You were a famous poet. A huge celebrity and romantic symbol. You had a wonderful reputation for being mad, bad and dangerous to know. You were very handsome, very mysterious and your words captured the hearts of millions.

And of course...You received buckets of fanmail from admirers. Love letters begging for a kind response or a lock of your hair.

And whenever you went out to a theater or a dinner or a ball ladies threw themselves at you.

And of course you had your flings. Many of them in fact. You couldn't resist it when some pretty girl came prancing up to you. Taking lovers was pretty routine for you.

Claire shouldn't have been any different. She was family to the poet Percy Shelley and his wife Mary...They hung around one of the theaters you managed...And Claire fell head over heals in love with you there.

She was a pretty little doll of a girl. All curls and glossy lips and giggles. Not quite the great, serious minds of the poets she was related too...but she was cute. And she practically threw herself at you.

So...You gave her what she wanted. A little love affair for a few weeks...And then you interests drifted away.

Your reputation was so scandalous and you had grown bored of London...It seemed best to get out of town for a while...So you set off towards Geneva. Leaving a trail of broken hearts in your wake...You assumed Claire would be like the other girls you'd had your fun with. A bright memory, inspiration for a poem perhaps...But something in the past...

So you were quite surprised when you heard that your neighbors across the lake by the villa you were renting were the Shelleys of all people...You sensed a scheme.

And soon you had a rosy cheeked happy little Claire on your front step looking rather pleased with herself.

She beams up at you from under her pale pink bonnet, standing on your doorstep. "My Lord!" She coos happily at you, all coy and silly.