Penelope!” Lady Needham stood just inside the door to the dining room, stick straight, her hands clenched in little fists, confusing the footmen, frozen in uncertainty, wondering if dinner should be served or not. “Thomas proposed!” “Yes. I was present for that bit,” Penelope said.

Would you like to cross another item off this list today?"

"I should like that very much. Which do you propose?"

"I think it's time to try riding astride".

"You can't mean..."

"Oh, but I do, indeed, mean, Empress.

What does Éloa mean?”

He narrowed his gaze, answered her literally. “It’s the name of an angel.”

Penelope tilted her head, thinking. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“Was he a fallen angel?”

“She was, yes.” He hesitated, not wanting to tell her the story, but unable to stop himself. “Lucifer tricked her into falling from heaven.”

“Tricked her how?”

He met her gaze. “She fell in love with him.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. “Did he love her?”

Like an addict loves his addiction. “The only way he knew how.”

She shook her head. “How could he trick her?”

“He never told her his name.

I had a perfect life in my reach once, and it was a crashing bore. Perfect is too clean, too easy. I don't want perfect any more than I want to be perfect. I want imperfect.

Alas, summer sun can't last forever. The days will grow cooler and shorter, and our skin will once again pale.

The most confident of women are those who believe in every scrap of fabric they wear. They are the ones who are as happy wih their drawers as they are with their gowns. You can tell the difference between a woman who wraps herself in beautiful silks and satins and she who wears...otherwise.