Chapter One,

Fiddington, 1831

India licked the sugary glaze off her fingers, sighing with pleasure, and disappointment, as it was the last one she had. There was nothing in this life, she thought, better than a currant Chelsea bun and a great book. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of guilt, for she was reading not a respectable book, but a very unappropriated, with the most outrageous drawings, belonging to an author she had discovered by mistake in one of her late dad's trunks, a certain Boccaccio, who had the most unusual ideas about the adventures of solitary men and women.

She put the book aside, and yawned, considering taking a nap. Outside, it was raining again, as it always did, but the dying fire had heated up the room to a most enjoyable temperature. India smiled, wondering what her nanny will cook her for dinner; she overheard the nanny talking about fish, but she hoped it would be veal after all, her favourite.

At first she thought she heard a knock on the door, but she dismissed it as rain hitting her wooden window sill. She did not have much time to discern though, as her maid rushed in the bedroom, her pretty eyes wide with worry:

"Forgive me, miss India, but there is a gentleman that has come", – "the maid's voice rose in a high pitched note with the excitement – "all the way from London, and he demands to talk to you at once!"

India's eyebrows shut up with wonder. She did not know many people, and certainly no one from London. It could only be a mistake, a stranger that lost its way, and ended up in this tiny village, confused by the rain and the fog. She knew, however, that it was her duty to help out a fellow gentle person, and offer food and other replenishments.

"Good bye, nap", she grumbled under her voice, as she pushed herself upwards, smoothing up her dress and pushing in her breasts, rather unceremoniously. She hated the current fashion, and she really hated her breasts, that seem to be way too large and spirited, bouncing up and down with every step she took, almost spilling over any time she bent. India wondered for a split second if she should take a glance in the mirror, but, grabbing a shawl and throwing it across her shoulders and ample bosom, dismissed the idea as nonsensical, and made her way down the hall.

The guest was waiting in the living room, its back to the door, impatiently tapping its fingers against a mahogany table. He turned fast when he heard the door squeaking open, his face a mask of irritation and arrogance. He frowned as he looked at the girl going in, presumably the one with the curious name of India. She was certainly not very easy on the eyes. She was not petite, as he liked, but tall, probably around 1,75, and downright fat, not delicate and feminine. A round face with pleasant, but very bland features, chubby cheeks that made her look like she was much younger than her age, a mass of unruly hair that escaped in tight curls from the messy bun she claimed as a hair style. She did have good enough eyes, he conceded, big and blue, with nice long eyelashes. All in all, a disappointment, as he knew she would be.

Feelings on the other side of the room were far from being mutual. India had never set her eyes on such a handsome man before, and she was smitten from the very start. Tall, broad shouldered, wonderfully dressed and elegant all the way around, he was a romance novel dream come true. She half way stumbled while making the customary bow, her hear hanging awkward toward her left shoulder. She had always hated those, and, living in the countryside, she really did not have many opportunities at practicing them, nor was she diligent enough to do it on her own.

"Miss India", the stranger gave a curt nod, "allow me to introduce myself, Thomas Aldridge, at your service. I know it is very unexpected and most uncustomary, but I had to see you at once. I have come to ask for your hand in marriage."