Bastard Husband Quotes

The Iron Rule of prudence for an Istanbulite Woman: If you are as fragile as a tea glass, either find a way to never encounter burning water and hope to marry an ideal husband or get yourself laid and broken as soon as possible. Alternatively, stop being a tea-glass woman!

You know that Kate called Walter a heartless bastard?" "And an asshole. I am quite proud.

I now pronounce you husband and wife. Chloe, you may kiss your groom.

The window rattles without you, you bastard. The trees are the cause, rattling in the wind, you jerk, the wind scraping those leaves and twigs against my window. They'll keep doing this, you terrible husband, and slowly wear away our entire apartment building. I know all these facts about you and there is no longer any use for them. What will I do with your license plate number, and where you hid the key outside so we'd never get locked out of this shaky building? What good does it do me, your pants size and the blue cheese preference for dressing? Who opens the door in the morning now, and takes the newspaper out of the plastic bag when it rains? I'll never get back all the hours I was nice to your parents. I nudge my cherry tomatoes to the side of the plate, bastard, but no one is waiting there with a fork to eat them. I miss you and I love you, bastard bastard bastard, come and clean the onion skins out of the crisper and trim back the tree so I can sleep at night.

The office women looked at him and shivered. They knew he was a bastard, they his big hands were born to slap with, they knew his face would never break into a smile when he looked at a woman. They knew what he was, they thanked God for their husbands, and still they shivered. Because they knew how he would fall on a woman in the night. Like a tree".

Marriage is supposed to be this huge great overwhelming passion, and that we're supposed to be looking for our soulmate, our other half, but it's actually pretty damn mundane. After all the excitement goes, what you really want to be left with is someone who is a really good person and who adores you, and who you can grow old with. I know the bastards are exciting, but they don't make a good husband material.

Look, I’m not going to apologise anymore … Yes, I want to protect you. You’re my wife. I’d fucking kill for you, Liv, and if that makes me a possessive bastard of a husband, then fine. That’s what I am. I’m not going to change either. I love you too goddamned much.

Penelope decided a crippled-up second lieutenant didn’t have much of a future in the military, as well as no longer fitting her criteria for dashing.  With encouragement from her, Bob Tregonne saw his opportunity and took it. Poor bastard. Last I heard they married and moved to Washington where Bob got a promotion and a new post. My guess, he won’t be the last of the woman’s fools, especially in Washington society. Probably be a long list of husbands and lovers in that bucket.

Was he a bad man or just a foolish one? He didn't feel bad to himself. As a husband he believed himself to be essentially good and loyal. It just wasn't written in a man's nature to be monogamous, that was all. And he owed something to his nature even when his nature was at odds with his desire, which was to stay at home and cherish his wife. It was his nature – all nature, the rule of nature – that was the bastard, not him.

To our husbands, the real cocky bastards.

You see that girl, she looks so happy right? But inside she's dying. She's hurt and tired. Tired of all the drama, tired of not being good enough, tired of life. But she doesn't want to look dramatic, weak or attention seeking so she keeps it all inside. Act's like everything's perfect but she cries at night, boy does she cry at night, so that everybody thinks she is the happiest person they know, that she has no problems and her life is perfect. Little do they know.

Do you recall telling Dr. Phillips during your appointment on February second of last year that you needed to be tested for sexually transmitted diseases because—let me make sure I get this correct here . . .” Taylor read out loud from her file, “Because, quote, ‘your weasel-dick husband slept with a skanky whore stripper and the cheating bastard didn’t use a rubber’?” Ms. Campbell shot up in her chair. “She actually wrote that down?” The jury tittered with amused laughter and sat up interestedly. Finally—things were starting to look a little more like Law & Order around here. “I take it that’s a yes?” Taylor asked.

Logan didn’t know which was worse – discovering your husband was a lying, adulterous bastard, or a dismembered corpse.

Because underneath her ex-husband’s charming, shining veneer lay a dark soul heavily marinated in ‘miserable bastard’.

“Maurency seems to be undergoing a remarkable and somewhat undesirable transformation.” “What?” “He’s changed hair color, put on some muscle and now seems to be cracking skulls rather than saying his prayers.” Mason rose and rounded the table. “In short, it looks like Linnet’s ideal hero might be turning into you.” [...] “He looks improved, but I still don’t like him.” “He’s you, you fool,” responded Oswald scathingly.

