For a moment, it was as if the world had narrowed to a single, impossible sound. It couldn’t be. And yet her feet moved of their own accord as if her body had recognized what her mind still refused to believe. The echo of his voice struck like a memory made real. He stood in front of her thinner, his shoulders slightly stooped, his travel-worn coat dusted from the road. His dark brown hair was longer now, touched with silver at the temples. And his face, so familiar it hurt, was pale, drawn, but unmistakably his.
Quinton Hollingsworth. Viscount Rockingham.
Alive. Her knees weakened, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
He looked up, and their eyes met.
Everything else fell away. She reached instinctively for the edge of the doorframe, steadying herself as her heart stumbled,her breath caught, and for a moment, the years collapsed inward.
Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.
“I thought I’d never see you again.”
Chapter Two
Mary-Ann did notremember crossing the threshold into the hall. Her feet seemed to move without her permission, the gown whispering behind her like a phantom. The marble, the filtered late morning light, everything had the texture of a half-remembered dream. Her limbs moved out of habit, but her mind remained suspended somewhere between disbelief and numb recognition. She could see him, yes, but her head wasn’t able to decide what it meant. Her breath had shortened. Her pulse fluttered in her throat. This wasn’t possible. And yet it was.
This wasn’t possible.
And yet it was.
The world felt thin and muffled. Her heartbeat was louder than the voices around her. When she reached the hall, Quinton stood just in front of her, still and composed, like a man anchoring himself to a moment he hadn’t dared to hope for.
“Mary-Ann,” was all he said. His voice was roughened by disuse or distance, but the tone was unmistakably his.
She swallowed, her hand grasping her skirt. “You’re really here.”
Her knees weakened.
He moved quickly. His hands were suddenly on her arms, steady and real. She didn’t resist. She couldn’t even if she wanted to.
“Careful,’ he said, his voice low.
She nodded, though her pulse was erratic and her vision tinged with white at the edges. He was real. That was the part she couldn’t grasp.
“I’m all right,” she managed, though she wasn’t certain it was true.
“Mary-Ann?” Mrs. Bainbridge’s voice came from behind her.
“She needs to sit,” Quinton said gently.
“Miss Seaton,” Mr. Hollis said from the archway, his voice calm but purposeful. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the drawing room.”
Quinton looked to her for confirmation. She gave a faint nod.
He guided her gently down the hall and into the quieter space.
She let herself be led. Her steps moved, but her mind stayed behind—still trying to rewrite the moment he walked through the door.
The drawing room was cool and bright, the curtains pulled wide, the scent of beeswax lingering faintly beneath the floral arrangements. She sank onto the settee, her knees still weak.
The warmth of his touch lingered long after he let her go.
Her fingers found the folds of her skirt and held them tight.
Quinton stood just inside the doorway, his posture uncertain. He looked older—not only in the silver at his temples or the thinness of his face, but in the set of his shoulders. The man she remembered had been bright with laughter, capable of both sharp wit and quiet comfort. This man had been carved down to something quieter. A survivor.
And her heart ached.
