Her mind raced, seizing on any explanation except the one written plainly on Nathaniel’s face.
“And why is he here now, then? To renew your acquaintance? To revive a school friendship? He certainly cannot be here for me.”
“Violet…” Nathaniel’s tone was gentle but unyielding. “I think you know why he came.”
“No, my lord,” she snapped, retreating behind formality as if it were armor. “He came to see you. Whatever business he has, it concerns you—not me.”
“I should go. I need to go.” She turned to flee—forgetting Lily wasn’t at her side, forgetting that there was no door she could walk through that would leave her heartache behind.
Nathaniel stepped closer, his fingers closing gently around hers. The touch stopped her where she stood, cutting cleanly through the edge of her panic.
“Violet,” he murmured, “I know you want to run. And if you truly wish it, I will send him away. I will tell him to leave my house—my land—and never trouble you again.”
He paused, studying her with quiet understanding.
“But… I wonder,” he continued softly, “if speaking with him might help you. Even a little. To answer the questions that torment you. To help you move forward. To finally close the door on the past.”
His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles—steadying, gentle, offering her something solid to cling to in the torrent of her thoughts.
“If you wish to speak with him, I’ll keep Lily and the girls with me in the nursery.”
Violet gave him a weak, broken smile. “How did you become so wise?”
A small laugh escaped him. “It is a burden I bear.”
Her eyes drifted toward the front door—a small, yearning pull she couldn’t quite disguise.
“I don’t know…” she breathed, the words unraveling before she could shape them.
“I understand,” he said softly. “But if nothing else, Violet… Lord William Ashford owes you an apology.”
His expression warmed, a small smile offered in quiet reassurance.
“He’s waiting in the blue sitting room. Take whatever time you need.”
Unable to trust her voice, she nodded before turning toward the corridor, her steps slow and unsteady as she made her way to the room where her past waited.
Her boots thudded softly along the runner, each sound seeming too loud in the hush of the hallway.
A tall clock ticked nearby, its measured rhythm swallowed by the sudden rush of her heartbeat until it seemed the sound might split her in two—fast, frantic, impossible to ignore.
She reached the door and stilled, breath trembling as she smoothed her palms down her skirts.
For a heartbeat—two—she nearly turned back. Instinct urged her to flee, to run until the very memory of him was behind her.
But another part of her, tired and cornered and desperate for this to end, knew that retreat would not save her from any of it.
With a thin, unsteady breath, she turned the knob.
And stepped inside.
She turned at once and closed the door, keeping her back to the room, unable yet to look at him.
Behind her, he spoke her name.
Soft.
Wrecked.
