when a tall man dressed in a sky blue long-sleeved buttoned shirt and gray slacks looking like he just stepped out of a Giorgio Armani ad, scooped up the valise. Surprised, her eyes locked with the bluest pair she’d ever set her own eyes on.
“I’ve got that for you, Miss,” the handsome stranger said in a British accent.
She thanked him as they shared a smile, and even now, she remembered how his charm caused her heart to flutter.
“First time visiting England?” he asked, wheeling the valise behind him as they strode together side by side on their walk up to the manor entrance.
“I’ve actually been to London only,” Sara said, stealing a glance at him. “But I look forward to seeing the countryside.” In a move she never dared before, she flashed him a smile with a coquettish sideways glance. “Perhaps you can you show me around sometime.” To this day, she had no idea why she, normally shy, boldly even asked.
And she would never forget the high-wattage grin that he rewarded her, eyes twinkling. “I would love to.”
Suddenly, hurried footsteps sped their way. “Allow me to take that for you, my Lord,” said another young man Sara realized was the actual footman and not the handsome blue-eyed demi-god she’d been conversing with all along.
Immediately then, Sara felt her cheeks flush, imagining her face turning a beet red. Her cheeks, neck and ears heated up. As a new lady-in-waiting, she should have known, should have done her research and inquired about his appearance. She silently cursed herself. “I—I apologize.” As she bowed, she couldn’t face him.
He shook his head. “There’s no need for apologies or formalities.” He held out his hand by way of introduction. “Arlen Cromwell.”
Even as she lay in bed now, she recalled her embarrassment from that first meeting. Indeed, he was none other than the Arlen Spencer-Cromwell, Viscount Rydelthorpe. Fiancé of her mistress, Princess Chantalise. For the rest of their stay there, Arlen kept his word and showed Chantalise and her entourage around the village and countryside, but Sara, so embarrassed by her earlier show of bravado, appropriately stayed clear of Arlen so that he could proceed with his courtship of the princess.
Blushing at the memory now, she realized the reason she blocked out that embarrassing introduction and Arlen altogether. Until now.
Alas, months after the visit, the engagement was broken and nearly two years later, here he was, back in her life.
Sara thought that it was possible this evening of her sister’s wedding had all been but a dream. Chatting with Arlen in the vineyards amid the backdrop of a Moradonian purple sunset, holding hands as they passed through the vineyards toward the reception, slow dancing for God only knows how many dances, and the pregnant albeit tranquil silence shared by the two of them as he walked her home beneath the incandescent moon and glittering stars. A wonderful dream Sara wanted to lose herself in forever.
Chapter Three
Amid a sea of bright round orange in the local pumpkin patch, Arlen stooped down and, with knees bent, attempted to pick up a large pumpkin from the ground.
“Be careful,” Sara said, her fingers clasped together, hoping he wouldn’t do anything that would hurt his back.
But the viscount succeeded in lifting the rotund Musquée de Provence, also known as a “fairytale pumpkin,” a gorgeous deeply-ribbed French heirloom that averaged about fifteen to twenty pounds, a replica of a pumpkin straight from a Cinderella tale. With Sara right on his heels, he carried it straight to her father’s car where she opened up the car door for him. He swished his hands clean after setting it down on the backseat.
“Easy as pie,” he said, grinning at her. “Pumpkin pie.”
“Is that a hint?” Sara couldn’t believe that the seemingly formal viscount she met over a year or so ago when he courted the princess was the same man only now armed with a more relaxed demeanor and a sense of humor.
Upon entering the kitchen, Sara observed her Tía Silvia regard the pumpkin with eagerness, as the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon wafted in the room.
“You don’t think us strange to go to a pumpkin patch when, in a few weeks, we should already be thinking of getting a Christmas tree?” Arlen smirked as he carefully set the pumpkin on the kitchen table.
“Not at all,” Silvia said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I know exactly what to do with this. I plan to purée the pulp, mix it with cream, eggs, spices, pecans and some rum, then drape the mixture in pastry and then, voilà, it’s time to bake.”
“Mmmm,” Arlen said. “I can smell it already.”
Sara and the viscount sat down as Silvia served up hot apple cider in mugs. She eyed the raggedy dish towel draped over a wooden chair; the magnets on the refrigerator door from various places she visited with the princess; the chip on the rim of one of the mugs, imagining how these “flaws” would look through Arlen’s eyes.
“I appreciate the visit to the pumpkin farm,” Arlen eyed Sara. “Truth is, that was my first time.”
Sara and her aunt exchanged glances. “You’re kidding,” Sara said.
He shook his head. “We, that is, my siblings and I, did not engage in many fun childhood pursuits when we were young. My father preferred to prepare us for our eventual responsibilities as adults.”
“Which is what exactly?” Silvia blurted out as her niece shot her a warning glare.
“To be responsible stewards of the vast land we’re inheriting,” he said, briefly looking out the window at the stretch of farmland. “Frankly, I wished I had done something purposeful then like become a Peace Corps volunteer when I had a chance after college.”
As Arlen gazed at her, Sara couldn’t help but blush. She was impressed that he remembered that part of their conversation during her visit to England sometime ago.
“But you travel all over the world,” Silvia began, taking eggs from a basket.
“For work, yes,” he said. “It’s different. All business—no pleasure.”
Blinking rapidly, Sara’s heart began to race. This man, this business magnate, investor and philanthropist who also happened to be British nobility, thought that a trip to the pumpkin patch was a highlight of his adult life. And she was a part of that.
Stop it right this second! He obviously thinks of you as only a friend—nothing more. Grow up, Sara! You might be living and working at a palace but this is not a fairytale.
That night, over an omelette supper, Silvia entertained them with stories about her youth spent with her older brother, Sara’s father, at the family’s farm. Sara sensed her aunt longed to know more about Arlen’s life but didn’t want to pry. Nor did he offer any more background information about himself as he continued to ask Silvia questions about life on their farm.
As Arlen stood up to leave, Silvia daringly invited to accommodate him for the night, ignoring her niece’s waving of hands, head shaking and mouthing the word “No” behind Arlen’s back.
“That’s very kind of you, Madame,” he said. “But my room at the village
