Beatrice strode down the hill, her steps quick and unyielding, the summer morning breeze failing to cool the flush creeping up her neck. Of all the ways Bryce could have returned, why did it have to be like this—taller, broader, impossibly sure of himself? Her knuckles whitened as she struck a loose stone with the tip of her boot, watching it skitter down the path ahead of her as she made her way to her mother’s picnic.

Oh, why couldn’t he and his damned handsome looks have stayed on that blasted ship? Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Now she was trapped with him until duty called him away again.

The thought only soured her mood further. She could still see him in her mind. The way his blue eyes caught the light, glinting against his sun-bronzed skin, the careless waves of his golden hair tousled by the wind. She shook her head hard, as if that alone could scatter the image from her mind.

Beatrice, stop thinking that way! He doesn’t deserve your kindness.

Her lips flattened into a thin line as she quickened her pace, her boots grinding against the gravel with each determined step. She hadn’t meant to be so curt, but blast him. He was the most handsome and infuriating man she had ever known. And the way his uniform fit, accentuating every broad plane and lean line, sent an unfamiliar heat curling through her, unsettling and unwelcome.

The hill sloped gently toward the river, the morning sun casting golden light over the sprawling grounds of Basildon Park. A light breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass and wildflowers, their delicate perfume at odds with the storm brewing inside her. The Countess had planned every detail of the picnic to perfection, but no amount of careful preparation could set Beatrice at ease. Not with him here.

Beatrice rounded the corner, her breath easing as she scanned the scene. Laughter rippled through the air, and the scent of warm bread mingled with the crisp freshness of the river breeze. But nowhere, thankfully, did she spot the infuriatingly handsome captain.

Good. Relief unfurled in her chest, light as a breath of wind. Yet, her fingers twisted into the fabric of her skirt, a flicker of something uninvited stirring beneath it.

Focus, Beatrice. She forced her shoulders back, lifting her chin. It didn’t matter if he was here or not. It shouldn’t matter.

Beyond the manicured lawns where it melted into the riverbank’s gentle curve, the picnic was laid out in perfect order. Checkered blankets stretched over the sun-dappled grass, their corners pinned down with wicker baskets overflowing with baked scones, delicate sandwiches, and a cascade of ripe fruits. Jugs of iced tea, nestled in a bed of ice, caught the glint of sunlight.

Sunlight dappled the river’s surface, shifting in ripples of gold and blue as the water whispered along the banks. Beyond the edge of the estate, the world might have bustled on, but here where the growing warmth of the morning wrapped around her, where the hush of rustling leaves softened the air, nothing felt rushed.

Beatrice let out a slow breath, her fingers grazing the fabric of her skirt as she took in the scene. Last night’s encounter still lingered at the edges of her mind, but here, it felt distant, muted. The river hummed it's quiet melody, and for the first time this morning, she felt no need to brace herself for a battle with a sailor.

"There you are, Bea! What a glorious day for a picnic." The Countess’s arms wrapped around her daughter in a quick embrace before she looped an arm through hers, steering her forward with effortless grace. "The river’s song has always been one of my favorites. What better accompaniment for our gathering?"

Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows over checkered blankets. The scent of fresh-baked cakes and rippling through the tall grass like fingers combing through silk. Nearby, the river’s gentle murmur wove through the laughter, its steady rhythm as familiar as a heartbeat. 

Her mother released her with a warm squeeze when they reached an empty cushion, letting Beatrice melt into the easy hum of conversation.

Beatrice sat beside the Viscount to her right and Juliet to her left, the rustle of her skirts soft against the morning hush. "Good morning, my lord," she said, offering a polite smile. "I trust you found your rest agreeable?"

Dash lifted his tankard to his lips, studying her over the rim before taking a slow sip. "Quieter than London, certainly," he mused, setting the cup down with deliberate ease. "But like Dyrham, I imagine the Berkshire countryside has its… diversions."

Beatrice’s lips curved as she accepted a cup of steaming tea from a servant. "The countryside does have its charms," she agreed, smoothing the fabric of her skirt. "No restless streets, no pressing obligations. Just… peace."

Dash’s gaze lingered, something unreadable flickering behind it. "A rare thing indeed."

Her fingers curled around her teacup, the warmth grounding her. She knew her mother had placed them together intentionally, just as surely as she knew Dash had already taken notice. Yet, if he found amusement in it, he kept it well concealed beneath that measured gaze.

