Titus didn’t resist the impulse to roll his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” Prince Rafael said. “I’ll view her from the window.”
With that the prince strode to the window of the tea room and placed a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.
Titus’s chest tightened, and he looked around in an anxious fashion, lest someone see them.
The prince smirked. “I see a woman sitting by herself.”
“Oh?” Titus’s heartbeat quickened.
She was here. Somehow he wasn’t certain she would be here. He’d been half prepared, well, more than half prepared, to walk inside and have the proprietor give him a note explaining she was not coming.
If she bothered to send him a note at all.
He swallowed hard.
The prince examined him again. “You look ill.”
“Me? I am the picture of health,” Titus said, but his voice croaked.
One side of the prince’s lips swerved upward. “English health, perhaps. Not the health in Aragornia.”
Titus arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to bring up the health of your country at this time?”
“It is always a good time to speak about my country,” the prince said. “It is the most wonderful country in the world. Any discussion is vastly improved by including it.”
There was something charming about the prince’s patriotism. It was something Titus appreciated, even though his loyalty would always be to Great Britain.
“You mentioned you saw a woman by herself?”
The prince smiled. “I see a beautiful woman by herself.”
“Oh.” Titus’s heart thudded, and nervousness moved through him. “That’s nice. What does she look like?”
“Heavenly.” The prince grinned. “Golden hair, ruby lips, and she’s writing a letter.”
The viscount’s heartbeat quickened. It was her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Titus’s heart lurched in his chest. He was never prone to sentimental thoughts and that of premonition, but he had the definite sense his future wife was inside.
The woman he would share the next few decades with.
The woman he would love.
“I’m going in.”
“Of course. Just remember to emanate confidence. Women like that.” The prince’s eyes gleamed. “I would know.”
“Right.” Titus squared his shoulders, jutted his chin out and entered the tea room.
He saw her at once.
The prince had been right: she was beautiful. Blonde tendrils framed her angelic face. Her long lashes adorned cerulean eyes.
The woman was occupied with writing a letter, and Titus smiled. This was indeed the woman he adored above everyone else. Of course she would be writing a letter. He looked to see if she’d brought some mistletoe, but there was none on the table.
Well, it didn’t matter. He had mistletoe.
He strolled to her table and feigned confidence. He pretended he was like the prince and had no trouble speaking to any woman and that he could be certain everyone he encountered would laugh at his jokes and compliment him.
He swaggered to the table, just like the prince had told him to do.
Then he cleared his throat.
The woman, the darling woman, remained occupied with writing.
He glanced at it. She was even writing it in French. But then, his correspondent was extraordinarily clever. He wasn’t surprised she would write in French. Finishing schools were determined to teach young ladies French, even though no headmistress would actually expect that one of her students would be holidaying at Biarritz or Paris or any of the other places in France that people used to visit before the French decided to wreak havoc on Europe.
Before they decided to execute their leaders.
Before they dragged aristocrats to the guillotines, not stopping with women or children.
No, there was a reason why Titus was determined the French should never breach England’s coastlines.
“Good afternoon,” Titus said to his future beloved.
The woman set down her quill and glanced up at him.
She didn’t say anything, but Titus understood. She’d confessed once to him she was shy.
Never mind. He knew what he wanted to tell her.
“I have mistletoe for you.” He placed the sprig before her.
Her beautiful blue eyes widened. Heavens, they looked like the sky on a perfect summer’s day.
So he told her that.
“Your eyes are divine. Like something in a Botticelli painting.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you familiar with Botticelli paintings?” she asked with a light accent.
“I am familiar with everything,” he said.
And he was.
More or less.
He wasn’t familiar with the art of seduction, but he had received excellent marks in his classes at Eton and Cambridge. He’d been a star student, head boy every single term. He’d been magnificent. He knew about Botticelli. And this woman, this brilliant, amazing woman, clearly knew about Botticelli too. She was as wondrous as he’d thought her.
It was odd, though, that she had an accent. Clearly, there was much to learn about her. He would enjoy that very much.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked uncertainly.
He grinned. “We’re going to be married.”
“Excuse me?”
She rose, and his heartbeat quickened. Somehow he hadn’t expected her to rise. Perhaps she wanted to greet him from a standing position.
But then her eyes didn’t seem happy. In fact, happiness was not the impression he was getting from her.
Perhaps she’d yearned for a more formal proposal. Evidently, proposals were important to women. He’d heard that before.
Instead, she slapped him.
His eyes widened. She grabbed her letter and quill, then sauntered away from him without a look back.
He stared after her.
His jaw hurt, and he rubbed it.
This hadn’t been the meeting he’d expected.
He’d ruined everything. He’d been too forward with her. He’d been everything he’d never wanted to be.
Perhaps she’d only seen him as someone who on occasion sent her missives. Naturally she would already have her own life.
Maybe that’s why she’d sent every letter to him in complex code. He’d enjoyed decoding the letters, but she’d simply wanted to discourage him from writing. Perhaps she’d wanted to make the correspondence as difficult for him as possible.
With that, he put his hand down. He was not going to wince and rub his jaw no matter how much it hurt.
And to be fair, it didn’t hurt that much. His dignity, though, was gone, as were his dreams of future marital bliss.
He looked around at the group of people in the tea room. They all stared at him.
At least he didn’t know them. He wasn’t in London. Except there, in the corner, was Miss Hazel Howard. She wasn’t looking at him. She was the only person not looking at him. Evidently, she was embarrassed she’d ever exchanged words with him. Perhaps she was pondering how she could avoid him at the castle.
Titus longed to sink into the ground. When was the last time Northumberland had experienced an earthquake? Now would be an optimal time for one to occur.
The earth did not shake, though. Nothing toppled to the ground, but his heart still ached.