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Poppy Quotes

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Poppy Quotes

“You are most definitely not who I thought you were,' he murmured. 'How did you know?' I blurted out. 'Because the last time I kissed the owner of this cloak, she damn near sucked my tongue down her throat.' 'Oh,' I whispered. Was I supposed to have done that? It didn't sound like it would be something enjoyable.”

“You're still lying on me.' 'I know.' I took a breath. 'It's quite rude of you to continue doing so when I've made it clear that I would like for you to move.' 'It's quite rude of you to barge into my room dressed as-' 'Your lover?' He raised a brow. 'I wouldn't call her that.' 'What would you call her?' Hawke appeared to mull that over while still sprawled halfway across me. 'A... good friend.' Part of me was relieved that he hadn't referred to her as something derogatory like I'd overhead other men do before when speaking of women they'd been intimate with, but a good friend? 'I didn't know friends behaved this way.' 'I'm willing to wager you don't know much about these sort of things.' The truth in his statement was hard to ignore. 'And you wager all of this on just one kiss?' 'Just one kiss? Princess, you can learn a wealth of things from just one kiss.”

“Your scars are beautiful,' he said, and there was a swift, swelling motion in my chest that couldn't be deflated no matter what my brain yelled at it. 'But I refuse to allow your body to be scarred again.' My heart started thumping once more. 'You say that like you mean it.' 'Because I do.”

“Have I told you that you're beautiful?' 'What?' The shift in conversation threw me. 'I might have, but I couldn't remember if I did,' he went on, tugging gently on the strap. 'Then I thought that it wasn't something you could say too often. You're beautiful, Poppy.' My stupid, stupid heart skipped. 'Is that why you decided to wake me up in the middle of the night?' 'You're beautiful.' HIs head tilted, and I gasped at the feel of his lips on the longer scar on my cheek. He kissed that one and then the shorter one, above my eye. 'Both halves, and you should never question why anyone would find you utterly, irrevocably, and distractingly beautiful.' The skipping was back, but I ignored it. 'That is a lot of adjectives.' 'I can come up with more.' 'That won't be necessary,' I advised. 'So, now that you've told me this, you can get off me.' He smiled against my cheek. 'But you're comfortable, Princess.”

“Half of her face is a masterpiece,' the Duke murmured, and my skin flushed cold and then hot as my stomach twisted. 'The other half a nightmare.' A tremor coursed down my arms, but I kept my chin high and resisted the urge to pick up something, anything, and throw it at the Duke's face. The Duchess spoke, though, saying what, I wasn't sure. Hawke's gaze remained fastened on mine as he stepped forward. 'Both halves are as beautiful as the whole.”

“You are...' His stare was intense and unblinking, as he sheathed his sword at his side. 'You're absolutely magnificent. Beautiful.' I jolted, shocked. He'd said that I was beautiful before once he saw my face, and he sounded like he'd meant it then. But now? He'd spoken words which too often meant nothing and too rarely meant everything.”

“It's just that... gods, there are a lot of reasons why I don't understand how you can be this intrigued. You've seen me.' My faced heated and I sincerely hoped he couldn't see it. I hated saying it, but it was a reality. 'You've seen what I look like-' 'I have, and I think you already know what I think. I said it in front of you, in front of the Duke, and I told you outside the Great Hall-”

“I'm not afraid to speak the truth. He may be powerful, but he's just a weak man, who proves his strength by attempting to humiliate those more powerful than he is. Someone like you, with your strength? It makes him feel incompetent- which he is. And your scars? They are a testament to your fortitude. They are proof of what you survived. They are evidence of why you are here when so many twice your age wouldn't be. They're not ugly. Far from it. They're beautiful, Poppy.”

“There is one more thing I need. Something that I've needed for days. Weeks. Months. Maybe forever.' The bridge of his nose brushed mine. 'But I know you won't allow it. Not like this.' The pounding in my chest moved lower. 'What... what have you needed for so long?' 'You.' I shuddered. 'So, maybe, just for a few minutes, when no one is looking- when there's no one but us- we can pretend.' Leaning into the cupboard, I felt dizzy, as if I weren't getting enough air into my lungs. 'Pretend?' 'We pretend that there's no yesterday. No tomorrow. It's just us, right now, and I can be Hawke,' he said in the heated space between us. I shook once more. He touched my cheek, sending a bolt of awareness through me. His fingers drifted over my chin, my lower lip. 'You can just be Poppy, and we can simply share a kiss.' 'A kiss?' He nodded. 'Just pretend.' His lips now a whisper against my cheek. 'Just a kiss.”

