Prologue

May 1816

My Dearest Imelda,

I haven't yet returned home. You might think me a fool for writing you so soon, but I simply couldn't let another day go by without thanking you for the last two weeks. I wanted to say so much more the night of my departure. I wanted to tell you how lovely you looked, and how your hair shone so much brighter than all of the other gathered ladies at Tabitha's. I wanted to claim every dance as my own. Most of all, I wanted to kiss you goodnight.

I know writing such things is unheard of, but I hope I'm right enough in my estimation that the glimmer there in your eyes before we were interrupted was welcoming of such things.

Two weeks doesn't seem hardly long enough to forge the bond that we did, but if I'm being terribly poetic, I have to admit it seems as if the stars aligned. Even as I sit here and compose this missive, I cannot help but envision your radiant smile amidst the grandeur of Florence. That very first night, your presence at the Count's soirée enchanted me beyond words.

Every day after was like a fever dream, I fear that I still have yet to wake from.

Is that too forward? I fear we've moved past that. The sight of you with that blush in your cheeks looking up at me as you were plagues me. I imagine the feel of your lips, the taste of them, far more often than can be considered healthy.

Perhaps fever dream isn't the right wording. It calls to mind the ailing and sickly, but I can think of no other descriptor to put in its place. If it is a fever dream it is of the very best kind.

Do you remember the night after the palazzo?

I'd never seen such a blue before that night. I'm sure your mother could tell you that I had eyes for no one but you that evening. I'm afraid that condition is one that stuck as well. No matter my best intentions, you haunt me. And, apparently, you make me bandy about phrases that sound good only just the moment before I put them to paper. You ensnare me. You bewitch me.

Permit me, if you please, to cherish our shared moments those two weeks until our paths intertwine once more.

And put me out of my misery by reassuring me that my estimation wascorrect.

Fondly,

Corin Langford

Dear Corin,

Your words, like a gentle breeze in a sun-kissed garden, fill my heart with joy andhope. You were right to think that such a glimmer existed. I know it's untoward of a ladyto admit such things, but I had hoped that that was your intention. I would not haverefused such an advance. How could I?

If you are too forward than I am equally, if not more, so. If our last night was thefirst time you imagined kissing me then you are well behind. That very first day I confessto have thought of it. And dreamed of it ever since.

I've always fancied myself to have a way with words. To meet someone who couldmake me forget them, even on the tip of my tongue, was an experience I don't think Ican…well, put into words. Those two weeks felt like so much more. They meant so muchmore. I have never shared so many of my dreams, my hopes, my innermost person withanother living being before, not even the old farm cat that I used to consider myconfidant.

Each letter from you is a treasure I hold dear, weaving dreams of our reunion.Anticipation dances within me as I await my return to your side. Is that conceited or tooheavy-handed?

You pen words with such eloquence and passion. You stir emotions within me thatI scarce ever dreamed to exist. As I read your letter each word resonated with the melodyof our shared moments, the words weaving a tapestry I didn't dare hope for.

Florence, for all of its splendor and majesty, feels incomplete in your absence.The streets, once alive with the magic of a new, foreign place, now seem devoid of allcharm, lacking the warmth of your presence. Yet, amidst all of this, your letters serve as alifeline, as a bridge to cover the chasm that separates us.

Ever yours,

Imelda

Dearest Imelda,

I feel a fool trying to match the wit and prose you speak with. Eloquence andpassion in my letters? The latter perhaps. As for arrogance or conceit, I could neveraccuse you of either such foul things. By my side is exactly where I want you to be. Iconfessed to you how stridently I have avoided any serious entanglements and all of mydear mother's greatest aspirations toward marriage for me…You are the first woman toever make me think that maybe her outlook on romance and union might not be the worstfate in the world.

Rereading that makes me seem pompous and like more of a cad than I'd like tothink that I am. I love women—that is to say that I love women in an abstract way. Ormaybe not abstract.

Lord, how, even over this great distance now between us, are you still managingto make me trip over my words?

I respect women, Imelda.

Although maybe you above most others of my acquaintance.

