Val turned the hand holding that book up, revealing the gold lettering upon the top of the copy. “I’m never going to be the best man because there is no man who’ll ever be worthy of you. But Myrtle, you have bewitched me . . . In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

With a sob, Myrtle flung herself from the carriage.

Val was there to catch her, folding her in his arms. “From this day on,” he finished that treasured quote, burying those words against her temple.

“You read all of it,” she sobbed as Val held her close.

“Are these tears of happiness because of that? Or because I’m asking you to spend the rest of your days with me, Myrtle?” he asked, and with an aching tenderness, he brushed the tears from her cheeks.

A half laugh, half sob escaped her. “B-both.” Her voice broke. “But decidedly more of the latter.”

“Dare I hope then that you’ll agree to give me your heart, making me the happiest per—”

“Yes,” she said between laughter and tears as he stroked her cheek. “But only if you agree to the same, Val.”

He smiled, and then touched his brow to hers. “It seems we are in agreement, my love.”

And as their laughter mingled, filling the countryside, Val drew her closer into his embrace, and she held tight to him and the promise of all the happiness that was to come.

Epilogue

Epilogue

Kent, England

One Week Later

When Myrtle had been a small girl, she’d known certain things as absolute truths.

Someday, when she married, she’d do so at Christmas.

There would, of course, be snow falling, and it would be a chilly, snow-covered morn, and despite that, she’d be walking down an outside aisle to meet at the other end a man who loved her most ardently and passionately, as she loved him.

They would be surrounded by the loving folds of their families, who’d be boisterous and exuberant in their gaiety.

And, of course, there would be the grandest of celebrations after.

Nearly every aspect of that imagining had come true. In its own form, and in its own way.

There was that winter wedding on Christmas Day, but the storm raging outside, rattling the windows, made an outdoor ceremony an impossibility.

Instead, Val had the idea to move the ceremony to the glass-enclosed conservatory, so they could be wed as close as it was possible to being outside, while the wind battered his—and very soon their—household.

“Here it is, my lady.” One of the Dowager Duchess of Aragon’s maids came rushing into the room, her voice raised to be heard above the din of Myrtle’s sisters and cousins, who remained with her while she was readied for her wedding day.