“You did what you needed to do to survive. I hope you truly believe that.' Casteel didn't answer, and when I looked over at him and saw the vast emptiness in his expression, my heart ached. Because I knew. I knew he didn't. And all I wanted was to bring warmth back to him. 'I still want to stab you.' His head shot in my direction. 'Just not as frequently,' I amended.' One side of his lips curled up, and then he laughed. The sound was rough and a little hoarse, but it was real. 'I would be disappointed if you didn't.' I looked forward, smiling. 'That is such a weird statement.' 'What can I say? I have a thing for women with violent tendencies.' 'That doesn't sound any better,' ...”

“In November, when our nation remembers her fallen soldiers and honours the lost youth of my generation, the Prime Minister, government leaders and the hollow men of business affix paper poppies to their lapels and afford the dead of war two minutes' silence. Afterwards, they speak golden platitudes about the struggle and the heroism of that time. Yet the words they speak are meaningless because they have surrendered the values my generation built after the horrors of the Second World War.”

“Did you really think you'd escape me?' Casteel asked softly. Anger was sharper than any blade, far more welcomed than the hopelessness. 'I almost did.' 'Almost means nothing, Princess. You should know that.' I did. 'I'm not walking back to that keep.' 'Would you prefer that I carry you?' he offered. 'I would prefer never to see your face again.' 'Now all three of us know that's a lie.”

“You still out there, Princess?' My lips parted as my eyes widened at the sound of his voice. Hawke. It was Hawke. In that room. I couldn't believe it. 'Or have you fallen to your death?' he continued. I briefly debated the merits of jumping. 'I really hope that's not the case since I'm pretty positive that would reflect poorly on me since I assumed you were in you room.' A pause. 'Behaving. And not on a ledge, several dozen feet in the air, for reasons I can't even begin to fathom but am dying to learn.”

“Amelia and Poppy both glanced at their younger sister quizzically. “Do you know what we’re talking about, Bea?” Amelia asked. “Yes, of course. Merripen’s in love with her. I knew it a long time ago, from the way he washed her window.” “Washed her window?” both older sisters asked at the same time. “Yes, when we lived in the cottage at Primrose Place. Win’s room had a casement window that looked out onto the big maple tree— do you remember? After the scarlet fever, when Win couldn’t get out of bed for the longest time and she was too weak to hold a book, she would just lie there and watch a birds’ nest on one of the tree limbs. She saw the baby swallows hatch and learn to fly. One day she complained that the window was so dirty, she could barely see through it, and it made the sky look grayish. So from then on Merripen always kept the glass spotless. Sometimes he climbed a ladder to wash the outside, and you know how afraid of heights he is. You never saw him do that?” “No,” Amelia said with difficulty, her eyes stinging. “I didn’t know he did that.” “Merripen said the sky should always be blue for her,” Beatrix said. “And that was when I knew he … are you crying, Poppy?” Poppy used a napkin to dab at the corners of her eyes. “No. I just inh-haled some pepper.” “So did I,” Amelia said, blowing her nose.”

“Mr. Rohan,” she heard Beatrix ask, “are you going to marry my sister?” Amelia choked on her tea and set the cup down. She sputtered and coughed into her napkin. “Hush, Beatrix,” Win murmured. “But she’s wearing his ring—” Poppy clamped her hand over Beatrix’s mouth. “Hush!” “I might,” Cam replied. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he continued. “I find your sister a bit lacking in humor. And she doesn’t seem particularly obedient. On the other hand—” One set of French doors flew open, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. Everyone on the back terrace looked up in startlement, the men rising from their chairs. “No,” came Win’s soft cry. Merripen stood there, having dragged himself from his sickbed. He was bandaged and disheveled, but he looked far from helpless. He looked like a maddened bull, his dark head lowered, his hands clenched into massive fists. And his stare, promising death, was firmly fixed on Cam. There was no mistaking the bloodlust of a Roma whose kinswoman had been dishonored. “Oh, God,” Amelia muttered. Cam, who stood beside her chair, glanced down at her questioningly. “Did you say something to him?” Amelia turned red as she recalled her blood-spotted nightgown and the maid’s expression. “It must have been servants’ talk.” Cam stared at the enraged giant with resignation. “You may be in luck,” he said to Amelia. “It looks as if our betrothal is going to end prematurely.” She made to stand beside him, but he pressed her back into the chair. “Stay out of this. I don’t want you hurt in the fray.” “He won’t hurt me,” Amelia said curtly. “It’s you he wants to slaughter.” Holding Merripen’s gaze, Cam moved slowly away from the table. “Is there something you’d like to discuss, chal?” he asked with admirable self-possession. Merripen replied in Romany. Although no one save Cam understood what he said, it was clearly not encouraging. “I’m going to marry her,” Cam said, as if to pacify him. “That’s even worse!” Merripen moved forward, murder in his eyes. Lord St. Vincent swiftly interceded, stepping between the pair. Like Cam, he’d had his share of putting down fights at the gambling club. He lifted his hands in a staying gesture and spoke smoothly. “Easy, large fellow. I’m sure you can find a way to resolve your differences in a reasonable fashion.” “Get out of my way,” Merripen growled, putting an end to the notion of civilized discourse. St. Vincent’s pleasant expression didn’t change. “You have a point. There’s nothing so tiresome as being reasonable. I myself avoid it whenever possible. Still, I’m afraid you can’t brawl when there are ladies present. It might give them ideas.”