As you can see,” Daisy said, “one glass is filled with soap water, one with clear, and one with blue laundry water. The other, of course, is empty. The glasses will predict what kind of man you will marry.” They watched as Evie felt carefully for one of the glasses. Dipping her finger into the soap water, Evie waited for her blindfold to be drawn off, and viewed the results with chagrin, while the other girls erupted with giggles. “Choosing the soap water means she will marry a poor man,” Daisy explained. Wiping off her fingers, Evie exclaimed good-naturedly, “I s-suppose the fact that I’m going to be m-married at all is a good thing.” The next girl in line waited with an expectant smile as she was blindfolded, and the glasses were repositioned. She felt for the vessels, nearly overturning one, and dipped her fingers into the blue water. Upon viewing her choice, she seemed quite pleased. “The blue water means she’s going to marry a noted author,” Daisy told Lillian. “You try next!” Lillian gaveher a speaking glance. “You don’t really believe in this, do you?” “Oh, don’t be cynical—have some fun!” Daisy took the blindfold and rose on her toes to tie it firmly around Lillian’s head. Bereft of sight, Lillian allowed herself to be guided to the table. She grinned at the encouraging cries of the young women around her. There was the sound of the glasses being moved in front of her, and she waited with her hands half raised in the air. “What happens if I pick the empty glass?” she asked. Evie’s voice came near her ear. “You die a sp-spinster!” she said, and everyone laughed. “No lifting the glasses to test their weight,” someone warned with a giggle. “You can’t avoid the empty glass, if it’s your fate!” “At the moment I want the empty glass,” Lillian replied, causing another round of laughter. Finding the smooth surface of a glass, she slid her fingers up the side and dipped them into the cool liquid. A general round of applause and cheering, and she asked, “Am I marrying an author, too?” “No, you chose the clear water,” Daisy said. “A rich, handsome husband is coming for you, dear!” “Oh, what a relief,” Lillian said flippantly, lowering the blindfold to peek over the edge. “Is it your turn now?” Her younger sister shook her head. “I was the first to try. I knocked over a glass twice in a row, and made a dreadful mess.” “What does that mean? That you won’t marry at all?” “It means that I’m clumsy,” Daisy replied cheerfully. “Other than that, who knows? Perhaps my fate has yet to be decided. The good news is that your husband seems to be on the way.” “If so, the bastard is late,” Lillian retorted, causing Daisy and Evie to laugh.

As we now learn, his marriage to Anne was never valid.’ Rafe rubs the crown of his head so that his red hair stands up in a tuft. ‘So as his union with Katherine was not valid either, he has never been married in his life. Twice a bridegroom yet never a husband – has it ever happened to a king before? Even in the Old Testament? Please God Mistress Seymour will go to work and give him a son. We cannot seem to keep an heir. The king’s daughter by Katherine, she is a bastard. His daughter by Anne, she is a bastard. Which leaves his son Richmond, who of course has always been a bastard.

All right, you little bastard,” Willy said. He should’ve been breathless with fright, but in that moment, his fear left him in a single exhalation. He couldn’t be a father. But he could still be a husband and keep it from going upstairs. “Come to Papa.

I don't have the slightest desire to wear a tux and condemn myself to one woman for the rest of my life. Something happens to couples after they walk down the aisle. They change. At least I'm honest about it. It saves one poor woman from being stuck in bed home alone, wondering where her husband is at night and what he's shoving his dick into. When that happens, you end up with bastards like me walking around.

Agha, did you hear what Mullah Nasruddin did when his daughter came home and complained that her husband had beaten her?” I could feel him smiling in the dark and a smile of my own formed on my face. There wasn’t an Afghan in the world who didn’t know at least a few jokes about the bumbling mullah. “What?” “He beat her too, then sent her back to tell the husband that Mullah was no fool: If the bastard was going to beat his daughter, then Mullah would beat his wife in return.

Finally,” the other man sighed impatiently. “Really, the two of you are quite tiresome. First, she shows up instead of you, then you come early. I told you midnight-can neither of you read? Nice frock, by the way,” he sneered, turning to stomp toward the door. “You have a little over six hours until midnight. Enjoy them. The shall be the last you have together.” “Bastard,” Charlie hissed as the door closed behind him, then turned to look down at Radcliffe with concern. “Are you all right?” “Aye,” Radcliffe sighed, sitting up with her help and peering around, his hand moving automatically to rub his aching temple. “Mayhap you should stay lying down for a bit,” Charlie murmured anxiously, but he shook his head and forced himself to his feet where he swayed woozily. “I do not have that luxury. I have to figure out a way to get us out of here.” “I shall do that, you just rest,” she insisted, taking his arm to steady him. “Nay. I-“ “Dammit Radcliffe, I am wearing the breeches now. Sit down before you fall down,” she snapped. “You are wearing the breeches? What the devil is that supposed to mean?” “Whatever you want it to, now just sit down.” Charlie gave her husband a gentle push that made him drop weakly onto the foot of the bed.

