Genevieve And Alexander Quotes

“You should see your expression."
"The duel one?"
"No. It's more like... when a snarling dog is swatted across the nose by a kitten. Surprised and affronted. As though the natural order of things has been subverted."
He blinked. Bloody hell, but he was charmed speechless by the analogy.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“It's... 'Titian,'" Genevieve breathed. "I'm sure of it."
A slow, awestruck, disbelieving smile took over her face. Stunned pleasure shone from her eyes. And he was certain her heart was racing with the sheer delight of being in the 'presence' of the thing.
Because his heart was racing at simply watching her love it.
She turned to look at him as if he himself had painted it. Her radiance rendered him absolutely silent. He could only bask.
One was either moved by something or one was not, he knew. Certain tastes- for fine wine or teas, for instance- could be acquired. 'Skill' could be acquired, but talent could not. And passion was either intimate... or it was not.
He still in truth didn't care to know much about the painting.
He only cared about what it did to Genevieve Eversea.
And it was 'this' that gave it its value in his eyes. Not the name of the artist, or the pigments he had used.
He felt her joy as his own.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“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

“They really 'did,' you know," he said softly, suddenly.
"Did?" She was puzzled.
"The roses. Remind me of you. They're precisely the sort of flowers you ought to have."
Those spectacular, throbbing, lush blooms that now stood guard over her bed.
With petals unconscionably soft.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“He loosened his hand in her hair and cradled her head, tenderly, tenderly, as though it was made of porcelain. His mouth eased, softened, and surrendered to properly discovering the wonders of hers. Inconceivable that her blossom lips should be so soft, and yet so demanding, and yes, she had begun to demand. She had an instinct for this.
It would be his undoing.
He drew in a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. Paused for an instant, resting his mouth delicately against hers, loath to relinquish the feel of her even for the moment it took to breathe.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Who is your favorite painter, Miss Eversea?"
"I might have to say Titian." She said this almost reluctantly, as if Titian was something precious she kept to herself. "It's the luminous quality of the tones of skin, the incomparable reds, the affection with which he paints his..."
She stopped and gave her head a little shake, and a small smile and a half shrug, as though she secretly qualified to describe the wonder of Titian.
And because she suspected she was boring him.
'Luminous quality.' Titian didn't particularly interest him. But what he did to Miss Genevieve's face when she'd described him, in fact, fascinated him.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“But its understood Olivia in particular is so vivid and vivacious, and she has such strong passions. I believe the flowers are meant to convey admiration for this," she explained.
"And while those are indeed admirable qualities in a woman. I also appreciate subtleties of character," he parried.
"And yet so very little is subtle about Lady Abigail Beasley," Miss Eversea pointed out peevishly, quickly.
'God.'
He nearly grunted with the force of her thrust home. And she'd demonstrated a willingness to play dirty.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“The line of Miss Eversea's spine seemed positively 'alive' with... something. Outrage? Horror? Hilarity? He noticed the very fine line of hair traveling up the fragile nape of her neck, and something about that intimate little trail made the back of his own neck tingle as though she'd brushed her fingers there.
Something entirely unexpected was happening in the region of his solar plexus.”
― 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

