The nearest village was only a short carriage ride away. Even smaller than Blooming Glen where Scarlett and Owen had first met, it was comprised of a tiny square and a handful of shops, the majority of which were only just reopening after a long, stagnant winter.

Adjusting the brim of her balloon bonnet – sans veil – Scarlett walked briskly down the street, neatly sidestepping a pile of manure. Owen had not told her where he was staying, but given there was only one inn within a twenty mile radius it was not difficult to hazard a guess.

The Silver Lion was a tidily kept establishment with a pub below and rooms above. The exterior was yellow with gray trim – hence the name – and although there were long, snaking cracks in the plaster and a large patch on the slate roof, it was apparent from the sparkling windows and neatly swept walkway that the inn was well cared for.

She heard the jingle of a bell as she pushed open the door, but at first glance there was no one about, not even a tavern maid. Wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she approached the long bar. It was damp and smelled faintly of lemon and beeswax, indicating it had recently been scrubbed. Resting her gloved hands lightly on the curved edge she stood up on her toes and peered over the other side – just as an older man holding a wooden crate filled with drinking glasses popped up.

“Oh!” Scarlett cried in surprise.

“Bloody ‘ell!” the man shouted.

The crate went up and then came down with a resounding crash so loud Scarlett covered her ears.

“I am so terribly sorry,” she gasped. Shards of glass were everywhere. It did not appear as if a single cup had been spared. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“Then what the ‘ell were ye doing?” the man demanded, his upper lip curling in anger before he dropped to his knees and started to pick up pieces of glass. On the other side of the bar Scarlett began to do the same.

“I did not think anyone was here. I really am sorry. I’ll pay for every broken glass,” she offered.

“Damn right ye will,” he snorted. “What were ye doin’ here in the first place, lass? We dinna open for another five hours.”

Sitting back on her heels, Scarlett drew a hand across her brow as she recalled the last time she’d heard the thick, rolling burr of a Scotsman. It had been in a room far smaller than this one with a rickety old table that had a book wedged beneath one of the legs to keep it level. The table had been sparsely set, the porcelain plates mismatched and dull from too many washings, the cabbage soup sitting in the middle of the table hardly enough for one person, let alone four. But that had not stopped Owen’s mother from immediately putting out another plate when she realized her son had invited a guest for dinner.

“And who is this?” Mrs. Steel had asked, her warm, weathered face and kind blue eyes so different from Lady Edgecombe’s cold, judgmental stare.

“My friend that I told you about.” Owen had slanted a sideways glance at Scarlett when he’d said the word ‘friend’ and she’d done her best not to giggle. “Lady Scarlett. Her parents are in London until next Tuesday so I thought it would be nice to have her over for dinner.”

“That’s a kind thought.” The glimmer of amusement in Mrs. Steel’s gaze had revealed she knew full well that Scarlett and Owen were likely more than just friends, but she’d made no mention of it. Instead she had gone to a battered looking china cabinet and taken out the very last plate. “I do hope you like cabbage soup, Lady Scarlett. I am afraid it’s all we have.”

“Please call me Scarlett. And I love cabbage soup. It’s one of my favorite meals.” It had been a lie, of course. Cabbage soup was a meal for the poor and the impoverished and she’d never once eaten it. But she had not wanted to hurt Mrs. Steel’s feelings, nor had she noticed the quick frown Owen gave her as she sat down across from him.

“Mr. Steel will only be a moment – oh, here he is now.”

Scarlett still remembered the pretty blush that had spread across Mrs. Steel’s cheeks as her husband had entered the cramped flat. He’d been as tall as Owen was now, his dark auburn hair nearly touching the ceiling. Yet in spite of his size he’d had a quiet way about him, reminding Scarlett of a gentle giant when he had taken his seat at the head of the table and led them in a quick prayer.

“Now,” he said after the prayer was finished, his brown eyes twinkling as his gaze darted between Owen and Scarlett. “Why dinna ye tell me who this pretty lass is and how it’s come aboot that she’s sitting at my table.”

“Don’t embarrass the boy,” Mrs. Steel chided. “This is his friend he met in the village. Her parents ordered all of those blueberry scones, if you’ll recall.”

“And does this friend have a name?” he asked as he tore off a piece of bread from the thick loaf he’d brought home with him. It was still steaming and the smell of it was enough to make Scarlett’s mouth water. Noting the direction of her stare Mr. Steel tore off a second piece and put it on her plate. “There ye go, lass. Straight from the oven. Ye won’t taste finer bread in all of Hampshire County.”

