*Sigh* after reading novels by Lisa Kleypas, I feel like I've become a professional in writing sonnets or long love-letters (though I can't think of who in this world to write to) - and I haven't written either in my life before. The reason is simple - her education and textbooks on first-class romance have made my insides mushy and soft enough to be chanting love-poems ad lib. 
 Ok, maybe not, but this book (and others of Kleypas which I have read) embodies poetry within prose, beautifully illustrating the ethereal allure of a union blessed by love. 
 Ouch that was so sappy of me, I think I just humiliated Kleypas. 
 Anyway, this book starts of beautifully, portraying a budding romance between the exchange of letters of two obviously-would-be (or had-to-be-no-buts) lovers. Sending letters by post sure does have a ring to it, doesn't it? It wouldn't work in this world now. I mean like, e-mail? That's so passe. Kills of the romance immediately. 
 However, by two-thirds of the book, I believe that the plot kind of went downhill. The climax was really, really flat. Either that or the author chooses to bring the bullet to the first half of the story. 
 Not to mention that the second half of the book contained whole chapters dedicated to -*GASP*- fornication! Why couldn't these parts of the books be dedicated to more letter-writing or verbal communication? 
 Other than that, a really lovely read, this book. If this book is the last instalment of these series then the series really must be a bomb. I mean, how could Kleypas come up with such seamless romantic tales? Sigh, I really wish she were Cupid and could predict my future, because after reading her literary masterpieces, I don't think I could EVER settle of a guy less than her characters. 
 Afterthoughts: 
 Did people in their century already swear with the word f***ing? I thought the severity of the word was relatively new.