The search for her amulet had led nowhere, yet her father remained at the house—determined to find the necklace before he went back to London. Draven sat by her side all the while, reading her love sonnets, poems, and chapters from novels. She’d had no idea that he liked to read as much as she did. She loved to watch his full lips form the words, and the way his strong hands clasped the books warmed her heart. Quotes from Lord Byron were lovely and a relatively new novel called Mansfield Park was intriguing, but what moved Isabella most were the letters Draven had written to her during their separation but had kept to himself. She could hardly believe the man who’d shown her such cruelty on their wedding night was capable of this kind of unhindered romance and tenderness. On a cold Saturday morning, Isabella begged Draven to read her favorite letter again. He gave her a sheepish look but acquiesced nevertheless. My dearest Isabella, How can I ever say I am sorry enough times? How can I convince you of my remorse for treating you with hostility instead of temperance?
