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They took a convoluted walk around Hyde Park to get to Gunther’s, one which forced Lottie to walk past the exact spot that she had first collided with Guy.

It had been her choice to do that, as she had hoped that the quicker she faced all those things, the quicker her bludgeoned heart would start to heal.

Kitty had laughed at the story and hugged Lottie tight when her eyes had filled with tears, and spouted more hopeful nonsense because she was convinced that Guy would not let her go.

Because why on earth would any besotted man—and her friend was convinced that Guy had to be—let a prize like her go?

Rather than depress herself further by regurgitating all the same insurmountable reasons that she, Portia, and Miss P already had, Lottie instead fed the ducks at the Serpentine, because she knew that she needed every diversion possible to get through this awful day.

It was close to three by the time they reached Mayfair’s most famous confectioner’s, and the shop was so crowded there was only one table left.

The worst, most confined table in the restaurant that was squished right at the back.

One that managed to be both geographically isolated and yet on full display at the same time.

Most definitely not the sort of table to indulge in a quiet, unobtrusive bout of self-pitying weeping.

The sort of weeping she suddenly very much needed to do.

“I hope they haven’t run out of the raspberry ice.” Portia eyed the severely depleted counter with a frown as the waiter hovered, unaware of Lottie’s increasingly watery eyes because he was too busy staring at the ridiculously pretty Kitty instead. “That’s my favorite.”

“Sadly, we are out of the raspberry, miss.” The waiter eyed Kitty with the same interest as Portia was giving the display. “But we have strawberry and that is equally as delicious. And we have lemon and plenty of the Parmesan ice if you fancy that.”

Kitty pulled a face. “I have never understood why anyone would want a cheese-flavored ice cream. Parmesan ice is an abomination as far as I am concerned.”

“Me too,” whispered the waiter, now smoldering at Kitty with barely disguised attraction.

“We are kindred spirits on that score. I suspect that is also why we always have plenty of it left.” Kitty nodded, giggling, and encouraged, he edged closer.

“I’ve not seen you in here before. Do you live locally? ”

“Only temporarily. Again,” said Kitty with her usual honesty.

“I was dismissed by my last employer for daydreaming on the job. An accusation which would have been a travesty if it hadn’t been true.

” She smiled at the waiter and the poor man practically melted into a puddle on the spot.

“I do not suppose that there are any jobs open here? I might do better fetching the gentry their ice cream than I do watching their children.”

“I could ask.” The waiter gestured to the kitchen with a tilt of his head, clearly keen to impress. “And perhaps I could find a bit of raspberry ice for you and your friends here while I am about it?”

“Oh, that would be—” Always easily distracted, Kitty twisted at the loud tone of another waiter.

“As I have told you, sir—you must join the queue if you want a table!”

“And I have told you that I do not want a blasted table!” Lottie stiffened at the unmistakable sound of Guy’s voice, her head swiveling like an owl’s toward it.

“I have urgent business with someone already at one!” She could see the hatless top of his dark head at the doorway over the crowds. “I insist that you let me pass!”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake! Is nowhere safe from ruffians, nowadays?

” Portia craned her head to see the commotion better.

“This is Mayfair, after all. Home of all that is supposed to be superior. Does the word ‘manners’ mean nothing to some? Or the concept of queuing to wait your rightful turn? I’ll bet that rude oaf is a duke or an earl or some such.

Pompous and entitled and convinced the world revolves around him. ”

“As previously stipulated, there is a queue, sir…”

“Hang the blasted queue!” The ominous sounds of a scuffle filled the air as the restaurant full of diners suddenly fell silent.

“Oh, no, you don’t, you blighter!”

Paralyzed with shock and her perennially warped sense of humor that was desperate to see how this unexpected turn of events played out, Lottie blinked at the sight of several waiters rushing to the front to assist their colleague.

The over-pomaded head of the ma?tre d’ appeared in a small gap between the now craning heads of the sixty or so customers who were all mostly standing to get a better view of the altercation.

“I must respectfully ask you to leave, sir, or I shall call the constable!”

“Call whoever you bloody well want!” She caught the tiniest glimpse of Guy laboring toward her, three waiters hanging from his arms and shoulders as he dragged them along with them before the crowd closed ranks and blocked her view. “Lottie! LOTTIE! ”

Kitty squealed as her hands flew to her gaping mouth. “Oh my goodness! Is that him ?”

