He saw her immediately.
Johnathan broke off his conversation and crossed the green.
“You came down,” he said, voice low, smile curving.
“I was intrigued.”
“They say this happens every spring,” he said, offering his arm. “I cannot let the moment pass without offering you a proper invitation.”
Her brows lifted. “Are you asking me to dance?”
He bowed low, mock-formal. “Lady Frances Rowley, would you honor me with the next set?”
She pretended to consider. “Are you any good?”
“I am a fair dancer, but I am told that flattery can improve my performance.” He offered a roguish grin.
She took his hand.
And he led her into the light.
The villagers did not blink. A new couple, dressed modestly, faces unfamiliar but friendly. The fiddle picked up a cheerful rhythm. Someone clapped, and the dance began.
Frances let him lead. There was warmth in the music, safety in the arc of his arm, and laughter catching at the corners of her mouth.
As Frances danced, a sense of lightness filled her—a feeling she had not known in what seemed like a lifetime. It was as though the music itself had washed away the weight of her fears, replacing them with something freer, something closer to hope. She felt like a woman who could make her own choices.
She danced.
Really danced.
Spinning beneath lantern light, her skirt catching the breeze, her pulse light and heart unburdened.
Johnathan’s hand never left hers.
And when the music slowed, he pulled her close—not too close, just enough that she could feel the steady rise of his breath and the quiet beat of his heart through the layers of fabric.
“You are smiling,” he murmured.
“I had not noticed.”
He leaned in. “It suits you.”
Frances swallowed, caught between breath and something deeper. “So does joy. On you.”
They did not kiss.
But they did not need to.
There, in the heart of a stranger’s hamlet, they shared something quieter than passion and stronger than any vow.
They shared peace.
The music faded, replaced by soft conversation and the rustle of grass beneath retreating feet. The locals began to drift away, lanterns swaying in their hands as they made their way home, smiling and warm from the evening’s merriment.
Frances and Johnathan stood together at the edge of the green, her hand still in his, neither one quite ready to let the night end.
“Walk with me,” he said quietly.
