June 1817, Berkshire

Some men relish any 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 church 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 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.

The creak of the ancient pews echoed in the cavernous space, a solemn reminder of the countless souls who 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. On this dry June day, resentment had its grip on him. His practiced hand nearly, and quite inadvertently, separated a saint’s head from its holy marbled shoulders; a once-cherished hymnal 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 gave birth to their first child and asked to step away for a spell 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. Out-of-towners arriving, activities 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 once shattered his heart twenty-eight years ago, returning like clockwork during this particular week each year.

Caelen heard through whispers and passing conversations of her husband’s death twelve months earlier, that she would visit now that her mourning period had ended. The thought of seeing her again unraveled him, a frayed seam coming undone.

Pain surged back whenever she crossed his mind. The same hollow ache that gutted him the night he read her last letter by the hidden lake on the Basildon Park grounds, the one that edged the River Thames. Spotty and seventeen, heart thudding with hope, he broke 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 a person I cherish. Ever must I hold you in the highest esteem for your loyalty.

I bring you joy and cheerful news from London. You were right—I am the catch of the Season and have accepted the hand of an acquaintance of my father’s.

His estate is in Gloucestershire, so we shall 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 part on civil terms, should we cross paths again.

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

Your friend,

Lady Charlotte Williams

He ripped the letter with trembling hands, letting the pieces fall like rain, 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 found him the next morning, after his parents sent out a search party.

He never spoke about that night.

The memory never left him.

For years, he 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 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 told her she was going to be his wife. Her beauty had deepened with time rather than fading. The same twinkle still danced in her eyes—the one that 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 chest tightened, the familiar burn of chemistry coiling low and fierce, 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 pleasant breeze brushed against his skin. The sun hung high, casting long shadows from the spire across the soft grass of the green. There was not a cloud in the sky, 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 at this particular moment, the tranquility shattered.

A voice called his name—smooth, familiar, and unwelcome. His spine stiffened as he squeezed his eyes shut, 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 no 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 inflicted when she married the viscount never fully healed. She visited her family’s estate every year, yet he never happened upon her before, their paths seemingly destined never to cross.

She 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 serenity 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.

"My niece and I are showing our houseguest around our neighborhood." She met him with a calm resolve. "We stopped by to pay our respects to our ancestors."

Behind him, movement caught his attention. He glanced over her 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 turned away all suitors until his daughters debuted, holding out for the man in question.

The aristocrat leaned in, whispering something in the shell of her ear. A soft, breathless laugh escaped the young lass 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.

A tick formed at Caelen’s temple as he ground his molars in irritation. He refocused on the person before him, hands curling into fists at his sides. 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? Our morning is free, and it is a fine day for a ride. I always make an effort to visit St. Bartholomew’s when I’m in town."

His patience thinned, 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 time that slipped by, the unspoken emotions that 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, even though she stood half a foot shorter. The scent of rosewater and juniper tickled his nose and teased his tastebuds as he breathed her in, but he held back from pulling her close. Her apology was a long-awaited salve to old wounds—soothing, yes—but years of longing and hurt couldn’t be undone with a mere sentence.

He gritted his teeth. "Apologies aren’t necessary. You needed to uphold your family’s honor, to do your duty. I was a fool to think otherwise. To believe what you promised…" He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and reopening them once more, adding, "We’ve got nothing to discuss. I’ve moved on."

The words came quickly—too quickly. He survived, sure she no longer had a place in his heart. He didn’t need her. So why did her apology feel like balm and betrayal all at once?

"I could always tell when you were lying, and today is no different." 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 my father and duty to my family left me little choice. My husband may have been controlling, but he was a tolerable man. Even so..." She hesitated, then continued, "His candle in my heart never burned as brightly as yours did—and still does."

His throat tightened. The admission landed like a stone, unsettling old grief he thought he’d buried beneath years of routine and distance. Part of him wanted to reject her confession, to shield himself with the same anger he’d carried for decades. But another part—quiet, stubborn, and aching—had waited to hear these exact words.

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 refused to take the bait.

And he didn’t pull away when her fingers brushed his. That light touch—featherlike—anchored him, stirring something deep in his soul. His body leaned in, enjoying the tingles that shot through him.

"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 hope we might be… at least on speaking terms."

Her words hung between them, fragile yet heavy. His 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 the life that slipped through his fingers.

A sharp breath escaped him, the fight draining from his limbs. Shoulders sagged—not in defeat, but beneath the weight of years spent trying, and failing, to forget her.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then he met her gaze, and the floodgates of his heart seemed to creak open just a crack. He gripped his hat more firmly and, with a heavy sigh, spoke in a voice that carried the echoes of a thousand untold stories: "I… I never thought I’d see you again."

Without a word, 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 am free to choose. I don’t care what station you were born into or what anyone might whisper. I’d like to begin anew—if you’ll let me. Since the day I moved, I’ve missed you. You must know that."

He searched her eyes, hoping—against reason—for honesty. Something real. But he’d chased that hope before. She had made promises, whispered words he once believed, only to shatter them. He wouldn’t allow himself to be fooled again.

His spine straightened, and he took a couple of steps back. "No, Lady Williams. I shan’t make the same mistake twice," he said, tone firm, measured. "I’ve moved on, and so should you. Don’t seek me out like you’ve done today unless it concerns business." A pause, then his fingers flicked between them. "Because that is all that remains between us."

Each step away from her was deliberate, weighted. He reached his horse without looking back, unwilling to let the silence between them break with sentiment.

Once mounted, he adjusted his seat as the animal neighed, boots finding the stirrups while his fingers fumbled with the reins. The mare shifted beneath him, uneasy—sensing the tension that clung to its rider like a second skin.

His eyes fixed on the village steeple ahead, intending it to anchor him. Willed himself not to hear the soft hitch in her breath behind him as he prepared to depart.

The leather creaked under his grip, a whisper of hesitation.

"Goodbye, Lady Williams," he whispered.

The words rang hollow, and he knew it.

Still, he gave his horse a gentle nudge, not daring to look back and let the rhythm of hooves on stone drown the war inside him.