January 1787 On the day we arrived at Condorcet’s residence, I admired a portrait in the hall, my fingers itching to reproduce it in a sketch. “Who is this darling little girl? A relation of yours?” Unexpectedly, the question made my new husband cringe. “In a way.” His reaction made my stomach knot. Was this a bastard daughter? Given our arrangement, it wasn’t my right to know, but my voice was sharp. “In what way?” He glanced at me warily. “My mother was a good woman. A loving mother . . . but she kept me in dresses almost until the age of eight. Years after other boys were breeched and began to attend school. That portrait is not a girl. It’s me. You can, perhaps, easily imagine the cruel laughter and mockery of other boys that I endured.” Sensing a lingering pain, I took the liberty of reaching for his hand. “We should be rid of this portrait if it humiliates you.” “No, it educates me,” he said, squeezing my fingers. “That’s a good thing. The experience taught me the

Get out! Get out of my parlor! Out! Out! Out! You bastard, let go of the goddamned door and GET OUT!’ That was when he slapped her. It was a flat, almost unimportant sound. The grandfather clock did not fly into outraged dust at the sound, but went on ticking just as it had ever since it was set going. The furniture did not groan. But Carla’s raging words were cut off as if amputated with a scalpel. She fell on her knees and the door swung all the way open to bang softly against a high-backed Victorian chair with a hand-embroidered slipcover. ‘No, oh no,’ Frannie said in a hurt little voice. Carla pressed a hand to her cheek and stared up at her husband. ‘You have had that coming for ten years or better,’ Peter remarked. His voice had a slight unsteadiness in it. ‘I always told myself I didn’t do it because I don’t hold with hitting women. I still don’t. But when a person – man or woman – turns into a dog and begins to bite, someone has to shy it off. I only wish, Carla, I’d had the guts to do it sooner. ‘Twould have hurt us both less.’ ‘Daddy –

Don’t cry Meg. It’s not that bad.” “It’s not that bad? Ha! I’m thirty years old, with two black eyes, a swollen nose, a big, honking, yellow knot on my forehead, and the haircut from hell. As if that isn’t enough, I had a transvestite in my bed this morning, my husband is a lying, cheating, cradle robbing, bastard, who at some point slept with my best friend.” Jack scooted over to the middle of the seat, and stopped listening to his head and wrapped his arms around her. Big mistake! From inside, four faces were pressed to the window. “My last orgasm-with a partner- was…hell I can’t remember when! I frequently knock myself out for entertainment purposes, I have little boobs, big feet, squishy panties, nosy neighbors and demon possessed fish. God hates me!” Jack held her tighter. “I have frequent flyer miles at the hospital. I fed my husband marijuana Ex-lax brownies and shoved a marble up his butt.” Jack pulled away to look at her and she was serious. And crying. Big, sad, alligator tears that made his heart swell. “My mother is a holy rolling, Catholic Dr. Ruth, complete with condoms and Rosary beads. I write about relationships and sex, both of which I suck at and I hired a Private Investigator to pimp me out.” Jack burst out laughing and she pushed him away and swatted his shoulder. “And now you’re laughing at me. Could things get any worse?

With a scowl, he turned from the window, but it was too late. The sight of Lady Celia crossing the courtyard dressed in some rich fabric had already stirred his blood. She never wore such fetching clothes; generally her lithe figure was shrouded in smocks to protect her workaday gowns from powder smudges while she practiced her target shooting. But this morning, in that lemon-colored gown, with her hair finely arranged and a jeweled bracelet on her delicate wrist, she was summer on a dreary winter day, sunshine in the bleak of night, music in the still silence of a deserted concert hall. And he was a fool. "I can see how you might find her maddening," Masters said in a low voice. Jackson stiffened. "Your wife?" he said, deliberately being obtuse. "Lady Celia." Hell and blazes. He'd obviously let his feelings show. He'd spent his childhood learning to keep them hidden so the other children wouldn't see how their epithets wounded him, and he'd refined that talent as an investigator who knew the value of an unemotional demeanor. He drew on that talent as he faced the barrister. "Anyone would find her maddening. She's reckless and spoiled and liable to give her husband grief at every turn." When she wasn't tempting him to madness. Masters raised an eyebrow. "Yet you often watch her. Have you any interest there?" Jackson forced a shrug. "Certainly not. You'll have to find another way to inherit your new bride's fortune." He'd hoped to prick Masters's pride and thus change the subject, but Masters laughed. "You, marry my sister-in-law? That, I'd like to see. Aside from the fact that her grandmother would never approve, Lady Celia hates you." She did indeed. The chit had taken an instant dislike to him when he'd interfered in an impromptu shooting match she'd been participating in with her brother and his friends at a public park. That should have set him on his guard right then. A pity it hadn't. Because even if she didn't despise him and weren't miles above him in rank, she'd never make him a good wife. She was young and indulged, not the sort of female to make do on a Bow Street Runner's salary. But she'll be an heiress once she marries. He gritted his teeth. That only made matters worse. She would assume he was marrying her for her inheritance. So would everyone else. And his pride chafed at that. Dirty bastard. Son of shame. Whoreson. Love-brat. He'd been called them all as a boy. Later, as he'd moved up at Bow Street, those who resented his rapid advancement had called him a baseborn upstart. He wasn't about to add money-grubbing fortune hunter to the list. "Besides," Masters went on, "you may not realize this, since you haven't been around much these past few weeks, but Minerva claims that Celia has her eye on three very eligible potential suitors." Jackson's startled gaze shot to him. Suitors? The word who was on his lips when the door opened and Stoneville entered. The rest of the family followed, leaving Jackson to force a smile and exchange pleasantries as they settled into seats about the table, but his mind kept running over Masters's words. Lady Celia had suitors. Eligible ones. Good-that was good. He needn't worry about himself around her anymore. She was now out of his reach, thank God. Not that she was ever in his reach, but- "Have you got any news?" Stoneville asked. Jackson started. "Yes." He took a steadying breath and forced his mine to the matter at hand.

