For a second, Cyrano almost didn’t want to tell her. If she knew his name, could put an identity to the nose, she would have the means to mock him more efficiently and the only way to protect oneself from the disdain of the men, of the Gascon, was fear and respect.

He didn’t want this woman to fear him—and he couldn’t make her want him. It wasn’t even something he was certain he desired, the marriage of Christian and his beloved Roxane was still so fresh...

“Cyrano.” He spoke before he could stop himself—and found there was a touch of something freeing in the admission of his name, something warm and bright and effervescent.

Something like hope.

“I’m called Cyrano—Cyrano de Bergerac.”