" You, she’d said, when he’d asked what she felt.

His fingers slid forward, perhaps an inch, just enough so that his steadying grip became something closer to an embrace. Just enough to pull her against him, if he dared.

You, she’d said.

He wanted more.

You

He was not a romantic man, or at least he hadn’t thought so. But the moment had become a poem, the wind whispering its lines as the water rose and fell in mysterious meter.

And if the world beneath his feet had become a sonnet, then she was the sublime. "

― Julia Quinn , The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys, #3)