The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. They were slow and heavy. One might even say portentous. This uninvited visitor was clearly in no great rush and expected her to wait. Bello or no, this was not the way to ensure a good first impression. Lottie fixed her most disapproving frown on the doorway, where the shadow of a rather imposing man now came into view. The doorway itself was low, and he had to stoop slightly to reach the terrace. Lottie’s breath caught at the familiar movement even while her mind tried to reason otherwise.

No. He would never come here. Not for someone as trivial as you.

But before the light even touched his face, a part of her already knew. From a place deep within her bones. A place she could never erase, no matter how hard she tried.

And oh, how Lottie had tried.

Her arms fell by her sides as Alec Gresham, her uncle’s ward turned protege, dedicated agent of the Crown, only son of the late English poet Edward Gresham, and, indeed, very bello, stepped out onto the terrace.

“Well hello, Lottie,” he said evenly. “What a charming cottage you have here.”

No wonder Marta mistook him for a nobleman. He certainly held himself like one, even though nearly every inch of him was covered in road dust. Then the man had the audacity to twist that full mouth of his into a smirk. At her.

As if he were just dropping by for tea.

As if they were still friends.

The word caused a faint pang somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. Lottie quickly wiped the shock from her face and glared. She wasn’t naive enough to assume that Uncle Alfred, a man who staunchly refused to accept he didn’t have complete control over the fates and furies of life, would simply let her be. But to send Alec after her?

The gall of both of them was maddening.

But if Alec was at all bothered by this frosty reception, he didn’t show it. He sauntered over until he was no more than a foot away, forcing her to look up into the face that was at once both achingly familiar and surprisingly breathtaking. The trace of boyishness that had still been visible when they last met was no more, as his features had fully matured into the kind of stoic, patrician beauty the Romans had adored. His dark hair had grown so long it nearly brushed his collar, the waves as unruly as ever, and his strong jaw was lightly bearded. But beneath that easy charm the same undercurrent of antagonism crackled—just as captivating, and disquieting, as it always had been. His hazel eyes glinted, daring her to look away first. But Lottie stared right back.

Alec filled the silence by studying her with an openness that bordered on indecent. If he were any other man, she would have walked away or taken him to task. But then, if he were any other man, her skin wouldn’t feel so flushed and tight, and she wouldn’t have any trouble swallowing. Alec’s gaze tracked the movement of her throat, then briefly flitted to her mouth. Lottie clenched her hands against the unwanted attraction swelling inside and released a breath.