His stranger stood before him with the warmest smile, melting away the ice clinging to his heart.

“Hello.”

Henry’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips, searching his mind for some string of letters, anything he could pull together to speak. And yet he was left staring daftly at her.

“Oh, I can feel my back about to go,” the older woman interjected. “I must sit down. I must. I must. Only a brandy will do now. What a journey, let me tell you…”

The older woman’s complaints faded to the background.

“Good day,” he said at last, his voice deeper than he expected.

The cold wind whipped across Tilly’s face, the snow almost cutting across her cheeks as she stood in the doorway, staring down a tall, dark man who appeared to hold up Haddington Court in the midst of utter chaos.

“I need a brandy and to sit by the fire,” Mrs. Craven, her insufferable chaperone barked. At nearly eighty-two years of age, the woman lived only for the present and did not like to be left waiting for fear she might expire. Or so she often told Tilly.

Mrs. Craven continued, even as the world slowed, and Tilly thought she was dreaming.

She must be because he was just as struck as she, and she was near positive he was her stranger. Even if his voice was deeper, she would never forget the way his words softened in a Welsh accent.

But good day? That was so formal. She had dreamt of finding him these past few months and standing frozen in a snowstorm without a word to say was not what she pictured.

“Allow me to help you, m’lady,” a maid said, approaching to remove her cloak.

“Thank you.” The words tumbled out of her in a whisper. She couldn’t look away from the handsome man appraising her. His dark hair was cut in fashion, not a wayward strand to be found. He had a long Roman nose punctuated by such dark brown eyes they appeared black. He was handsome the night they first met, but now with the full picture of his face, she was struck.

And just as suddenly, as if a string snapped and he came untethered, he rushed forward.

“Are you well, miss? Are you hurt? Are you cold?”

“Give her a chance to breathe, young man. How do you expect her to answer?” Mrs. Craven said. “And do not trouble yourself, I am well.”

The stranger stopped short of touching her, and she was instantly sorry for it. Then he volleyed glances between her and her chaperone, his dark brows drawn in confusion.

“Are you well?” he asked, turning to Mrs. Craven.

“That was the worst carriage ride of my life. And might be my last. My nerves! I need a brandy or some claret. You,” she said, pointing to a footman, “make yourself useful instead of standing about and ready a place for us by the fire. We have survived a great ordeal. I need something to settle my nerves, or I swear I shall expire on this extraordinary Aubusson rug.”

“Mrs. Craven, I am sure they are doing what they can. The other guests⁠—”

“It’s only myself. The others won’t arrive tonight. The roads have been closed.”

Tilly quickly scanned the magnificent foyer of Haddington Court, decorated with enormous oil portraits, before settling her gaze upon her stranger. “Oh.”

She supposed they were not strangers any longer.

“Who are you?” Mrs. Craven wriggled over, stepping between Tilly and the beautiful man in front of her.

“I’m Lord Devlin, ma’am.” He nodded his head in the perfect courtly gesture, all the while maintaining eye contact with Tilly.

An earl?

Oh, what a silly thing her heart was. Tilly would never mean anything to a titled man. They were all the same.

Mrs. Craven clutched the ivory handle of her cane. “It’s a pleasure, my lord. I am Mrs. Craven. I had no idea we would be snowed in with an earl. Imagine our luck. Where is the duke?”

“He fell victim to the roads, Mrs. Craven. I only know what I have been told, but I can relay that he is expected shortly after it is safe to travel once more.”

“Yes, yes,” she waved off.

Of all the companions in London, Tilly found Mrs. Craven both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because the woman considered napping among her very favorite pastimes. However, the old woman possessed the eerie ability of knowing everything and was the most meddlesome of gossips around.

“And this is Miss Matilda Brennan. I am sure you know of her. Almost anyone who resides in London does after her last performance as Volumnia.”

The earl shook his head. “I am sorry to say I have not had the pleasure of an introduction.”

Tilly felt the heat bite her cheeks from embarrassment. Or perhaps it was the memory of their kiss in the woods at the masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens. The way he had asked if it had been a pleasurable kiss. She had never once had someone consider her when touching her body.

And here he stood so close once again, and they couldn’t say a word in front of Mrs. Craven. They were to spend an entire week together at this house party and act as if they were strangers when that was far from the truth.

Especially when, after having finally found him after all these months, she wished to grab his hand and catch up by the fire and laugh and flirt and kiss some more.

Which only proved Roger right, she was the worst of harlots.

If she were not careful, her reputation would be shattered, and no one would pay to see her tread the boards of Drury Lane. She had fought too hard to give that up because of one kiss.

Because of one man…

“Can I help you find a seat by the fire, Miss Brennan?”

Tilly’s heart danced in her chest. And while the inside of her felt a riot rage on, outside she cooled her features and narrowed her eyes. If she could fashion herself from ice, then perhaps she could protect herself from falling madly and recklessly in love with the earl.

An earl. Oh. She had really done it now.

“Thank you, no.” She was surprised by the resolve in her voice. “Mrs. Craven is correct. It was an ordeal, and I wish to retire to my room.”

A lady’s maid hurried down the stairs and whisked Tilly away, leaving Mrs. Craven with the earl.

All she could think of as she turned the corner on the stairs was that she still didn’t know his name, and she was jealous he now knew hers.

If it mattered.

Did it matter?

Had he thought of her as often as she had thought of him?

It had been such a whirlwind evening. They shared only a handful of minutes together, but she had sworn that evening, and since, that they must have known each other in some other way. How else could she explain how she felt so completely at home with him?