A short time later, Charlotte and Marco slipped into Nimway Hall through the terrace door and made their way through the silent hall to the sitting room.

Marco closed the door, watching Charlotte with a concerned gaze. She’d said very little after finding her sister’s diary. Her face pale, she perched on the edge of the settee, the book on her knees.

He waited, wondering if she would read it now, but instead she stroked it slowly, her eyes filled with tears.

Marco stirred the fire back to life, and added some wood, careful not to let the poker clang too loudly when he returned it to its hook. When he turned back, Charlotte was hugging the book as if it were a child, rocking slowly back and forth, tears streaming down her face.

He thought of his own sisters and how protective he’d felt of them and how his own heart would break if something happened to them. Never had he felt so helpless.

A sob broke from her and he hurried back to the settee and gathered her to him.

Holding the book to her, she burrowed against him and wept. She wept until his shirt was soaked with her tears, until she could cry no more, until she’d broken his heart with her own.

Her cries subsided into shuddering sighs and, finally, into soft sniffles. Marco didn’t know how to comfort her, so he rubbed his cheek against her hair, and whispered to her of his own family, of his sisters and brothers, of the funny stories, and the painful ones. It worked. She listened to him, even giving a watery giggle at one point.

It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

Finally, much later, his stories done, he began to yawn. She pulled away and placed her hand on his cheek. “I think I’m going to read this now.”

“Very well. I’ll—”

“No. I need to read it alone.” She kissed him tenderly. “Please.”

“Of course. But I’m not leaving your side.”

She nodded.

He piled pillows in one corner of the settee, and sat down, tucking her against him. And then he slept while she read.

* * *

“Good God!”

Marco opened his eyes, aware of three things at once.

First, Charlotte was in his arms, her warm bottom was pressed comfortably against him. What a lovely way to wake up in the morning.

Second, someone had thrown open all of the curtains and the sitting room was now flooded with light, which made it hard to see the third thing.

Which were the four pairs of eyes now staring down at him over the back of the settee.

He squinted in the morning light, trying to make out the faces above him.

One was a distinguished gentleman with graying auburn hair, and a pair of suspiciously familiar dark blue eyes. The man looked alarmingly ready to kill someone. Mr. Harrington.

Beside him was an older, but still attractive woman dressed in the height of fashion, her blonde hair elaborately coiffed, jewels glittering at her ears and throat. Her gaze was pinned on Marco with such intensity, that he could feel it sticking him in the ribs like a sword. Mrs. Harrington.

To the other side of the woman was a young, slender man, whose expression could only be described as ‘confused.’ Is this John, the brother? Somehow, Marco didn’t think so, for there was no family resemblance. Ah, so you’re the abominable Robert, are you?

It took some effort to keep his scowl to himself.

The last face Marco knew. Lady Barton, as plump and bejeweled as ever, wiggled her fingers at him in greeting. Her eyes brimmed with merriment, her cupid’s-bow lips curved in a delighted smile. She said in a spritely tone. “Well, hello there! Fancy meeting you here!”

Mr. Harrington glared at her. “Damn it, Verity, this is not the time for levity!”

“Oh hush, Jack. No one asked you.” Lady Barton’s smile didn’t flinch, and neither did her gaze move from Marco. She bent over the back of the settee. “Mr. di Rossi, would you like some breakfast?”

Charlotte stirred in his arms, murmuring in protest at the noise. Her lashes fluttered open as sleep left her. He knew the second she saw the faces above her, for her eyes snapped open and she scrabbled to her feet, swaying at the sudden movement, the book tumbling to the floor at her feet.

“Good morning, child.” Lady Barton beamed as if Charlotte had just done the most amazing thing. “Sleep well?”

Mrs. Harrington favored her sister in law with a chilly gaze. “Verity, you have failed as a chaperone.”

“You think so?” Lady Barton’s gaze traveled slowly over Marcus. “I was thinking I did rather well.”

Charlotte was frantically trying to set herself to rights, tugging on her skirt, smoothing her straying hair, and in general trying to make herself look less ‘slept upon the settee.’ “Mama! Papa! When did you get in? I—” Her gaze fell on the young man, who had yet to say a thing. “Robert?” Her voice cracked.

