All of nineteen, she was more than aware of the realities of the world and understood fully that the circumstances of her birth would not serve her well when it came to securing her place among the aristocracy. Still, her family was determined to see her married to a noble. The man had to be titled. Not the second son or the third, but the first. A duke was preferable, a marquess adequate, an earl acceptable, a viscount . . . an outcome to be avoided if at all possible.

From the moment she’d made her entry into the world they had decided her destiny and moved her unerringly toward it, but the life they had mapped out for her seemed to lack one crucial element: love.

She yearned for love more than she wanted to breathe. Oh, her family loved her, she had no doubt about that, but she longed for the sort of devotion about which sonnets were written and poets waxed, a grand love like the one her mum had known. When Fancy was a wee lass, yet still old enough to be curious about the absence of a man about, she’d worked up the courage to ask about her father. With tears in her eyes, her mum had explained how she’d fallen for a handsome regimental officer. They’d not been married when they’d given into passion on the eve of his departure to a foreign land, but he’d promised to wed her upon his return. However, fate had intervened, and he’d died heroically, yet tragically, on a bloodied battlefield on the Crimean Peninsula.

“But, still, he gave me the most wonderful gift of all—you.” Even now, the recollection of her mum’s words caused her eyes to dampen. From that moment on, Fancy had understood she was special. Unlike her siblings who had all been left at her mum’s door, she had been wanted.

And so it was that she had a tender regard for stories brimming with romance, and Lady Rosemont’s letter certainly fell into that category, serving as a talisman, offering hope that she, too, might discover a passion not to be denied.

At that very moment, with long, slender fingers, her future husband might be opening the gilded invitation that would set him on the path toward meeting her. Unlike her brothers’, his hands would be soft and without calluses or scars, his movements would reflect elegance. He would have mastered the waltz to perfection, and when he took her within his arms to sweep her over the parqueted flooring, although he would hold her at a proper distance and with decorum, his gaze would capture hers and communicate his intense regard toward her, would reveal how firmly she’d already won him over. His eyes would reflect warmth and hint at his desire—

Jingle. Jingle.