Second Draft

Some men relish every opportunity to travel, eager to explore new destinations and immerse themselves in diverse cultures. They yearn to savor exotic cuisines and acquire fresh skills. But Mr. Caelen Holloway was not one of those individuals.

Mr. Caelen Holloway lived by routine, each day shaped by precision and purpose. Every Wednesday at precisely eight o’clock, he rode his horse to St. Bartholomew’s, where his commitment to assisting the village priest—his uncle—was as steadfast as the ancient stones that held up the church walls. The rhythmic sweep of his broom across the worn wooden pews and the careful dusting of the ornate altar usually lulled him into a steady, reflective silence, a rare moment of peace in a life he kept tightly controlled.

St. Bartholomew’s stood as a sentinel of time, its weathered stone walls etched with the whispers of centuries. The scent of aged parchment and melted beeswax hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint trace of incense that clung stubbornly to the wooden rafters. Stained glass windows cast fractured hues of crimson, sapphire, and gold onto the worn flagstone floor, their colors shifting as the sunlight filtered through the clouds. The creak of the ancient pews echoed in the cavernous space, a solemn reminder of the countless souls who had knelt there in prayer. Outside, the distant toll of the bell carried on the breeze, its deep, resonant chime settling into the bones like a quiet command to remember, to reflect, to believe.

However, today was a departure from the norm. Today, resentment had its grip on Caelen. His practiced hand had nearly, and quite inadvertently, separated a saint's head from its holy marbled shoulders, and a once-cherished hymnal had met its untimely demise, torn apart by his vexation.

This time of year, he usually traveled to London for business, staying the week while his bar manager kept things running. But Connor’s wife had just given birth, and when he asked for time off to be with her, Caelen hadn’t hesitated to grant it. Now, instead of burying himself in work, he was stuck in the village, where the grand summer ball at Basildon Park consumed every conversation. The event had been a spectacle for as long as he could remember—bringing excitement, wealth, and distraction to the town. The villagers welcomed it. He despised it. Not for the festivities or the influx of visitors, but for the memories it unearthed—and for the woman who had shattered his heart thirty years ago.

Caelen had heard through whispers and passing conversations that her husband had died the year before and that she would be attending now that her mourning period had ended. But in the past thirty years, neither of them had sought the other out, their paths carefully avoided, their history left untouched. That changed two days ago when he had exited his business in the village square and found himself face-to-face with her.

For years, Caelen had convinced himself that if he kept his head down and worked, he could forget. That if he built his businesses and carved out his place in the world, he could erase the part of himself that had once dreamed of a future with the dreaded woman. But the moment he saw her standing there, poised and as graceful as ever, he knew he had been lying to himself.

She was as breathtaking as the day he had asked her to be his wife, her beauty deepening with time rather than fading. The same spark still danced in her eyes—the one that had once made him desperate to keep her talking, just so she wouldn’t look away. Then she smiled, and it cut through him like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. His chest tightened, every instinct screaming at him to put distance between them before he lost himself all over again.

As Caelen stepped out of the freshly scrubbed church, the summer breeze brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of sun-warmed stone and blooming heather. Then, a voice called his name—smooth, familiar, and unwelcome. His chest tightened as he turned toward the last person he wanted to see. Charlotte Williams. The ever-composed Viscountess stood poised, her signature smile in place, but to him, it was nothing more than a well-crafted mask. His jaw tensed, irritation rising like a tide. She always had a way of unsettling him, and after all these years, nothing had changed.

Caelen was distressed and frustrated, his heart pounding in his chest as he turned to face the last person he expected to meet at the church's threshold. The wound she had unwittingly inflicted when she married the Viscount had never fully healed. Basildon Park held its annual ball, a tradition as old as the village itself, yet he had never bumped into her before, their paths seemingly destined never to cross.

Charlotte Williams, Dowager Viscountess Woodchester, regarded him with those piercing blue eyes that once held his heart captive. Her golden blonde hair framed her face like a regal halo, a stark contrast to the tousled brown locks that now covered his forehead. The calm and tranquility he felt when he was within the church walls seemed to evaporate as he wrestled with his emotions.

"Why are you here, Lotte?" Caelen’s jaw tightened, his frustration pressing against his ribs like a vice. It wasn’t until the name slipped past his lips—soft, familiar, and wholly unintentional—that he realized he used her pet name.

Charlotte met his gaze with a calm resolve. "My niece and I are showing the Viscount around our neighborhood and we stopped by to pay our respects to our ancestors."

