Beatrice strode down the hill, her steps quick and unyielding, the summer morning wind 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. The air stirred, laced with 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, the scent of warm bread cut by the crisp scent of water and moss from the nearby riverbank. 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 heat 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 guests conversed amongst themselves quietly, 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. "June is always my favorite time of year. Isn't it a glorious day for a picnic?"

Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across checkered blankets laden with an array of food and drink. The scent of fresh-baked cakes and ground coffee brought a smile to her face. A flight of warblers flitted through the canopy, their songs threading the morning stillness.

Her mother released her with a gentle 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 brew 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 and turned back to Dash just as her father drew his attention with a question. Dash shifted slightly in his seat, brows drawn in polite concentration as her father launched into his usual spiel. Beatrice didn’t need to hear the words to guess it was business—probably about estate holdings or tariffs. 

Beatrice turned to Juliet, who was nibbling on a cheese finger sandwich. The Viscount was pleasant company, no doubt, but the weight of implied expectations made 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.

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

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

A ripple of surprise moved through the group, followed swiftly by laughter and cheerful greetings as he approached—completely at ease, waving animatedly. Beatrice watched him, half-amused, half-curious, wondering if anything ever unsettled him.

Without a hint of hesitation, he lowered himself onto the blanket, slipping in between Prudence and Juliet like it was the most natural thing in the world. 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 seamlessly 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 absentmindedly tracing the rim of her glass. She wanted to hold on to her anger—to the years of being away, the silent farewell he never gave. But bitterness had a way of slipping free, leaving something far more dangerous in its place.

He laughed again. Carefree. Maddeningly familiar. And just like that, the edge of her resolve dulled, vanishing before she could seize it.

For the first time in years, something in her let go.

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 a familiar melody, 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 he turned to Beatrice. The teasing in his smile eased, giving way to something quieter—more sincere.

"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?"