A flicker of movement caught Beatrice’s eye. Her mother of course was watching them with a pleased expression.

She forced a smile, turning back to Dash just as her father called his attention with a question. Sounding like business, Beatrice turned smoothly to Juliet, who was nibbling on a cheese finger sandwich. The Viscount was pleasant company, no doubt, but the unspoken expectations threading through their exchange left her restless.

"Where is your brother this fine morning?" Beatrice asked Juliet, half hoping the answer would confirm his absence.

Her neighbor huffed, tossing a grape into her mouth. "Off to the village, of course—had to check in on the lads."

Beatrice barely stifled a sigh. Naturally. Bryce never needed an excuse to hold court among friends. He could easily flash that easy grin and have men clapping him on the back within minutes. He would walk into any tavern and leave with half the room treating him like a long-lost brother.

Good. Let him stay there. Less chance of him getting under your skin.

The soft melody of the River Thames drifted through the air, twining with the rustling breeze. Beatrice’s gaze swept across the water, following the river’s lazy course until movement caught her attention.

Two dinghies glided along the current, their sails taut against the wind. The figure aboard handled them with practiced ease, the oars dipping in a steady rhythm. A feeling stirred in her chest—half intuition, half certainty. She narrowed her eyes, watching, waiting.

Then she saw him.

Bryce, at the helm, guiding the vessels as if the river belonged to him.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. So much for peace.

Beatrice watched as Bryce maneuvered the dinghies toward the dock, his hands working the ropes with practiced ease. A twist, a pull and the knots secured without hesitation. It was a quiet display of the years he had spent mastering the sea. The boat rocked gently, no longer adrift, bound now by his steady grip.

Then, with effortless grace, he stepped onto the dock. Sunlight skimmed over him, catching the golden streaks in his wind-tousled hair, highlighting the deep bronze of his skin against the crisp white of his shirt. The river lapped softly at the hull, but the hush that had settled over Beatrice had nothing to do with the water.

A ripple of surprise ran through the group, followed swiftly by laughter and warm greetings as Bryce approached, completely at ease despite his unannounced arrival. Without a hint of hesitation, he settled onto the blanket between Prudence and Juliet, the picture of effortless familiarity. Reaching for a bunch of grapes, he plucked one free and popped it into his mouth, as if he had never been gone at all.

Prudence’s eyes danced with mischief. "Look what the tide washed in. Our prodigal officer graces us with his presence, fittingly by boat."

Bryce’s laughter rolled through the picnic, rich and easy, settling around them like he had never left. Beatrice forced her gaze elsewhere, pretending not to notice the way his presence effortlessly commanded attention.

"Aye, couldn’t resist the call of the river when I saw the opportunity," he said, reaching for another grape. "I hope I haven’t shattered the tranquility of your lovely event."

Juliet shot him a wry look before plucking a grape straight from his hand and popping it into her mouth. "Oh, not at all, dear brother. A bit of reckless seafaring only adds to the charm."

Laughter rippled through the gathering, folding Bryce back into their world without hesitation. He slipped into conversation, spinning tales of foreign shores and salt-laden winds, his voice carrying the thrill of adventure.

Beatrice clenched her jaw, the ease with which everyone welcomed him back chafing against something deep in her chest. He fit so seamlessly here, like no time had passed at all. But it had. And she wasn’t sure she could forget that as easily as the others. Just like that, they let him in again. It was as if he hadn’t disappeared without a word.

She exhaled slowly, her thumb tracing circles over the rim of her glass absentmindedly. She wanted to hold on to her anger. To the years of unanswered letters, the silent farewell he had never given. But resentment had a way of slipping through her grasp, leaving something far more dangerous in its wake.

He laughed again. It was carefree, maddeningly familiar. And just like that, the sharp edge of her resentment dulled, slipping from her grasp before she could clutch it back.

For the first time in years, she let herself breathe.

Bryce stretched out on the blanket, his movements unhurried, completely at ease. Beatrice pretended not to notice the slow, teasing grin curling at his lips.

"Do you remember," he mused, glancing toward Juliet, "the time you tried to build a raft out of father’s firewood? Swore up and down you were bound for the New World?"

Laughter rippled through the group as Juliet groaned, lobbing a grape at him. "I was five, Bryce!"

John, who sat next to Prudence, smirked. "Was she always this outspoken and insufferably bossy?"

