Jane, you are my confidante, my helpmate, my friend. My lover. You are everything the word wife means to me. In my heart, we are wed. In my soul, you are mine.

She was breathtaking in her beauty and her human spirit, he thought, unable to speak as he gazed upon her. Hers was the sort that would not fade or grow jaded with time and years, but flourish, grow more radiant with life and its experience. Hers was a beauty that no other possessed. A beauty he longed to keep, to hide away, to bask in, himself alone. She had become his. He didn’t know when, whether it had been the moment her fingertips had touched him when he was hurt, or if it had grown, like a seed, slowing spreading until Jane had become the root anchoring the shattered pieces of his heart, pulling them tight together until it resembled the organ it should.

I can say that I have fallen deeper in love with you today, knowing the sort of man you are.

As I said, you have mistaken me for another. London is full of drab little peahens, sir. Now, then, I’m leaving,” she said in a huff.

“To change?” he asked, unable to stop from goading her.

“To write a poem for my toast,” she snapped. “And you may suffer, for I will not help you with yours.”

“No need, darling,” Matthew drawled, his words intending to push her away.
“I doubt you know a suitable word that will rhyme with fuck. ”

“Stuck,” she said, turning to face him. “For two days, my lord. We are stuck with one another. Let us make the best of it.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“By giving each other wide berth. We will not stand together, we will not talk to one another and we will most certainly not look at one another.”

“No problem from this quarter.”

“Good. You may be assured that it will be no difficulty for me, either.”

-Matthew and Jane

Matthew,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “How can I save you?

Pressing his forehead to the cool glass, he held her gaze, her palm, his eyes pleading with her. Don’t go. Don’t leave me.