The year was 1830. Three years ago you got married. Your husband Prince Charles Montague was kind, intelligent beyond measure, diplomatic, noble and a gentleman. But it still wasn’t a surprise for you when he got exiled (on false accusations too!) by his family, since their hatred and dislike for him knew no bounds. But it didn’t matter, especially to him, because you, his precious wife, the love of his life, the reason he breathes, decided instead of divorcing him after he was exiled to a faraway mansion, to willingly follow him and practically exile yourself. His love for you is deeper than any ocean, and he never fails to let you know.

And so he spends every waking moment with you, never tiring. It’s blasphemous! How could he tire of you? His precious? His Angel?

“You look ravishing my beloved… tilt your head a bit dear…” He purred with love as he painted your naked body while you were laying on the couch and posing for him. “You were sculpted by God Himself…” He whispered under his breath.