“You’re thinner,” she said because her heart was pounding too fast to say what she meant.
His lips pulled back in a familiar smirk. “So are you. But you’re still the only one I’d trust to say it out loud.”
She flushed, not at the words, but at the memory of him, of them. They had once spoken easily and instinctively, finishing each other’s thoughts, teasing and tender. Now there was only distance.
She wanted to ask him more, where had he been, what had he seen, but the words stuck behind the lump in her throat.
“How?” she asked. “No one, not the War Office, not the newspapers, no one knew.”
He nodded slowly. “I was told that they tried. I was held… somewhere unofficial. Not by the French army. Something else. Something worse.”
Her breath caught. “You were a prisoner?”
“Of sorts.”
A shiver passed through her. There was a hollowness in his voice that frightened her more than his words.
She sat straighter, her hands in her lap, twisting the fabric of her gown. “And no one told us.”
He looked away. “Perhaps, that was best. You wouldn’t want to…” He didn’t finish.
There was a long silence.
She studied him. “Where have you been, Quinton? What happened to you?”
“I’ve been in places I wouldn’t wish on anyone,” he said. “As soon as Barrington brought me back to England, I came here. I had to see you with my own eyes.”
She rose and crossed to him slowly. “Of all the places you could have gone…”
He nodded. “I hadn’t meant to arrive like this. I didn’t plan it. But once I was back… I couldn’t stay away. Barrington told me you were engaged.” He drew a breath. “But I needed to see you.”
“I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “For so long, I thought… and then I had to stop. I had to go on.”
He nodded again, silent.
She lifted her hand before she could think better of it, her fingers trembling as they hovered near his face. Slowly, reverently, she brushed her fingertips across his cheek. The bristle of his unshaven jaw, the warmth of his skin. It was real. He closed his eyes at her touch, and when he opened them again, he caught her hand in his. His grip was gentle but firm. Her breath stilled.
“You came back,” she whispered.
“I told you I would,” he replied. Not a boast, not a tease. Just the truth.
They stood there, suspended between the past and the present, heartbreak and possibility.
A knock interrupted them.
One of the maids stepped in, eyes wide with curiosity. “Pardon me, miss. Mrs. Bainbridge is in the hall. Shall I show her in?”
“Please do,” Mary-Ann said quickly.
Mrs. Bainbridge entered, composed, her eyes flicking between them with unmistakable curiosity.
“Lord Rockingham,” she said warmly. “What a surprise and a relief. Welcome home.”
Quinton bowed slightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Bainbridge. It’s good to be here.”
“Do you plan to stay long?” she asked.
Quinton’s response was quiet. “As long as I’m needed.”