When I dared you to drink that brandy that night on the terrace, I expected you toback down. Most well-bred ladies would have. I'll confess that your doing so, and theway that you laughed after you did, only furthered my affection toward you. Not becauseI believe your claim that you thoroughly enjoyed the taste. I still believe you to be arotten liar on that front. But because of your determination to prove me wrong. Anodd thing to further my affection, I'll admit, but…

Every day, my thoughts drift to you, lingering in the memory of your grace andcharm. The way that you never failed to make me laugh and the riddles you wereconstantly trying to make me solve. Were you testing my intelligence or trying tovexme?

Though distance separates us now, know that my affection for you only continuesto grow.

As an aside…No, that last night was not the first I dreamed of kissing you. I'llconfess to many a night doing the same. I've just had to re-pen this letter at least amillion times on account of every other way I phased it came out far more than justforward and borderline scandalous.

Yours devotedly,

Corin

My Beloved Corin,

I've been quite beset with trying to figure out how one might love women in anabstract way. Your penned tongue-tied state is as endearing as it is amusing, I assureyou. I like to think that I, of all people, might make the great Corin Langford forget hisrenowned silver tongue.

I shall admit to no such heinous lies such as not loving the taste of brandy. Howwould you know? You were too busy laughing up your sleeve to pay any real attention.As for the riddles…I will admit to testing your intelligence there. I'll go a step further,even, and admit that I was, perhaps, trying to trip you up and find some flaw within you.You seemed quite…inhuman in many respects. Too good to be true.

I was trying to fight my growing affection for you, probably.

To avoid a scandal, as you mentioned in your last letter. Though now I admit Idream about that as well.

Ah, we are being frank. There was no probably about it. You frightened me. Youstill do, you know. I expected this flame to fade, not be fanned by the distance. I expectedthe distance to dull the spark between us, but it doesn't at all seem to be the case. Andthat frightens me as well.

You spoke, during our last dance, of showing me London. You spoke of paradingme about on your arm and I took that all in good fun. I tried not to imagine that therewas any such chance…and yet…now…

Tell me if it is only a dream, please.

The Florentine splendor seems…smaller without your presence in it. I wanderamidst it and feel like a shadow.

Eternally yours,

Imelda

Dearest Imelda,

I wish you wouldn't fight it. You would make me look the fool you know, ratherthan just occasionally sounding one in these letters. I do not want to frighten you. I wishfor nothing more than to do the opposite. Is it unmanly of me to admit that that factfrightens me?

All of that still holds true. I wasn't trying to talk my way into that kiss goodbye orany other rakish pastimes either. If you are a shadow, you are a beautiful one. If you are ashadow, you are mine. I feel you all the time, in the background of my day, laughing atquips that everyone around me misses, writing to me in the margins of books like you didthroughout those two weeks.

Don't tease me with talks of scandals. Or tempt me. However it is that I mean tophrase that I hardly know. You have the softest skin of anyone I've ever touched, did youknow that? I dream of making that blush stain your cheeks permanently, of what words ortouches might accomplish that, of—well, I digress.

The passage of time seems cruel in its slow march, yet it does nothing to dim theflame burning within me. I say admiration. I say affection. But those words seem pale.There is another, four letters and all the more frightening for it, that hangs heavy in mymind.

Consider me reformed.

My intention, upon your return to London, my dear Imelda, is not to simplyparade you about and show you the sights. My intention is to keep you on my arm. Myintention is to visit you at home and meet your four siblings and your father. My intentionis to court you.

I am being very blunt, forget frank, because I do not wish there to be anymisunderstanding between us.

I think of your chestnut-colored hair and the dimple in your right cheek. I thinkabout the way your hand fit so perfectly into mine and the freckles like constellationsacross the bridge of your nose.

I think of you, daily, Imelda.

Yours faithfully,

Corin

My Dearest Corin,

In the stillness of the Florentine nights, I find solace in the echoes of yourpromises.

I never much fancied being a kept woman.

That wording is wrong. I was going to continue on to say something to the effectthat if being kept meant being on your arm, it would be worth it, but I forgot theconnotation of the words until after I wrote them. I'm exercising great restraint as awriter, I'll have you know—in sending you my first draft of every letter raw and unedited.

