The first time Scarlett met Owen he was selling bread.

It was the very start of summer; that magical time of year when winter had finally withdrawn its icy claws, the flowers were fresh from their spring showers, and the air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle.

On the day our story begins it was unseasonably warm, even for early summer in the sprawling Northampton countryside. As it turns out this was a very good thing, for had it not been warm our young heroine would not have forgotten her cloak in the carriage and she would not have had to dash back across the busy village square to fetch it. But it was warm and she did forget and as young ladies of substance and good breeding were never to be seen out in public with their arms completely bare, dash she did.

In her dashing she happened to pass a cart filled with all sorts of bread. Piled high in wicker baskets were puffy cottage loaves and flat beremeal bannocks and round saffron buns already buttered. Having quite the sweet tooth she couldn’t help but stop and stare, her grumbling stomach a loud reminder that she had not eaten anything save a poached egg at breakfast.

Ignoring her governess – for who really had need of a governess at sixteen? – she stepped in line behind two elderly women wearing hats so large they blocked her view of the baker.

“It will only a take a few moments, Ms. Atwood,” she told the fretful woman standing beside her. “Did you see the size of the crumpets? They’re enormous!”

But when she finally reached the front of the line all thoughts of crumpets and puffy cottage loaves and flat beremeal bannocks and round saffron buns fled her mind the moment she saw the boy standing on the other side of the bread cart.

There was nothing about him that was particularly striking. Certainly nothing that warranted the sudden racing of her pulse or the hard pounding of her heart as it slammed wildly against her ribcage. But race and pound they did.

The boy was tall, but she had met taller men. He was handsome, but she’d met her fair share of those as well. And then there was the scowl to contend with. It darkened his entire face, drawing his mouth down at the corners and etching two lines across the middle of his forehead. The lines were thick and rather foreboding, but they did not intimidate her in the slightest.

Few things did.

“Hello.” Bold as you please she extended her gloved hand over a basket overflowing with apple tarts. “It is very nice to meet you. My name is Scarlett.”

Where other men would have bowed or taken her hand and kissed the back of it, the boy merely frowned in suspicion. “What do you want?”

“Your name, to start with.” A smile brightened her entire face, revealing a charming dimple high on her right cheek. With her silky blonde hair, large gray eyes, and heart-shaped countenance, Scarlett was already promising to be a Great Beauty, just as her mother had been and her mother before her and her mother before her. Her bloodline – one that had been curated as carefully as a prized thoroughbred’s – was blessed with beautiful women and she was no exception, although sometimes she wondered if her life wouldn’t have been easier if she’d had a particularly long nose, or mousy brown hair, or (horrors upon horrors) freckles.

Maybe if she had a big ugly dark spot in the middle of her forehead she wouldn’t have felt such immense pressure to make a success of herself during her first season. For she wasn’t just expected to fill her dance card. Oh no. Lady Edgecombe’s aspirations for her daughter were much, much higher than that.

Scarlett was expected to do no less than procure multiple offers for her hand before the season was halfway through. The higher the title the better. Her mother already had her sights set on Lord Garrett Green, the Viscount of Hatfield. His was the first name on her handwritten list of eligible bachelors she kept tucked away inside her writing desk.

The list ran the gamut from duke to viscount – a baron was considered far too common – with little notes scribbled beside each name such as ‘due to inherit soon’ and ‘wealthy, but poor health’. Scarlett was tempted to write little notes of her own (‘boring’ and ‘pompous’ were two that came immediately to mind) but thus far she’d resisted the urge. There were some battles that could not be won no matter how hard you fought, and this happened to be one of them. It did not matter to Lady Edgecombe what qualities Scarlett was looking for in a husband. It really did not matter that she wasn’t looking for a husband at all. Her mother knew what was best and that was the end of that.

“Did you bake all of this yourself?” she asked the boy politely.

He could not have been much older than seventeen or eighteen, perhaps twenty at the most. He still had a gangly look to him, although his broad jaw and prominent nose hinted at the man he would soon become. Dark hair stuck out from beneath an old wool cap in licks and curls. His cheekbones were high and rather distinguished and his eyes were the most unusual shade of deep blue.

He looks like a wolf, Scarlett thought fancifully. Strong, wary, and just a bit feral.

“My father and I did,” he said shortly. “If you’re not going to buy anything you need to step aside for those who are. You’re holding up the line.”

Rather a lot feral. 

As the daughter of a wealthy earl Scarlett was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a brash manner, but even though her governess let out a tiny squawk of protest she did not so much as bat an eye. She wasn’t insulted by the boy’s frankness. Quite the contrary, in fact. His candor felt like a fresh breeze in a room heavy with the scent of cologne. Cologne that belonged to men stumbling over their own tongues trying to pay her a compliment she had done nothing to earn.

One could only have their hair compared to the bright gleam of the morning sun or their skin likened to a glowing pearl plucked from the depths of the ocean so many times before flattery began to lose its authenticity. Particularly since Scarlett knew it wasn’t her appearance her suitors were complimenting.

It was her dowry.