“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

“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

“Riveted, silent, mutually breathless, they regarded each other across a gulf of marble and carpet. His cravat was looped 'round his neck, undone. His shirt was open, revealing a vee of skin burnished by low firelight and fascinating curling dark hair.
She couldn't at all see his expression.
But she could 'feel' his eyes on her. And from the distance he managed once again to make her acutely aware of her good mouth. Her naiad hair. Her unconscionably soft hands. And every inch of her skin was suddenly alive, restless, and even the night rail she wore was a sensual disturbance, reminding her that she was a creature that could touch and be touched.
'What would happen now,' she wondered...
'... if I went to him?'
His reputation as a man who took the women he wanted preceded him. He wasn't known to be a despoiler of virgins. Or a cuckolder of married men. And everyone had been shocked when he'd courted Lady Abigail in more or less traditional fashion.
He was absolutely motionless. She entertained for another brief disorienting moment the notion that he was in fact a dream. Her heart slammed in her chest.
She decided to back away.
She took a step forward.
She could have sworn his breath caught.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Please don't go."
Words as unbidden as her presence, and shaken loose by brandy.
And the hand he would have used to choke Ian Eversea reached out and landed just above her elbow and closed.
Finally stopping her from leaving him.
Motionless, they stared at each other, and then they both stared down at his hand, as though it belonged to someone else, had naught to do with them.
And then his hand slid slowly up her arm as if it were a road he had no choice but to follow. Up the slim, soft bare skin of her arm. It was so cool, such a silken, heartbreakingly soft path.
She tensed beneath his hand.
And when it touched her hair lying draped over her shoulder, he exhaled softly. He sank his fingers into it, then drew them slowly, slowly out, in aching wonder.
"It's what this night would feel like if I could seize hold of it.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“His body was so hard. And so large. He was clearly so much stronger than she was, and she liked the fear of him and the sense of being enclosed and protected.
It should have been awkward, the two of them twisting toward each other on the bench, but it felt effortless; she'd gone pliant with desire and heat. She loved the feel of his large, warm hands spread over the blades of her shoulders, and then the shivery light strokes of his fingers against the rectangle of bare skin above where her dress laced, dancing there, tantalizing her with the possibility that he might open the laces. The contrasts drugged her: his hard male body and his delicate touch; the scrape of whiskers against her own smooth cheek; his chilled skin and his hot, hot, velvety, savagely demanding mouth.
He growled low in his throat.
"Bit like a badger," she murmured aloud, without intending to.
"Pet names, my squirrel?" he murmured.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“He scooped his arms beneath her and lifted her as though she were made of down, and gently, gently, settled her on the bed.
She'd never felt more precious. And she covered her eyes with her arm at the rush of feelings, too many to sort, all of them bigger than she was, most of them new.
She 'was' abashed.
He stretched out next to her and gently but firmly lifted her arm away from her face. He wanted to see her, apparently. She still didn't want to open her eyes. It felt safer, somehow, to keep them closed. Through the cloud she floated upon she felt his lips, soft, soft, achingly tender, brushing over her eyelids, her cheek, her forehead, her throat, her lips. So soothing. A tender inventory. He murmured things that may have been endearments.”
― 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

“Relieved at having resolved the misery she'd inflicted upon poor Miss Oversham, she turned to dash from the room and almost ran headlong into a linen-covered wall.
The wall turned out to be Moncrieffe, who must have taken all of two entire steps in order to follow her.
She was now beginning to feel hunted. Though surely this wasn't the case.
"I imagine you're proud of the way you ingratiated yourself with Miss Oversham, Your Grace?"
"Ah, Miss Eversea. You'll excuse me if I confess that it gladdens my heart to know that you abandoned your manners in order to listen to my conversation. But do feel at liberty to ask me anything you wish to know. You needn't hover about like a lovely little bird to catch a morsel of information."
She did roll her eyes at the "lovely little bird."
And this made the devil 'smile.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Can you really see different things in a painting from day to day?" This seemed to genuinely interest the duke. She wasn't certain which part of it fascinated him most, the fact that a painting could change or that she thought it could.
"Well, it isn't like a crystal ball. Whereby you see shifting images and the like. But haven't you ever looked at a painting for a length of time, or on more than one occasion, and experienced it differently each time?"
Where to begin explaining art to someone who seemed to know nothing about it? Now, if she were dancing with Harry...
"Of course. As a young man touring the Continent, I once looked at 'length' at a painting called 'Venus and Mars' by an Italian painter called Veronese. Do you know it? Venus is nude as the day she was born, and Mars is entirely clothed and down on his knees in front of her, and it looks as though Mars is about to give her a pleasuring. And there are cherubs hanging about. I looked at it for quite some time."
A... pleasuring. 'God above.'
He had her attention now.
She was speechless.
Everything was astonishing about what he'd just said. She stared up at him, her mind exploding with vivid images, her cheeks going increasingly hotter. She knew the painting. She knew 'precisely' where Mars was kneeling in front of Venus.
The duke had said it purposely.
Suddenly she was acutely aware of her five senses, as though they were blinking on, one by one, like fireflies in the dark. Most particularly vivid was touch. She was potently aware of his hands: the one resting with firm assurance against her waist, warm there now through the fine silk of her gown, the other enfolding hers. She was acutely aware of his size, and everything that was masculine to her feminine.
Goodness. He could certainly look at her for a long time without blinking.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Some' paintings are considered heretical," she said irritably.
"Ah, but that isn't the fault of the painting. It's the prejudice of the viewer. For instance, isn't the fault of your 'dress' that when you turn it looks like a pond rippling beneath a full moon at midnight. Or that you resemble a naiad rising from the depths in it. It is the opinion of this particular viewer."
Her head went back in shock.
And instead of casting her eyes down bashfully again, or fluttering her lashes in coy confusion or responding with a mumbled thank-you... she locked her eyes with his.
Her eyes were so soft. Like the hearts of pansies. But they were also surprisingly intensely searching, and he thought he could feel them probing his soul. Sorting through impressions.
Hot color swept her cheekbones as she absorbed the impact of this observation. She was attempting to decode it.
So she wasn't immune to the compliment. She simply didn't trust it.
In truth, he hadn't fully expected to say it himself. Where on earth had it come from? This was what unnerved him.
And to think he'd once thought her face ordinary.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“And then two footmen staggered forward.
They were bearing between them a flower arrangement so brilliant it was nearly 'sentient.' A profusion of roses, the heads of which were nearly as pulsatingly crimson and large as actual hearts sprung from a luxurious froth of ferny greenery and minuscule lacy white flowers. It was magnificently intimidating and almost indecently sensual.
The whole thing was the height of a three-year-old child.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“And she reached out with trembling fingers and touched one of the roses. It was, surprisingly... unconscionably soft.
"A message was sent along with it, Miss Genevieve." Harriet handed over the sheet of folded foolscap, closed with a blob of wax. No seal was pressed into it.
Genevieve slid her finger beneath it to break the seal.


