Aunt Delia’s announcement of her decision to marry Lord Rutledge had stunned her. Literally left her breathless. Dazed. Happy. But underneath all that, there was something else. Something she feared looking at too closely because it felt suspiciously like…

Envy.

A single tap sounded at the door. Before she could rouse herself to answer, the door opened and Nathan walked in. Their gazes met and Victoria’s throat swelled with emotion. God help her, she loved him so much she ached. How had she allowed this to happen? Was there any chance he felt the same way about her? He’d never said so. Yet even if he did, what did it matter? Their lives were so drastically different.

But what if he had fallen in love with her? What if, like his father had offered her aunt, Nathan intended to offer her marriage? The mere thought brought on a sensation she couldn’t define. Was it elation-or fear? None of this-Nathan, falling in love with him-had been in her plans. How could she consider giving up everything she’d planned her entire life based on a weeklong affair?

An affair based on a spark that was lit three years ago, her inner voice whispered slyly. But perhaps she had nothing to worry about. He hadn’t said he loved her. Or wanted her in any way beyond what they’d already shared. If she’d been capable of doing so, she would have laughed at her own conceit. Here she was fretting about a proposal that he’d never given any indication he intended to offer. A proposal she wasn’t prepared to hear. Still, if she became all choked up just looking at him, how would she be able to say good-bye to him tomorrow?

After closing and locking the door behind him, he walked slowly toward her, his gaze riveted on hers. He carried a wrapped parcel in one hand and a single red rose in the other. He rounded the settee, then sat next to her, setting his package on the floor. He held out the rose to her. “For you.”

She touched the velvety petals. “Thank you.”

“I checked on your father. He’s doing well. Exceedingly well if one judges health by the level of complaints coming from the patient.”

She smiled weakly. “He dislikes inactivity.”

“Indeed? I hadn’t particularly noticed. I also spoke to my father and your aunt. They told you their news.”

“Yes.”

He studied her face. “You’re not pleased?”

“Yes, of course I am. No one deserves joy more than Aunt Delia. It’s just that I’m…”

“What?”

Envious of their happiness. Of my aunt’s daring. “I’m just surprised,” she finished lamely. “Aren’t you?”

“Actually, no. I had a conversation with my father that made it clear he cared deeply for your aunt. It’s good to see him so happy. Good to see them both so happy.” His gaze searched hers. “When I opened the door, you looked pensive. What were you thinking?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Yes.”

“I was wondering how I was going to say good-bye to you.”

His gaze turned troubled. “I’ve been wondering that very same thing with regards to you.”

She had to press her lips together to keep from asking if he’d come up with a solution. Reaching down, he picked up the package he’d set on the floor and handed it to her.

“After much thought, I decided this was the best farewell I could give you.”

Placing her rose on the mahogany end table, she laid the package on her lap and carefully unwrapped the layers of tissue paper. When she looked down at the book nestled in the wrappings, her breath caught. Reverently, she brushed her fingertip over the title.

“Histoires ou contes du temps passé, avec des moralités: Contes de ma mère l’Oye,” she whispered. “Tales of Mother Goose?” She turned to the first page and saw the publication year: 1697. “It’s a first edition,” she said, awed. “Wherever did you find one?”

“I didn’t have to look very far, as it was in my traveling trunk. That is my copy.”

Victoria’s head snapped up from admiring the book and she stared at him. “The copy you said you wouldn’t consider selling for any sum? The copy that was the last gift you received from your mother before she died?”

“Yes.”

Her heart began a slow, hard beat. “Why would you give me something so valuable to you?”

“I wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

The tiny flame of impossible, ridiculous hope inside her that had been struggling to stay lit was suddenly extinguished. He indeed intended to say good-bye.

She should be glad. Relieved. It was for the best. And surely as soon as she didn’t feel so enervated, so numb, she would feel all those things.

I wanted you to have something to remember me by. Dear God, as if she would ever, could ever, forget him. “I… don’t know what to say.”

“Do you like it?”

She looked into his eyes, so serious, so beautiful, and a sob rose in her throat. She attempted to cover it up with a laugh, but the effort failed miserably, and to her mortification, hot tears pushed at her eyes. “I love it.” And I love you. And I desperately wish I didn’t because nothing ever has hurt this badly.

