And enigmatic smile is worth ten pages of dialog.

You can figure out what the villain fears by his choice of weapons.

As a gentleman- assuming you still have some pretensions in that direction- of honor- again, perhaps presumptuous, but still supposing your passing acquaintance with the concept- it is your duty- I won't even trouble to speculate here, but remain naively hopeful- to protect those under your care.

No mask you might don, whether cast in gold or comprised of dust, can disguise you from me.

In a thousand ways you are revealed to me: The way you illustrate a comment with your fingertips; the manner in which you tilt your head while listening to music; the quick intake of breath that precedes your laughter; the quality of your stillness.

I have only to lift my hand to mimic the slope of your shoulder; close my eyes to map the blue-filigreed veins inside your wrist; inhale to recall the fragrance of you. I am an expert on the texture of your skin, a scholar on the changing hues of your eyes, and an authority on the cadence of your breath. And yet I do not need eyes or ears or hands to know you. Shut away, blinded and deaf, I would still know you. I would still hear you, see you, feel you in my very core.

You may as well accuse the sky of not knowing the moon, for that is how fixed you are in the firmament of my heart. And like the moon, whether you choose to shine or not, here you will remain forever.

So I pray you, Lady Lydia, do not ever say again, I do not know you.

He stopped. She heard the intake of his breath. “You are my country, Desdemona.” Yearning, harsh and poignant and she felt herself swaying toward him. “My Egypt. My hot, harrowing desert and my cool, verdant Nile, infinitely lovely and unfathomable and sustaining.”

She gasped.

His gaze fell, shielded by his lashes. An odd, half-mocking smile played about his lips. “You’ll never hear old Blake say something like that.”

She swallowed, unable to speak, her senses abraded by his stimulating words, her pulse hammering in anticipation? Trepidation?

“Remember my words next time he calls you a bloody English rose.

I want you cool and regal, earthy and impertinent, spoiling for a fight and abashed at your own temper. I want you flushed with exertion and rosy with sleep. I want you teasing and provocative, somber and thoughtful. I want every emotion, every mood, every year in a lifetime to come. I want you beside me, to encourage and argue with me, to help me and let me help you. I want to be your champion and lover, your mentor and student.