Iris De Chartres Quotes

“The peach gown she'd chosen was the color of the sunrise, the rippling watered silk seeming to subtly change from rose to pink to nearly orange in different lights. She'd fallen in love with it at once.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“His duchess caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she carefully poured warm water over his hair. Her lips were very pink. Plump, with a prominent Cupid's bow on the upper one. Her mouth gleamed softly with moisture.
His eyelids dropped as he considered what he wanted to do with that mouth.
She was working soap into his hair now with strong, slim fingers that massaged his scalp.
He clenched his jaw to keep from groaning.
She scrubbed backward through his hair, stroking, pressing, and he found his eyes closing like a lazy cat's. He'd not been touched like this by another since...
Well. Not for a very long time.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Would you prefer it if I'd continued to wear your shirt and banyan?"
Actually he'd quite liked her wearing his clothes, both because her breasts had been unbuttoned it made something in him very, very content. The yellow dress, however, quite suited her. She seemed to glow in the candlelight, like a beacon of purity.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“His heart stilled at the mere thought of her hurting herself.
'He was a fool.' Of course this debate harkened back to her recent capture. To her near rape. What she must have thought when she'd been kidnapped? When she'd been hooded and dragged before the Lords of Chaos and made to kneel in front of a sacrificial stone?
She must have been out of her mind with terror.
And yet she'd controlled her fear. More, despite her firsthand near experience, she now passionately argued that a woman ravaged and raped should never give up hope. Should fight to stay alive despite all odds.
He was amazed by her perception.
Awed by her bravery.
He turned his hand over and gripped her fingers. "Your pardon." It wasn't naivete that had driven her argument. It was something far nobler. "I would never blame you, my duchess, if you were thus abused, and I would never wish for you to take your own life."
He lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to her palm, and as he did so he had a sharp, visceral memory: He'd kissed her before the fever had overtaken him. Her lips had been soft and yielding to the invasion of his tongue. She'd tasted of tea.
He wanted to taste her again. To lick across her prim little lips, make her open her mouth and moan.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt

“On the night that she'd been brought here she'd had the idea that the abbey was closed in by trees. Now she could see that a little green stood on the other side of the gravel drive. Yellow flowers were in bloom here as well- a veritable carpet of them.
She walked across the drive, heading toward the flowers.
Daffodils. They were daffodils, thousands of them. Iris knelt in the grass and inhaled the faint perfume. A breeze passed by and all the bright-yellow trumpets nodded as one. How could this be? Had someone patiently planted each bulb?
But no. The daffodils weren't in soldierly rows. They bloomed in drifts and clumps. They must be wild.
She drew in her breath in wonder. How amazing that such beautiful ephemeral things could bloom here in this house of death and decay.
But perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the abbey wasn't dying.
Perhaps it merely waited, sleeping, for joy and life to return to it.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Iris lay there, her eyes closed, her golden hair spread on the pillow, half-turned toward him.
She must've been exhausted to have fallen asleep so swiftly.
The candlelight sent shadows spilling from the tips of her eyelashes, made her brow and cheeks glow, and left the valley between her breasts in darkness. She was so lovely it felt like a hook digging into his heart, tearing a jagged hole.
He turned and went to his traveling trunk, then knelt to open it. Inside, under a layer of folded banyans and pairs of breeches, he found his sketchbook and pencil case. Then he picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down next to the bed.
And began to put on paper what he couldn't say in words.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“When he'd woken this morning, her soft limbs entangled with his, he had spent long minutes simply gazing at her in wonder. Her lips were a dark pink and parted softly, and her eyelashes lay against her cheeks like moth wings. She was beautiful and she was determined and he hadn't thought that marriage to her would result in this intimacy. He'd wanted her near, true, for he was a selfish, wicked man, and he didn't particularly like the dark that he lived in. She was to be company- nothing more. But it seemed he'd deceived himself, both about the power of her lure and about his own savage desires.
The last thought made him uneasy.
Had he frightened her? Had his lovemaking over the last two nights been too... carnal? Too crude for her?
He grimaced, looking away from her. He hadn't much experience with gentle ladies, truth be told. Not with a face like his.
Not with a past like his.
When his baser instincts could no longer be put off, he bought his relief.
But if he had shocked or repulsed Iris, perhaps that was for the best. She wouldn't be so quick to seek him again, which should make his own resistance easier.
Except that even now he found himself leaning infinitesimally toward her as if his body, having once tasted of her fruit, now not only understood hunger, but could be satiated by her and her alone.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire

“Late that afternoon Raphael stood at the window of his study, looking out over the back of his garden. He could see small blue flowers blooming along the gravel paths, but for the life of him he could not recall what their name was.
Somehow he knew that Iris would be able to name the tiny blue flowers.
He pushed the thought aside. He'd lived over thirty years without Iris in his life and never felt the lack. Yet now she was gone merely hours and he was gazing out the window, mooning after her.
He could shove her from his mind.
He must shove her from his mind.
But he still saw her tearstained face. Heard her pleading with him. Remembered her saying, "I love you."
He closed his eyes.
She was haunting him.
It was as if she were in his blood now, a part of him as surely as the veins running under his skin, the lungs that let him breathe air. She'd permeated him until he could no more separate her from himself than tear the heart from his body.
She was essential to his life.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Desire