly didn't feel I deserved her, for I had nothing to give her. I simply needed to know whether she loved me. I'm not proud of it, but I have never loved anyone more."
Moncrieffe could still scarcely get the words out.
"I just can't believe you would 'do' such a thing to someone you... loved."
Osborne was very, very drunk, but he wasn't stupid. "But I couldn't hurt her, could I, if she didn't love me?"
And now Harry's blue eyes fixed on him almost searchingly.
Moncrieffe couldn't believe he had almost shown his hand.
"You just said you weren't certain whether she did love you. And if she does love you anywhere as much as you claim to love her, imagine the pain you may have caused her with your whole charade."
Harry looked up at him and blinked. And as he thought about it, his face slowly went white.
After a moment he swallowed.
"'Gallant' of you," Moncrieffe drawled, twisting the knife.
Moncrieffe knew a surge of hatred for himself for saying it. But he wanted Harry to feel what he'd done to Genevieve.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“What brings you to Eversea House, Moncrieffe?"
Very polite the question, but strain pitched it nearly an octave higher than Ian's usual voice. His nostrils had flared; white lines made dents on either side of them.
"Opportunity," Moncrieffe said simply.
And smiled the sort of smile that wolves do, when they have their prey neatly cornered.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“He leaned back on his hands. And then idly turned to her. She inhaled, and exhaled an almost long-suffering sigh.
And he began in a patient, almost leisurely fashion, in a voice fashioned from dark velvet, a voice that stroked over her senses until they were lulled, to lecture directly to her as if she was a girl in the schoolroom.
"A proper kiss, Miss Eversea, should turn you inside out. It should... touch places in you that you didn't know existed, set them ablaze, until your entire being is hungry and wild. It should... hold a moment, I want to explain this as clearly as possible..." He tipped his head back and paused to consider, as though he were envisioning this and wanted to relate every detail correctly. "It should slice right down through you like a cutlass with a pleasure so devastating it's very nearly pain."
He waited, watching her face, allowing her to accommodate the potent words.
Her mouth was parted. Her breathing short. She couldn't look away. His eyes and voice held her as fast as if he'd cradled her face with his hands.
And as he said them, an echo of sensation sounded in her, like a remembered dream, an instinct awakened.
She thought about Mars getting ready to give Venus a good pleasuring.
Stop, she should say.
"And...?" she whispered.
"It should make you do battle for control of your senses and your will. It should make you want to do things you'd never dreamed you'd want to do, and in that moment all of those things will make perfect sense. And it should herald, or at least promise, the most intense physical pleasure you've ever known, regardless of whether that promise is ever, ever fulfilled. It should, in fact..." he paused for effect "haunt you for the rest of your life."
She sat wordlessly when he was done. As though waiting for the last notes of a stormy, discordant symphony to echo into silence.
'The most intense physical pleasure.'
His words reverberated in her. As if her body contained the ancient wisdom of what that meant, and now, having been reminded, craved it.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“She looked down instead. Long enough to notice that the duke wore a signet ring, and that his hand was long and elegant and scrupulously groomed but sported emphatic veins, as though he'd used his hands to do difficult masculine things his entire life. Dark, crisp hair curled on his wrist, and that hair seemed almost embarrassingly intimate, because if she wanted to right now she could touch it. His finger looked very brown against her own white hand, which she normally took such care to keep from the sun. His hand could cover hers completely if he wanted, shelter it, vanquish it, comfort her or render her terrifyingly defenseless.
Funny how the spot where the duke's finger touched her was suddenly the locus of the universe for three people.
"Your hand is unconscionably soft, Miss Eversea," he murmured.
'Oh.'
And then he took his fingers away.
Her eyes widened. She couldn't lift her head just yet.
The shock of the stealthy compliment spread slowly through her, the way sherry did when bolted quickly.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Genevieve was familiar with one of the duke's properties- Rosemont- as she'd gone to tour it once when he was away at one of his other vast tracts of lands. It was surprisingly modest by duke terms, a redbrick manor in West Sussex presiding over a collection of softly swelling hills, which surrounded a lake populated by enormous, irritable swans and overhung with willows. The garden had been brilliant with its namesake blooms and the fountain in the courtyard featured a lasciviously grinning stone satyr performing an arabesque and spitting water high into the air.
She'd found it delightful. Its pocket-sized, whimsical beauty hardly seemed to suit him, but then he normally spent his time in London and likely had all but forgotten he owned it.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“He was polite; he was cool; he was enigmatic. He was every bit what they expected and wanted the storied Duke of Falconbridge to be, because it amused him to be so.
