He smiled slowly and she felt the warmth of that grin spreading like sunlight through her. “Because I love you.”

That warmth exploded into fire in her chest. “You don’t.”

“I do.”

He pushed to his feet and seized her face in both of his hands. “I love you. I love you and I don’t want a future with anyone but you.”

“But . . . you’re going to be a duke—”

“I am foremost a man. A man that can be whatever kind of duke he wants to be . . . as long as I have you with me. As long as I have you at my side. I want to be happy, Nora, and I can’t be that without you. Please. Make me happy. Let me make you happy.”

“Constantine,” she whispered.

“Nora,” he returned. “Say, yes. Say you love me—”

“I do love you—”

“Then that’s all that matters. Say you’ll marry me and together we will build a life. One that we both want. You and me.” His pressed his mouth to hers, right there in the middle of the station, in front of everyone.

She heard a garbled shout of encouragement from Bea, but she could not process the words . . . and she did not care.

All her attention was fixed on Constantine. “Yes. I’ll marry you.” He kissed her then, again, to shouts and applause and the roar of a train engine, taking its departure without her.

He lifted his head, his eyes gleaming brightly down at her. “You missed your train.”

She smiled back at him. “I didn’t miss anything.”

Epilogue

Ten years later . . .

After donning and casting aside no less than five garments, Nora settled on a brown and cream striped day dress with a minimum amount of bustle.

“You are certain this is the one?” Bea asked, gathering up the discarded dresses.

Nora examined herself critically in the mirror, turning to observe herself from every angle. “Yes.” She nodded with satisfaction. “This is the one.”

The day dress was modest and functional. She should be able to maneuver about in it with ease, and the jaunty little lace at the collar was smart and struck her as quite studious.

“It is rather . . . plain,” Bea offered with a wrinkling of her nose.

“Plain is not a bad thing, Bea. I am not going to a garden party.”

“Hm.” Bea sniffed and Nora knew her thoughts perfectly. As far as her dear maid was concerned, Nora should always be attired as though she were going before the queen.

Nora, however, did not wish to proclaim to the world that she was a member of the aristocracy—even if she was. The goal was to look presentable and not stand out as anything other than a first year medical student.