Twenty thousand pounds to be handed over to the first man who managed to charm a ring onto her finger. It was an embarrassingly large sum and one she’d begged her father to lessen, but as usual he had refused to listen.

“My little girl will have the best husband money can buy,” he’d told her time and time again. As if a husband were a pair of shoes or a necklace that one could walk into a store and purchase. Given that her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother (and so on and so forth) had been blessed with similar dowries, one had to wonder if it was really their beauty that had caught them a husband or something of a more monetary nature. 

“I will be more than happy to purchase something if you tell me your name.” Ignoring the sharp nudge of Ms. Atwood’s foot, Scarlett reached out and gripped the edge of the wooden cart with both hands, a silent – albeit steely – indication she was not going anywhere until she got what she wanted.

What the boy did not yet know (but would quickly come to learn) was that once she set her mind on something she refused to be deterred. One of the few good things that had come from being the only child of disinterested parents was she’d learned at an early age that if she dug her heels in deep enough she was almost always given what she wanted.

A box of velvet hair ribbons. A pretty gold locket. A new pony. And in this case, a name.  

The boy’s eyes narrowed until they were nothing more than thin slits of blue. “Why do you want to know? It’s no business of yours.”

She lifted her chin. “Why do you not want to tell me?” she countered. “A name is such a simple thing to share, and I have already given you mine.” If she were pressed, Scarlett was not sure if she would be able to say why she was so insistent on learning the boy’s name. She just knew she had to have it and she was willing to stand here all day if that was what it took to get it. 

His gaze flicked to the line of people waiting behind Scarlett, some of which had begun to look elsewhere as their impatience grew. His bread cart might have been the most amply supplied, but it was not the only one at the market.

“Owen Steel,” he muttered at last. “My name is Owen Steel.”

Owen Steel.

Scarlett bit her lip as tiny shivers raced up and down the length of her spine and the fine blonde wisps of hair on the nape of her neck stood on end. She had never met Owen Steel before. Never even caught a glimpse of him, even though she’d been coming to the village square since she was a child. So why would his name have such an effect on her? Because she found him attractive? But she’d fancied other men before and they’d never elicited such a response.

It was as though there was a string connecting them to one another. A string that had been slowly but steadily reeling itself in until it brought her and Owen together in this particular place at this particular time. If she concentrated hard enough she could almost feel it tugging deep inside of her chest. But where had the string come from? Better yet, what did it mean?

Scarlett gave a willful toss of her head. She may not have had any answers to the questions bouncing around inside of her head, but she was determined to find them. As determined as she’d ever been about anything in her entire life.

“My lady, we have to go,” Ms. Atwood hissed. “Your mother will be waiting and wondering where we are.”

“Let her wait,” Scarlett said, shaking off the governess’s concerns as easily and carelessly as a duck shook water from its back. It was her mother who had brought her here in the first place, and it was her mother who had insisted Scarlett wait while she flitted from one vendor to the next, filling her maid’s arms with box after box of useless trinkets and shiny baubles. “I said I would make a purchase if Mr. Steel told me his name and that is precisely what I intend to do.”

“About bloody time,” Owen growled, earning himself a reproachful glare from Ms. Atwood.

“Please mind your tongue,” the governess said primly. “You are in the presence of a lady.”

“The lady needs to make up her mind.” His gaze flicked to Scarlett. There was bristling animosity in the depths of the cold blue, but there was also a glimmer of interest he couldn’t quite manage to conceal.

Having been the recipient of many a similar stare (albeit without the animosity), Scarlett knew precisely what to do. Tilting her head ever-so-slightly to the side, she batted her lashes and adopted a coquettish smile. She may have not yet made her debut, but she was already an accomplished flirt. Her father had many friends who came to visit and lately they’d begun bringing their sons along in a (not so subtle) attempt to catch Scarlett’s eye.

“What would you recommend?” she asked in the small, breathless voice that all of her suitors seemed to particularly enjoy. It was a voice she’d spent countless hours practicing, for it did not come very naturally. Left to her own devices Scarlett was a rather loud, boisterous creature. Only after months of tutelage by some of the finest governesses in all of England had she learned to contain her enthusiasm and portray herself as the calm, quiet, composed young lady everyone expected her to be.

She smiled patiently at Owen as she waited for him to be charmed, for if there was one thing that did come naturally it was her ability to be charming. Why, any second his dark scowl was going to turn into a bright sunny–

“Dunno,” he grunted.

Scarlett blinked.

That was it? All of her head canting and eyelash fluttering and coy smiling and velvety voicing and all she’d gotten in response was a ‘dunno’? Why, that was not even a word! This was going to be much more difficult than she’d anticipated.

“Mr. Steel, would you care to – bollocks,” she broke off under her breath when she heard her mother’s voice slice through the crowd with all the sharpness of a knife.

“Lady Scarlett,” her governess scolded, “that is not a word–”

“Young ladies use. Yes, yes I know. Do you think she’s seen us?” It was not often Lady Edgecombe spoke above a measured whisper. For her to come so dangerously close to a shout – and in such an open place as this – meant she was very, very displeased.

