Minx

“Truro?” It was one of Cornwall’s larger towns, and Henry avoided it like the plague.

He pulled her more tightly against him. “Henry, I love you. I’d love you if you wore a sackcloth. I’d love you if you had a mustache.” He paused and tweaked her nose. “Well, the mustache would be difficult. Please promise me you won’t grow one.”

“Henry,” he groaned. He loved her. He pushed forward again, losing himself in a primitive rhythm. He loved her. He moved. He loved her. He kissed her brow in a desperate attempt to move ever closer to her soul.

He loved her.

could raise her body to fever pitch.

“Sometimes, Hen,” he said, not turning back around to face her, “I think I would give my life just for one of your smiles.”

She didn’t move, couldn’t move, so mesmerized was she by the blazing light in his eyes.

“I love you, Henry,” he said, his voice like rough velvet. “I love you like I never dreamed I could love a woman. I love you like everything in this world that is beautiful and good. Like the stars in the sky, and like each and every blade of grass at Stannage Park. I love you like the facets of a diamond, and Rufus’s pointy ears, and—”

So this was love. He almost chuckled out loud right there at the dining table. No wonder the poets spoke so highly of it.

“Underneath this delightful package are a beautiful heart, a beautiful mind, and a beautiful soul.”

I think your eyes are pools of liquid silver, and your brows are angel wings—soft and delicate.” He leaned down and brushed a feathery kiss on her lips. “Your mouth is soft and pink and perfectly shaped, with an enchantingly full lower lip and corners that always look as if they are about to turn up into a smile.