Gary Cooper called to invite me to a dinner party he was giving for Clark Gable at his house. When I accepted and he asked if I would mind picking up Barbara Stanwyck, I was delighted. I had always thought she was one of the greatest. The Lady Eve and Double Indemnity are two of my favorite films and feature two of the many terrific performances she gave through the years. I arrived at her door promptly at 6:30 P.M., a huge bouquet of pink peonies in hand. The maid said she would be right down, took the flowers, and offered me a glass of champagne. Barbara came down a few minutes later, looking terrific in something silver and slinky. She carried on about the flowers as the maid brought them in and joined me for some champagne. I was anxious to get things off to a good start with the right kind of small talk, but unfortunately I was out of touch with the latest gossip. I asked how and where her husband was. An expletive told me how she felt about her husband: “That son of a bitch ran off with some kraut starlet.” As I struggled to pull my foot out of my mouth, she started to laugh and said, “Don’t worry about it, baby, he’s not worth sweating over,” and the rest of the evening went like gangbusters. We arrived at 7:30 on the dot and were met at the door by Rocky, Mrs. Gary Cooper, who hugged Barbara and said, “He’s going to be so glad to see you.” Cooper and Stanwyck had made a couple of great films together, Meet John Doe and Ball of Fire, the latter for Sam Goldwyn, whom she liked even though she referred to him as “that tough old bastard.” Rocky sent Barbara out to the garden to see Coop, took my arm, and showed me around their lovely home. As we walked into the garden, I spotted him laughing with Barbara. Rocky took me over to meet him. He was tall, lean, warm, and friendly. The thing I remember most about him is the twinkle in his deep blue eyes, which were framed by thick dark lashes. He was a movie star.

Tell me,” Zachary said softly, “what kind of man would ask his best friend to marry his wife after he died? And what kind of man would inspire two seemingly sensible people to agree to such a damned stupid plan?” The man's gray eyes surveyed him in a measuring stare. “A better man than you or I will ever be.” Zachary couldn't stop himself from sneering. “It seems that Lady Holland's paragon of a husband wants to control her from the grave.” “He was trying to protect her,” Ravenhill said without apparent heat, “from men like you.” The bastard's calmness infuriated Zachary. Ravenhill was so damned confident, as if he had already won a competition that Zachary hadn't even known about until it was over. “You think she'll go through with it, don't you?” Zachary muttered resentfully. “You think she'll sacrifice the rest of her life simply because George Taylor asked it of her.” “Yes, that's what I think,” came Ravenhill's cool reply. “And if you knew her better, you'd have no doubt of it.” Why? Zachary wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to voice the painful question. Why was it a foregone conclusion that she would go through with her promise? Had she loved George Taylor so much that he could influence her even in death? Or was it simply a matter of honor? Could her sense of duty and moral obligation really impel her to marry a man she didn't love? “I warn you,” Ravenhill said softly, “if you hurt or distress Lady Holland in any way, you'll answer to me.” “All this concern for her welfare is touching. A few years late in coming, isn't it?” The comment seemed to rattle Ravenhill's composure. Zachary felt a stab of triumph as he saw the man flush slightly. “I've made mistakes,” Ravenhill acknowledged curtly. “I have as many faults as the next man, and I found the prospect of filling George Taylor's shoes damned intimidating. Anyone would.” “Then what made you come back?” Zachary muttered, wishing there were some way to forcibly transport the man back across the Channel. “The thought that Lady Holland and her daughter might need me in some way.” “They don't. They have me.” The lines had been drawn. They might as well have been generals of opposing armies, facing each other across a battlefield. Ravenhill's thin, aristocratic mouth curved in a contemptuous smile. “You're that last thing they need,” he said. “I suspect even you know that.

