Prologue

Paris, France

12 November 1918

Handsome men always made for the most delicious dreams. Even more divine when they were real.

Head fuzzy and limbs still weighted from remnants of sleep, Esme Fox snuggled into the soft pillow as her mind lingered on

the man. There had been crowds all around, music playing, bells ringing, and then without warning the press of bodies parted

and there he stood. Buffed and pressed in his army uniform, hat tilted dashingly to the side, and a grin that stopped her

heart in its tracks. She had no choice but to sway straight up to him and kiss him.

Curling her legs under the bedsheets—odd that her nightgown wasn't tangled as it usually was—her mind flipped to a quiet booth tucked in the back of a pub. Holding hands, her fingers lacing perfectly with his. Quiet laughter over their shared sense of spiky humor, her giggling as he pulled her from the depths of her hidden self. Talking as if their souls had been waiting to meet and share a lifetime's worth of hopes and dreams of becoming more than what their pasts dictated. A whispered confession of wanting to fall in love, to see what they could make of it. Her question of why not find out?

A slow throbbing began to drum through her head, distorting the images. A large room with rows of benches and lovely windows

of stained glass. A man in a long black frock standing with them. He held a book of some kind and droned on while she lost

herself in a pair of magnificent brown eyes that gazed at her as if she were the sun and stars.

She pressed her hand to her forehead as the throbbing paraded around her skull.

The man—the handsome one, not the black-frocked one—had smiled at her, kissed her until she melted against him. Happiness

had danced through her. Let's see what we can make of this.

Then he was holding a key and fitting it into a door lock as she urged him to hurry while cradling two bottles in her arms.

Then... What? The smarting pain blocked out all coherent thought. She tugged her hand free of the blanket and rubbed her

temple. Cool metal brushed against her brow. What was that?

Easing upright, Esme blinked groggily at the unfamiliar ring on her finger, then promptly rolled over and vomited a rousing

night's worth of champagne into a silver bucket. It had been an excellent vintage, but the exquisite taste was soured upon

reemergence. She groped for a linen napkin from the bedside table and patted her mouth before draping it discreetly over the

bucket. She blinked several more times and passed a hand—not the one with the band—over her eyes to dislodge the gathered

grit.

Bright yellow light poured through the window in blindingly irritating radiance. It wasn't like her to keep the blackout curtains open. But wait, there were no more Germans. Well, that was not to say that Germans didn't exist, because they certainly did, but there was something about them going home. What was it? The dull ache behind her eyes wrapped around the front of her head as her mind revolted against being bullied into coherent thought.

She glanced around the room, which seemed to tilt oddly to the left. She tipped her head to the side to accommodate. It was

a decent room with sturdy furnishings and watercolors hanging on the walls. There on the table, wadded between dinner plates—why

were there two?—was a flag of blue, red, and white. A single cotton stocking dangled over the back of one chair while its

mate fluttered from the bedpost. Her shoes had been kicked off near the door while her clothes were scattered about the floor

like delicate land mines. Well, that wasn't unusual—but the man's uniform hanging from the curtain rod certainly was.

Shifting in bed, she found him. He was stretched out on his stomach with his arms hooked under the pillow. Thick golden-brown

curls sprang wildly over his head. His face was turned away, making it difficult to suss out his looks, but going by the tanned

neck and white back stretched with taut muscles, he seemed a manly specimen indeed. Judging by the hint of bare, rounded flesh

visible just before the sheet had the audacity to cover him, her bedfellow was naked. A quick peek at herself beneath the

sheet confirmed she had joined him. Clearly the result of the excellent champagne.

How to break it to the poor fellow? My dear boy, while I do not recall the nuptials, our time together will be remembered fondly. Or perhaps, Your kisses were pure magic so it's best not to ruin them by making further plans. She nodded to the sleeping form with satisfaction. Yes, that explanation would do nicely.

Carefully slipping out of bed so as not to disturb him, she reached for her chemise and stopped cold as the sunlight glinted

off the gold ring. The one resting on the fourth finger of her left hand. Somewhere in the distance a tinny gramophone played

"Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag And Smile, Smile, Smile!" Her gaze skittered to the celebration flag on the table

and the champagne bottles rolled beneath.

Armistice Day. Yesterday the war had finally come to an end and all of Paris had erupted in celebration. There was singing,

dancing, music, drinking, and kissing. She held her trembling hand up to her face. The bold blighter of a wedding band was

still there. Perhaps too much kissing.

No, no, no!

She dressed faster than a matinee dancer between numbers, not caring that her blouse was missing two buttons or her hair tumbled

in a mess down her back. Rounding the bed on tiptoe, she peeked at the man—the word husband sent nerves skittering up her spine, and she had more than enough to deal with at present—still sleeping soundly. He had

a fine nose and full lips that were slightly parted to release soft breaths of air. Blond lashes rested against his cheek

into which a dimple curled.

Who are you?

A curl flopped across his forehead. For a second she had the exhilarating urge to flip the lock back in place, but a slight

stirring of his legs that shifted the bedsheet a tad lower stopped her.

She needed to leave. Now.

She wriggled off the ring and placed it on the bedside table next to a photograph of what could only be them in inebriated bliss and a marriage license signed by Esme Fox and Jasper Truitt.

Jasper Truitt, her hus— No! No, no, no!

She grabbed the photograph and bolted for the door. Before closing it, she dared one final peek at Jasper Truitt and sighed

in regret. A shame. He looked rather a dish.