Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

stranger wished it, his soul would forever be hers to do with as she pleased. Absurd as it might seem, he already loved her, but not for any rational reason of beauty, fortune, or circumstance. She had been meant for him. She alone in a world of millions of souls. He felt her resonance in the marrow of his bones, in the thrum of ichor surging through his flesh. From this moment forward, he would love her till the day he died and a stab of cold, numbing fear wrenched his gut, for he had no surety she would or could ever feel the same, and what would he do if she should be lost to him? What would there be for him but bleak empty hopelessness if she did not return his love, or thought his feelings absurd? He would spend the rest of his life seeking warmth from shadows, knowing that the sun forever eluded him. His heart raced. His mouth was dry. He wondered if the first man felt the same, when he looked down toward the hole of his sundered rib and beheld the wonder named Eve.
    “Your wisdom surpasses even your beauty. Long shall I remember both,” Nicolas managed at last, his answer unpolished, stripped of guile, of pretense, of everything false, yet bitter tasting nonetheless, not sweet, like everything she uttered. Her voice was the wellspring of his hope, but for him the cistern was dry, desolate, sere—for it was impossible to believe she might ever come to reciprocate his feelings.
    Sérolène gazed up at Nicolas. He looked at her with such aching tenderness that she forced herself to stare at her hands, afraid if she met his eyes, he might look straight through her and read her heart as easily as he read his beloved histories.
    The vicomtesse was still young and unspoiled. She had not yet known falsehood or disappointment in love. Child-woman that she was, she could still hear with her heart. And because she had not yet been tutored by bitter experience of the world to ignore its melodies, she listened to the delightful music it had begun to make.
    “How is it possible, Monsieur, that we have only just met and yet you seem to know me so well?” And why have I been chattering away with you as if we’ve grown up together since childhood, when the truth is I hardly know you at all?
    Nicolas sensed his entire world tilting on its axis. He must tell her, even if she deemed his feelings absurd. For to say nothing would be to consign himself to the darkness of utter hopelessness. Even if she mocked or spurned him, she would still know his heart. That would be something at least.
    “ Mademoiselle, there is something I must ask of you. I know I have no right to request such a boon. Nevertheless, I do beg it of thee and most humbly. Will you take pity on this poor soul before you and allow me to lay at your feet the unconcealed contents of my heart?”
    Before she could reply, they were interrupted by the sounds of approaching footsteps and muffled but familiar voices.
    “It’s my uncle! We must go!”
    Sérolène quickly placed the book Nicolas had been reading back on the shelf. Pulling him by the hand, she hurried to the far wall, pressing a concealed mechanism on the edge of the bookshelf. A false bookcase opened into a passage before them and she led him through it just as the inner door to the library began to open. As the secret door closed behind them, Sérolène led Nicolas through a small corridor and then down a flight of stairs in almost total darkness, guided only by the faint glow of distant lamps from below.
    “That was close. Let’s go down this way, Nicolas.”
    Sérolène indicated the direction with a gentle pull of her hand. She knew the back passageways of the château by heart, and often put them to use for her own purposes or amusement.
    “Where will it take us?”
    “It leads to the kitchens. We can safely rejoin everyone from there. But first, you must repay me for rescuing you,” Sérolène whispered playfully.
    Nicolas was entranced by the touch of her hand in his own, and the nearness of her