I have come to realize that the one thing I would dearly wish for from you is your love and admiration…
Sarah and I have gone… we will never forget your kindness, nor your friendship.
The words blurred before his eyes.
“Gone?” he said, his voice hoarse. He read it again, disbelief clawing through his chest. Without another thought, he bolted from the corridor, going down the stairs two at a time to her bedchamber. He threw the door open. Empty. The bed neatly made. No trunk, no gown, no scent of lavender soap.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his pulse pounding.
He turned and sprinted for the stables. “Saddle my horse!” he barked, startling the stable lad, who dropped the brush he’d been holding.
“She could not have gone far,” Sebastian muttered, his chest rising and falling sharply. “She couldn’t.”
But before the order could be obeyed, he stopped. The world seemed to still around him—the hum of insects, the faint rustle of trees, the muted clatter of hooves in a nearby stall. Slowly, he lifted his head and stared up at the endless sweep of sky.
What was the point?
Chasing her would not alter her decision. She had left him with nothing but a folded letter and words that cut him open from within. The ache that spread through his chest was like a blade twisting deep, a raw, unfamiliar pain that burned and hollowed him all at once.
A single damn letter. That was all he was worth in the end.
He dragged a rough hand down his face and exhaled hard, the breath shaking from somewhere deep. For a moment, he thought of the lake, of her laughter echoing in the summer air, of how the sun caught her hair and made her look almost otherworldly. Those moments had felt like the beginning of something he hadn’t dared name, something beautiful, and real.
And now they were gone.
Maryann satby the window of the small three-room cottage, the scent of woodsmoke and wild lavender filling the air. Outside, the late summer breeze rustled through the hedges, carrying the faint sound of birdsong and distant laughter from the squire’sfields. Sarah’s light hums came from the adjoining room, where she was likely drawing or reading by the hearth.
The cottage was modest—plain whitewashed walls, a sturdy wooden table, and a single threadbare rug—but it was home. Hers. Or near enough.
She had rented it from Squire Richardson only a few days after leaving Sebastian’s manor, and to her surprise, the squire had been kind to rent to her without the presence of a husband. He had even offered her employment as governess to his twin six-year-old daughters, promising decent pay and comfortable quarters. It had been an unexpected mercy and one she was deeply grateful for.
Still, gratitude did little to fill the empty ache inside her chest.
Each night, when she lay in bed listening to the wind sigh through the trees, her thoughts drifted back to him, Sebastian. His laugh. His hands. The warmth of his breath against her neck. She would turn her face into the pillow to smother her sobs, praying the ache in her heart would dull with time. She wondered if he thought of her at all. If he missed her. If he had already forgotten her.
Should I have accepted his offer?The question haunted her. The manor in Kent, the generous dowry—what woman would have refused such security? And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to live under the shadow of gratitude, to be his kept woman. She had wanted his love, not his pity or his money.
She pressed her palms to her eyes. “Fool,” she whispered. “Hopeless fool.”
A sudden knock startled her. She wiped at her cheeks quickly, forcing composure before rising and opening the door.
“Mr. Walker,” she said softly, blinking at the sight of him.
The young architect smiled, a bouquet of fresh wildflowers in his hands. “Miss Winton,” he said warmly. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
His smile was boyish, earnest, the sort that would have once made her blush in another life. He had been working for Squire Richardson these past few weeks, helping with new stables and fencing. She had encountered him several times in the village square and he always courteous, always quick to make her laugh.
“Thank you,” Maryann murmured, taking the flowers. “They are beautiful.”
“Not nearly as beautiful as their recipient,” he said, his voice lowering just slightly.
Maryann flushed. His flattery was gentle, innocent even, but it stirred something uneasy in her—a mixture of guilt and melancholy. Mr. Walker had made his attentions clear in the past few days, always finding a reason to call, to bring her sketches of the new design, or books he thought she might like.
And she liked him. Truly, she did. He was good-natured and intelligent.
But he was notSebastian.No one ever would be.
He looked expectant, but she would not invite him inside—it would not be proper, and she had no wish to do anything that might tarnish her reputation in this place that could very well be her home for years to come.