"Absolutely!" the twins and Bryce answered at once, their voices ringing with unmistakable certainty. Juliet shot John a withering glare, her eyes flashing, holding back a retort.

"And the races we used to have?" Bryce’s voice softened, edged with nostalgia. The words settled into Beatrice like the warmth of the afternoon sun, stirring memories she had long since tucked away.

Juliet arched a brow, a slow smile tugging at her lips. "Ah, yes. The races. How could I forget?"

Beside her, Beatrice exchanged a knowing glance with Prudence—the kind of look only sisters could decipher.

Bryce’s gaze flicked between them, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Prudence and Juliet, you two always started strong, but somehow, the finish line kept getting further away."

Juliet huffed, snatching a berry from the platter and popping it into her mouth. "We were younger, Bryce."

Prudence smirked, lifting her chin with mock elegance. "And much too refined to go barreling across the waves like wild sea creatures."

Bryce threw a grape up in the air, grinning as he caught it with his mouth. "Right. Refined. That’s precisely how I remember it."

Then his gaze found Beatrice. The teasing edge in his expression softened, something warmer settling beneath it.

"But you," he said, his voice quieter now, "you were something else."

A familiar thrill ignited in Beatrice’s chest, a fleeting echo of sun-drenched afternoons and wind tangling through her hair. She could almost feel the river’s cool current swirling beneath her bare feet, the surge of determination as she paddled. Not just to keep up, but to match him, stroke for stroke. She had never stopped trying to outpace him, even knowing he possessed a strength she could never match.

She lifted her chin, forcing a lightness into her voice. "Exaggeration, Captain," she replied. But her pulse betrayed her, quickening despite herself.

Bryce only smiled, slow and knowing. "No, I’m not, Bea. You had this fire in you, this relentless focus. Every race, you were right there, pushing me, refusing to fall behind." His gaze held hers, steady. Unshaken. "You were always my real competition."

Laughter rippled through the group, but Beatrice barely heard it. Juliet nudged her playfully, grinning. "Ah, so that’s why you were always practicing, to be able to keep up with Bryce."

Beatrice scoffed, but her fingers curled against the fabric of her dress. "Please," she said, arching a brow. "I was ahead of him half the time."

White fluffy clouds floated under the sun’s rays, casting shifting patterns over Bryce’s face. But it was his eyes that held her still. They were bright, sharp, brimming with challenge. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that always meant trouble. The angle of his jaw, the confident ease in his posture, the way he studied her as if already certain of her answer. It was maddeningly familiar. 

Beatrice had seen that look before, right before he dared her to climb the tallest oak, to race through the fields barefoot, to chase the wind as if they could catch it. Her pulse kicked up, though she kept her expression perfectly composed as Bryce leaned in, his voice low with challenge.

"Care for a boat race, Bea?"

She arched a brow, fingers skimming the folds of her skirt with idle grace, as if the very notion was beneath her. "A boat race?" she echoed, her lips curving in mock amusement. "Captain Maynard, I am a lady now. Such childish games hardly seem appropriate."

She watched Bryce’s grin deepened, utterly unconvinced. He leaned in just enough to test the space between them, his voice a familiar drawl. "Come now, Bea. Just like old times. Unless, of course"—his grin turned knowing—"you’re afraid I might win?"

Beatrice exhaled slowly, refusing to be baited so easily. She met his gaze with cool detachment, though the way he leaned in, his voice dipping into that teasing challenge, sent an unwelcome flicker of anticipation through her. The years had shaped them into different people, yet his relentless goading remained unchanged, just as her determination to never back down.

She tapped a finger against her chin, feigning consideration. "Afraid?" she echoed, tilting her head just so, as if the very suggestion was laughable. "Not in the slightest, Captain. I simply see no reason to indulge your need to relive past glories."

And yet, despite her protest, the thrill of competition stirred beneath her skin, as steady and relentless as the tide. He lifted a brow, challenge gleaming in his eyes, daring her to reconsider.

Beatrice scoffed, the warmth of the sun suddenly feeling a touch stifling. Memories tugged at the edges of her mind—bare feet pounding against the docks, wind whipping through her hair, the exhilarating rush of keeping pace with him, never letting him win.

She let the silence stretch between them, enjoying the flicker of anticipation in his gaze. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she rose gracefully to her feet. "Oh, very well. But don’t say you haven’t been warned." Beatrice smoothed her yellow muslin skirts, lifting her chin as she strode past him toward the moored dinghies. 

