Last night he’d even dreamed about her. One of those hazy dreams that disintegrates upon waking. All he could recall of it now was the feeling of deep contentment it had left him with. A warm sense of rightness.

Only eleven more days.

The rain beat heavily against the drawing room windows. If not for the blazing fire and the gasolier, and countless lamps and taper candles flickering on the marble mantelpiece and the inlaid side tables, the room would be swathed in darkness.

Normally, Neville wouldn’t have given a thought to the oncoming storm. The elements hereabouts had always been fierce and unforgiving. As brutal as the cliffs sheering down to the sea. One simply got on with things. Acclimating to the climate—just as one acclimated to every other cruelty.

Clara didn’t belong here.

It pained him to acknowledge it. But it was the truth. One that became more evident with each passing day. Despite her eccentricities—her aspirations for education, and employment—she was made for a gentler world. She deserved a gentler world.

“I never noticed the storm,” she said. “Not until I returned to the house this morning.”

“It isn’t so b-bad.”

“No? I shudder to think what could be worse.”

He replied without hesitation. “When the rain c-comes sideways. And when…when the road washes away.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Once a year. Sometimes m-more.”

“You’ve never considered moving someplace more hospitable?”

“I like Devon.”

“Yes, but Devon consists of more than this strip of coast. It’s a large county, I believe. Surely there must be places that are less volatile.”

Neville frowned. He didn’t know what else there was. He’d never been farther than Abbot’s Holcombe. “Sometimes…I imagine a f-farm.”

Her face lit with interest. “A horse farm?”

“With p-paddocks, and a barn, and…lots of room.”

She tilted toward him ever so slightly. “With acres of clover, and rolling fields for the horses to run and to graze?”

He looked into her eyes, very much in danger of losing himself in their satiny depths. “Yes. All of that.”

“And more,” she said.

“What else is there?”

“A snug little farmhouse. And…a butterfly garden.”

His brows lifted in question.

Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink. “A garden planted in such a way as to attract butterflies, with lavender, heliotrope, and the like. The butterflies come to sip honey from the flowers. One can sketch and paint them—if one has a mind to.”

His mouth curved. “But this is m-my farm. My dream.”

“Is it?” she asked. “Your dream, I mean? Something you want just for yourself?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But…” No dream was worth giving up his friends. He shrugged. “I belong here.”