“Sorry? Whatever for?”

“That you haven’t fallen in love.”

“Love?” Victoria laughed. But even as she did so, an inner twinge pinched her. She used to harbor such silly fantasies, as most girls did. But then she’d matured and wisely put such foolishness aside. “You know as well as I that love is a poor basis for a marriage. Especially when family names, titles, fortunes, and estates are involved. Mother and Father’s marriage was not based on love.” An image of her mother’s face rose in Victoria’s mind’s eye, the image she carried in her heart, of her mother smiling and beautiful, before the illness had stolen her vitality and then her life.

“Perhaps not, but their affection for each other eventually blossomed into love,” Aunt Delia said. “Not every couple is so fortunate. I was not so fortunate.”

Victoria gently squeezed her aunt’s hand in a show of sympathy. Her widowed aunt’s decade-long marriage hadn’t been a happy one.

“As I understand it,” Aunt Delia continued, “the reason your father insisted you come to Cornwall was to expand your horizons. See more of the country other than your usual haunts of London, Kent, and Bath. Open your mind, and heart, to new experiences, new people.”

“I suppose. But surely Father cannot be expecting a match in Cornwall. He would have told me so.”

“Would he? I think not, my dear. As you will learn, men are often annoyingly secretive creatures.”

She couldn’t argue that, especially where her father was concerned. “Why wouldn’t he tell me?” Yet even as the question passed her lips, Victoria realized the answer. “He wouldn’t tell me because he knows I would never consent to living so far from Town. So far from…” She waved her hand to encompass all the green nothingness. “… civilization. How could I not live in the city during the Season? And for summer, certainly nowhere more than several hours from London-just far enough away for proper rusticating, yet close enough to enjoy the social swirl of Town, the shops, and keep abreast of the latest fashions and on dits.”