It had been two weeks since their courtship began, and she was never far from his mind. Five days a week, he escorted her to lunch at the small café in the basement of the Smithsonian. Even with the crowds of tourists, the noise, and the mundane food, that hour had become the highlight of his day.

Each day his fascination with Annabelle grew. He learned of her blind sister and how Annabelle had left a respectable job at a college in Kansas to accompany Elaine here. Family meant everything to her, as it did to Gray. The true test of loyalty lay in hard times and sacrifices, and in coming to Washington, Annabelle had proven herself a woman of steadfast honor.

Today was a Saturday, so Annabelle was visiting him at the townhouse, where he’d treat her to a spicy fruit punch he’d become enamored of while living in Ceylon. He looked forward to the chance to court her in blessed quiet, something that was in short supply at the Smithsonian.

Except he’d forgotten to put the punch on ice. Muttering a curse, he shot out of his study and headed toward the icehouse tucked into the alley behind his house.

“Otis, come help me chip some ice!” he hollered through the still-open door. It would be a race to cool the punch before Annabelle’s arrival, but he wanted everything to be perfect. Someone like Luke could charm the birds out of a tree, but it had never been easy for Gray. Frankly, he didn’t know how to flirt with a woman. He knew business, negotiation, and accomplishments. For the first time in his life, he envied Luke’s breezy charm.

“Someone just knocked on the door,” Otis said as he ambled toward the icehouse.

Annabelle was earlier than expected, but Gray could trust Otis to get everything prepared.

“I’ll get it,” he said as he tossed the ice pick to the younger man.

He dragged his hands through his hair and straightened his collar as he bounded down the center hallway to the door. He nearly yanked it off its hinges in his excitement.

“Who are you?” he asked in confusion. A middle-aged man and woman stood on the front stoop with a trunk at their feet.

“I’m Monsieur Chastain,” the man said in a thick French accent. “My wife and I are delivering Miss Delacroix’s new wardrobe. It is magnifique,” he purred. “Your sister is a true artisan. Her taste is exquisite. She shall illuminate all of Washington society.”

The Frenchman kept rambling, but Gray’s eyes grew wide as he eyed the trunks and boxes mounded on his front stoop. There were more in the wagon on the street. “Don’t tell me the boxes in the wagon are also for my sister.”