Marco decided it was time he joined the fray, so he stood, only to discover that his shirt had bunched up and had rolled high under his arms. He tugged his shirt back into place, aware that that Lady Barton’s eyes followed his every move, showing her approval with an enthusiastic nod.

For all the approval Lady Barton was showering on him, Charlotte’s ex-fiancé was dousing Marco with scowled. “You, sir, will answer for this!”

Marco was more than willing, but Charlotte sent him a warning look and then stepped in between them. “Robert, I assume you received my letter.”

“I did. And I came as soon as I got it. Charlotte, please, you must rethink this. I left as soon as we became engaged, and that’s my fault, but—”

“Robert, don’t. As I said in the letter, we were never meant to be. I think you believe the same.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Mrs. Harrington said stiffly. “Charlotte, this is ludicrous. What are you thinking? This man—” She gestured toward Marco. “—is nothing more than a common sculptor and—”

“No.” Charlotte slipped her arm through his. “He is not a common anything. He is exceptional. He’s an exceptional sculptor, and soon he will be an exceptional husband and, hopefully, an exceptional father.”

Mrs. Harrington paled, while Robert flushed a deeper red, his hands fisted at his sides.

Lady Barton clapped her hands together. “Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely!” She leaned toward her brother. “They will have such beautiful children. I mean, just look at them.”

Oddly enough, Mr. Harrington looked neither surprised nor upset. Instead, he watched Marco with a cool, calculating gaze that made him wish he’d worn his court clothing.

Lady Barton looked at the small group with all of the pleasure of a hostess greeting her guests at a party. “I, for one, am famished. Should we sit for breakfast before we have The Discussion?”

“I am not sitting with this man,” Robert snapped.

Marco shrugged, willing to go in whatever direction this young hothead wished.

“Verity’s right,” Mr. Harrington said in a calm tone. “Before we’re beset with emotion at all of this strife, should we repair to the breakfast room? I, for one, am starving.”

“Jack, no,” Mrs. Harrington snapped. “I am not sitting down with this man for breakfast, or dinner, tea, or anything. He’s compromised our daughter!”

“Really?” Mr. Harrington looked at Marco. “Well? Have you compromised her?”

“She’s going to marry me. If that’s what you mean by ‘compromise,’ then yes.”

Charlotte, who’d sent him a surprised look at this, blushed, and then slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. “I would be glad to marry you.”

“I’ll get you a ring today,” he said under his breath, covering her hand with his.

“That will do.” Mr. Harrington turned to his wife. “There you have it, then. All this drama for nothing. There was no compromising, not yet, anyway.”

Robert made a muffled noise, and to Marco thought he detected tears in the young man’s yes.

Charlotte must have seen it, too. She quickly released Marco’s arm and bent down to scoop up the diary where it rested by her feet.

The color drained from Robert’s face and he almost staggered to a nearby chair, where he sat gasping.

“What’s this?” Mr. Harrington said sharply.

Charlotte held up the book. “It’s Caroline’s diary.”

Mrs. Harrington’s hand stole to her heart and she stared at the small book, tears in her eyes. “Charlotte, are . . . are you certain?”

“I am. I found it last night.”

“And you read it?” Mr. Harrington asked.

She nodded and then where Robert sat, his hands shaking as if he were in a blizzard, tears running down his face. “Robert, I had no idea. She didn’t tell anyone. I’m so very, very sorry.”

“Robert?” Mrs. Harrington said, looking as if the world might tilt over. “And Caroline?”

“They’d been in love for years. The night she died, she was on her way to meet him. They were going to elope.”

Mr. Harrington slipped his arm about his wife just as her knees gave. He walked to the settee and placed her on it.

Robert stared at the diary. “Where did you find it?”

“In the crofter’s cottage where you used to meet.”

“I should have thought to look there.” He ran his hand over the smooth cover. “I was to fetch her at midnight, but I suppose she . . . I don’t know what happened.”

“I know what happened,” Caroline said. “She was so excited that she left early. It’s the last entry she made in her diary. She’s loved you for a long, long time. And you, her.”

“Since she was fourteen.” He shook his head. “She was so beautiful and—Well, you all knew her, too. We’ve been talking about getting married for so long, but she wanted to wait, and then she had a season—” He gave a bitter laugh. “I was jealous and I wrote her some scathing letters, and all for no reason. She was always true to me. I—I just wish I’d been there for her when she needed me.”

