Chapter Thirteen
That evening, as twilight softly draped the land, they approached the castle.
Sommer Castle, with its towering arched windows and weathered stone walls, had stood vacant for generations until the town of Sommer-by-the-Sea reclaimed it for public gatherings.
The soft golden light poured from its many windows as footmen flanked the arched entry, guiding guests into the great hall beyond.
The castle’s cavernous interior had been transformed.
Heavy floral arrangements perfumed the air, tables were set with polished silver and crystal, and musicians from Brighton played in the gallery above the stairs.
Quinton stood just inside the main entrance, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.
He hadn’t attended a proper dinner in years, and the formality of the setting felt almost foreign.
He took in the high, vaulted ceiling and the sheen of hundreds of candles.
Against the backdrop of laughter and music, he felt oddly removed, as though he watched from the edge of someone else’s memory.
He was deliberately early. He had learned, during his years away, that control was often found in the quiet moments before chaos began. He scanned the crowd, searching for nothing and everything. His pulse quickened despite himself.
A pair of officers passed near the entrance, pausing to greet a cluster of older gentlemen by the brandy station. One of them, tall and silver-haired at the temples, with an easy manner and a distinct military posture, shook hands with the mayor and clapped a steward on the back.
“Colonel Gideon Rathbone,” Barrington said beside him, noting Quinton’s glance. “Retired now. Served with distinction in the Channel squadrons. One of the few Ordnance men people still trust.”
Quinton nodded faintly, unable to place the name, though the voice stirred something distant. “Seems well liked.”
“He is,” Barrington said. “And loyal to the last. I wish we had more like him. They’ve done well with the castle,” he said as he glanced around. “I remember when this place was home to nothing but bats.”
Quinton gave a faint smile. “It still feels more suited to armor and ghosts.”
Barrington chuckled. “And yet here we are, drinking claret and supporting lifeboats.”
“All this for lifeboats,” Quinton murmured, scanning the floral arrangements and polished silver.
Barrington huffed a quiet laugh. “The Lifeboat Trust was the matrons’ doing. A trio of sharp-eyed women with a gift for stirring hearts and emptying pockets. Don’t let their lace gloves fool you. They could fund a fleet if they chose.”
“Is it working?”
“Tonight’s meant to restore the rescue skiffs and train more volunteers.
After the last storm, they decided Sommer-by-the-Sea needed better protection.
” He gestured at the crowded room. “Judging by the attendance, they were right. The castle isn’t used often, but when it is, the attendance proves them right. ”
“You’ll see Professor Tresham tonight,” Barrington added. “The mathematician from Oxford. He’s here to support the trust’s academic scholarship fund.”
Quinton glanced at the crowd. “Will Mrs. Bainbridge be here tonight?”
Barrington gave a resigned nod. “Most definitely. The matrons placed her at the center of their seating chart. Something about honoring ‘local academic heroines.’”
“And Mary-Ann?”
“Honoria mentioned that she accepted the invitation. That’s all I know.”
Quinton looked toward the grand staircase, where new arrivals were being announced. The press of movement stirred something tense in his chest. It was one thing to think of her. it was another to see her again.
Guests arrived in elegant succession. The ladies in silks and satins and the gentlemen in tailcoats.
They all nodded graciously as they were announced.
It was a sea of cordial smiles and clipped conversation.
He was casting an eye over the crowd when the air shifted, and his attention was drawn back to the grand staircase.
“Miss Mary-Ann Seaton.” Her name was announced before she moved to the top of the staircase.
The sight of her knocked something loose in his chest. For a moment, he could barely process the room around her. All he noticed was the way her gown shifted with each step and the soft candlelight warming her skin.
He had seen her once, the day he returned. Held her hand. But the moment had been brief and staggering, more confusion than clarity. Since then, they had stayed apart, each unsure of what the other carried.
Now, with time slowed and no one interrupting, he saw her fully, and it undid him.
A rush of memories cascaded through him, her laughter carried on the wind, her ink-stained fingers as she worked over account books, and the feeling of her hand wrapped in his before he left. All of it returned, sharper than any dream.
He hadn’t realized how long he’d been holding his breath for this moment to come again, and how much it terrified him.
