A Vow for the Viscount (Barrington’s Brigade #4)

Chapter One

Mary-Ann Seaton had always liked the front parlor in the late morning.

The tall windows caught the sun just right and filled the room with a soft warmth that dulled the sharp edges of her thoughts.

This morning, the golden light spilled across the room, which had been transformed into a private fitting room.

The usual furniture had been rearranged to accommodate fabrics, gowns, and pins, while the scent of lavender beeswax, and floral Darjeeling tea hung in the air.

Mary-Ann stood in front of the full-length cheval mirror, the hem of her nearly finished wedding gown pooled in soft folds around her feet.

Her auburn hair had been swept back loosely for the fitting, a few tendrils falling over her shoulder.

Her expression, reflected in the glass, was calm. Peaceful. Even quietly pleased.

She turned slightly as Mrs. Pembroke, the dressmaker, circled her, pinning fabric and murmuring to herself as she worked.

Finally, done. She stood back and took in Mary-Ann. “He’ll be stunned when he sees you,” the seamstress said with a warm smile.

Mary-Ann tilted her head and gazed into the mirror. “That is my plan.”

The gown was lovely, a rose gold satin with delicate ivory trim at the neckline, and sleeves that fluttered just off her shoulders. It was everything she had imagined. It was refined. Graceful. Entirely hers.

Across the room, seated in a high-backed chair near the hearth, Mrs. Bainbridge watched with an appraising eye and a small, fond smile. She had arrived an hour ago under the pretense of keeping Mary-Ann company during the fitting, though her glances toward the window had grown more frequent.

Mary-Ann had once been a student at the Sommer-by-the-Sea Female Seminary, where Mrs. Bainbridge, the founder and headmistress, had encouraged her, boldly and against all expectations, to pursue mathematics and finance.

Their acquaintance had grown into a bond far deeper than one of headmistress and pupil. Mary-Ann trusted her implicitly.

“Are you comfortable, Mrs. Bainbridge?” she asked, catching her guest’s reflection in the mirror. “You’ve seemed a bit unsettled since you arrived.”

Mrs. Pembroke motioned her to turn.

Mrs. Bainbridge started, then gave a light chuckle. “Forgive me. I’m distracted, I suppose. It’s not every day a woman accepts a marriage proposal and then spends the week pretending she hasn’t.”

Mrs. Pembroke froze, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O,’ t.

Mary-Ann spun around sharply, the satin hem whispering across the carpet. “You accepted Lord Barrington!” she said, unable to contain her excitement.

“I did,” Mrs. Bainbridge replied, pouring herself a cup of tea.

“You didn’t say a word!”

“Well, he looked so determined. As if I’d regret it more if I said no. It was last Saturday. This time, he had that look about him, as though he’d draft a treaty if I refused to give him a clear answer.”

Mary-Ann grinned. “That sounds exactly like him. I suppose he prepared a written proposal, thoroughly footnoted.” Mary-Ann attempted a solemn expression, but failed miserably. “Citing at least three reasons why he was the best candidate.”

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, her eyes crinkling as she passed up the sugar bowl, “he did offer footnotes. I’ve never been one to be bullied into anything. Not even marriage.”

“And yet you said yes.”

“The man is rather persuasive. And, between us, it’s rather nice to be admired so… stubbornly.”

Mrs. Pembroke found her voice again and smiled. “Congratulations, Mrs. Bainbridge. That is wonderful news.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pembroke.” Mrs. Bainbridge lifted her chin a bit. “I thought you may have guessed my secret when I was in your shop earlier this week.”

“I did have my suspicions, but I knew you would let us know when you were ready. His lordship is a wonderful man.” The seamstress went back to work.

“Now I understand why you haven’t stopped smiling,” Mary-Ann teased.

She had once been a student at the Sommer-by-the-Sea Female Seminary, which Mrs. Bainbridge founded.

She had always admired her former teacher and headmistress’s blend of grace and grit.

It was Mrs. Bainbridge who had encouraged her talent for finance and mathematics.

They were odd talents for a young lady, perhaps, but ones that Mary-Ann had cultivated into sharp instincts and a rare understanding of her father’s shipping business.

“And yet you said yes.”

Mrs. Bainbridge’s eyes softened. “Yes. And I don’t regret it. Between us, it’s rather lovely to be admired so… stubbornly.”

Mary-Ann’s smile faltered, just for a moment.

