“I can’t eat just yet,” he said. “I am too—too—” He frowned. “Too something. Feelings.”
Her green gaze met his. “Feelings,” she repeated.
“I meant to wait,” he said. “Until I was better. Because I didn’t want pity to influence you”
“Pity,” she said.
“On account of my wound,” he said.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I shouldn’t pity you on account of a nick in the belly.”
“In any event, I can’t wait,” he said. “And I had better warn you that I don’t mean to be in the least sporting. If I have to go on my knees, and start bleeding again—”
“I can think of no reason for you to go on your knees,” she said severely.
“Then you’re not thinking clearly,” he said. “It’s the usual way these things are done.”
“These things,” she said, a degree less severely.
“I should have done it that way the first time, but I hardly knew what I was doing,” he said. “You said it was better to marry than to burn, and I was in a state of eternal conflagration, it seemed—but that wasn’t what it was at all.”
She shifted up onto her knees. “Perhaps you ought to take some wine,” she said.
“My strength is up to this,” he said. “I only hope my brain is, too. I want to explain first. Because you aren’t to think it’s completely on account of lust. Lust is a part, yes. A large part.”
She sank back onto her heels and regarded her hands.
“But I liked you from the moment I first heard your voice,” he said, “when I had no idea what you looked like. I thought it delicious, the way you bargained for me, as though I were an old rug. Then I loved the way you ordered me about. I loved your patient and impatient ways of explaining things to me. I love the sound of your voice and the way you move. I love your courage and your kindness and your generosity and your obstinacy and your passion.” He paused. “You’re the genius. What do you think that means?”
She threw him a sidelong glance. “I think you’re insane,” she said. “Perhaps you have developed an infection which has gone directly to your head.”
“I am not insane,” he said. “A woman of your highly advanced intellect ought to be able to perceive that I am in love. With you. I wish you had told me. It was deuced embarrassing to find it out from your brother.”
Oh, feelings. See? Terrifying and wonderful and butterflies-in-the-stomach. Just the way it should be.
If I were the type to read romances on Valentine’s Day (which I tend not to do—I like to spread the love around to the non-greeting-card-holiday days of the year), I could not pick a better, or more surprisingly wonky, romance. Because there’s Rupert, a physical alpha who willingly turns beta in the face of his lover’s intellect…and there’s Daphne, who is too smart for anyone’s good, much less her own…and they’re traipsing across Egypt in 1821, on a treasure hunt (of sorts). And what really makes me love them is knowing, by their cameo appearances in later works of Ms. Chase’s, they kept adventuring together for decades, never having children of their own. Mr. Impossible is wonky, indeed, if you know what you’re looking for while you read.
But the fact remains that it’s Valentine’s Day, a holiday to which many—even the happily-ever-after’d of us—feel a strict aversion. Not that we can be blamed, as those construction-paper hearts are deadly to the soul (and our fingertips). It’s a holiday that often leaves a bitter aftertaste in one’s mouth, and so it’s important that we remember why we’re going all crazy over candy and roses in the first place:
Because we had that moment, once upon a time, that first Valentine’s Day with our lover where we were lucky enough to think, “Wow. I’m in love with him. How crazy is that?” And it was scary. It was amazing. And everything inside just warmed and tingled, and it was perfect.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
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c W0wforum I-love-yous I’ve ever read have been wonky. Perhaps it’s because the characters are so unique. Or perhaps it’s because when a wonktastic woman falls in love with her atypical hero, I believe it; I believe in the weirdness. And the declaration I’ve “hearted” the most, ever since reading it (and rereading it…and rereading it again), is the less-than-brilliant Rupert’s calmly delivered reveal to Daphne, a certifiable genius, in Loretta Chase‘s Mr. Impossible (and for those of you who haven’t read this amazing adventure-historical and don’t want to ruin this moment for when you do, I suggest you scroll down while averting your eyes):
Oh, what an awesome I-love-you. This book sounds superb. And also, aww. Great post. I am feeling both cynical and sappy now, which is really the way to go.
This book is wonderful. And wonky in that it didn’t hit me as wonky until maybe the second or third time I read it; Loretta Chase is a fairly traditional historical author in most of her works. I highly recommend MR. IMPOSSIBLE.
Also, I believe the appropriate blend of feelings on Valentine’s Day is cynicism and sappiness. So you’re right on track. ;)