Sebastian encountered Cam in the hallway outside the reading room. “Where is he?” he demanded without preamble. Stopping before him with an expressionless face, Cam said shortly, “He’s gone.” “Why didn’t you follow him?” White-hot fury blazed in Sebastian’s eyes. This news, added to the frustration of his vow of celibacy, was the last straw. Cam, who had been exposed to years of Ivo Jenner’s volcanic temper, remained unruffled. “It was unnecessary in my judgment,” he said. “He won’t return.” “I don’t pay you to act on your own damned judgment. I pay you to act on mine! You should have dragged him here by the throat and then let me decide what was to be done with the bastard.” Cam remained silent, sliding a quick, subtle glance at Evie, who was inwardly relieved by the turn of events. They were both aware that had Cam brought Bullard back to the club, there was a distinct possibility that Sebastian might actually have killed him— and the last thing Evie wanted was a murder charge on her husband’s head. “I want him found,” Sebastian said vehemently, pacing back and forth across the reading room. “I want at least two men hired to look for him day and night until he is brought to me. I swear he’ll serve as an example to anyone who even thinks of lifting a finger against my wife.” He raised his arm and pointed to the doorway. “Bring me a list of names within the hour. The best detectives available— private ones. I don’t want some idiot from the New Police, who’ll foul this up as they do everything else. Go.” Though Cam undoubtedly had a few opinions to offer on the matter, he kept them to himself. “Yes, my lord.” He left the room at once, while Sebastian glared after him. Seeking to calm his seething temper, Evie ventured, “There is no need to take your anger out on Cam. He—” “Don’t even try to excuse him,” Sebastian said darkly. “You and I both know that he could have caught that damned gutter rat had he wanted to. And I’ll be damned if I’ll tolerate your calling him by his first name— he is not your brother, nor is he a friend. He’s an employee, and you’ll refer to him as ‘Mr. Rohan’ from now on.” “He is my friend,” Evie replied in outrage. “He has been for years!” “Married women don’t have friendships with young unmarried men.” “Y-you dare to insult my honor with the implication that… that…” Evie could hardly speak for the multitude of protests that jammed inside her. “I’ve done nothing to merit such a lack of tr-tr-trust!” “I trust you. It’s everyone else that I hold in suspicion.

She thinks no one would ever marry ‘a reckless society miss’ and a ‘troublemaker.’” He winced to hear his own words thrown back at him. Celia was all that…and so much more. Not that he dared tell her. Bad enough that he’d revealed too much of how he felt yesterday. For now, she could chalk it up to mere desire. If he started paying her compliments, she might guess how far his feelings went, and that wouldn’t do. So he tempered his remarks. “Your grandmother is merely worried that you will waste yourself on some man who doesn’t deserve you.” Like a bastard Bow Street Runner. “I suspect that if you tell her you’re going to marry the duke, she won’t be a bit surprised. And she certainly won’t agree to rescind the ultimatum, now that she’s finally achieved what she wanted.” “Yes, I’ve come to that conclusion myself. And besides…well…it wouldn’t be fair to involve him in such a plot behind his back when he’s a genuinely nice man offering marriage. If word got out that he had offered and I’d accepted, only to turn him down, people would assume I’d done it because of the madness in his family. That would just be cruel.” Now that Jackson knew she wasn’t actually going to marry the duke, he could be open-minded. “It certainly wouldn’t be kind,” he agreed. “But I’d be more worried that if word got out, you’d be painted as the worst sort of jilt.” She shrugged that off. “I wouldn’t care, as long as it freed me from Gran’s ultimatum.” It took him a moment to digest that. “So you lied when you said at our first discussion of your suitors that you had an interest in marriage?” “Of course I didn’t lie.” Her cheeks pinkened again. “But I want to marry for love, and not because Gran has decided I’m taking too long at it. I want my husband to genuinely care for me.” Her voice shook a little. “And not just my fortune.” She cut him a sidelong glance. “Or my connections.” He stiffened in the saddle. “I understand.” Oh yes, he understood all right. Any overtures he made would be construed as mercenary. Her grandmother had made sure of that by telling her of his aspirations. Not that it mattered. If he married her, he risked watching her lose everything. A Chief Magistrate made quite a lofty sum for someone of Jackson’s station, but for someone of hers? It was nothing. Less than nothing. “So what do you plan to do?” he asked. “About your grandmother’s ultimatum, I mean.” She shook her head. “If presenting her with an offer and begging her forbearance didn’t work, my original plan was just to marry whichever of the three gentlemen had offered.” “And now?” “I can’t bring myself to do it.” He stopped clenching the reins. “Well, that’s something then.” “So I find myself back where I started. I suppose I shall have to drum up some more suitors.” She slanted a glance at him. “Any ideas?

