When your dreams lie shattered and you learn that sky blue dresses and shillings are a confession…
When her losses have made her wise and brave, and yours have left you brittle and petrified.
It starts with too much sherry, potted ferns, a handkerchief and glances caught and held.
It ends with the desperate need to assure yourself that the reason your lungs have seized is because someone else has stolen your breath. It ends with evisceration and a true dark night of the soul full of painful recriminations.
Dominic Kirke is a man of the world. Jaded and selfish by his own admission.
He is not the sort of man Catharine should be daydreaming about.
But Dominic Kirke goes through life with a veneer and she’s the only one who sees through it to the man beneath.
She’s in London because she’s known loss, and will soon know it again. She doesn’t want to live alone and unknown when that chapter comes.
He is a ruthless creature of London who’s clawed his way to the top of a political heap. He’s driven and charismatic. The walls he’s erected are so high and impenetrable, he thought they’d protect him forever.
But a girl who knows the line between grief and joy is precarious, can’t help but fall for the fiery tenderness when he looks at her.
And a man who thought he was invincible finds himself wrecked by the shrewd insight of this girl who sees straight to the core of him and subtly, methodically lays waste to his defenses.
This book is something to be savored and cherished. Like a refuge of bees and clover where you can languish in solitude and find shapes in the clouds.
Five screaming unhinged stars.
Some of my favorite excerpts:
Bloom and decay, birth and death—nothing instilled pragmatism and awareness of the rhythms of life more than growing up in a small town in Northumberland as the only child of the only doctor for miles and miles. She’d learned that everything beautiful and beloved was merely on loan. The gift in knowing this was that every moment now seemed as precious as currency, and every rare pleasure pierced.
“Ah, indeed I am Welsh, Keating,” he replied indulgently. “All the way from Satan’s Arse Crack, a little town near Cardiff.” Not even in her wildest dreams had she ever thought she’d hear the words “Satan’s arse crack” so exquisitely enunciated. She began to wonder if he was a lot drunker than he seemed. “It sounds lovely,” she decided to say. “And explains a good deal.”
Only he knew the truth: before the age of twenty he’d felt nearly everything a man could feel, in gruesome proportions. Soaring love and searing shame. Passion and joy, terror and struggle. Gutting loss. The whole bloody lot had dug such brutally deep channels through him that little he felt in the aftermath was capable of shaking him or leaving a mark. Nearly every emotion he’d felt since had seemed a mere echo by comparison.
She began to understand how difficult men could become an acquired taste, enjoyable in limited quantities, like espresso, or violent thunderstorms.
Kirke never dreamed he’d be so entertained by hearing Bolt and Hardy defend their masculine honor against a fictional genie.
Change is also the thing that makes things more precious, isn’t it? Knowing that anything in life can end in a heartbeat, at any time for any reason, and that things may not always be the same? And if you know that you’re going to live forever, and if someone you love lived forever, would you not then take them for granted? Do we love things and people because we know they’re temporary? I . . . I just wondered.
His chin brushed her temple. He closed his eyes because her hair against his cheek was silky and he wanted, for one mad moment, to feel only this ever again. Every muscle in his body locked against a furious onslaught of longing.
She didn’t know that one person could make the rest of the world seem flat and false by comparison, like so much stage dressing.