'My esteemed Venus-

These reminded me of you. In my dreams, your lips are just this soft.

- Your devoted servant,
Mars”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“What did you 'think' would happen, Miss Eversea, if you ever encountered me alone in the dark?" he murmured.
And then he eased her head back with a final tug of her hair, and brought his mouth down on hers.
He didn't savor or coax or indulge or finesse. He invaded. With a hint of mockery, a hint of self-indulgent cruelty, his sinewy tongue got between her lips and set to work plundering with the same skillful, recklessness he'd kiss a greedy, experienced lover. To show this clever girl how much she didn't know. To breach her defenses before they had a chance to stir.
Her body was rigid with surprise. Her mouth was hot and soft and sweet as cognac. Her lips were a wonder of give.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“I did 'not' plan... last night." And now he was sincere. She could tell by the falter. He was almost bemused. And the way he said "last night" made the words seem like a euphemism for splendor. They encompassed a world of sensations and memories, those words.
It was one of the most terrifying, exhilarating conversations she'd ever had.”
― 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

“At some point as she spoke, in a motion as natural as an exhale or a stretch, he'd begun sliding his hands up her thighs.
She stopped talking.
And thinking.
And breathing.
She resumed breathing on a shuddery exhale.
And as her thighs were bare apart from the garters holding up her stockings; his hands heated all the way through the fine silk if her dress to her skin. Every tiny hair on her body stood erect, as if craving his attention. She felt spangled with heat, cinders everywhere on her body. "Molten" rather described how she felt between her legs.
He strummed his thumbs softly, softly, back and forth, back and forth, against her thighs.
Oh God. She opened her mouth to reiterate: 'Only kissing.'
"Guh," surprisingly, was what emerged instead. A sort of hybrid gasp-sigh.
"'Guh,' indeed," he agreed, softly.
She would have laughed. But the sensation was too new and too total, and desire gathered with a distracting, heavy intensity beneath the weight of his hands, coaxed by those feathery stroking thumbs, and her entire body, brain included, was invested in enjoying 'that,' not in making coherent sounds. She fought to keep her thighs from falling open like a trap door, inviting him deeper in. Was it cold? Were they outdoors? She knew only his touch.
"I would never 'dream' of disappointing you, Genevieve," he reassured her on a rough-silk whisper that dragged against her imagination the way his fingers dragged along her thighs, stirring possibilities into life.”
― Julie Anne Long, What I Did for a Duke

“Her heart was walloping away in her throat, and she was certain he could feel it, as his fingers lingered there. Nearly everything on her body that could stand erect was erect now, clamoring for his touch. The hair on the back of her neck, her arms. Her nipples.
"Are you afraid, Genevieve?"
"No. You do enjoy saying my name."
"It has a lilt."
"I see." Her voice was faint.
"Because you should consider being a little afraid.”
― 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