Afraid to face her aunt before she’d gathered her wits, Victoria raced to her bedchamber. Standing in front of her cheval glass, she’d been stunned by her own reflection. Her perfect coif was wildly mussed, her gown wrinkled, her skin flushed, her lips red and puffy. But even without those outward manifestations of her passionate exchange with Dr. Oliver, the look of wonder and discovery shining in her eyes would have given her away in a thrice.

Her common sense demanded that she be appalled at her shocking behavior, at the liberties she’d allowed him, but her heart was having none of it. How could she be expected to think clearly when, for the first time in her life, all she wanted to do was feel? She hadn’t allowed any of the numerous gentlemen who’d sought her favor during the Season to kiss her. She’d dreamed of her first kiss-indeed had carefully planned the entire scenario, as she did with everything in her life-it was to take place in the formal gardens, after the gentleman had asked for and been granted her permission. But in an instant all her plans evaporated into a wisp of steam. Never in her wildest imaginings had she conjured up anything like the incredible, magical moments she’d shared with Dr. Oliver. She couldn’t wait to see him again, and after what they’d shared, she knew he would contact her.

She had never been more wrong in her life. She’d never seen nor heard from him again.

Now, looking out the carriage window at the endless verdant hills dotted with thatched roof cottages marking yet another small village, Victoria closed her eyes and inwardly cringed at how foolish she’d been, at the idiotic expectant hope that had ruled her for weeks afterward. She had searched for him at every soiree, waited impatiently for the daily delivery of letters, jumped every time the brass door knocker sounded, announcing a caller. The truth she’d been too blind to see didn’t finally hit her until one morning at breakfast, six weeks after Dr. Oliver had stolen that kiss, when she casually brought up his name to her father. In a single sentence Father had squashed all her hopes. Dr. Oliver had returned to Cornwall the morning after visiting the town house and had no intention of returning to London.