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. Mr. Caelen Holloway had never been such a man.

At five and forty, he 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 parish priest—his uncle—was as steadfast as the ancient stones that held up the old roof. The rhythmic sweep of his broom across the worn wooden pews, 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, 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, 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. When Brian O'Spoke's wife had given birth to their first child and he asked to step away for a time to be with her, Caelen hadn't hesitated to grant it.

Now, instead of burying himself in work fifty miles elsewhere, he was stuck in Berkshire, where summer brought its usual stir of excitement—guests arriving, events being planned, conversations swelling with gossip. The villagers welcomed the bustle. He despised it. Not for the activity or the influx of visitors, but for the memories it unearthed—especially of the woman who had shattered his heart twenty-eight years ago, returning like clockwork during this particular week each year.

Caelen had heard through whispers and passing conversations her husband had died twelve months before, that she would be visiting now that her mourning period had ended. The thought of seeing her again unraveled him, a frayed seam come undone.

Pain surged back whenever she crossed his mind. The same hollow ache that had gutted him the night he read her last letter by the hidden watering hole behind Basildon Park, the one that edged the River Thames. Spotty and seventeen, heart thudding with hope, he had broken the wax seal on the parchment bearing her elegant script.

He'd expected a love note.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

My Dearest Caelen,

You are and will always be my dearest friend. I shall ever hold you in the highest esteem for your loyalty..

I bring you joy and cheerful news from London. You were right—I was the catch of the Season. I have accepted the hand of a friend of my father's.

His estate is in Gloucestershire, so we shall still be able to visit one another as friends. I wish you and your family continued prosperity—both on the farm and at The Provisions Shop.

We leave soon to call on my husband's aunt, then tour Cornwall on the way to my new home.

My husband has said we may attend the Basildon Park ball this summer, so I believe we can meet in the future—amicably.

Caelen, I do hope you find the happiness with love you so richly deserve. 

Your friend,

Lady Charlotte Williams

He had crumpled the letter with trembling hands, then crumpled himself into the earth beside it. Grief clung to him, stubborn as smoke in old wood. He cried himself to sleep beneath the willows, the moon rising overhead as his only witness. His closest friends had found him the next morning, after his parents had sent out a search party.

He never spoke of that night.

The memory never left him.

For years, he had convinced himself that if he kept his head down, burying himself with his work, he could forget her. That if he built his businesses and carved out a place in the world, he could erase the part of himself that had once dreamed of a future with the dreaded woman.

All that changed two days ago, when they bumped into each other in the village square. The moment he saw her—poised, as graceful as ever—he knew he'd been lying to himself.

She was as breathtaking as the day he had told her she was going 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, cutting through him, sharp and unrelenting. His spine stiffened, every instinct screaming at him to put distance between them before he lost himself all over again.

Stepping out of the freshly scrubbed church, the summer breeze brushing against his skin, it carried the scent of warm stone and blooming heather. The sun hung high, casting long shadows from the village spire across the soft grass of the green. The air was still, golden, thick with the fragrance of weathered limestone, wild thyme, and the faint sweetness of nearby honeysuckle. Insects buzzed lazily over the hedgerows, their droning hum a low chorus against the distant murmur of the River Thames. The chapel grounds, tucked away from the bustle of the village, were usually quiet—sacred, even in their silence. But not today.

A voice called his name—smooth, familiar, and unwelcome. His chest tightened as he closed his eyes, knowing it was someone he didn't want to see. Lady Charlotte Williams. The ever-composed Dowager Viscountess stood poised, her signature smile in place, but to him, it was nothing more than a well-crafted mask. He drew a sharp breath, the heat of frustration coiling beneath his ribs. She always had a way of unsettling him, and after all these years, nothing had changed.

Seeing her again sent his pulse racing, tension tightening in his chest. He turned to face the last person he expected to meet at the church's threshold. The wound she had inflicted when she married the viscount had never fully healed. She visited her family's estate every year, yet he had never bumped into her before, their paths seemingly destined never to cross.

Charlotte regarded him with those piercing blue eyes that once held his soul captive. Her golden blonde hair framed her face, a regal halo that stood in stark contrast to the tousled brown locks now falling over his forehead. The 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 knuckles whitened, his frustration pressing against his ribs like a vice. It wasn't until the sobriquet slipped past his lips—soft, familiar, wholly unintentional—that he realized he'd used her pet name.

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

Behind him, movement caught his attention. Caelen glanced over his shoulder, jaw tightening as his eyes landed on Lady Beatrice Stanhope and Dash Blathwayt, Viscount Dyrham. The two stood close, their heads inclined in hushed conversation. He'd heard rumors that Beatrice's father had invited the viscount to court her.

Dash leaned in, whispering something against the shell of her ear. A soft, breathless laugh escaped Beatrice as her hand rose to hide her smile. The moment their eyes met his, both stiffened. Dash straightened, feigning indifference, while Beatrice froze mid-motion.

Heat coiled in Caelen's chest. He turned back, hands curling into fists at his sides.

His annoyance deepened, his emotions threatening to spill over. He forced a breath through his nose, grounding himself in the heat of the sun and the scratch of stone beneath his boots. "But why now?"

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

His patience thinned. His voice edged with irritation. "You know full well that's not what I meant, woman."

Rather than take offense, she offered him a serene, practiced smile. Her fingers reached out, grazing his arm in a touch so light it might have been accidental.

But he felt it—felt the warmth of her skin, the familiarity he had spent years trying to forget.

"Ah, yes," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "I know you. 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, 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."

A maelstrom of conflicting feelings churned beneath Caelen's gaze as he met hers. Her apology was a long-awaited salve to old wounds, yet years of longing and hurt couldn't be undone with mere words.

He gritted his teeth. "There is no need to apologize. You needed to uphold your family's honor, do your duty. I was a fool to think otherwise. We've nothing to discuss. I've moved on."

The words came quickly—too quickly. He had moved on, was sure he didn't desire her. He couldn't need her. So why did her apology feel like balm and betrayal all at once?

"I could always tell when you were lying. I still can." Her voice softened with painful sincerity. "You haven't forgiven me. I made promises, and I broke them. When I learned I would be wed to the viscount, I was just as heartbroken. But duty left me little choice. My husband may have been controlling, yet he was a decent man. Even so..." She hesitated, then continued, "His candle in my heart never burned as brightly as yours did—and still does."

A hollow laugh escaped him, stripped of all warmth. "I know better than to believe any word that leaves your lips, Lady Williams." The evenness of his tone did nothing to dull the blade behind it. "My time's spoken for—two businesses, staff to manage, and a village that relies on me. Whatever we once thought, one thing is certain now." He held her gaze, unreadable. "I don't need you."

Still, she didn't take the bait.

And he didn't pull away when her fingers brushed his. That light touch—barely there—anchored him, stirring something deep in his soul, something he had long buried.

"You are strong," she said, her voice quiet, steady. "I hurt you when I left. Hearing 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 returning permanently 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, 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 his to loosen his grip.

"I'm here now, Caelen," she breathed. "For the first time in my life, I'm free to choose. I don't care what station you were born into or what anyone might whisper. I'd like to begin again—if you'll let me. Since the day I moved, I've missed you. You must know that."