Charlotte dropped to her knees beside Robert. “You did what you could. She was trying to prove herself to you, I think.” She placed the book in his lap. “When you finish, I’m sure you’ll let Mama have it back.”

He clutched the book with both hands, his eyes shining. “Thank you, Charlotte. I’m . . . I’m sorry about . . . well, everything.”

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Harrington said faintly. “I thought you loved Charlotte.”

“He does,” Marco said. “But not in the way he should have.”

Robert looked at Charlotte. “He’s right. Can you forgive me? I thought Caroline would want me to take care of you. And I wanted to do that, not just for her sake, but yours. But I couldn’t stand being here. I see her everywhere. In every room of this house, in every corner, in every memory I have.”

Charlotte gave him a hug, her heart so full that she could barely speak. “You’re a dear, good friend, Robert. I’m glad Caroline had you in her life while she was here.”

He closed his eyes and held her tight.

After a moment, Charlotte gently disentangled herself and stood.

“Well.” Mama smoothed her gown over her knees, her color almost back to normal. “We’ve settled everything where Caroline and Robert are concerned, but Charlotte?” Mama’s cool blue gaze locked on Charlotte. “You and your father and I have much to discuss. As for you, Mr. di Rossi, I heard that you are to install the fireplace surround today. You will do so, and I will pay you the agreed upon amount. After that, you and your assistants will pack your things and—”

“Olivia?” Papa said, his voice oddly soft.

“What?” Mama snapped.

He pointed to a table by the window. There, sitting beside a vase of flowers, was the moonstone.

“The orb!” Mama stood, as white as a sheet. “Charlotte? Have you see that?”

“Marco says it’s a mace head, while Simmons seems to think it’s a decorative piece, but he can’t seem to figure out where to display it.”

Mama sank back into her seat.

“Well?” Papa said, looking amused.

Her lips quirked. “You want me to say I was wrong.”

“That would be the beginning.”

Aunt Verity sighed. “Jack, please. She’s had a shock. You’re being quite a brute to expect so much.”

“No, he’s right.” Mama managed a smile, though her lips trembled. “Fine. Charlotte, you may marry your sculptor.”

“Really? And you won’t disown me?”

Mama looked shocked. “Charlotte! I would never do that! Surely you know that.”

“I did, I suppose. I just needed to hear you say it.” She slipped her arm through Marco’s and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Yes, what’s this about this orb?” Aunt Verity asked.

Mama shrugged. “It’s a part of Charlotte’s heritage. The orb is . . . I don’t know how else to say this, but it’s magic.”

“Ridiculous!”

“It’s true. The orb is a part of Nimway, and it appears to the Guardian.”

“Which was Caroline,” Robert said, his mouth tight as if the words pained him.

“And is now Charlotte,” Mama returned. Her gaze turned back to Charlotte. “I should have realized that after Caroline’s death, but I was too busy mourning. Charlotte, where did you find the orb?”

“It was on the mantel, the one Marco will be replacing. I’d never seen it before then.”

“That’s because the orb appears when it’s needed, and it only appears to the Guardians when they find their true love.”

“You’ve never told me about this.”

“I should have. I see that now. But I had my reasons. When I met your father, the orb kept—I don’t know how to say this—but it kept leading him to me, over and over. I knew what it wanted of course, but I hated the thought that the orb was making your father fall in love with me rather than him loving me for myself.”

“The orb can do that? Make someone fall in love with you?”

“I don’t know what it can and can’t do. But it caused me to doubt my feelings and I didn’t want that to happen to either you or Caroline.”

“So you didn’t tell us.”

Mama shook her head. “There are many stories about the orb. I’ll share some of them over breakfast.” She looked around the room and for the first time since she’d arrived, she smiled. “Shall we?”

Papa held out his arm, but she patted it and turned instead to Marco. “Mr. di Rossi, if you don’t mind escorting me, I believe Charlotte would like to sit with her Papa, especially as she’s to be leaving soon.”

Charlotte watched as Marco bowed and then offered his arm, his manner as grand as any prince. “Madame,” he said, “it would be my pleasure.”

And with that, he escorted Charlotte’s Mama into breakfast.