Guests arrived in elegant succession. The ladies in silks and satins and the gentlemen in tailcoats. They all nodded graciously as they were announced. It was a sea of cordial smiles and clipped conversation. He was casting an eye over the crowd when the air shifted, and his attention was drawn back to the grand staircase.
“Miss Mary-Ann Seaton.” Her name was announced before she moved to the top of the staircase.
The sight of her knocked something loose in his chest. For a moment, he could barely process the room around her. All he noticed was the way her gown shifted with each step and the soft candlelight warming her skin.
He had seen her once, the day he returned. Held her hand. But the moment had been brief and staggering, more confusion than clarity. Since then, they had stayed apart, each unsure of what the other carried.
Now, with time slowed and no one interrupting, he saw her fully, and it undid him.
A rush of memories cascaded through him, her laughter carried on the wind, her ink-stained fingers as she worked overaccount books, and the feeling of her hand wrapped in his before he left. All of it returned, sharper than any dream.
He hadn’t realized how long he’d been holding his breath for this moment to come again, and how much it terrified him.
His gloved hand tightened at his side.
She wore a soft celadon gown with delicate embroidery along the hem. Her hair was swept back in loose waves, pinned with tiny pearls. She carried herself with quiet confidence, but her eyes darted briefly over the crowd, searching. Quinton stayed where he was, half-shadowed by a marble pillar. She hadn’t seen him…yet.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched.
She was more beautiful than he remembered. Not because time had altered her. The memory he’d carried through the darkest nights hadn’t failed him. It had simply fallen short of her true beauty.
She turned slightly, offering her arm to Mrs. Bainbridge, who had arrived at her side. They moved deeper into the room, only to be intercepted quickly by well-wishers. Quinton stayed rooted in place.
“Are you planning to speak with her,” Barrington asked, “or haunt her from the shadows all evening?”
Quinton gave a quiet huff. “I haven’t decided.”
“If you wait too long, Wilkinson will get there first.”
Before Quinton could respond, Mr. Rodney Wilkinson was announced.
He entered with a confident smile, his coat tailored and his hair too perfect. He moved with ease through the room, stopping to greet acquaintances as his gaze swept the crowd. It landed on Mary-Ann.
Quinton watched as Rodney approached her. Her smile was pleasant and polite. Wilkinson leaned in to say something. Her expression didn’t falter, but her shoulders shifted everso slightly. That small movement burned itself into Quinton’s mind.
“Still not sure?” Barrington asked.
Quinton stepped away from the pillar. “No. I’m sure now.”
They didn’t speak again until they reached the refreshment table. Barrington took a slow sip of his drink while Quinton’s eyes followed Mary-Ann across the room. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said without turning. “But I was there when she got the last letter. I’ve never seen a woman read so many lines that weren’t written.”
Quinton didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
After a pause, Barrington nodded toward the far wall.
“Did you hear the story in today’sSentinel?”
Quinton raised a brow.
“Children were playing down by the western caves,” Barrington said. “The tide came in faster than expected. They were pulled out safely, but the situation has sparked renewed discussion. People forget how dangerous those cave tunnels are.”
Quinton sipped his wine. “We used to play in those caves. I’d forgotten how fast the tide can shift.”
Barrington gave him a sidelong glance. “The tide’s always shifting, Quinton. Best to keep your footing.”
Quinton glanced at Wilkinson, then gave Barrington a tight smile. “Noted.”
Dinner was announced shortly after. Quinton took his place at a table near the center.
