Page 56 of A Vow for the Viscount
Kenworth arched a brow. “Scenic. Windblown. Remote. I dare say the guest list would shrink accordingly.”
Mary-Ann handed the seating chart back.
“You’re not going to Gretna Green. You’re going to marry Lord Barrington with every duchess in England watching, and they’re going to weep into their lace gloves at how magnificent you look.”
Mrs. Bainbridge’s expression softened. “That is a very appealing image.”
Then let’s start by ensuring they all have chairs.
Kenworth murmured, “Preferably with name cards. Perhaps in English.”
Mrs. Bainbridge let out a sigh and flopped into the nearest chair. “I shall write to that bishop myself and inform him that the ceremony will be conducted in one language only, and that language will not be Latin.”
Mary-Ann grinned and turned toward the stairs, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. Mrs. Bainbridge had stepped out a few moments earlier to speak with a potential new student, leaving the room and a rare patch of quiet behind.
*
She was stillsmiling when a quiet knock came at the corridor door.
The light from the afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, gilding the edge of the carpet and the shimmer of the discarded invitation papers. Her fingers stilled as she turned, smoothing her skirt as though the knock had reached deeperthan sound. It had a familiarity that warmed and unsettled all at once.
Not firm or urgent, just enough to be polite, and unmistakably familiar. Quinton stood there, looking as if he might have debated whether to knock a second time.
“I wasn’t sure if this was a poor time,” he said. “You were clearly under siege earlier.”
“Only from bishops and lace,” she replied, stepping back to let him in. “I’ve survived worse.”
Quinton stepped inside, his gaze brushing over the folded sketches and guest lists still scattered across the table near the hearth. “I take it the Duchess of Carrimere remains unseated?”
“She’s been moved seven times in two days. Kenworth believes her a greater tactical challenge than Napoleon.”
That earned a quiet laugh. “He’s not wrong.”
There was a pause, not an awkward one, but a thoughtful one. The kind that came after something had changed. She laced her fingers together, uncertain.
“I didn’t expect you,” she said.
“No,” Quinton replied. “But I thought perhaps you’d like this back.” He held up a folded page, theSommer Sentinel. “You left it behind.”
She accepted it, the memory of the cave and the tide-laced wind flickering behind her eyes.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Quinton hesitated. “I know I have no right to ask, but… are you all right?”
Mary-Ann nodded. “I’ve learned to tread carefully. Not just in caves.”
That pulled a smile from him. It was gentle but touched with something more. The kind of smile that belonged to late summer walks and quiet conversations in fading light, to moments so familiar they had become part of who she was.
“I used to walk with you nearly every evening,” he said suddenly. “I don’t think I appreciated what it meant at the time. Matching your pace. Letting you speak first. Listening.”
Her throat tightened. “I remember.”
She used to count the stars as they walked. His hand always hovered near but never quite touched hers. That restraint had meant something then. It still did.
He took a half-step closer. His voice dropped softer than she’d ever heard it. “I don’t want to lose that again.”
Her breath caught. She hadn’t expected those words not spoken aloud. Not yet. The moment hung between them. Not a kiss, but as good as one, threaded with memory and promise.
