Kent, England
June, 1809

Robert Kemble, Earl of Macclesfield, had never been given to flights of fancy, but when he saw the girl by the lake, he fell instantly in love.

It wasn't her beauty. With her black hair and pert nose she was certainly attractive, but he'd seen women far more beautiful in the ballrooms of London.

It wasn't her intelligence. He had no reason to believe that she was stupid, but as he hadn't shared two words with her, he couldn't vouch for her intellect either.

It certainly wasn't her grace. His first glimpse of her came as she flailed her arms and slipped off a wet rock. She landed on another rock with a loud thump, followed by an equally loud "Oh, bother" as she stood and rubbed her sore backside.

He couldn't put his finger on it. All he knew was that she was perfect.

He moved forward, keeping himself hidden in the trees. She was in the process of stepping from one stone to another, and any fool could see that she was going to slip, because the stone she was stepping onto was slick with moss, and --

Splash!

"Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear!"

Robert couldn't help but grin as she ignominiously hauled herself to the shore. The hem of her dress was soaked, and her slippers had to be ruined.

He leaned forward, noticing that her slippers were sitting in the sun, presumably where she'd left them before hopping from stone to stone. Smart girl, he thought approvingly.

She sat down on the grassy bank and began to wring out her dress, offering Robert a delicious view of her bare calves. Where had she stashed her stockings, he wondered.

And then, as if guided by that sixth sense only females seemed to possess, she jerked her head up sharply and looked about. "Robert?" she called out. "Robert! I know you're there."

Robert froze, certain that he'd never met her before, certain they'd never been introduced, and even more certain that even if they had, she'd not be calling him by his given name.

"Robert," she said, fairly yelling at him now. "I insist you show yourself."

He stepped forward. "As you wish, my lady." He said this with a courtly bow.

Her mouth fell open. She blinked and scrambled to her feet. Then she must have realized that she was still holding the hem of her dress in her hands, baring her knees for all the world to see. She dropped the dress. "Who the devil are you?"

He offered her his best lopsided smile. "Robert."

"You are not Robert," she spluttered.

"I beg to differ with you," he said, not even trying to contain his amusement.

"Well, you're not my Robert."

An unexpected surge of jealousy raced through him. "And who is your Robert?"

"He's... He's... I fail to see how that is your concern."

Robert cocked his head, pretending to give the matter ample thought. "One might be able to broach the argument that since this is my land and your skirts are soaked with water from my pond, then it is indeed my concern."

The color drained from her face. "Oh, dear Lord, you're not his lordship."

He grinned. "I'm his lordship."

"But, but his lordship is supposed to be old!" She looked most perplexed and rather distraught.

"Ah. I see our problem. I'm his lordship's son. The other his lordship. And you are...?"

"In big trouble," she blurted out.

He took her hand, which she had not held out to him, and bowed over it. "I am extremely honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Trouble."

She giggled. "My name is Miss Big Trouble, if you please."

If Robert had had any doubts about the perfection of the woman standing before him, they melted away under the force of her smile and obvious sense of humor. "Very well," he said. "Miss Big Trouble. I shouldn't want to be impolite and deprive you of your full name." He tugged on her hand and led her back to the bank. "Come, let us sit awhile."

She appeared hesitant. "My mother, bless her soul, passed on three years ago, but I have a feeling she would have told me that this is a most inadvisable idea. You look as if you might be something of a rake."

This caught his attention. "And have you met many rakes?"

"No, of course not. But if I were to meet one, I should think he would look rather like you."

"And why is that?"

She quirked her lips in a rather knowing expression. "Come now, are you looking for compliments, my lord?"

"Absolutely." He smiled over at her, sat down, and patted the ground next to him. "There is not need to worry. My reputation is not so very black. More of a charcoal gray."

She giggled again, causing Robert to feel as if he must be King of the Universe.

"My name is actually Miss Lyndon," she said, sitting beside him.

He leaned back, resting on his elbows. "Miss Big Trouble Lyndon, I presume?"

"My father certainly thinks so," she replied pertly. Then her face fell. "I really should go. If he caught me here with you..."

"Nonsense," Robert said, suddenly desperate to keep her there beside him. "There is no one about."

She sat back, her manner still somewhat hesitant. After a long pause she finally said, "Is your name truly Robert?"

"Truly."

"I imagine the son of a marquess would have a long list of names."

"I'm afraid so."

She sighed dramatically. "Poor me. I have but two."

"And they are?"

She looked sideways at him, the expression in her eyes most definitely flirtatious. Robert's heart soared.

"Victoria Mary," she replied. "And you? If I may be so bold to ask."

"You may. Robert Phillip Arthur Kemble."

"You forgot your title," she reminded him.

He leaned toward her and whispered, "I didn't want to scare you."