Hunching her shoulders, Scarlett cast a furtive glance to the right and then to the left. When she saw a plumed peacock feather bobbing and weaving its way straight towards the bread cart she bit back a groan. They’d been spotted, then. Which meant her time with Owen was coming precariously close to an end. If only there was some way to ensure their paths would cross again!

Her breath caught as an idea popped into her head.

Maybe there was…

“Scarlett! There you are.” Parting the crowd with a haughty stare, Lady Edgecombe marched straight to the front of the line and regarded her only child with pinched lips and a raised brow.

Elegantly striking, Scarlett’s mother was the epitome of a finely bred lady. Despite her age of two and forty, her hair did not yet have a hint of gray and there was nary a dark spot to be found upon her ivory countenance. Oh, there may have been a few more lines around the edges of her eyes and mouth than there used to be, but she hid them with various powders and kept them from growing by never smiling any more than was absolutely necessary. Wealth and good breeding showed itself in every inch of her slender frame, from the confident tilt of her feathered hat to the enormous sapphire and gold ring on her right index finger; a family heirloom that would pass to Scarlett on the day of her wedding.

Sunlight reflected off the ring as Lady Edgecombe raised her hand and tucked a loose tendril back up underneath her daughter’s bonnet.

Mustn’t have a single hair out of place, Scarlett thought with a twinge of annoyance that she hid behind a pleasant smile. Heaven forbid I ever look less than perfect.    

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mother. I got distracted.”

“Again?” Lady Edgecombe was far too well-mannered to throw her hands up in the air but the clipped edge in her voice betrayed how exasperated she was. “And here I thought I was quite clear with my orders. You were to go to the carriage to retrieve your cloak and come straight back.” Her sharp gaze flicked to Scarlett’s governess who had the good grace to blush and look down at her feet. “Instead I found myself waiting for a distastefully long amount of time. Do you care to explain yourself, Ms. Atwood?”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Scarlett said hurriedly, not wanting her mother to blame her governess for their delay when she had been the one who insisted they stop at the bread cart. “I – I wanted some scones and the line was very long.”

For the first time Lady Edgecombe seemed to realize where she was standing. She looked at Owen, who was watching their exchange with the faintest of smirks, and then back at Scarlett. The corners of her mouth tightened imperceptibly. Not quite enough to cause a wrinkle, but certainly enough to show her displeasure. “We have a perfectly capable cook at home, my dear. Come along now. We are late as it is.”

But Scarlett refused to move. “I wanted to order the scones for Father’s birthday as a surprise.”

“Need I repeat myself? We have a perfectly capable cook at–”

“Yes,” Scarlett interrupted, “but Father will surely smell them baking and the surprise will be ruined.”

“Of all the outlandish–” Lady Edgecombe cut herself off, nostrils flaring as she took a deep breath. “Very well. Order your scones, but be quick about it.”

Scarlett turned to Owen. “We will take three dozen of your blueberry scones, please.”

“Three dozen?” Lady Edgecombe exclaimed before Owen could respond. “What on earth is your father going to do with three dozen blueberry scones?”

“Eat them.”

Lady Edgecombe held her daughter’s gaze for three very long seconds before she gave the tiniest of nods. Like Scarlett, she knew when to pick her battles. “Fine. Three dozen blueberry scones, and be sharp about it. We haven’t all day.”

Owen’s jaw hardened and for a moment Scarlett was afraid he was going to turn them away but with a shrug he said, “I don’t have that many.”

“Well then how many do you have?”

He did a quick count. “Four.”

“Then four shall have to suffice. Ms. Atwood, please see to it that the scones are–”

“Wait!” Scarlett cried.

Lady Edgecombe pressed her lips together so hard a pale green vein bulged high on her forehead. “There are people waiting,” she hissed, “and they are beginning to stare. Come along, Scarlett.”

Scarlett knew there was nothing her mother hated worse than staring. In fact, she had been counting on it. Just as she’d been counting on the fact that Owen would not have three dozen scones at his disposal.

“Why not have the scones delivered right to the house? That way they will be freshly baked. You can do that, can’t you?” she asked Owen, biting back a triumphant smile as all of the pieces of the puzzle she’d so hastily put together fell neatly into place. “Tuesday morning should work brilliantly.” Especially since both of her parents were going to be attending a play in London. 

Owen rubbed his chin. “I suppose so. Delivery’s going to be extra, though.”

“Price is of no issue,” Lady Edgecombe snapped before she looked pointedly at her daughter. “Are you happy now, darling?”

Was she happy that she’d be able to see Owen again without anyone – with the exception of Ms. Atwood, who really did not count – being the wiser?  

“Exceedingly so.” 

“How wonderful. Can we leave now, or would you like to stop at the florist and purchase ten dozen white roses?”

“No,” Scarlett said cheerfully, ignoring her mother’s biting sarcasm. “The scones should do it.”

If either Lady Edgecombe or Ms. Atwood noted the extra bounce that accompanied her step on the way back to the carriage they did not mention it, and before Scarlett had even settled into her seat she was already counting down the days until she would see Owen again…