It's too brash to say I would want to be a kept woman if it meant being yours, butLord help me if the temptation isn't there. To be even more brash, I suppose I couldrequest a short engagement. I imagine after we are married, kissing you whenever Idesire would be well within my right.

Each word penned by your hand breathes life into my longing heart. Thoughoceans may separate us, know that my love for you remains steadfast and true. I will saythat four-letter word if you fear it. If I am to be bold, I will be doubly so.

I will return home in the next two weeks.

Forever yours,

Imelda

Imelda had read and reread the letters inside of her briefcase so many times the words were imprinted upon her very mind. She had devoured them, both the ones sent to her and those that she had hurriedly copied before sending off. She had sent her first drafts, she had been honest in that, but she had needed to keep some record of what she had said. She always did.

But Corin never answered her last letter.

And she had spent the entirety of the rest of her trip in Florence and the time traveling back home thinking about it and wondering what might have kept him from doing so.

Corin had been a fantasy.

He had been every literary masterpiece rolled into one bound between the finest of leather and crafted by the most studious of hands, and Imelda—Imelda had wrapped herself in the memory of him ever since the night he had departed.

It was hardly academic for her to fall in love with a man she had only shared the presence of for two weeks. It was hardly intelligent to become so tied up in him. But…

The knocker of Old Laurel Manor was loud in the otherwise silent house, her whole body jumping as she tapped her pen idly against the empty page in front of her.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The heavy metal against the wood had her hastening to rise from her desk as she barely refrained from running her ink-smudged fingers down her face.

Corin.

God help her but she had to stop thinking about him.

Her mother and father had gone to call on the Iversons not but an hour before, and Hilda and Carrington were both out running errands for the house. That left only her to answer the door, though who would be calling midafternoon in the Lancashire countryside was beyond her.

"I'm coming!" she called out as the dreaded thud started again. "Just—"

Trying not to worry over the fact that she had no time to straighten the messy bun of her unruly hair or at least somewhat ready herself for being seen by another person.

"So sorry." She huffed as she threw open the front door, leaning on the doorjamb and offering the person on the other side of the wooden paneling a wide, apologetic smile.

One that slid right off of her face the moment that she recognized the dark brown curls and tawny gaze staring back at her.

"Corin!" Her shock melted into delight as he nodded, her body straightening off of the jamb and her skin tingling with that same fiery current that it had the month before when in his presence. "You're here!"

She hadn't been sure after the absence of his letter.

Oh, it was so difficult not to throw herself across that short distance and into his arms and—

"You…are here, aren't you?" she asked, her voice more hesitant as she noticed the marked lack of a smile on his face. For one brief moment, she was terrified that she might have stepped into some horrid nightmare.

"I am," Corin answered cordially.

Cordially.

Not passionately. Not with that crooked grin of his or the smirk that had almost made her forget grammatical rules.

Cordially.

She didn't understand how he could be cordial when the last time that they had seen one another, he'd dared push the rules of society so far. How he could be cordial when he had run the side of his hand along her thigh under the dim lighting of the theatre or brushed his thumb against the corner of her elbow so brazenly at dinner.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his tawny eyes pleading with her for understanding.

"Corin…"

"I had a speech planned," he cut her off brusquely. "I was going to ask you to tea and explain things. I was going to go about this with finesse. Slowly. But standing here, I cannot for the life of me remember the words I rehearsed. My dearest Imelda, I was going to say, I think—but now, in the face of things, that seems cruel and like a form of address I shouldn't be using. Imelda, alone, seems too cold. Miss Merrit, however…" He trailed off, wincing as he did.

And Imelda wanted to shut the door in his face there and then to stop him from what he had to say next. To stop herself from hearing it. As it was, her knuckles blanched white from the hold she still had on the door, her spine tense.

"I wanted to reach you before the papers did. To tell you of my betrothal before you were forced to read it—"

As it turned out, that was all she had needed to hear.

There was more. She knew. She heard him talking, but the words faded as she focused on those that broke her heart so fully in her chest, and the rest of the world faded with it.

All the colors she had seen since meeting him, all the joie de vivre seemed to fade into simpler shades of black and white.

And she closed the door.

On Corin Langford and his explanation. On the life she had allowed herself to imagine and the love she had thought she felt.

She closed the door. And Corin didn't knock again.