"Oh, I'm not that easily frightened."

"Very well. Earl of Macclesfield, but it's only a courtesy title."

"Ah, yes," Victoria said. "You don't get a real title until your father dies. Aristocrats are an odd lot."

He raised his brows. "Such sentiments could probably still get one arrested in some parts of the country."

"Oh, but not here," she said with a sly smile. "Not on your land, by your lake."

"No," he said, staring into her blue eyes and finding heaven. "Certainly not here."

Victoria appeared not to know how to react tothe pure hunger in his gaze, and she looked away. There was a full minute of silence before Robert spoke again.

"Lyndon. Hmmm." He cocked his head in thought. "Why is that name so familiar?"

"Papa is the new vicar of Bellfield," Victoria replied. "Perhaps your father mentioned him."

Robert's father, the Marquess of Castleford, was obsessed with his title and his lands, and frequently lectured his son on the importance of both. Robert had no doubt that the new vicar's arrival had been mentioned as a part of one of the marquess's daily sermons. He also had no doubt that he hadn't been listening.

He leaned toward Victoria interestedly. "And do you enjoy life here in Bellfield?"

"Oh, yes. We were in Leeds before this. I do miss my friends, but it's much lovelier in the country."

He paused. "Tell me, who is your mysterious Robert?"

She cocked her head. "Are you truly interested?"

"Truly." He covered her small hand with his. "I should like to know his name, since it appears I may have to do him bodily harm if he ever again attempts to meet you alone in the woods."

"Oh, stop." She laughed. "Don't be silly."

Robert lifted her hand to his lips and placed a fervent kiss on the inside of her wrist. "I'm deadly serious."

Victoria made a feeble attempt to pull her hand back, but her heart wasn't in it. There was something about the way this young lord was staring at her, his eyes flashing with an intensity that scared and excited her. "It was Robert Beechcombe, my lord."

"And does he have designs on you?" he murmured.

"Robert Beechcombe is eight years old. We were to go fishing. I suppose he bowed out. He did say that his mother might have some chores for him to do."

Robert suddenly laughed. "I am beyond relieved, Miss Lyndon. I detest jealousy. It's a most unpleasant emotion."

"I-I can't imagine what it is you would feel jealous about," Victoria stammered. "You have made no promises to me."

"But I intend to."

"And I have made none to you," she said, her tone finally growing firm.

"A situation I will have to rectify," he said with a sigh. He lifted her hand again, this time kissing her knuckles. "For example, I should very much like your promise that you will never again even so much as look at another man."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Victoria said, utterly bewildered.

"I shouldn't like to share you."

"My lord! We have only just met!"

Robert turned to her, the levity leaving his eyes with astounding swiftness. "I know. I know in my brain that I only just laid eyes on you ten minutes ago, but my heart has known you all my life. And my soul even longer."

"I-I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. Just sit here beside me and enjoy the sunshine."

And so they sat on the grassy bank, staring at the clouds and the water and each other. They were silent for several minutes until Robert's eyes focused on something in the distance, and he suddenly jumped to his feet.

"Don't move," he ordered, a silly grin stealing the sternness from his voice. "Don't move an inch."

"But--"

"Not an inch!" he called over his shoulder, dashing across the clearing.

"Robert!" Victoria protested, completely forgetting that she should be calling him "my lord."

"I'm almost done!"

Victoria craned her neck, trying to make out what he was doing. He'd run off to a spot behind the trees, and all she could see was that he was bending down. She looked at her wrist, almost surprised to see that it wasn't burning red where he had kissed her.

She had felt that kiss throughout her entire body.

"Here we are." Robert emerged from the forest and swept into a courtly bow, a small bouquet of wild violets in his right hand. "For my lady."

"Thank you," Victoria whispered, feeling tears sting her eyes. She felt unbelievably moved, as if this man had the power to carry her across the world -- across the universe.

He released all but one of the violets into her hand. "This is the real reason I picked them," he murmured, tucking the last flower behind her ear. "There. Now you are perfect."

Victoria stared at the bouquet in her hand. "I've never seen anything so lovely."

Robert stared at Victoria. "Neither have I."

"They smell heavenly." She leaned down and took another sniff. "I adore the smell of flowers. There is honeysuckle growing just outside my window at home."

"Is there?" he said absently, reaching out to touch her face, but catching himself just in time. She was an innocent, and he didn't want to scare her.

"Thank you," Victoria said, suddenly looking up.

Robert jumped to his feet. "Don't move! Not an inch."

"Again?" she burst out, her face erupting into the widest of smiles. "Where are you going?"

He grinned. "To find a portrait artist."

"A what?"

"I want this moment captured for eternity."

"Oh, my lord," said Victoria. Her body shook with laughter as she rose to her feet.

"Robert," he corrected.

