**This book is FREE with a paid bonus short story!**
She's always wanted to date a gentleman - so why does she find herself falling for a rogue?
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Ophelia Prescott is a hopeless romantic, and she's determined to find her own Mr. Darcy during her s...
She gritted her teeth. "And I hate when you do that."
"What?"
"Treat me like an idiot," she huffed. "What if I did want to choose a restaurant? Or what if I wanted to stay in instead of going to some stupid ball? Would you give me a choice?"
Digby sighed. "I'm just trying to be a gentleman, Ophelia. Isn't that what you want?"
She froze, the copy of Kant hovering in her hand. Well, yes, actually. That was what she wanted, wasn't it?
Or maybe it wasn't.
Maybe Ophelia didn't want someone to fuss over her as if she was a delicate porcelain doll. Maybe she didn't want someone that assumed the women would drink tea in Scotland while the men went out shooting. Maybe she wanted to hang up her own damn coat for once.
The revelation was sharp and painful as a paper cut.
"I don't," she whispered.
"I—what?"
"I don't," Ophelia repeated, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Digby, but I can't move in with you." She carefully reshelved the copy of Kant. "I can't be with you at all."
"But I—"
"Here." Ophelia unhooked the ruby bracelet, holding it out towards him. It was a lovely gesture, she thought, but it symbolized everything that was wrong in their relationship. Ophelia lived for words and stories; Digby, for glittering jewels and things you could touch. "You can have this back, too; I can't take it back to Canada. It wouldn't be right."
Digby stared at her. "Good lord. You're serious about all of this."
"We don't make any sense, Digby. Our entire relationship is based on a lie. Can't you see that?"
"But I..." He looked suddenly lost, like a sleepy child standing on top of the staircase, stunned out of a dream by a loud noise. He took the bracelet. "I don't understand. Is this because I don't like reading?"
Ophelia softened. "Take care, Digby." She kissed him on the cheek. "And thank you."
And with that, she stepped out the door and into the blazing London sunshine. After all, she had packing to do — and a plane ticket to book.
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Andrew was terribly confused.
He frowned, glancing at the phone. It wasn't so much the phone that was confusing him — it was ringing, which meant someone was calling — but the number. The Caller ID was blocked. And the number was from Canada.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel.
Technically, Andrew shouldn't pick it up. Distracted driving, and all that. But he was still on the back roads of Cornwall, and the only thing he was at risk of hitting was a stray pheasant or an errant plastic bag.
