“I’m not sure I can agree to that,” he chuckled. “But I’ll try.” At those last words her eyes warmed and Alec had a sudden, vicious craving to know her thoughts.

Damn. That wasn’t supposed to happen, either.

“Come.” He turned abruptly and moved toward the balcony. “You must see the view.”

Alec immediately regretted this decision, as the pair of them barely fit on the tiny balcony. The sky above had begun to flush pink from the setting sun, while the cathedral’s bell tower gently pealed the hour. It was as if the heavens and earth had conspired to design the perfect romantic moment. He longed to pull her to him once again and feel her side melt against his. She might not think she compared to the so-called buxom ladies in fashion plates, but to Alec her gentle curves had been the perfect fit. He settled for gripping the railing in front of him instead.

“My goodness,” Lottie breathed as she took it all in, entirely unaware of the direction of his thoughts. “Who would have guessed?”

“It’s one of the things I love about this country. You can be in a crumbling alleyway one moment, then turn a corner and you’re in the most beautiful, glowing square filled with life.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lottie turn to him.

“Didn’t…didn’t your father write a poem about that?”

Alec gave a reluctant nod even though he knew he should be grateful for the subject change. Nothing dampened the mood quite like his father. Edward Gresham had found both fame—and infamy—writing about his beloved adopted country. “‘And as I stood in Saint Mark’s Square, with the pantomime of life all ’round, I saw how little I had lived before and how much was left unbound.’”

Lottie smiled. “That’s it.”

“I thought Edward Gresham was considered much too vulgar for proper young ladies.”

Lottie clucked her tongue. “Perhaps that was true a decade ago, but he’s considered something of a romantic hero now.”

Alec couldn’t stifle his derisive snort. He had seen firsthand the devastation that had come from such love. There was nothing remotely romantic about it.

“Besides,” she went on, “I refuse to limit my reading to what is considered ‘proper.’ That would be incredibly boring.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

Lottie tilted her head, considering him. “Did you really not know of his reputation?”

He shrugged and turned back to the view. “I left all that business to your uncle. What do I know about poetry?” It had been a relief to have someone else manage the copyright. Sir Alfred had always talked of putting together a collection of his father’s work, and Alec happily gave his blessing to keep Edward Gresham’s short, tragic life from being stripped of all meaning. As long as he had nothing to do with it.