"Robert." She was being dreadfully informal, but his given name fell so naturally from her lips. "You are so amusing. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so much."

He leaned down and laid another kiss upon her hand.

"Oh dear," Victoria said, glancing up at the sky. "It's grown so late. Papa might come looking for me, and if he found me alone with you--"

"All he could do is force us to marry," Robert interrupted with a lazy grin.

She stared at him. "And that isn't enough to send you scurrying off to the next county?"

He leaned forward and brushed the softest of kisses against her lips. "Shhhh. I've already decided that I'm going to marry you."

Her mouth fell open. "Are you mad?"

He drew back, regarding her with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and amazement. "Actually, Victoria, I don't think I have ever been saner than I am at this very moment."

* * *

Victoria pushed open the door to the cottage she shared with her father and younger sister. "Papa!" she called out. "I'm sorry I'm late. I was out exploring. There is still so much of the area I have not seen."

She poked her head into his study. Her father was seated behind his desk, hard at work on his next sermon. He waved his hand in the air, presumably signaling to her that all was well and he did not wish to be disturbed. She tiptoed from the room.

Victoria made her way to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. She and her sister Eleanor took turns making supper, and Victoria was on duty that night. She tasted the beef stew she had put on the stove earlier that day, added a bit of salt, then sank down into a chair.

He wanted to marry her.

Surely she had been dreaming. Robert was an earl. An earl! And he would eventually become a marquess. Men of such lofty titles didn't marry vicar's daughters.

Still, he had kissed her. Victoria touched her lips, not at all surprised to see that her hands were trembling. She couldn't imagine that the kiss had been as meaningful to him as it had been to her -- he was, after all, many years older than she was. He had surely kissed dozens of ladies before her.

Her fingers traced circles and hearts on the wooden tabletop as her mind dreamily recounted the afternoon. Robert. Robert. She mouthed his name, then wrote it on the table with her finger. Robert Phillip Arthur Kemble. She traced all his names out.

He was terribly handsome. His dark hair had been wavy and just a touch too long for fashion. And his eyes -- one would have expected such a dark-haired man to have dark eyes, but his had been clear and blue. Pale blue, they should have looked icy, but his personality had kept them warm.

"What are you doing, Victoria?"

Victoria looked up to see her sister in the doorway. "Oh, hello, Ellie."

Eleanor, younger than Victoria by exactly three years, crossed the room and picked Victoria's hand up off the table. "You're going to give yourself splinters." She dropped Victoria's hand and sat down across from her.

Victoria looked at her sister's face but saw only Robert. Finely molded lips, always ready with a smile, the vague hint of whiskers on his chin. She wondered if he had to be shaved twice a day.

"Victoria!"

Victoria looked up blankly. "Did you say something?"

"I was asking you -- for the second time -- if you wanted to come with me tomorrow to bring food to Mrs. Gordon. Papa is sharing our tithe with her family while she is ill."

Victoria nodded. As vicar, her father received a tithe of one-tenth of the area's farm produce. Much of this was sold to care for the village church, but there was always more than enough food for the Lyndon family. "Yes, yes," she said absently. "Of course I'll go."

Robert. She sighed. He had such a lovely laugh.

"... more in?"

Victoria looked up. "I'm sorry. Were you speaking to me?"

"I was saying," Ellie said with a decided lack of patience, "that I tasted the stew earlier today. It needs salt. Would you like me to put more in?"

"No, no. I added a bit a few minutes ago."

"Whatever is wrong with you, Victoria?"

"What do you mean?"

Ellie exhaled in an exasperated gesture. "You haven't heard two words of what I've said. I keep trying to talk to you, and all you do is gaze out the window and sigh."

Victoria leaned forward. "Can you keep a secret?"

Ellie leaned forward. "You know I can."

"I think I'm in love."

"I don't believe that for one second."

Victoria's mouth fell open in consternation. "I just told you that I have undergone the most life altering transformation in a woman's life, and you don't believe me?"

Ellie scoffed. "Who in Bellfield could you possibly fall in love with?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

"I already said I could."

"Lord Macclesfield."

"The marquess's son?" Ellie fairly yelled. "Victoria, he's an earl."

"Keep your voice down!" Victoria looked over her shoulder to see if they had caught their father's attention. "And I am well aware that he is an earl."

"You don't even know him. He was in London when the marquess had us up to Castleford."

"I met him today."

"And you think you're in love? Victoria, only fools and poets fall in love at first sight."

"Then I suppose I'm a fool," Victoria said loftily, "because Lord knows I am no poet."

"You are mad, sister. Utterly mad."

Victoria lifted her chin and looked down her nose at her sister. "Actually, Eleanor, I don't think I've ever been saner than I am at this very moment."

Copyright © 1997 by Julia Cotler Pottinger