In truth, his eyes were on the stairs. He waited with the patience of a cat near a mouse hole for Genevieve Eversea to arrive.
He almost didn't recognize her when she did appear.
Her dress was a glossy silk of midnight blue, cut very low, and the "sleeves"- really scraps of net- clung to her pale, flawless shoulders, as though she'd tumbled down through clouds to get here and brought a few sheds of sky with her.
Her neck was long. Her collarbone had that smooth pristine temptation of a bank of new-fallen snow. It was interrupted only by a drop of a blue stone on a chain that pointed directly at quite confident cleavage, as if the owner knew full well it was splendid and was accustomed to exposing it. Her sleek dark hair was dressed up high and away from her face, and tiny diamanté sparks were scattered through it. Her face beneath it was revealed in delicate simplicity. A smooth, pale, high forehead, etched cheekbones. Elegant as Wedgwood, set off by that dark, dark hair and those vivid eyes.
He stared.
He wasn't precisely... nonplussed. Still, this particular vision of Genevieve Eversea required reconciling with the quiet girl in the morning dress, the moor pony with the determined gait. As though they were not quite the same thing, or were perhaps 'variations' of the same thing, like verb tenses. He felt a bit like a boy who needed to erase his morning lessons and begin again.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Genevieve's fan slipped from her grasp. Perhaps she'd been having a quiet laugh at his expense and it had jostled from her grip. When she bent over to retrieve it, her bodice gapped, affording him a startlingly view of almost 'all' of two deliciously round, pale breasts.
It was such a sensual shock the breath went out of him.
It was all the more erotic because he knew he was the only one who could see it, and because she didn't know that he could, and because they were both in the midst of a crowd.
He was a man. He gulped down the view for the duration of its offering, which was cruelly brief. And then Genevieve was upright again, and regret washed him.
Miss Oversham didn't seem to notice his infinitesimal distraction.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Ah, now," he soothed in his low, easy voice, the way he would a spooked horse or a woman whose bodice he was about to slip lower. It worked a treat. Her pupils dilated in sudden interest, for it was 'that' kind of voice and she was a woman after all. She'd decided he was attractive and pleasant and she visibly softened. When he bothered to use that tone on women they generally did.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“What are you about, Moncrieffe?" Eversea did look decidedly ill.
"What am I about...? Well, I'm 'about' to enjoy, or at least drink, a cup of ratafia. Or brandy if I can get it. I'm about to join your father for a brief discussion of an investment opportunity in his study. I'm about to divest your neighbors and guests of their money in five-card loo. But that's later. More importantly, I'm about to dance with your sister."
It was the smile Moncrieffe offered here, and the way he said "sister," that had Ian reaching, in a reflex almost as old as time, for a sword he wasn't wearing.
He forced his hand to ease.
For Moncrieffe had seen it; he casually placed his own hand inside his coat. A pistol was never far from his person.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“And then, oh God, she realized the Sussex Waltz was beginning which reminded her that...
She turned.
The other man she'd been unable to refuse earlier was standing before her.
He stretched out a hand.


She could not for the life of her understand what the Duke of Falconbridge wanted from her. She ascribed his presence and his attention to the week's general theme, which was "torture." He'd perhaps come to Sussex to shop for a wife, since he'd recently shed himself of the candidate he'd selected.
It wouldn't be her.
'Regardless' of how determined he might be. And the man personified determination. Regardless of the glimmer of temptation she'd felt to... well, allow herself to be charmed. To surrender to the sheer force of him. The notion that she'd ever thought she could entirely ignore someone of his reputation on her walk today she ascribed to naïveté and heartbreak. He'd skillfully found her unprotected flank again and again.
He'd even made her smile when she'd thought to never do it again.
And yet she recalled his eyes when she'd said the name "Abigail." She'd panicked; she'd played her trump. And she'd hurt him.
This was the impression that lingered.
It was as though everything else he'd said and done up until then had been steps in a dance, and he'd only dropped his mask when she tripped him.
So he was a clever man, a watchful man, a powerful man, but a man with unexpectedly human vulnerabilities. She wasn't certain she cared. She still didn't think he was a 'nice' man.
She took his hand. She was immediately overwhelmingly conscious of its size; it enveloped hers with almost absurd masculine strength.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“And each and every compliment issued by the duke had been just singular enough to kindle her imagination. Calculated to intrigue, to imply that he saw her in detail, that touching her was a pleasure.