Should she tell him? Tell him he owned her heart, and that it was breaking at the thought of leaving him? No! her inner voice screamed, and she realized she’d be a fool to tell a man who was clearly determined to say good-bye that she loved him.

Blinking back her tears, she straightened her spine and offered him a smile. “Thank you, Nathan. I’ll treasure it always.”

“I’m glad. Since I cannot give you the fairy-tale ending you’ve always planned, I at least wanted to give you the fairy tale.”

“Will I ever see you again?” she asked, her voice shaking and barely above a whisper.

Framing her face between his hands, he studied her through serious eyes. Finally he said, “I don’t know. That is up to… Fate. All I do know is that we have this one last night together. And I want to make it unforgettable.” He leaned forward and softly touched his lips to hers. When he started to lean back, a sense of desperation unlike anything she’d ever known flooded her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him back toward her.

“Again,” she whispered against his mouth. “Again.”

And as he had the first time she made that demand of him three years ago, he obliged her.

And when she awoke the next morning, she was alone.


“Are you all right, Victoria?”

Her father’s voice penetrated the fog of despair enveloping her. She pulled her gaze from the window of the coach that with every turn of its wheels sent her farther away from Nathan.

“I’m…” looking into her father’s concern-filled eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to lie and say she was fine. “Tired.” God knew that was the truth.

Father frowned and his jaw moved back and forth, as it always did when he puzzled over something. Offering him the best smile she could muster under the circumstances, she returned her gaze to the window. How long ago had they left Creston Manor? An hour? It felt like a lifetime. And as much as she loved Father, she dearly wished she were alone. To mourn the end of her affair in private. To shed the tears that hovered so close to the surface. To hold the book Nathan had given her against her heart.

Dear God, how was it possible to feel so much pain when she felt so utterly dead inside? Her eyelids slid closed and instantly a dozen images danced in her mind’s eye-of Nathan smiling. Laughing. Making love to her. Saying good-bye at the carriage this morning as if they were nothing more than polite acquaintances-

“Damn it all, you’re crying. That does it.”

Victoria’s eyes flew open at her father’s fierce words, and to her mortification she realized that tears had indeed silently leaked down her cheeks. Before she could reach for her handkerchief, Father pressed his into her hand. Then, with a fierce scowl, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a folded piece of vellum.

“I was instructed not to give this to you until after we’d reached London, but since I never actually gave my word that I would wait, I’m not going to.” He held out the vellum, which was sealed with a blob of red wax.

“Instructed by whom?”

“Nathan. He gave it to me last night and asked that I hold it until we were resettled in London. To give you some time to think. To reflect. About what you want. But a blind man could see that you’re heartbroken and miserable, and I can’t bear to watch it a moment longer. If there’s even the slightest chance that whatever he’s written might make you feel better, I’ll risk his displeasure.”

Victoria reached out an unsteady hand and took the vellum. After breaking the seal, she slowly unfolded the thick ivory paper and, with her heart pounding, read the neatly scrawled words:


My dearest Victoria,

Here is a story to include in the Tales of Mother Goose, entitled “The Ordinary Man Who Loved a Princess”:

Once upon a time, there was a very ordinary man who lived in the country in a small cottage. The man went through each day thinking his life was very fine and good until one day he met a beautiful princess from the city from whom he stole a kiss. As soon as he did so, he regretted it because from that moment on, no other kiss but hers would do, which was very bad because very ordinary men have nothing to offer princesses.

The memory of that single kiss lived in the man’s heart, burning like a candle he couldn’t extinguish. Then, three years after that kiss, he saw the princess again. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. But by then the princess was destined to marry a wealthy prince. Yet even though he knew a princess wouldn’t marry an ordinary man, even though he knew his heart would be broken, he couldn’t help but fall in love with her, for she was not only beautiful, she was kind and loving. And brave. Loyal. Intelligent. And she made him laugh. So even though he was far too ordinary for a princess, he had to try to win her love, for he couldn’t give her up without a fight. He therefore offered her the only things he could-his heart. His devotion. His honor and respect. And all his love. And then he prayed that the moral of the story would be that even an ordinary man could win a princess with the riches of love.