I'm investigating Lady Celia's potential suitors." "Oh," she said in a small voice. He glanced at her, surprised to find her looking stricken. "What's wrong?" "I didn't know she had suitors." "Of course she has suitors." Not any he could approve of, but he wasn't about to mention that to his aunt. "I'm sure you read about her grandmother's ultimatum in those reports you transcribed. She has to marry, and soon, too." "I know. But I was rather hoping...I mean, with you there so often and her being an unconventional sort..." When he cast her a quizzical look, she went on more forcefully, "There's no reason you couldn't offer for her." He nearly choked on his bread. "Are you out of your mind?" "She needs a husband. You need a wife. Why not her?" "Because marquess's daughters don't marry bastards, for one thing." The coarse word made her flinch. "You're still from a perfectly respectable family, no matter the circumstances of your birth." She eyed him with a sudden gleam in her eye. "And I notice you didn't say you weren't interested." Hell. He stopped up from gravy with his bread. "I'm not interested." "I'm not saying you have to be in love with her. That would perhaps be asking too much at this point, but if you courted her, in time-" "I would fall in love? With Lady Celia? That isn't possible." "Why not?" Because what he felt for Celia Sharpe was lust, pure and simple. He didn't even know if he wanted to fall in love. It was all fine and well for the Sharpes, who could love where they pleased, but for people like him and his mother, love was an impossible luxury...or a tragedy in the making. That's why he couldn't let his desire for Lady Celia overcome his reason. His hunger for her might be more powerful than he cared to admit, but he'd controlled it until now, and he would get the best of it in time. He had to. She was determined to marry someone else. His aunt was watching him with a hooded gaze. "I hear she's somewhat pretty." Hell and blazes, she wouldn't let this go. "You hear? From whom?" "Your clerk. He saw her when the family came in to the office one time. He's told me about all the Sharpes, how they depend on you and admire you." He snorted. "I see my clerk has been doing it up brown." "So she's not pretty?" "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever-" At her raised eyebrow, he scowled. "Too beautiful for the likes of me. And of far too high a consequence." "Her grandmother is a brewer. Her family has been covered in scandal for years. And they're grateful to you for all you've done so far. They might be grateful enough to countenance your suit." "You don't know the Sharpes." "Oh, so they're too high and mighty? Treat you like a servant?" "No," he bit out. "But..." "By my calculations, there's two months left before she has to marry. If she's had no offers, she might be getting desperate enough to-" "Settle for a bastard?" "Ignore the difference in your stations." She seized his arm. "Don't you see, my boy? Here's your chance. You're on the verge of becoming Chief Magistrate. That would hold some weight with her.

Jackson gaped at her, wondering how this had all turned so terrible wrong. But he knew how. The woman was clearly daft. Bedlam-witted. And trying to drive him in the same direction. "You can't be serious. Since when do you know anything about investigating people?" She planted her hands on her hips. "You won't do it, so I must." God save him, she was the most infuriating, maddening-"How do you propose to manage that?" She shrugged. "Ask them questions, I suppose. The house party for Oliver's birthday is next week. Lord Devonmont is already coming, and it will be easy to convince Gran to invite my other two. Once they're here, I could try sneaking into their rooms and listening in on their conversations or perhaps bribing their servants-" "You've lost your bloody mind," he hissed. Only after she lifted an eyebrow did he realize he'd cursed so foully in front of her. But the woman would turn a sane man into a blithering idiot! The thought of her wandering in and out of men's bedchambers, risking her virtue and her reputation, made his blood run cold. "You don't seem to understand," she said in a clipped tone, as if speaking to a child. "I have to catch a husband somehow. I need help, and I've nowhere else to turn. Minerva is rarely here, and Gran's matchmaking efforts are as subtle as a sledgehammer. And even if my brothers and their wives could do that sort of work, they're preoccupied with their own affairs. That leaves you, who seem to think that suitors drop from the skies at my whim. If I can't even entice you to help me for money, then I'll have to manage on my own." Turning on her heel, she headed for the door. Hell and blazes, she was liable to attempt such an idiotic thing, too. She had some fool notion she was invincible. That's why she spent her time shooting at targets with her brother's friends, blithely unconcerned that her rifle might misfire or a stray bullet hit her by mistake. The wench did as she pleased, and the men in her family let her. Someone had to curb her insanity, and it looked as if it would have to be him. "All right!" he called out. "I'll do it." She halted but didn't turn around. "You'll find out what I need in order to snag one of my choices as a husband?" "Yes." "Even if it means being a trifle underhanded?" He gritted his teeth. This would be pure torture. The underhandedness didn't bother him; he'd be as underhanded as necessary to get rid of those damned suitors. But he'd have to be around the too-tempting wench a great deal, if only to make sure the bastards didn't compromise her. Well, he'd just have to find something to send her running the other way. She wanted facts? By thunder, he'd give her enough damning facts to blacken her suitors thoroughly. Then what? If you know of some eligible gentleman you can strong-arm into courting me, then by all means, tell me. I'm open to suggestions. All right, so he had no one to suggest. But he couldn't let her marry any of her ridiculous choices. They would make her miserable-he was sure of it. He must make her see that she was courting disaster. Then he'd find someone more eligible for her. Somehow. She faced him. "Well?" "Yes," he said, suppressing a curse. "I'll do whatever you want." A disbelieving laugh escaped her. "That I'd like to see." When he scowled, she added hastily, "But thank you. Truly. And I'm happy to pay you extra for your efforts, as I said." He stiffened. "No need." "Nonsense," she said firmly. "It will be worth it to have your discretion." His scowl deepened. "My clients always have my discretion.