His gloved hand tightened at his side.
She wore a soft celadon gown with delicate embroidery along the hem.
Her hair was swept back in loose waves, pinned with tiny pearls.
She carried herself with quiet confidence, but her eyes darted briefly over the crowd, searching.
Quinton stayed where he was, half-shadowed by a marble pillar. She hadn’t seen him…yet.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched.
She was more beautiful than he remembered. Not because time had altered her. The memory he’d carried through the darkest nights hadn’t failed him. It had simply fallen short of her true beauty.
She turned slightly, offering her arm to Mrs. Bainbridge, who had arrived at her side. They moved deeper into the room, only to be intercepted quickly by well-wishers. Quinton stayed rooted in place.
“Are you planning to speak with her,” Barrington asked, “or haunt her from the shadows all evening?”
Quinton gave a quiet huff. “I haven’t decided.”
“If you wait too long, Wilkinson will get there first.”
Before Quinton could respond, Mr. Rodney Wilkinson was announced.
He entered with a confident smile, his coat tailored and his hair too perfect. He moved with ease through the room, stopping to greet acquaintances as his gaze swept the crowd. It landed on Mary-Ann.
Quinton watched as Rodney approached her. Her smile was pleasant and polite. Wilkinson leaned in to say something. Her expression didn’t falter, but her shoulders shifted ever so slightly. That small movement burned itself into Quinton’s mind.
“Still not sure?” Barrington asked.
Quinton stepped away from the pillar. “No. I’m sure now.”
They didn’t speak again until they reached the refreshment table.
Barrington took a slow sip of his drink while Quinton’s eyes followed Mary-Ann across the room.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said without turning.
“But I was there when she got the last letter. I’ve never seen a woman read so many lines that weren’t written. ”
Quinton didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
After a pause, Barrington nodded toward the far wall.
“Did you hear the story in today’s Sentinel?”
Quinton raised a brow.
“Children were playing down by the western caves,” Barrington said. “The tide came in faster than expected. They were pulled out safely, but the situation has sparked renewed discussion. People forget how dangerous those cave tunnels are.”
Quinton sipped his wine. “We used to play in those caves. I’d forgotten how fast the tide can shift.”
Barrington gave him a sidelong glance. “The tide’s always shifting, Quinton. Best to keep your footing.”
Quinton glanced at Wilkinson, then gave Barrington a tight smile. “Noted.”
Dinner was announced shortly after. Quinton took his place at a table near the center.
There would be no formal withdrawal tonight. Lady Trowbridge, one of three matrons of the event, had insisted that keeping the guests mingling would encourage more spontaneous generosity. “Dancing raises donations,” she’d quipped, and the matrons had adopted the approach with enthusiasm.
To his surprise, and perhaps to someone’s design, Mary-Ann was seated directly across from him. She met his gaze. And held it.
A thousand words passed between them in silence. Her eyes flicked down, then back to his. A question. A challenge. A memory.
He could feel her gaze like the warmth of a fire, present, flickering, impossible to ignore.
It was both comfort and torment. Until now, he’d made himself stay away, out of respect, or duty, or the knowledge that she belonged to another.
But tonight, he didn’t want distance. He wanted to remember what no memory could fully hold.
He inclined his head slightly. She returned the gesture.
Rodney took the seat beside her and began to speak, but Quinton couldn’t hear the words. He didn’t need to.
Rodney leaned in, just a touch too familiar.
He gestured broadly with his hand, an affectation Quinton had forgotten, but now found it irritating.
Mary-Ann’s expression remained composed, but a flicker of emotion crossed her eyes, a momentary glance downward before she smiled.
He knew that look. She was shielding something. Or someone.
The first course was served. Something with poached fish and saffron. Quinton barely touched it. The sounds of silverware and polite laughter filled the hall, but his focus narrowed to the woman across the table from him.
Mary-Ann smiled when addressed. She nodded at the appropriate comments. But once or twice, she looked his way again.
And when she did, it wasn’t just a polite acknowledgment. It was recognition, the kind that stirred a low heat in his chest. His hand tightened around his wineglass. He should look away. But he couldn’t, nor did he want to, because whatever passed between them wasn’t indifference.