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389 pages, Kindle Edition
First published December 27, 2011








He tasted dark and sweet as ever; kissing him was like falling through time, endlessly, blissfully. There was only him.

She held her body very gingerly when she turned, because if she was dreaming, she didn’t want to accidentally jar herself awake.
She saw him, and the air in the room became thinner, headier, as though she’d been jerked up high and deposited on a mountaintop.
He seemed taller than... anyone.
And suddenly all the hats and ribbons and buttons and gloves seemed like gaudy props arranged on a stage, awaiting just his arrival all these years.
He swept the shop with a glance, taking in ribbons, gloves, Phoebe, hats, watches, her students, reticules, shawls and Postlethwaite, in that order and with equal dispassion.
His coat and boots were black.
His shirt and cravat were white.
And his voice, a baritone edged with smoke, was exactly how she’d imagined it.
“Dryden,” he said.
As if it was the answer to all of life’s most important questions.