'Unconscionably,' he'd said. As though being soft was something she did specifically to torment him. It had almost been an accusation, a dare. She'd received more than her share of compliments her life. But for some reason the duke made her feel very much like a...
Like a 'woman.'
Purely and simply.
It had nothing to do with love. Or with marriage. He was thinking of her in terms of... of sensual pleasure.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Finally his thumbing rewarded him with what he was seeking.
Veronese... Veronese... of course! As he'd told Genevieve, he'd seen a Veronese painting when he'd visited Italy. Memorably because he'd found it erotic: Venus and Mars again, and this time Venus was not wearing a shred, and Mars was kneeling, getting ready to, as he'd inappropriately shared with Genevieve, give Venus a pleasuring.
"Genevieve loves a particular 'kind' of painter..." Harry began in a lecturing tone.
"She likes light and a grace of line, mythological subjects rich in subtext. She believes Botticelli is not rated highly enough as a painter. I happen to agree. I've seen his 'Venus and Mars' and I am quite moved by his use of mythological subjects. Very sensual."
Harry looked thunderstruck.
Hmm. The duke didn't know why he should feel authentically pleased by the fact that Genevieve had entrusted him with a confidence she hadn't yet confided in Harry.
"She hadn't shared that particular insight with you about Botticelli, Osborne? Perhaps it's a new one. One she's had only recently.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“He grinned because he'd made her say something ridiculous. The grin was wicked, white and tilted.
She panicked, because she thought of sun-shot ponds and sunlight coming down through trees when she looked in his eyes now, and judging from the temperature of her cheeks he was a devil sent up from Hades, not a bloody poem.
She might be turning any number of colors, from scarlet to parchment to all those shades of rose in-between, but he regarded her evenly.
He was older, bolder. He knew of whores and wars, violence and vendettas. He knew precisely what he wanted, always.
He wanted her.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“You'll kiss me again." His low-voiced, arrogant confidence made her wish she had something clutched in her hand to throw at him. "The advantage of being a member of 'our' species, Miss Eversea..." very deliberate, that, and he waited for her face to go thunderous "... is one that does whatever one wants because they want to and because they 'like' it. And you both 'want' to and you 'liked' it. Not every woman does. Ponder that."
She glared at him.
"But liking it has more than little to do with 'who' you're kissing. And when you kiss me again it will have naught to do with 'wisdom.' It will be because you will be unable to think of anything 'else' until you do.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“The duke was sitting silently in the corner, long legs casually outstretched, arms loosely crossed over him, surveying the room with ironic eyes.
They lingered on her; he gave her the faintest of smiles.
It was almost impossible to believe that this was the man who had said to her 'I want you naked beneath me.'
Apart from the rush of blood to various places in her body when she thought it, she could almost imagine it hadn't happened at all.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Turn. I want to look at you," he ordered.
"Why?"
"Because you are beautiful and I want you."
Dear God. He spoke like he moved: quick, purposeful. His delivery made everything sound true and right and... 'sensible.' Which was dangerous indeed, as the last thing this was meant to be was sensible. He'd undressed with startling alacrity while she was facing her door, and she hardly knew where to look first. She knew he meant it, because she could see in his fierce eyes and the swift rise and fall of his shoulders, and his hard cock, thick and large and curving up toward his belly, how much he wanted her.
And he stared, drinking her in, and dear God, her knees went weaker still at the look in his eyes.
She wanted to tell him, too, that he was beautiful, but it wasn't quite the right word. It seemed inadequate and perhaps not exactly true. He was overwhelmingly new to her, alien, and astoundingly... 'male'... his skin very fair, his body spare, all hard, lean muscle, his chest furred with dark hair, a trail of it following the seam of his ribs where his cock curved upward against his belly up from its nest of curling hair. His small, hard buttocks were almost comically white and muscular. She saw a few scars scattered over him.
He saved her from the onslaught of sensations and impressions and from having to make a statement when he pulled her against his bare body.
The feeling of his skin against hers, her hard nipples brushing his, was extraordinary; his skin was hot; he smelled wonderful and strange, of smoke and musk and something she was sure was uniquely his.
He didn't want coy. She'd claimed she wasn't. And yet it was counter to her nature to let momentum take her, to surrender. She struggled with it, and he felt the tension in her body.
"It's all right," he murmured into her ear, his breath, his voice, erotic, so persuasive, the voice of ultimate safety and ultimate danger. "I have you. 'Shhh,' now, Genevieve.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke