On her fifth day of solitude, the shop sparkled from her labors, and she had run out of things to dust and polish. There was nothing left to do except to shelve some books customers had pulled out and then decided against. Emma sighed softly. Such is the life of a bookstore owner. She should be grateful she at least had a shop with a good reputation. Her father hadn't left them entirely destitute. She already had made it halfway to the magic number of twenty books sold each month, and the store's bank account was a bit plumper than it had ever been. Even though her situation was better than it had been in a long time, she couldn't shake her melancholy.

She lowered her head into her hands, fighting against tears. What would people say if they wandered into the shop, only to find the owner crying about her lot in life? They'd run in the opposite direction, no doubt. She had to be strong, and support both herself and her mother. Lifting her head, she wiped away any trace of tears and set about replacing the books that had been left on the counter.

A tinkle of the shop's bell attached to the door announced the arrival of a new customer. Emma pasted a smile on her face before she pivoted and faced the person who had entered. Her breath caught in her throat when she recognized her new patron. It was the Duke! Her knees threatened to buckle, so she leaned up against the bookshelf and stared at him.

"Your Grace," Emma whispered.

He came forward and took her hand in his. Shots of current ran up her arm at the contact, and she quit breathing altogether. Her stomach began fluttering when, instead of relinquishing his hold on her, he came closer. The breath she'd been holding whooshed out of her.

"Hello, Miss Carter," his deep voice washed over her like a caress.

"You've returned," Emma stated the obvious in a weak voice. "Why?"

"Because I realized I'd forgotten something." He continued to stare at her.

"I can't imagine what that might be." Emma's gaze darted around the room. "I've just spent five days cleaning everything in the shop and found nothing unusual."

"I didn't say I left anything behind, only that I'd forgotten something." His smile lit up his face, exposing his dimples and an errant lock of his brown hair cascaded over his forehead. Emma lifted the hand he wasn't holding to brush his hair back before she realized her intent, and lowered it again. Embarrassed, she quickly looked down, but didn't draw back her hand from his hold.

* * *

Paul took a deep breath before he spoke again. He needed to get this right. "You asked me once how it was I remained single, and I brushed off the question."

"You don't owe me an explanation," Emma's gaze came back to him, and she narrowed her eyes, studying him intently.

"I believe I do. I was once engaged, to a lovely, but somewhat impulsive, young lady named Margaret. We were out walking one winter's day, and she ran ahead of me onto an ice-covered lake. I urged her not to head in that direction, since I couldn't follow her. She knew I feared the water, but laughed and ran on ahead. The ice wasn't thick enough to hold her weight, and she fell in." He stopped, took another deep breath, and ran a hand over his eyes.

"And you couldn't save her," Emma finished for him.

Paul closed his eyes, as visions of his nightmare threatened to overtake him again. When he opened them, Emma stood in the sunlight, holding his hand. The nightmare abated, finally. His future was in front of him.

"No, I couldn't." He shook his head. "Ever since, I've tried to assuage my guilt by associating with women who haven't had the best reputations. It's all I thought I was worthy of, since the finest woman I'd ever met I let slip beneath the ice."

Emma's hand raised as she gave in to her impulse and brushed back a lock of his hair. "I'm so sorry for your loss. It must have devastated you. But why are you telling me this?"

"Because it's time to put the nightmare in its place." Paul smiled slightly. "My mother enjoyed you and your mother's company quite a bit the other day. She told me I'd suffered long enough for Margaret's death, and I should get on with life, while there was still time for her to enjoy her grandchildren."

He could hear the sharp intake of Emma's breath, and her hold on his hand tightened as she spoke. "I'll ask again. Why are you telling me this? I am not a member of your class, and although my reputation may be solid, I'm hardly worthy of your time."

Paul finally relinquished his hold on her hand, only to pull some tickets from his pocket. "Well, I disagree with your assessment of your merits. Mother and I would like to invite you and your mother to come with us on an outing. We'll see where it leads from there." He handed her the tickets.

"The opera? We're going to the opera?" Her eyes grew large as she stared at the tickets.

"Not just any opera. Note which performance we'll be attending." He ran a finger under the title. "The Marriage of Figaro. Maybe we'll get some ideas on where to go next."

Emma began to shake, and he wrapped her in an embrace. "Just say yes to the opera for now. That's all I want. And a kiss, if you're so inclined."

"Yes to the opera," she whispered. "And yes." She raised her face to him and stood on her tiptoes. His gaze fell to her mouth. He lowered his mouth to hers, and a feeling of warmth and rightness surrounded him. Paul and Emma had finally found contentment.

* * *