Chapter One
Summer 1847
Violet Hayes smoothed her skirts for the fifth time that morning, though there was nothing fine about them—plain cotton, worn by a country girl who spent more hours in the kitchens and stables than anywhere else. Still, she wanted to look her best. William was coming home.
Seven years had passed since she had first teased him for giving up on the young gelding her father insisted he learn on, since the afternoon she had looked up at him with far too much courage for a ten-year-old and asked if he might be her friend.
Seven years of stolen afternoons by the creek, seven years of laughter beneath the oak at the meadow’s edge.
She had been gap-toothed and shy back then, but William had not turned her away. Against all sense, and against his mother’s sharp glances, he had kept that promise of friendship.
Now she was seventeen, and he twenty-two, and he had been gone for months, off in London for the Season. But this morning, his carriage was due.
The thought of hearing his voice again, of seeing that smile she had missed more than she dared admit, made her pulse quicken and her palms grow damp.
She thought of their shared memories as she plaited her curls, fingers clumsy with excitement. Summers, once he had returned from London, had always belonged to them—teaching him to trust Apollo instead of forcing the horse to obey; swimming in the creek until their skin prickled with cold; climbing trees until they were scolded for returning with tornhems and muddy boots. With William, the boundaries between servant’s daughter and heir to an earldom always seemed to blur into nothing.
Her father’s voice broke through her reverie. “You’ll wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing, Violet.”
She whirled toward him, cheeks hot. “He’s due any moment, Papa.”
Thomas Hayes set down the bridle he had been oiling, his weathered face thoughtful. “Mind yourself, my girl. I know that look in your eye, and I’m not sure how much longer his lordship and her ladyship will allow him to go gallivanting with the stable master’s daughter. You’re nearly grown now. It’s different than when you were children.”
Violet shook her head, fiercely certain. “William would never stop being my friend just because his parents say so. He’s not like that.”
Her father sighed, softening. “I pray you’re right, girl. Just… be careful with your heart.”
But the warning barely reached her, her heart already halfway across the fields. Then the sound of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves reached her ears, and she was off—running through the tall grass, her skirts brushing the sun-warmed blades.
She knew exactly where to wait, the old oak tree, its sweeping canopy sheltering the spot that had always been theirs.
As she passed Ashford Manor on her way to the tree, she caught a glimpse of a carriage cresting the hill, the Ashford crest painted in gold, gleaming in the bright sunlight.
The sight sent her breath tumbling out in a rush.
She didn’t slow until she reached their oak, chest heaving, the sweet scent of clover thick in the summer air.
Moments later, he appeared—William Henry Ashford, taller and broader than when she’d last seen him, though his fair hair caught the light the same way it always had. His grey-blue eyes, which she’d once likened to the color of the lake when the sun hit it, warmed instantly when they found her.
“Violet,” he said, breathless.
They moved toward each other at the same moment, drawn together by instinct more than intention, the distance between them closing as naturally as breathing.
“Welcome home,” she whispered.
His smile—warm and achingly familiar—softened something deep inside her. He brushed his fingers lightly over the back of her hand, a touch that carried months’ worth of longing.
“Only now… now, now that I’m here,” he murmured.
“Come,” he added after a heartbeat, tilting his head toward their place beneath the tree, “sit with me.”
They settled beneath the sweeping branches as they had done countless times before, and he began to speak of London—the glittering lights, the endless balls, the suffocating pressure of it all. She listened with rapt attention, drinking in every word. Each syllable seemed to unspool the long months apart, weaving the distance between them back into something whole again.
Then his voice softened. “My mother paraded young ladies before me daily. She insists it’s time I make a match.”
At his words, Violet’s smile stilled, and her heart gave a small, startled stutter.
She let her gaze fall to a tiny beetle climbing a blade of grass, pretending interest she didn’t feel. “And… did you meet anyone? Anyone you thought… worthy?” She forced the question past the tightness in her throat.