“That’s him ?” Portia stood to get a better look too. “I knew he’d be a blue-blue with all that imperious carrying-on.” However, even her militant friend smiled at the kerfuffle. “I thought you said that he hated being a public spectacle?”

“He does.” Not that Lottie could quite believe he was making quite such a public spectacle. “Being made a public spectacle, most especially here in Mayfair, is his worst nightmare.”

“But he is making himself one here for you, Lottie.” Kitty clutched at her heart. “Right in the middle of Gunther’s. Just as I knew he would.” Her friend squealed again and their waiter, who mistook that shriek of delight as one of fear, prepared himself to protect Kitty at all costs.

“Don’t panic,” he shouted, obviously panicked himself. “I will protect you from the scoundrel if he comes this way!”

“Do we look so pathetic that you think we need rescuing?” Of course Portia would take issue with some misguided manly heroics. “Are you aware that we women can look after ourselves?”

“LOTTIE!” As Guy pushed himself through the crowd, his three restraining waiters still attached, their waiter launched himself at him too with such force he knocked poor Guy to the ground.

Being a big man, Guy went down with a thud, dragging the tablecloth he had instinctively groped for as something to stop his fall down with him.

Several sundaes and a large slice of chocolate cake followed.

As the ice creams exploded on his chest, the chocolate cake caught him on the chin and stuck.

Melting ganache slipped down the side of his neck as he tried to simultaneously wrestle Kitty’s waiter off him and sit up.

His stunned eyes narrowed as they locked with hers.

“Where the blazes have you been!” His handsome face like thunder, he batted one of the ices from his chest, managing to only smear it further before he gave up and pointed a dripping, sticky finger at her.

“I’ve been everywhere looking for you, you infuriating bloody menace! ”

“Now see here, sir!” Kitty’s waiter scrambled upright as the other waiters dragged Guy back down before he could stand, his clenched fists waving. “That is no way to speak to a lady!”

“He cannot help himself.” Lottie could not resist teasing a little despite the flock of nervous seagulls flapping in her stomach. “Guy has always been a rude oaf.” And he was here. He was here! “But his bark has always been worse than his bite so you should probably unhand him, gentlemen.”

“He is also a viscount.” Kitty’s comment created a curious buzz in the already riveted crowd while she stood and smiled down at him.

“You must be Lord Wennington.” The buzz of the crowd got louder at that.

Their eyes wide as furtive gossip ricocheted around the restaurant from behind futilely disguised hands as they all remembered who he was.

Her hopelessly romantic friend, however, was beaming as she bobbed a curtsy before she offered her hand to haul Guy up.

“I am Kitty Blackstone. One of Lottie’s very best friends.

I am so glad to see you because, obviously, I never doubted you would come for her.

Our friend Portia here, on the other hand”—she gestured to Portia, who was eyeing Guy dubiously—“doubted you at every juncture because she is not a fan of aristocrats. It’s nothing personal to you, you understand, merely a political point of principle. ”

“The days of inherited privilege are numbered, Lord Wennington,” said Portia before her eyes narrowed. “As yours will be if your intentions toward my friend Lottie here aren’t absolutely honorable.”

Guy blinked at her friends, baffled momentarily by the both of them, then positively glared at Lottie as his irate finger jabbed the air. “I cannot believe you just left! With not so much as a by-your-leave!”

That was not the romantic speech she had been hoping for, although why she suddenly hoped for one when his just being here meant the world was a mystery. But she did. “It is not as if I had a choice! Your mother threw me out!”

“You should have known that I wouldn’t have allowed that! Or that I would not accept that.” He jabbed the air with his incensed finger some more. “You should have had more faith in me and stayed!”

“Should I? Why?”

“Because!” He threw up his sticky palms. “Because…” He glanced around the shop and winced at all the gawping faces staring back, dropping his voice a little as if that would somehow give them more privacy after he had already created the most almighty public scene.

And he had made an equally public fool of himself.

For her.

Despite that being his worst nightmare.

How romantic!

“Because you knew how I felt about you, woman!”

“I have no earthly idea how you feel about me, actually. Absolutely nothing was said.”