She turned back to the mirror, letting the conversation drift away as Mrs. Pembroke resumed her careful work. The gown shimmered faintly in the light, its delicate trim catching the sun. It was perfect. Just as it should be. Just as everything was supposed to be.

And yet…

That quiet voice inside her, the one she’d learned to ignore, stirred.

“Have you told anyone else?” Mary-Ann asked.

Mrs. Bainbridge shook her head. “Not yet. Though I daresay, half the village will know by sundown. I believe his lordship sent a notice to the London Gazette as well as the Sommer Sentinel. We all know how London and Sommer-by-the-Sea thrive on gossip.” She took a sip of tea.

“Will the wedding be here or in London?”

“That,” Mrs. Bainbridge said with a sigh, “is already a matter of debate. I thought here, for simplicity’s sake.

Barrington is discussing the event with me as if it were a military operation.

He mentioned his family’s tradition of large weddings.

Personally, at this point, Gretna Green sounds good to me. ”

Mary-Ann chuckled. “You know you don’t mean that. I believe your Lord Barrington enjoys showing you off just as much as you enjoy being seen on his arm. I’ve seen your face light up when he enters a room.”

“I suppose I must be more careful to control my feelings, especially around you.”

“I don’t think you can.” Mary-Ann shook her head and tried not to smile.

“Excuse me, Miss Mary-Ann. One final turn, please,” Mrs. Pembroke asked.

Mary-Ann executed a grand sweeping turn and let the skirt fall around her.

“Yes,” Mrs. Pembroke nodded, “the length and weight are perfect.”

“Mrs. Bainbridge, have you chosen your gown?” Mary-Ann nodded to the dressmaker, pleased as she was.

“Not yet. I’m torn between two gowns. One makes me feel like a duchess. The other makes me feel like myself. Naturally, I’ve chosen neither.”

Mary-Ann grinned. “Then you’re waiting for a third to appear to help you make a decision?”

“Or for a modiste to invent one that satisfies both sides of my nature.” She gave Mrs. Pembroke a wink.

“If you crave a diplomatic gown,” Mrs. Pembroke said while she gathered her pins, “I will gladly create one for you.”

“I wouldn’t have anyone else create a gown for me.” Mrs. Bainbridge took another sip of tea. “I’m in no hurry. We haven’t decided on a date for the wedding yet. That appears to be another negotiation.”

They shared another laugh. The moment stretched comfortably while the dressmaker packed up her things.

“Rodney,” Mary-Ann murmured, the name barely above a breath.

Rodney Wilkinson was a good man. Kind. Steady.

Thoughtful in a way that made her feel cherished, seen.

He listened with quiet sincerity and never sought to impress.

Their courtship had been proper and patient, marked by gentle laughter, shared goals, and a quiet understanding that had deepened over time.

Their life together would be calm. Respectable. Safe.

She smiled faintly and adjusted the sleeve of her gown. It would be a good match, better than most, by any measure. She was proud of the choice she had made.

Still, the smallest ripple of doubt stirred, not about him, never about him, but about herself.

Would she be a good wife? Would she know what to say, what to do, how to be enough for a man like Rodney? Could she make him happy, truly happy, beyond duty and affection?

She drew a breath, letting it out slowly. It was a solemn moment. No wonder her hands trembled.

The sound of muffled voices in the foyer reached their ears, an urgent male voice, low and sharp. It sounded like a commotion until a loud crash, followed by Mr. Hollis, the butler’s voice.

Mary-Ann frowned. “Did someone—?”

The dressmaker straightened. “Shall I see what’s amiss?”

But Mary-Ann was already moving. She slipped from the small, raised platform, her slippers silent against the carpet, the gown rustling around her legs. She crossed the parlor, opened the door, and entered the hall just as another voice, low unmistakable, cut through the air.

Her heart stopped.

For a moment, it was as if the world had narrowed to a single, impossible sound.

It couldn’t be. And yet her feet moved of their own accord as if her body had recognized what her mind still refused to believe.

The echo of his voice struck like a memory made real.

He stood in front of her thinner, his shoulders slightly stooped, his travel-worn coat dusted from the road.

His dark brown hair was longer now, touched with silver at the temples.

And his face, so familiar it hurt, was pale, drawn, but unmistakably his.

Quinton Hollingsworth. Viscount Rockingham.

Alive. Her knees weakened, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

He looked up, and their eyes met.

Everything else fell away. She reached instinctively for the edge of the doorframe, steadying herself as her heart stumbled, her breath caught, and for a moment, the years collapsed inward.

Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.

“I thought I’d never see you again.”