Saudi ambassador in 2011. Is this payback? I don’t know. So they can’t be ruled out. But the National Counterterrorism Center is working on the problem as we speak.” “Look, I’m meeting with the Director of National Intelligence. He’ll want some details. He’ll also want to know how this was possible. How could this happen?” “That’s what I intend to find out.” “Then again,” O’Donoghue said, shaking his head, “is it possible there’s a problem in our ranks?” Meyerstein saw where this was going. “I hear what you’re saying.” O’Donoghue shrugged. “Just playing devil’s advocate.” “I agree we can’t discount such a possibility.” The Director leaned back in his seat and stared at her. “I’m intrigued you think a foreign government might be behind this. What’s your rationale?” “Luntz’s area of expertise makes him valuable to any government. But the fact that he specifically asked to speak to the FBI so urgently makes me think something else is afoot—and that’s why they want to silence him.” O’Donoghue nodded. “Taken from right under our noses. Very audacious. And dangerous.” Meyerstein nodded. “Tell me more about Connelly. Was he new?” “Just a few months with us, sir. Was based in Seattle for a couple of years before being posted here.” “Married?” “Young wife, two kids.” O’Donoghue turned and stared out of his window over the Washington skyline. “I want the bastards who did this, Martha. You have whatever resources you want.” “Sir, my team will also be alive to the possibility another story is playing out. I’m of course talking about national security. We can’t rule that out.” Meyerstein got up out of her seat. “Oh, Martha?” he said. “Yes, sir?” “Let’s do this right. And let’s nail those responsible.” “Count on it, sir.” Meyerstein walked out of the office and took the elevator down two floors to where Roy Stamper was standing waiting for her, unsmiling. He was wearing his customary navy suit, white shirt, navy silk tie, and highly polished black leather shoes. He had been with the FBI since he was headhunted after graduating from Duke, coming top of his class at law school. They had both started training at the FBI’s academy at Quantico at the same time. He wasn’t a great mixer. Never had been. He was quiet, but unlike her errant husband, he was a great family man. Her own father, despite being a workaholic like her, was the same, trying to take time out of his punishing schedule to meet her mother for lunch or supper. Her father was devoted to her mother. He liked being with her. He liked being around her. They looked relaxed in each other’s company. Martha could see that. She’d never felt that with her own husband. He’d never wanted to share a glass of wine with her when

First of all, Mr. Cheating Bastard, this is no time to be insulting my car-care abilities, and secondly, she doesn't want to talk to you." He hung his head. "It is true, I have been a bad husband, a stupid man, and a careless friend, but I love my wife and I must talk to her." He really looked dreadful, which was satisfying. I shook my head. "Did you just arrive?" He nodded. "Then you haven't unpacked yet, which will save you some time. Go back to Italy, Berto, back to your little girlfriend." "She is gone. It is over." I switched over to disgusted frown. "Well. Maggie is not a consolation prize, shithead. She's the trophy, the Pulitzer, the Nobel. The fact that your girlfriend dumped you means nothing. Go home.

When Konstantin had first married Oksana, I’d been excited about getting a sister-in-law, but I should’ve known Konstantin would never allow us to be close. His constant abuse slowly broke her down until she was a ghost of who she’d once been. The drugs took care of the rest. “I hope your new husband isn’t like your brother, but if he is, do whatever you have to do to survive it, and if you get the chance to run, take it, Katya. Run and get as far away from these bastards as you can.

To be honest, I was increasingly convinced that weddings were just an elaborate cycle of vengeance that had gotten really out of hand. Some pair of selfish bastards had forced their friends to come to a tedious party two thousand years ago, and their selfish bastard friends had decided to pay them back by forcing them to come to tedious party, and then some wholly independent group of selfish bastards had built and industry around it and here we were.

But then it occurred to me, I could’ve asked. Actually, I could’ve just told you. So I’m telling you now, Rex. I want you to be my husband. I want to be your wife. I want to have a life with you, children, dogs, cats. Maybe some chickens or a fish. No peacocks. They’re bastards.