“Scarlett,” Owen muttered as his ears turned a dull red. “Her name is Scarlett.”

“Miss Scarlett,” Mr. Steel said with a nod. “It’s a pleasure tae meet ye. Any friend of my son’s is a friend of ours. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Steel?”

“It most certainly is. Would you care for some soup, dear?”

“Yes please.” Scarlett held out her bowl. Leaning across the table, Mrs. Steel carefully ladled out a large spoonful. The next serving, noticeably smaller than the first, went to her husband, and the third to her son. When it came time to fill her own bowl she was scraping the bottom of the pot and Scarlett felt a surge of guilt as she realized her portion had been meant for Owen’s mother.

It was all so different from what she was accustomed to. When she ate with her parents they sat so far apart that they rarely spoke, let alone served one another food. That task was left to the scullery maids. Her mother never set the table, nor cleaned up afterwards. And at the end of every meal there was enough food left over to last for the rest of the week, but it was thrown out and everything prepared fresh the next day.

Scarlett had known, of course, that she and Owen were from two different social classes. But she’d never really considered what that meant until this very moment. As she unconsciously compared their two vastly different upbringings she couldn’t help but feel a trickle of unease.

Was this the sort of future that awaited her when she and Owen ran off together? A tiny flat with barely enough room for a table. No servants. The same watered down soup night after night. She bit her lip as her gaze flitted down, only to abruptly look up when she felt Owen nudge her foot from beneath the table.

“My mother wants to know what you think of the soup.” He was watching her closely, an odd, almost defiant expression on his face. 

“It’s delicious,” she said quickly. “The best cabbage soup I’ve ever eaten.”

Mrs. Steel’s face flushed with pleasure. “What a fine compliment to be given. Tell me Scarlett, do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No, it is just me.”

“What aboot your parents?” asked Mr. Steel.

“They’re in London for the opening of a new art exhibit.” She had asked to accompany them, but as usual they’d insisted she remain behind. We will be back by the end of the week, her mother had promised. I will take you shopping as soon as we return. Won’t you like that?

Mr. Steel frowned with his spoon lifted halfway to his mouth. “They left ye all alone?”

“I have my governess.”

“And does this governess know where ye are?” he asked with a meaningful glance at his son.

“Not – not exactly.” She’d told Ruth she was having dinner with Felicity whose estate was all but across the road, making it the one place she could go without a chaperone. As long as she was back before dark Ruth would never be the wiser as to where she’d really been and who she had been with.

Mr. Steel grunted. “I suspected as much.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” Mrs. Steel interceded with a stern look at her husband. “They’re just children and it is not as if she’s run off. Have you, dear?”

Scarlett’s startled gaze swept to Owen. Did his parents somehow suspect what they’d planned last night when they were walking hand in hand beneath the stars? No, she assured herself when he gave a small shake of his head. Their secret was safe… for now. But what would happen when they returned from Gretna Green as husband and wife? Better yet, where would they live?

When Owen had asked her to elope with him he’d assured her they would be able to stay with his parents until he saved up enough money for them to buy a little cottage in the country. It was one of the reasons he’d invited her for dinner. So she could meet his mother and father, and they could meet her. But all it took was one glance at her surroundings for Scarlett to know there wouldn’t be enough room. Why, the entire flat was the size of her bedchamber! And what would she do all day while Owen was working and her friends were in London flitting from ballroom to ballroom? Surely he wouldn’t expect her to work… would he?

What had seemed like a wonderful idea when her head was tucked on Owen’s shoulder and her lips were still tingling from his kisses suddenly began to lose its appeal. As doubt sank its icy claws into her skin she looked away from Owen, her gaze dropping to her pitifully small bowl of cabbage soup.

Was this the life she wanted for herself? For the children they would have one day? She bit the inside of her cheek. What if her parents disowned her? Or her friends stopped speaking to her? Or – worst of all – they laughed at her?

But I love him, she reminded herself fiercely. And we are meant to be together.

Weren’t they?

As if he could sense something was wrong Owen reached beneath the narrow table and touched her knee. She jumped ever-so-slightly, jostling her bowl.

“Are you all right dear?” Mrs. Steel asked.

“Fine,” she said hastily. “I am fine. Although I just remembered that I was supposed to be home half an hour ago. I – I would not want to make my governess worry.”

