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He had spent the night dreaming of Isolde.

Not only the chaste, romantic dreams of knights and ladies from medieval tales, but something far more personal. Dreams of holding her hand, of discovering whether her laughter was as sweet as her music. Dreams of a life together, of learning every thought in her heart. Dreams that left him aching with longing when he woke to find himself alone.

Angelo rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to will his thoughts back to calmness. This was madness. He barely knew Isolde beyond their brief midnight encounters. Had shared one kiss, one perfect, world-altering kiss, but that hardly justified the intensity of feeling that had taken root in his chest.

And yet, he could not deny it. Could not pretend that something profound had not shifted within him the moment she had allowed him to truly see her, to hold her, to share the sweetness of her kiss.

How could he coax her to leave her shadows? To step fully into the world rather than hiding in passages, appearing only in darkness? She deserved to live openly, to share her talents with others who would appreciate them, to be seen and valued as the remarkable woman she was.

The thought filled Angelo with sudden urgency. He threw off the bedclothes and rose quickly, washing and dressing with more haste than care. His cravat was tied poorly, his waistcoat buttoned askew, but he did not care. He needed to be doing something, moving forward, making progress toward a future where Isolde could be part of his life in daylight as well as the night.

As Angelo pulled on his boots, he found himself thinking about what such a future might look like. Could Isolde be happy in Florence? Would she thrive in a city where birthmarks were viewed with philosophical curiosity rather than superstitious fear? His family would welcome her. His mother had longed for him to settle down, and his uncles would be delighted by anyone who shared Angelo’s passion for botanical medicine.

But would Isolde be willing to leave Grimsfell? She had spoken of her responsibilities as guardian, of generations of family duty. Could she abandon that legacy, or would it bind her to this remote corner of Cornwall forever?

Questions for another time, Angelo told himself firmly. First, he needed to deepen their connection, to build enough trust that Isolde would be willing to consider a future beyond these walls.

Angelo made his way downstairs to the morning room, following the scent of coffee and fresh bread. His stomach growled in anticipation. He had been too distracted the night before to eat properly at dinner, and his body now demanded compensation.

He found Lorenzo and Nicholas already at the table. Lorenzo studied what appeared to be sketches of the Hall of Reflections while methodically consuming toast and eggs. Nicholas sat slumped in his chair, an expression of profound irritation on his face, picking at his food without enthusiasm.

Henri and Gabriel were just departing as Angelo entered. The viscount looked harried, a stack of correspondence tucked under one arm.

“Forgive us for abandoning you to the day’s search,” Gabriel said, pausing at the door. “But I have a mountain of correspondence from the Crown and Home Office that cannot be delayed any longer. There are numerous displeased personages since I announced that I would be spending more time at my country seat and less time on diplomatic missions.”

Angelo was not entirely sure what it all meant. The intricacies of English noble obligations remained somewhat mysterious to him, but Henri smiled in an affectionate manner that suggested she found her husband’s complaints endearing rather than genuinely vexing.

Nicholas rolled his eyes from his position at the breakfast table. “Heaven forbid a man should choose to spend time with his new bride over sitting in smoke-filled rooms, listening to old men argue about agricultural policy.”

“You mock, but those agricultural policies affect thousands of livelihoods,” Gabriel replied mildly. “Though I confess I find my wife’s company far more stimulating than debating the finer points of crop rotation subsidies.”

Henri blushed prettily, and Nicholas made a gagging sound that was only partially theatrical.

Gabriel smiled down at her affectionately. “However, being wed is not all there is to it. I am afraid I have left my own people and tenants to the mercies of stewards and proxies for too long. It is time for me to take more of an interest in representing them specifically, rather than the realm in general. I can be replaced by ambitious men in London, but there is no one to take my place in Trenwith.”

Henri nodded in agreement as they departed the room.

Angelo chuckled at the irony. They had just escaped Marco and Molly’s newlywed bliss back in London, only to find themselves observers to another couple’s honeymoon period. Though to be fair, Henri and Gabriel seemed more restrained in their affections than Marco and Molly had been.

His brother and sister-in-law had been almost embarrassingly demonstrative during the weeks following their wedding. Marco could not seem to stop doting on Molly, and Molly returned the affection with equal enthusiasm. Angelo had found it simultaneously heartwarming and slightly uncomfortable to witness. The kind of devotion that made a bachelor feel both envious and intrusive.

On the other hand, Angelo’s strange encounters with Isolde were quickly making him understand the attraction of marrying a woman. The desire to share thoughts and experiences with, to wake beside in the morning. These things that had seemed abstract and distant mere days ago now felt urgent and necessary.

He wanted that with Isolde. Wanted it with an intensity that should have frightened him, but instead felt oddly right.

Shaking his head to clear it of such melodrama, Angelo took up a plate from the sideboard. Cold ham, eggs that had gone slightly rubbery from sitting in the warming pan, bread that was still blessedly fresh. He settled at the table across from Lorenzo, who finally looked up from his sketches.

“We must examine the Hall of Reflections more closely,” Lorenzo announced without preamble. “We have made so little progress in the library, and I am convinced the answers we seek are in that chamber. Something we have overlooked. Some detail that will reveal the next step.”

Angelo felt a flutter of anxiety at the suggestion. The Hall of Reflections was Isolde’s domain, the place where they had shared their most intimate moments. Having Lorenzo and Nicholas tramping through it, examining every surface, probing every shadow, felt like an invasion of something precious.

But he could hardly object without revealing why the space held such significance for him.

“A thorough examination makes sense,” Angelo agreed, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Perhaps fresh eyes will notice what Gabriel and Henri missed.”

Privately, Angelo was frustrated by his inability to find Isolde unless she permitted it. He had tried the day before to locate the mechanism she used to enter and exit the alcove behind the organ, had run his hands over every inch of visible stone, but found nothing. The woman was as elusive as smoke, appearing and vanishing at will while he remained confined to the visible, accessible spaces of the hall.

Perhaps if they examined the chamber more thoroughly, he might discover some clue to the passages’ layout. Might find a way to reach Isolde rather than waiting for her summons.