The river stretched before them, its surface shimmering beneath the afternoon sun. The scent of damp cedar and freshwater filled the air as she stepped carefully into the dinghy, the motion as familiar as breathing. She easily untied the boat from the dock, letting it float gently down river. Her fingers curled around the oars, a flicker of anticipation sparking in her chest.

Across from her, Bryce moved with practiced ease, the old rhythm settling between them as if no time had passed. Beatrice's eyes flickered in determination. She knew she could win.

The wind threaded through Beatrice’s unbound hair, tugging at the loose strands as she steadied her grip on the oar. Side by side, they cut through the current, their movements synchronized in an effortless rhythm. Just like they had done before he left. Laughter drifted across the water, their playful taunts mingling with the soft splash of oars and the occasional creak of wood.

For a moment, it felt as though the years had never passed.

The sun glowed golden on the water, turning the ripples into ribbons of light, but fate, it seemed, was in a mischievous mood.

Beatrice’s dinghy cut through the water with effortless speed, the current sliding beneath her like a well-worn path. As she rounded the old oak tree, the gap between them widened, Bryce’s boat lagging just enough to spark triumph in her chest.

Grinning, she twisted in her seat, the wind throwing her hair around her face. "Hurry up, slow coach!" she called, laughter threading through her voice. The river carried her words back to him, teasing, taunting like it always had been when they challenged each other.

As she neared the dock though, a rogue gust of wind barreled down the river, catching her off guard. The dinghy lurched. She gasped, arms pinwheeling in a frantic attempt to steady herself. For one heart-stopping second, she thought she had reset the sail.

She didn’t.

With a shriek, she plunged into the river. Cold swallowed her whole, shocking the breath from her lungs before she kicked toward the surface, sputtering.

Laughter rang out across the water, deep and unabashed. Beatrice blinked against the droplets clinging to her lashes, the cold river shocking the breath from her lungs. Her skirts, now a heavy, sodden mess, tangled around her legs as she treaded water.

Bryce’s laughter rolled over her like a taunt. She shoved her dripping hair from her face, her annoyance simmering hotter than the afternoon sun.

He sailed past with infuriating ease, smirking down at her. "Elegant as ever, Bea."

Her fingers tightened into fists beneath the water. Oh, he would not have the satisfaction. Without a word, she turned and flipped her dinghy with practiced precision, righting herself as if she had meant to take an impromptu swim. With swift, steady movements, she climbed aboard, her soaked dress molding to her skin like a second challenge.

As she rowed toward the dock, she caught sight of Bryce already there watching her, his hands gripping the wooden edge, muscles flexed as he steadied his boat. His expression had shifted, his amusement giving way to a more darkened look.

As she reached the dock, she caught a flicker of movement beyond the shoreline. A presence watching. Her fingers tightened on her oar as she glanced up, her gaze landing on the Viscount. He stood apart from the others, his expression also darkened, yet there was no mistaking the slow, deliberate way his eyes traced her.

Something coiled in her stomach—unease? Desire? Something else? She wasn’t certain.

Shoving the thought aside, she pulled herself onto the dock with all the grace she could manage, wringing water from her skirt as she forced her chin high. Let them look. She had nothing to apologize for.

Prudence strolled toward her, a dry blanket draped over her arm, mischief glinting in her eyes. She stopped just short of handing it over, tilting her head in exaggerated contemplation.

"Well, sister dear," she mused, lips twitching, "I’d ask if the water was refreshing, but I think I already have my answer."

Beatrice snatched the blanket from her grasp with a scowl, muttering under her breath as she wrung out the hem of her skirt. The damp fabric clung to her skin, a constant reminder of her humiliation.

And then Bryce laughed.

The sound was deep, full-bodied, utterly unapologetic. He tipped his head back, shoulders shaking, as if her misfortune was the most amusing thing he had witnessed in years. "Ah, Bea," he managed between chuckles, swiping at his damp eyes. "You never fail to make a race entertaining."

Heat flared in her cheeks, her fingers tightening around the blanket. "You are insufferable."

Bryce grinned, entirely unrepentant. "And yet, you’ve missed me terribly."

Beatrice inhaled sharply. The words were light and teasing, but something in his eyes said otherwise. A challenge, a question, an old familiarity that felt far too dangerous.

Her eyes narrowed, but her lips betrayed her, twitching despite her resolve. She refused to let him win so easily. If he wanted to earn his way back into her good graces, he would have to try harder.