Bainbridge studied her for a moment. “Is it about last night?”
A silence hung between them, delicate and full.
“It’s nothing,” Mary-Ann said quickly. “I’m just… tired.”
“Hmm,” Bainbridge replied, utterly unconvinced. “Is it the man who watches you too closely, or the one who’s never looked away?”
Mary-Ann gave her a look. A slow blink. A half-turn toward the window. She didn’t speak, but her hand rose to rub her temple absently, as if to ward off something.
“You think I don’t notice things,” Bainbridge said airily. “But I’ve planned an entire wedding with Barrington. I can read tension better than I read measurements.”
Mary-Ann laughed, and it startled her. A true laugh. Not forced, not polite.
“There she is,” Bainbridge said softly. “I was starting to worry.”
Mary-Ann looked down at the fabric again.
“You can’t say yes to something just because it looks good on paper,” Bainbridge added. “You’ll regret it.”
Mary-Ann froze. She hadn’t meant to, but her fingers clenched. The line struck too close. She tried to shake it off, but Bainbridge’s words lingered like a thread caught on a splinter. It wasn’t just the dress. It was everything lately. Rodney’s sudden attentiveness, her father’s trust in him, and the silence around Quinton that echoed far too loud. Rodney always said the right things. Always made sense on paper. And wasn’t that the trouble?
“The dress, I mean,” Bainbridge said too quickly.
“Of course.”
*
Quinton made hisway back from the harbor on foot, his hands in his coat pockets, thoughts churning in rhythm with the steady beat of his boots on the stone. Merton’s words stayed with him.Some things don’t get written down.That could mean anything or everything.
He passed the grocer, nodded at a man stacking apples, and turned onto the lane that curved toward the green. The breeze carried the scent of salt and hearth smoke, and the church bells began to chime the hour.
He wasn’t sure if he meant to see her today. Not yet. Not like this. But the thought of her, retreating behind that careful smile, folding herself back into safe expectations, was enough to keep him walking.
Just a little farther. Maybe he’d pass her street. Maybe that was all.
He slowed at the next corner, his boots scuffing against uneven cobblestones. A glance, just a glance, toward the familiar row of houses. He told himself it was a coincidence that his feet simply knew the way. But his heart beat faster all the same.
And maybe it wouldn’t be. Maybe it would be the beginning of something he hadn’t dared let himself hope for. One more corner. One more pause. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to see: a curtain drawn back, a flash of movement, a shadow near the glass. Anything to suggest she was thinking of him too. But even if she wasn’t at the window, he could still believe she might be near it. Reading. Waiting. Wondering. And that was enough for now.
*
Mary-Ann stood atthe window after Mrs. Bainbridge left, watching the lane below. The light had shifted. Shadows from the trees outside spilled across the floor like slow-moving tides. She touched the windowpane, cool beneath her fingertips, and closed her eyes just long enough to remember the sound of Quinton’s voice the night before. Low. Certain. Too real to forget.
She opened her eyes again. The street was still, but she stared a moment longer, half-expecting to see the edge of a coat or the flicker of a familiar silhouette. The thought unsettled her and rooted her to the place.
The fabric still draped the settee. A biscuit tin sat open beside her untouched tea. She had been still too long.
She could almost feel the tug beneath her ribs, that sharp, familiar flicker of unrest that meant she’d nearly made a decision. The room was too quiet now. Even the wind had stilled as if waiting. She pressed her fingers against the folded paper again. Not just a warning. A map. Not just suspicion. Intention. She didn’t know where it would lead. However, standing still wouldn’t answer anything.
She folded the note and slipped it into her reticule. The words lived there now, tucked against her side, whispering between each breath.
Don’t trust the man with clean hands.
There was so much she didn’t know. But she wasn’t ready to stand still either. She turned from the window, but not away from the question.
Chapter Sixteen
Friday, just aftersunrise, a fresh glow painted the horizon with hope. Mary-Ann had risen early, the house still and dim, and paced from room to room like a ghost uncertain of its purpose. The parlor, the study, even the morning room. Everything was too quiet, too contained. She’d picked up the shawl from the hook by the door without thought and stepped outside.