Caelen glanced over his shoulder, his jaw tightening as his gaze landed on Lady Beatrice Stanhope and Dash Blathwayt, Viscount Dyrham. The two stood close, their heads inclined toward each other in hushed conversation. Dash leaned in, whispering something against the shell of Lady Beatrice’s ear. She let out a soft, breathless laugh, her fingers hiding her smile. The moment his eyes met theirs, they stiffened. Dash straightened, feigning indifference, while Beatrice’s fingers tensed. A slow burn settled in his chest as he turned back, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

His annoyance deepened, his emotions threatening to spill over. "But why now?"

Charlotte's response was measured and composed, a testament to her diplomatic skills. "Why not now? It is a fine day for a horse ride, and we had the morning free. I always make an effort to visit St. Bartholomew's when I am in town."

Caelen’s patience thinned, his voice edged with irritation. “You know damn well that’s not what I’m asking, woman.”

But Charlotte, ever composed, reached out, her fingers grazing his arm in a touch so light it might have been accidental. Yet Caelen felt it—felt the warmth of her skin, the familiarity he had spent years trying to forget. Her smile, practiced and serene, unsettled him more than it soothed.

“Ah, yes,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly. “I know you, Caelen. I knew exactly where you would be at this hour, just as I have since you were a boy in breeches. If I ever had a chance to catch you alone, it would be now.”

Her words hung in the air, a poignant reminder of the years that had passed and the unspoken emotions that had lingered between them. She took a step closer, her voice softening. "You know I am truly sorry for the way I left, like I did."

Caelen's gaze softened as he met her eyes, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions roiling beneath the surface. Her apology was a long-awaited salve to the wounds of the past, but the years of longing and hurt couldn't be undone with mere words. 

Caelen gritted his teeth. "There is nothing to apologize for. You needed to uphold your family's honor and do your duty to your family. I was a fool to think otherwise. There is nothing to discuss. I've moved on."

"Caelen, you know I could always tell when you were lying. I still can. You haven't forgiven me. I know the promises I made and I broke them. I was heartbroken as well when I found out I would be wed to the Viscount. I also knew my responsibilities to my family. My husband was a decent man, but his candle in my heart did not burn as brightly as yours did. As it does now.”

Caelen’s laugh was hollow, stripped of warmth. “I know better than to believe any word that leaves your lips, Lady Williams.” His voice stayed even, but the weight behind it pressed down like a blade between them. “I’ve moved on. I own two businesses, manage a staff, and keep the village running. Pangbourne relies on me, and I bring in the income that helps pay the county taxes. Those taxes put a new roof on this church. Whatever we once thought, one thing is certain now.” He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “I don’t need you.”

Charlotte didn’t take the bait. Caelen wasn’t sure why he hadn’t pulled away when her fingers brushed his. Her touch anchored him, stirring something deep in his chest—something he had long buried.

“You are the strongest man I know,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “I know I hurt you when I left. I heard it from my family, from our friends.” She hesitated, her grip lingering just enough to make him aware of the warmth seeping through his skin. “I’m considering moving back to Basildon, and I’d like for us to be… at least on speaking terms.”

Her words hung between them, fragile yet heavy. Caelen’s muscles coiled, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The past pressed against him, thick and unrelenting, dragging him back to a time when her touch had been a promise, not a reminder of what he had lost.

He exhaled sharply, the fight draining from him. His shoulders sagged, not in defeat, but under the weight of years he had spent trying—and failing—to forget her.

Caelen met her gaze, and for the first time in years, the floodgates of his heart seemed to creak open just a crack. He gripped his hat more firmly and with a heavy sigh, he spoke in a voice that carried the echoes of a thousand untold stories, "Charlotte, I... I never thought I'd see you again."

She placed a gentle hand over him to loosen his grip. "I am here now. Let us pick up where we left off. I am a free woman and no one can stop us now. I've missed you since the day I left Caelen. You have to believe me."

Caelen searched her eyes, looking for honesty, for something real—but he had chased that hope before. She had made promises, whispered words he once believed, only to shatter them every time. He wouldn’t let himself be fooled again.

His spine straightened, his fingers loosening as he let his hand drop away. “No, Lady Williams. I shan’t make the same mistake twice,” he said, his voice firm, measured. "I’ve moved on, and so should you. Don’t seek me out again unless you have business with me—because that’s all we are now.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned away, closing the door on the past before it could pull him under again.

With a final glance towards Charlotte, his expression carrying a mixture of emotions that seemed to yearn for more conversation, Caelen mounted his horse. His shoulders sagged beneath his rigid posture, burdened by a weight that was equal parts weariness and determination. With a kick of his heels, the horse's hooves met the cobblestones with a soft rhythm, creating a gentle echo that filled the air as he rode away.