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“The cream,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It is like my skin. The pale parts, where the birthmark does not reach.”

“Sì.”

“And the rose … the mauve …” Her hand rose to her own cheek, fingers brushing against her marks. “They are similar in hue to … to …”

“To your beautiful face.” Angelo stepped closer, close enough that she could see the intensity burning in his hazel eyes. “Sì, tesoro. When I saw this flower, I knew immediately that it was meant for you. I knew that if I could show it to you, if I could make you see, you might begin to understand how I see you. How the world should see you.”

The tears she had been fighting finally spilled over, sliding down her cheeks in hot rivulets. “You searched all of Cornwall for this? For a flower to … to prove …”

“To prove that I love you.” Angelo’s voice was rough with emotion, his accent thickening as it always did when feeling overcame him. “I have told you that you are beautiful, Isolde. I have kissed your marks and called you bellissima and tried in every way I know to show you the truth of what I feel. But you could not believe me. You could not believe that anyone could look upon your face and see beauty rather than flaw.”

He gestured to the tulip, its petals glowing in the diffused light.

“So I found you proof. A flower whose flaws are celebrated. Whose imperfections are prized. Whose value lies not in spite of its difference, but because of it.” He met her eyes, his gaze unwavering. “That is how I see you, Isolde. That is how I have seen you from the moment I first glimpsed your figure in the moonlight.”

A sob escaped Isolde’s throat. A raw, broken sound that seemed to tear its way up from the deepest part of her soul.

“All these years,” she gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs, “I thought the universe had deserted me. I thought I was alone, that God had forsaken me, that no one would ever see past the marks to the woman beneath. And then you came to stay in my house. You, with your kind eyes and your warm heart and your ridiculous optimism, and I began to hope. But I was so afraid. So certain that it could not be real, that you would be repelled like everyone else, and that I would be alone again within these walls forever.”

She pressed her hands to her face, trying to contain the flood of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.

“What else could explain this?” she whispered. “What else could explain you coming here, to my house, finding me in the shadows? If not divine intervention? If not … if not a gift? A way out of my prison?”

“Isolde.” Angelo’s voice was soft, achingly tender. “Look at me.”

She lowered her hands, meeting his gaze through a blur of tears.

“I do not know if the universe sent me to you,” he said quietly. “I do not know if God, or fate, or fortune guided my steps to Grimsfell Hall. But I know this, now that I have found you, I will not let you go. You are not a curse to be hidden. You are a treasure to be cherished. And I will spend the rest of my days proving that to you, if you will let me.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief, pressing it into her trembling hands. The simple gesture, so practical and yet to tender, made Isolde weep even harder, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

And then Angelo pulled her into his arms.

She went willingly, burying her face against his chest, breathing in the scent of him. Wool and herbs and something intrinsically him that made her feel, for the first time, that she was exactly where she belonged. His arms wrapped around her, strong and steady, and his lips grazed against the crown of her head as he murmured words in a mixture of Italian and English that she could barely understand through her tears.

“Mi dispiace, tesoro, I am so sorry for hurting your feelings. So sorry for my clumsy words in the garden. You are perfect to me, Isolde. Perfect. My own exquisite broken tulip, to be cherished for the rest of our days.”

He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that continued to fall.

“And if you want my assistance to cover your marks, if you feel that need in order to attend society, I will help you. I will compound every cream and powder and tincture you could ever need. But if you want to remain at home, out of sight of critical eyes, I will help with that too. Whatever you want to do, Isolde, whatever makes you happy, that is what I will help you achieve. Because your happiness is all that matters to me. Your happiness and your knowing, truly knowing in the depths of your heart, that you are beautiful. That you are loved. That you are enough, exactly as you are.”

Isolde’s tears were slowing now, her sobs fading into shaky breaths. She used the handkerchief to dry her face, then peered up at him through wet lashes.

“You mean it,” she said, wonder coloring her voice. “You truly mean every word.”

“Sì, tesoro.” Angelo smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds after a storm. “I have never meant anything more in my life.”

For a long moment, Isolde simply looked at him. This most unique of men who had searched all of Cornwall for a flower to prove that her flaws were treasures. This warm, exuberant, ridiculously optimistic man who had stumbled into her haunted house and proceeded to love her, shadows and secrets and birthmarks and all.

Then, slowly, she reached up and covered his hands, which cupped her cheeks.

“Then show me,” she said softly. “Show me what you see.”

Angelo’s eyes darkened with emotion. Slowly, reverently, he traced his fingertips across her birthmark, following the streaks of color as they spread from her cheekbone to her jaw, from her temple to the corner of her mouth. His touch was feather-light, almost worshipful, and Isolde closed her eyes and let herself feel it.

Let herself believe, for the first time in her life, that she was beautiful.

Then Angelo lowered his head and brushed his lips over the right side of her face, kissing each stain on her skin with tender care. He kissed the rose-colored streak that ran beneath her eye. He kissed the mauve shadow that curved along her jaw. He kissed the pale border where marked skin met unmarked, tracing the boundary with his mouth as if it were the most precious thing in the world.