17. CHAPTER 17
V ivienne sat up from her lounging position on the blanket Dalton had spread over the sand, loosely arranging her skirts about her knees.
The remains of their picnic still lay between them.
Above, the cliffs held the cove in a sheltering embrace.
The sun was warm, the breeze fresh, heavy with salt and late-summer sweetness. It was perfect. Idyllic.
"I must go to London."
He said it gently, yet the pronouncement settled like a block of ice in her stomach, breaking the perfect peace of the lazy afternoon by the sea Dalton had arranged.
She should have known it would not last.
"You are leaving? When?"
"Tomorrow."
So soon.
The cove seemed suddenly smaller. The sheltering cliffs less secure.
She did not wish him to go.
The realization rose swift and undeniable.
A week ago, that evening in the garden had changed everything. Or perhaps not everything. But something essential. They had not spoken of the kiss afterward. They had not needed to. But it had become a turning point in their relationship.
There was an ease between them that had not existed before — fragile, yes, but real.
Dalton still worked with relentless discipline.
She saw little of him in the mornings while he read reports or dictated correspondence, his voice firm through the study door.
He rode out across the estate most afternoons, speaking with tenants, settling disputes, seeing personally to matters no steward could manage.
But he made time.
Tea each day. Walks through parts of the grounds she had not known existed — winding paths through parkland, shaded alcoves, a bench hidden beneath climbing roses. Evenings in the parlor instead of immediate retreat. Chess. Books. Music. Conversation.
Courtship, she had thought more than once. It felt like courtship. Even though he had not kissed her again.
But every glance held the memory of it. Every accidental brush of fingers lingered a heartbeat longer as if they were reluctant to part. They moved with exquisite caution, as if both feared shattering the delicate miracle unfolding between them.
As if they had all the time in the world.
It had been perfect.
Magical.
She had never felt so quietly certain of at last having found what she had been seeking for years: belonging.
What if distance undid them? What if this careful tenderness dissolved beneath the weight of absence?
She kept her expression composed, but something must have betrayed her, for Dalton sat up as well, dusting the sand from his hands. He stretched one across the blanket and closed it over hers.
Warm. Steady.
"You could come with me," he said softly, studying her with a thoughtful, almost regretful expression.
Not a command. No expectation.
Invitation.
Her breath faltered.
London .
Society. Faces she did not remember. Questions she could not answer. Her own family, discovering her survival not from her lips but through rumor and print. Explanations. Scrutiny. The humiliation of not knowing.
Here, the castle had been a fortress. Her return had remained contained within its walls. Safe. In London, nothing would remain private.
"I — " She swallowed. "I don't think I'm ready to face the world. And I don't think we can keep my existence private if I go to London."
His thumb moved faintly against her knuckles. "No, you are right. As soon as you set foot there, the news will spread. That is inevitable."
She nodded. "My parents will hear. And they will ask why I did not send word sooner. Everyone will ask."
He did not contradict her.
"You can't remain hidden forever," he said gently. "And you have nothing to be ashamed of. You are making progress every day. You remember more than you realize."
She looked at him then.
"And when the world presses?" she asked quietly.
"I shall be at your side," he answered without hesitation. "In every room. Before every question. You won't stand alone."
The certainty in his voice loosened something tight within her chest.
"I know," she said.
And she did. But the thought of London felt like standing at the edge of deep water without knowing whether she could swim.
"Only… a little more time," she murmured. "This has come upon me very suddenly."
"Of course." There was neither impatience nor reproach in his tone. "I wouldn't force you into anything for which you are unprepared. I wished only for you to know the choice was yours."
Gratitude washed through her, tender and bright.
"When will you return?" she asked.
"As swiftly as I can. Three days at most."
Three days felt at once brief and interminable .
"If you require me," he added, "send a telegram and I shall be on the next train back. I give you my word."
"You make it sound as though calamity might strike in your absence."
A faint smile touched his mouth. "I don't expect calamity. But I will come if you need me for any reason."
"Why must you go at all?" she asked, curiosity overcoming unease. "What business do you have in London that is so urgent?"
"The Foreign Secretary has summoned me." He said it as one might remark upon a change in the weather, but she sensed the tension under the nonchalance he tried to project. "There are… explanations to be made."
"The Foreign Office?" she echoed.
"I do a little work for them from time to time."
Nothing more.
Yet something stirred faintly in her mind. Late nights. Absences. A whisper of unease, of waiting for letters that did not come. Worry she had once tried to conceal.
The impression dissolved before she could grasp it. She did not press him.
"I shall miss you," she said, the confession slipping free before pride could intervene. "And I will breathe easier once you return."
Dalton lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. The gesture was slow. Reverent.
"I shall miss you most of all," he said quietly. "And I will return to you with all haste."
She had the sense that these occurrences of him having to go away for days were not uncommon. That flicker of unease, of worry for him, whispered again. Was he going into danger? He had mentioned the Foreign Office. That sounded familiar as well. And dangerous.
It was at moments like these that her inability to remember frustrated her most of all.