By late afternoon, Enigma is ready for a nap. The name seems fitting, given the mysterious circumstances of her arrival. I take her upstairs and settle her into her box. Then, I glance at the bed and realize perhaps it’s not the kitten who’s in need of a nap. I barely got five hours of slumber after a sleepless night of overseas travel.

I kick off my slippers and slide under that wonderfully thick quilt. As my cheek touches the cool pillow, I remember my dream from last night, the one of waking in William’s bed. I smile and snuggle down in hopes of recapturing it. But as soon as my eyes close, I realize what I’m truly hoping for—not a dream of William, but the reality of him. And it’s more than hope. It’s a wild soul-deep plea that William be real, that I can cross time and reach him.

Dreams like that are false fantasies guaranteed to twist into nightmare. For years, I’d dream of waking to find Michael beside me, alive and whole and safe. Then I’d truly wake up, shaking with grief and longing.

I shiver and climb from bed. Hoping to drift off into fantasies of William smacks of those Michael nightmares. A dream that could drain my soul with wanting.

I peer into the dresser mirror, checking the baggage under my eyes. Definitely not carry-on size. Time to brew a pot of strong coffee.

As I’m turning away, I catch a flicker in the mirror. It disappears in a blink, and I tense, imagining a ghostly visage, but that isn’t what I saw. A face, yes. But firm and real, severe and masculine, with a tumble of black curls over the broad forehead and eyes blue as the summer sky.

“William,” I whisper, and the word barely escapes before my dresser disappears and I’m gazing into another mirror, my reflection slightly warped, the glass imperfect. Behind me, William turns toward the bedroom door.

He’s dressed in a cutaway morning coat over a white linen shirt with a high collar, wide necktie fastened with a sapphire pin. He’s already turning away, and I catch only a glimpse of his profile, and then his back is to me, his shoes clicking as he strides from the room.

“Lord Thorne?” a voice calls from the hallway. “Your solicitor is here.”

William grumbles, but there’s no rancor in it.

William’s footsteps clomp down the steps, Mrs. Shaw’s click-clacking after him as she asks about tea, and William mutters that refreshments might induce his solicitor to linger, so, no, they can skip tea.

I smile at that, and my gaze turns to the bed. It’s not the narrow child’s bed I remember, but a four-poster mahogany one, still no larger than a modern double. There should be curtains, but they’ve been removed.

Seeing the folded-back sheets, I remember how they felt against me last night, cool and featherlight and coarse. The perfect counterpoint to the fingers on my hip, warm and strong and smooth until they slid up to my waist, the callused skin of William’s fingertips tickling across my—

I yank my thoughts from that precipice and shiver with something between delight and dread. I told myself I wasn’t going to dream of William, and yet, I am. I curled up in bed thinking of him, and then I must have dreamed that I rose and saw him in the mirror.

As I look around, my gaze snags on what looks like a scrap of yarn tied to a post on William’s washbasin. It’s a bracelet. A braided one made of Chinese knotting cord.

Behind me, I imagine an echo of my voice saying, “I’ll be leaving soon.”

In my mind, I see myself at fifteen. I’m outside, perched on the pasture fence with William, watching his horse.

We’re sitting hip to hip, our hands clasped on my thigh. He’s been talking about horses—not surprisingly. He has his eye on a young stallion, and his mother says he should stick to geldings, but he’s trying to convince her the stallion would make good breeding stock.

When I say I’ll be leaving soon, his hand tightens on mine.

“You’ll be going soon, too,” I remind him. “Back to London.”

A grumble, one that sounds remarkably like the man who just stalked down the stairs.

I lean against his shoulder. “I’ll be back next summer. Mom can’t keep me away anymore. Dad won’t let her.”

A pause. A long one, and I smile as William’s new colt kicks up his heels and tears across the pasture to nudge a filly.

“I want to ask you to stay,” he says, “but I know that’s wrong. You don’t belong here, so I shouldn’t ask . . .” His voice trails off. When I don’t reply, he straightens and says, “I wouldn’t. Ask, I mean. You have a life and a family there. I understand that. I’ll miss you, but I’ll see you next summer.”

“You will.”

He turns, face over mine. “In the meantime, perhaps I can have a little something to remember you by?” His lips twitch, eyes dancing.

“Of course, my lord.” I lift my mouth toward his. Then I tug off my braided bracelet and hold it out. “How about this?”

He laughs, plucks it from my hand and tucks it into a pocket. “I’ll take that, but I was hoping for something a little more like . . .” His fingers tuck under my chin, lifting it. The barest brush of his lips. “This?”

“Mmm, yes. I believe I can part with a few of those.”

“I may need more than a few. They have to keep me until you return.” His eyes turn serious for a second. “You will return, won’t you?”

“Always,” I say, as I lean over to kiss him.

The memory fades, and I’m back in his bedroom, staring at the bracelet hanging on his washstand.

You will return, won’t you?

Always.