As he reached for stationery to write Vivian back, his phone lit up with a text from his nephew.

When do you get back to London? Mum is driving me batty. I wanted to escape and hide at your flat but I didn’t know if you were going to be there. Plus I can’t wait to tell you my news!

Malcolm laughed. Like a true teenager, Miles only texted him when he needed something from him.

He felt a pang of guilt that he’d just decided not to go back to London until Christmas Day so he could have Christmas Eve dinner with Vivian. He quickly brushed the guilt away. Miles could deal with his mother, and his news would keep, whatever it was.

Ms. Forest,

Scones would be very welcome, and if you please, could you save me some of the sandwiches this time? Smoked salmon is my favourite, but I’ll happily eat any sandwich prepared by Ms. Julia Pepper.

All my best,

Malcolm Hudson

He got another note from her less than an hour later, scrawled a response and slid it into an envelope. He reached for the phone to summon a footman again but hesitated. The staff was awfully busy today, and running notes back and forth for him to a cottage a fifteen-minute walk away really wasn’t their job.

He glanced at the clock. He’d been sitting at his desk for almost four hours at this point anyway; he needed to stretch his legs.

He pulled on his coat. This one, he could deliver himself.

Vivian was curled up in the most comfortable chair in the sitting room at Sycamore Cottage, a book in her hand and a cup of tea at her elbow. Maddie and the Duchess were doing some more fittings or whatever it was they did in the Duchess’s wardrobe room for hours, so she’d had all morning to relax and nap and read the book she’d been absorbed in the morning before.

But this morning, she’d barely read a single chapter. She’d sent James over to Sycamore Cottage with that letter before she’d even had coffee this morning, and had been on pins and needles as she chatted with Maddie and drank coffee and ate the ham for breakfast that British people apparently called bacon. James—bless him—had waited until after Maddie had already left the breakfast table to bring her Malcolm’s next note. And ever since then the notes had flown back and forth.

It had been a while since she’d sent the last one. Was he going to write back to her? Had it been too bold of her to start sending the notes in the first place? Or—she cringed—to ask him to Christmas Eve dinner? She’d basically just asked him out, without even really knowing if he was interested in her.

And sure, he’d said yes, then he’d asked her to go riding again, but had he done that just to be nice? People said that the British always seemed nice to Americans, but that Americans didn’t understand that they were making fun of them to their faces. But Malcolm was a busy man; he wouldn’t choose to spend all this time with her just to be polite.

They also said Americans were too direct for British people, and that was probably true, too—he’d seemed taken aback a number of times at her questions, like when she asked him if he was married. Was asking him to dinner too direct? Should she have just hinted around until . . . until what, exactly? Until he left Sandringham and they never saw each other again?

Cultural exchange was hard. Especially if it seemed like you both spoke the same language but really didn’t.

She glanced down at her book and burst out laughing at herself. She’d been sitting in this chair for at least the past hour and hadn’t read a word. What was it about Malcolm that had made her so giddy and distracted?

She knew the answer to that question: Malcolm was attractive, fascinating, and clearly interested in her as a person; that’s what it was about him. She hadn’t encountered a man with all three of those traits in . . . well, far too long. Most of the men she dealt with these days were men who wanted women around to take care of them, who had no interest in who the women actually were, as long as they had breasts and could cook. Some of them were men she’d known for years, who were either newly single, or newly in their sixties and had their own mortality hit them in the face, and came sniffing around her, once all the women in their thirties they tried to hit on had rejected them.

She’d even gone out on dates with a few of them, because she’d been lonely, and hell, a woman had needs. But she got so tired of them monologuing throughout an entire dinner about themselves and their jobs and their new cars and how important and successful they were, et cetera, et cetera, and not asking a single damn question about her. The night she’d gotten a promotion a few years back, she had a third date with a man she’d previously mostly liked, and when she’d sat down and told him about it, he said, “That’s nice,” and then charged right into a story about the book he wanted to write someday. She’d wanted to throw her glass of wine in his lap and leave, but instead she just ordered the most expensive food on the menu, didn’t even pretend to reach for her wallet when the check came, and never responded to his calls again. She learned from one of her patients that was called “ghosting”—that man had deserved to be haunted, as far as she was concerned.

So it was refreshing for a man to ask her questions about herself, and actually listen to her answers. And to hell with it: she only had a few days left in England, so she was going to let herself be excited as much as she wanted to be.

She’d hesitated to invite Malcolm to Christmas Eve dinner for only one real reason: Maddie. She and Malcolm weren’t dating, but they were both clearly attracted to each other, and she knew Maddie would sense that and get all in her mother’s business about it. But she was an expert at deflecting Maddie; she could handle this. Not even Maddie would think there was any future with a man who lived thousands of miles away. Plus, she was on vacation, for God’s sake—everyone did something a little out of character on vacation, didn’t they?