He reappeared, carrying the wooden box in both arms. "You keep a journal? I never knew."

"It was at your suggestion."

He turned. "It was not."

"It was. The day we first met. I told you about Fiona Bennet and how horrid she was, and you told me to keep a journal."

"I did?"

"Mmm-hmm. And I remember exactly what you said to me. I asked you why I should keep a journal and you said, 'Because someday you're going to grow into yourself, and you will be as beautiful as you already are smart. And then you can look back into your diary and realize just how silly little girls like Fiona Bennet are. And you'll laugh when you remember that your mother said your legs started at your shoulders. And maybe you'll save a little smile for me when you remember the nice chat we had today.'"

He stared at her in awe, wisps of the memory starting to come back to him. "And you said you'd save a big smile for me."

She nodded. "I memorized what you said word for word. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me."

"My God, Miranda," he breathed reverently. "You really love me, don't you?"

She nodded. "Since that day. Here, bring me the box."

He set the box on the bed and handed her the key. She opened it and pulled out several books. Some were leather-bound, and some were covered with girlish floral fabric, but she reached for the simplest one, a small notebook reminiscent of the sort he'd used while a student. "This was the first," she said, turning the cover with reverent fingers. "I really have loved you all along. See?"

He looked down at the first entry.

2 March 1810

Today I fell in love.

A tear welled up in his eye. "Me too, my love. Me too."

About the Author

JULIA QUINN started writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since.