You ungrateful little bitch!’ Isobel exploded. ‘I treated you like a sister. I took you under my wing, wasted my time and money trying to raise you out of your miserable little life with your fat wimp of a husband and your ugly brat of a child. I should have known better. You’re nothing. Just another coconut bastard. I wish you unluck for the rest of your pathetic life.

I will still help ye, lass,” he said and winced at the desperate note in his voice. Firmer, he said, “Did ye hear me, Malina? I said I will keep my word to you.” Determined to face her wrath like the warrior he was, he caught her arm. She spun around, and to his dismay, tears stained her cheeks. She swatted at them and wouldn’t look him in the eye. His stomach contracted with regret. Och, he’d never meant to make her weep. He shouldna have pretended ire with her, even if it meant angering Steafan. “Malina—” Her shiny eyes flashed. “Don’t you call me that ever again! You bastard!” He nearly recoiled from the whip of her anger, but he’d faced enough Gunn and MacKay to stand his ground against a wee, fiery woman. “Haud your wheesht, wife,” he growled as he pulled her to him. She’d draw the attention of the whole village, and the last thing he wanted were more witnesses to the debacle he’d landed himself in. Come to think of it, he was not some repentant mutt who ought to be whimpering for his sins. He didn’t regret keeping her and her unborn bairn safe from Steafan’s stocks tonight. He didn’t regret taking full and permanent responsibility for a woman with child lost in a strange land. He didn’t exactly expect her thanks, but he didn’t appreciate his bride calling him a bastard on their wedding night, either. “I willna have ye maligning me for the whole of Ackergill to hear.” “Oh, you willna, will you? And just how do you plan to stop me? Will you dole out your husbandly discipline and make your uncle proud?” “Och, woman. I am not your enemy.” He darted a glance around the road to make sure no one was gawking at them. “You’re not my friend, either, Darcy Keith,” she said in a respectable volume, though the sparks in her eyes suggested she’d prefer yelling at him some more. “You betrayed me. You told me I had to meet the laird in order to spend the night here. You made it sound like a formality. You didn’t say anything about ending up married. Married! Damn it, Darcy.

Ask away,” Furi said, realizing they were almost to his exit. “Are you in trouble?” Furi turned; looking sharply at Syn. Furi probably wasn’t expecting that to be his first question, but that was the most important issue as far as Syn was concerned. He knew Furi wasn't involved in Starman’s murder, so he didn’t need to ask about that. “Before I left the pub tonight, you asked me if someone had sent me and if I was working for him. Were you talking about your husband?” “Yes,” Furi said roughly. “He hasn’t seen or heard from me in almost a year. He might’ve thought I was dead.” He shrugged. “I finally had him served with divorce papers, which means he now knows my address. He and his brother will come for me, guaranteed. Even if it’s only to serve up one more ass whipping before he signs the papers.” Syn heard the squeaking sound his steering wheel was making as he tightened his fists and squeezed the leather. He was getting angry, angrier than he’d been in a long time. The thought of someone harming the man beside him; touching even one lock of gorgeous hair on his head made Syn want to shoot something. He took a deep breath and tried to follow the directions Furi was giving him. He pulled up to a small house on the corner in a quiet neighborhood. “This is your house?” Syn asked. “Um. No, I rent the small basement apartment. It’s clean and safe,” Furi said quietly. Syn discreetly looked around the street. He didn’t want to scare Furi, but Syn was at defcon 3 now that he knew some bastard might want to hurt his man. My man. Putting the cart before the horse again. He didn’t want to push Furi, didn’t want to make him feel inferior or weak, but the urge to protect was there, and it was powerful. Furi was strong, he’d experienced the man’s force a couple times, but everyone needed help sometimes. Syn was just the man to help. That’s what he was good at, damn good at.

I hope this means you’re getting a new lab?” “I don’t know, T. I gotta run, we’ve got Aiden’s autopsy done and I need to write up some notes. By the way, tell Baldwin the crime scene techs found Aiden’s clothes in a bin behind the McDonald’s on West End. We’ll get that sent to his lab, if he’d like.” Baldwin said, “Yes, please, Sam. Did you find an ID?” “There was a wallet and a passport, both with ID in the name of Jasper Lohan. High-end stuff, they look legitimate.” “Jasper Lohan. I don’t recognize that name for him. No wonder we lost him in St. Louis. Cunning bastard.” He wrote a quick note, then said, “Okay. Thanks.” They hung up with promises to have dinner over the weekend. The banality of the arrangements made Taylor long for some peace and quiet, reminded her that she wasn’t like everyone else. Making plans was a luxury, a formality. In most cases, either she or Sam, or Baldwin, or Sam’s husband Simon, would be called to work a case. They lived in twenty-four-hour-a-day jobs, their lives cordoned off at the whim of a criminal.