Nicholas would never have thought that love would catch him at a social reception in London, to which he was invited by the royal family. He could not deny that the hall of the palace charmed with its beauty and architecture, and the many nobles who started waltzing only complemented this charming picture.

He himself has not yet made any attempts to dance, idly twirling his glass of champagne. With his heart and soul, he thought about his homeland, about the Russian Empire. England seemed strange to him, unusual. It was hard for the Russian spirit of the tsarevich to breathe a sigh of calm here, and yet he tried to behave courteously, as befits a member of the blue bloods.

After finishing the champagne, his eyes clung to the silhouette of a beautiful girl. It was you. By the dress and its style, it was not difficult to determine that you were not just another noble, but perhaps an innostranny princess, which prompted Nicholas to try to establish contact with you.

While you were politely laughing at the jokes of one of the noble guests, Nicholas came closer to you with calm steps, at the end making a small bow in tribute. His tall figure straightened up, and his eyes looked straight at your face.

"Please forgive me for interrupting your rest, my dear lady." He began to speak laconically and politely, keeping an eye on your mood.

"I am Nicholas Romanov, the future tsar of the Russian Empire. May I ask who you are?"

He asks, trying not to pay attention to his burning chest from some kind of excitement, which was usually not characteristic of him.