It was permission, nothing more. That was all William required.
Within the hour, he was in the saddle, riding toward the Hamilton estate. The countryside lay open around him—bright wildflowers and the faint hum of insects in tall grass.
She is alive,he told himself with every mile.
Please—let her be alive.
He reached the rise above the manor as the afternoon sun lit the windows gold. Children’s laughter drifted faintly from somewhere near the front of the house, carrying across the gravel sweep. The sound struck him like an ache.
He dismounted, a groom stepping forward at once to take his reins, and William started across the front sweep toward the house.
Halfway to the door, it opened.
Two little girls rushed out, neither older than eight. They skidded to a stop on the top step, bouncing on their toes as they peered back inside.
“Are you coming, Mrs. Grey?” one called brightly.
And then she stepped into view.
Violet.
A pale summer gown brushing her ankles.
Her dark hair pinned loosely at her nape.
A woven basket tucked in the crook of her arm.
And beside her—a little girl with a tumble of black curls.
His heart stopped.
He must have made a sound without realizing it, because the child turned toward him.
The sight stole his breath.
Freckles across a small nose—her mother’s nose.
Curls as dark as Violet’s.
And eyes—God—eyes the same grey-blue as his own.
He didn’t know her name.
But the truth settled in him all the same—swift, irrevocable.
Not just a child.
His child.
A daughter.
Violet had borne him a daughter.
Nathaniel Hamilton stepped out after them, pausing just behind Violet on the top step, smiling as he spoke—entirely unaware that William’s world had just collapsed and rebuilt itself in a single breath.
William took a step toward them, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots carrying even through the easy chatter on the doorstep.
Violet turned at the sound.