“Poppy was busy with needlework, stitching a pair of men’s slippers with bright wool threads, while Beatrix played solitaire on the floor near the hearth. Noticing the way her youngest sister was riffling through the cards, Amelia laughed. “Beatrix,” she said after Win had finished a chapter, “why in heaven’s name would you cheat at solitaire? You’re playing against yourself.” “Then there’s no one to object when I cheat.” “It’s not whether you win but how you win that’s important,” Amelia said. “I’ve heard that before, and I don’t agree at all. It’s much nicer to win.” Poppy shook her head over her embroidery. “Beatrix, you are positively shameless.” “And a winner,” Beatrix said with satisfaction, laying down the exact card she wanted.”

“Poppy wiped his sweating face with a dry cloth. “Poor Merripen.” She brought a cup of water to his lips. When he tried to refuse, she slid an arm beneath his head and raised it insistently. “Yes, you must. I should have known you’d be a terrible patient. Drink, dear, or I’ll be forced to sing something.” Amelia stifled a grin as Merripen complied. “Your singing isn’t that terrible, Poppy. Father always said you sang like a bird.” “He meant a parrot,” Merripen said hoarsely, leaning his head on Poppy’s arm. “Just for that,” Poppy informed him, “I’m going to send Beatrix in here to look after you today. She’ll probably put one of her pets in bed with you, and spread her jacks all over the floor. And if you’re very lucky, she’ll bring in her glue pots, and you can help make paper-doll clothes.” Merripen gave Amelia a glance rife with muted suffering, and she laughed. “If that doesn’t inspire you to get well quickly, dear, nothing will.”

“I wonder why the Ramsay estate is so unproductive?” Amelia mused as the carriage traveled alongside lush pastures. “The land in Hampshire is so fertile, one almost has to try not to grow something here.” “But our land is cursed, isn’t it?” Poppy asked with mild concern. “No,” Amelia replied, “not the estate itself. Just the titleholder. Which would be Leo.” “Oh.” Poppy relaxed. “That’s fine, then.”

“Filled with determination, she pounded on Leo’s door. “Wake up, slugabed!” A string of foul words filtered through the heavy oak panels. Grinning, Amelia went into Poppy’s room. She pulled the curtains open, releasing clouds of dust that caused her to sneeze. “Poppy, it’s … achoo! … time to get out of bed.” The covers had been drawn completely over Poppy’s head. “Not yet,” came her muffled protest. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Amelia eased the covers away from her nineteen-year-old sister. Poppy was groggy and sleep-flushed, her cheek imprinted with a line left by a fold of the bedclothes. Her brown hair, a warmer, ruddier tint than Amelia’s, was a wild mass of tangles. “I hate morning,” Poppy mumbled. “And I’m sure I don’t like being awakened by someone who looks so bloody pleased about it.” “I’m sorry.” Continuing to smile, Amelia stroked her sister’s hair away from her face repeatedly.”

“Scarlett lived by the (thankfully) ancient medical creed: If it tastes awful and smells worse, it’s probably good for you. Julia wasn’t so sure about that. She lived by the edict: If it tastes awful and smells worse, leave it the hell alone. On the other hand, if it tasted good and smelled better, you either ate it, squirted it on your neck or fucked it. It hadn’t led her wrong so far.”

“Poppy Devine did not deserve cancer. Poppy was sweet and industrious and careful and measured and always, always did the right thing. If anyone deserved cancer it was Julia. Julia was loud and opinionated and disagreeable. Rude, some might even say. She went out with bad men, took unnecessary risks, pushed people to their limits, swore like a sailor and flipped the bird more than any female in the history of the world. It should be her number coming up in the cancer lottery.”

“Why this girl? Why had this girl crawled right under his skin and made an uncomfortable home there? Why did he want to make things good for her, to see her smile, to make her face and her voice make all those interesting shapes and noises? Why did he want to stay up late with her when he knew she should be sleeping, just to hear her talk about maths and politics and the state of the world? This was not Quentin. Quentin did not like skinny girls. He didn’t like serious girls. And he really hated bossy girls. Quentin loved curvy, fun, uncomplicated girls; girls who laughed at his jokes and took off their bras when they danced on tables. If they wore bras at all. Yet here he was, washing up and mopping and feeling like five kinds of an arsehole over hurting the feelings of some skinny, serious, bossy girl.”