Chapter Two
Mary-Ann did not remember crossing the threshold into the hall.
Her feet seemed to move without her permission, the gown whispering behind her like a phantom.
The marble, the filtered late morning light, everything had the texture of a half-remembered dream.
Her limbs moved out of habit, but her mind remained suspended somewhere between disbelief and numb recognition.
She could see him, yes, but her head wasn’t able to decide what it meant.
Her breath had shortened. Her pulse fluttered in her throat. This wasn’t possible. And yet it was.
This wasn’t possible.
And yet it was.
The world felt thin and muffled. Her heartbeat was louder than the voices around her. When she reached the hall, Quinton stood just in front of her, still and composed, like a man anchoring himself to a moment he hadn’t dared to hope for.
“Mary-Ann,” was all he said. His voice was roughened by disuse or distance, but the tone was unmistakably his.
She swallowed, her hand grasping her skirt. “You’re really here.”
Her knees weakened.
He moved quickly. His hands were suddenly on her arms, steady and real. She didn’t resist. She couldn’t even if she wanted to.
“Careful,’ he said, his voice low.
She nodded, though her pulse was erratic and her vision tinged with white at the edges. He was real. That was the part she couldn’t grasp.
“I’m all right,” she managed, though she wasn’t certain it was true.
“Mary-Ann?” Mrs. Bainbridge’s voice came from behind her.
“She needs to sit,” Quinton said gently.
“Miss Seaton,” Mr. Hollis said from the archway, his voice calm but purposeful. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the drawing room.”
Quinton looked to her for confirmation. She gave a faint nod.
He guided her gently down the hall and into the quieter space.
She let herself be led. Her steps moved, but her mind stayed behind—still trying to rewrite the moment he walked through the door.
The drawing room was cool and bright, the curtains pulled wide, the scent of beeswax lingering faintly beneath the floral arrangements. She sank onto the settee, her knees still weak.
The warmth of his touch lingered long after he let her go.
Her fingers found the folds of her skirt and held them tight.
Quinton stood just inside the doorway, his posture uncertain.
He looked older—not only in the silver at his temples or the thinness of his face, but in the set of his shoulders.
The man she remembered had been bright with laughter, capable of both sharp wit and quiet comfort.
This man had been carved down to something quieter. A survivor.
And her heart ached.
“You’re thinner,” she said because her heart was pounding too fast to say what she meant.
His lips pulled back in a familiar smirk. “So are you. But you’re still the only one I’d trust to say it out loud.”
She flushed, not at the words, but at the memory of him, of them. They had once spoken easily and instinctively, finishing each other’s thoughts, teasing and tender. Now there was only distance.
She wanted to ask him more, where had he been, what had he seen, but the words stuck behind the lump in her throat.
“How?” she asked. “No one, not the War Office, not the newspapers, no one knew.”
He nodded slowly. “I was told that they tried. I was held… somewhere unofficial. Not by the French army. Something else. Something worse.”
Her breath caught. “You were a prisoner?”
“Of sorts.”
A shiver passed through her. There was a hollowness in his voice that frightened her more than his words.
She sat straighter, her hands in her lap, twisting the fabric of her gown. “And no one told us.”
He looked away. “Perhaps, that was best. You wouldn’t want to…” He didn’t finish.
There was a long silence.
She studied him. “Where have you been, Quinton? What happened to you?”
“I’ve been in places I wouldn’t wish on anyone,” he said. “As soon as Barrington brought me back to England, I came here. I had to see you with my own eyes.”
She rose and crossed to him slowly. “Of all the places you could have gone…”
He nodded. “I hadn’t meant to arrive like this. I didn’t plan it. But once I was back… I couldn’t stay away. Barrington told me you were engaged.” He drew a breath. “But I needed to see you.”
“I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “For so long, I thought… and then I had to stop. I had to go on.”
He nodded again, silent.
She lifted her hand before she could think better of it, her fingers trembling as they hovered near his face.
Slowly, reverently, she brushed her fingertips across his cheek.
The bristle of his unshaven jaw, the warmth of his skin.
It was real. He closed his eyes at her touch, and when he opened them again, he caught her hand in his.
His grip was gentle but firm. Her breath stilled.
“You came back,” she whispered.
“I told you I would,” he replied. Not a boast, not a tease. Just the truth.
They stood there, suspended between the past and the present, heartbreak and possibility.
A knock interrupted them.
One of the maids stepped in, eyes wide with curiosity. “Pardon me, miss. Mrs. Bainbridge is in the hall. Shall I show her in?”
“Please do,” Mary-Ann said quickly.
Mrs. Bainbridge entered, composed, her eyes flicking between them with unmistakable curiosity.
“Lord Rockingham,” she said warmly. “What a surprise and a relief. Welcome home.”
Quinton bowed slightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Bainbridge. It’s good to be here.”
“Do you plan to stay long?” she asked.
Quinton’s response was quiet. “As long as I’m needed.”
Before more could be said, another knock sounded.
The door opened, and Rodney Wilkinson entered, composed as ever, his expression schooled into a pleasant surprise.
“Mrs. Bainbridge.” He turned toward Quinton. “Lord Rockingham,” he said warmly. “Welcome home.”
Quinton inclined his head. “Mr. Wilkinson.”
“How fortunate that you’ve arrived now,” Wilkinson continued. “There’s so much to celebrate.” He turned toward Mary-Ann. “I was on my way to your father. He mentioned a discrepancy in the quarter report.” He gave her a hint of a smile. “I told him I’d sort it out for him.”
Mary-Ann’s stomach turned. That was her responsibility.
Quinton didn’t flinch, but Mary-Ann saw it, the slightest stiffening.
“I’ll take my leave.” Quinton turned to Mrs. Bainbridge. “It was good seeing you, Mrs. Bainbridge.”
“I’m so glad you’ve returned.” Her eyes softened.
Mary-Ann took a step toward him. “Will you stay in Sommer-by-the-Sea long?”
He turned to her. “That depends,” he said, his voice low. “But I won’t be far.”
“Quinton—” she began, but he was already turning.
He paused at the threshold and glanced back, his voice low and certain. “You look well, Mary-Ann, and strong.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
She stood still, her heart thudding against her ribs. The ache that bloomed in her chest wasn’t confusion. It was recognition.
She moved to a chair and sat.
Wilkinson lingered, his expression unreadable. He poured himself a glass of sherry from the sideboard.
“He doesn’t look well,” he said, swirling the sherry in his glass.
Mary-Ann glanced at Mrs. Bainbridge but didn’t respond to him.
“No doubt he’s had a… complicated journey,” he added.
She looked up. “You make it sound like you know what happened.”
“I know he was missing. And now he’s not,” Wilkinson said, lifting his glass slightly. “We should all be grateful for that.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t sound like gratitude.”
He offered a tight smile. “My apologies, Mary-Ann. I meant no offense.”
She rose, suddenly aware she was still wearing her gown. “Please excuse me, Rodney. I need to change.” She turned to Mrs. Bainbridge. “Will you help me, please?”
“Of course,” came the reply.
Rodney bowed slightly. “Of course. You go on. I’ll see myself out.”
Mrs. Bainbridge offered her arm without hesitation. Together they crossed the room, their steps quiet over the carpet. Mary-Ann did not look back.
Rodney remained by the window, still holding the glass of sherry. He watched them go, the faint clink of the glass against his ring the only sound.
Then he drained it, set it aside, and followed the silence out.