“But you’ve hardly touched your soup or your bread!” Owen’s mother made a clucking sound of disapproval. “Let me ready you some food to take home. I might even be able to sneak in a few scones,” she said with a wink. 

“Oh no, that’s not–”

“It will only take a moment.” True to her word Mrs. Steel quickly wrapped up half a roll of bread and three large apricot scones. Putting them into a cloth satchel and handing the satchel to Owen, she gave Scarlett a quick hug. “It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” she said warmly, her blue eyes bright with affection. “Now I see why Owen has been so distracted lately.”

“Mother,” Owen muttered, turning his head to the side as his ears flushed with color.

“It’s true.” Mr. Steel squeezed his son’s shoulder. “Why, just yesterday the boy put blackberry filling in an apple pie.” He shook his head. “Head in the clouds, this one.”

Despite her trepidation, Scarlett could not help but smile. It was clear by the way they look at Owen that Mr. and Mrs. Steel were incredibly proud of their son. Had her own parents ever gazed at her with such adoration? She doubted it.

Lord and Lady Edgecombe were proud of their daughter the same way they were proud of their estate in the country and their house in town and their brand new carriage. Not because they held any great love or affection for those things, but because they were a sign of wealth and fine breeding.

“Thank you for a lovely meal.” Impulsively she kissed Owen’s mother on the cheek. “It was a pleasure.” 

“Please come back any time dear.”

“Aye, any time,” Mr. Steel echoed. “It was nice tae meet ye, lass.”

Mrs. Steel opened the door, admitting a warm draft of summer air that smelled of honeysuckle and fireflies. “Be careful walking home. And mind your manners,” she told Owen sternly, giving him a friendly swat on his backside as he followed Scarlett out.

They walked most of the way in silence, although Scarlett felt the heavy weight of Owen’s gaze upon her more than once. Yet it wasn’t until the lights from Edgecombe Manor were visible through the leafy bows of the trees that he took her arm and gently turned her to face him.

“What is it?” he murmured, his blue eyes intent as he searched her face. “What is the matter?”

A tiny branch snapped beneath Scarlett’s heel as she shifted her weight from side to side. “I was just thinking about what will happen when we return from Gretna Green.”

Confusion knitted Owen’s brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, where will we live?”

“With my parents.” A dark lock of hair tumbled across his forehead as his head canted to the side. “I thought we talked about this last night.”

“Yes, but…” Her voice trailed away as she leaned back against the thick trunk of a gnarled oak. Golden light from the setting sun swept across her slender frame, highlighting the blossoming curves beneath the thin fabric of her muslin dress. She plucked absently at a loose thread, winding the string around her fingertip until blood pooled in her nail.  

“But?” he prompted.

Her shoulders lifted and fell in a helpless shrug. “But there is hardly any room, is there?”

“I know it will not be what you are used to,” he said earnestly, “but it will only be for a short while. When we save up enough money we’ll be able to buy a house of our own. Maybe we could even build one.”

“Perhaps,” she said, unconvinced. Owen was a baker, not a builder. What did he know about constructing a house? And where would they get the money for the land? Unless he was thinking of becoming a tenant farmer. The very thought was enough to make her shudder. To go from being an earl’s daughter to a tenant farmer’s wife… she would be a laughingstock!

“What about the London Season?” she asked, pulling the thread tighter.

“What about it?” He shoved his hair back with a scowl. “I thought you didn’t care about that.”

Neither did Scarlett… until she had begun to think about everything she would be giving up by missing it.

The fancy balls.

The beautiful gowns.

The nights at the theatre.

The elaborate dinner parties.

She thought she’d been ready to forsake all of those things to be with Owen.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

“Maybe if we waited a year or two…”

“If we waited you would never come back to me,” he said simply.

Her eyes widened. “Of course I would!” The thread on her skirt snapped as she leapt forward and threw her arms around Owen’s neck. Burrowing her face in the familiar crook of his shoulder and her fingers in the rough folds of his jacket she murmured, “I love you.”

She felt him stiffen, which only made her cling all the harder. “I love you,” she repeated, tilting her head back. “Don’t you believe me?” A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I will prove it with kisses if I have to.” Ignoring his frown – Owen was always frowning about something or another – she pressed her lips to his chin, then his cheek, then the tip of his nose.

“You missed a spot,” he said gruffly.

“Did I?” She quirked a brow. “I cannot imagine where.”

He pointed to his mouth. “Here.”

“Ah, so I did…”