They settled beneath the sweeping branches as they had done countless times before, and he began to speak of London—the glittering lights, the endless balls, the suffocating pressure of it all. She listened with rapt attention, drinking in every word. Each syllable seemed to unspool the long months apart, weaving the distance between them back into something whole again.

Then his voice softened. “My mother paraded young ladies before me daily. She insists it’s time I make a match.”

At his words, Violet’s smile stilled, and her heart gave a small, startled stutter.

She let her gaze fall to a tiny beetle climbing a blade of grass, pretending interest she didn’t feel. “And… did you meet anyone? Anyone you thought… worthy?” She forced the question past the tightness in her throat.

She heard him shift beside her—the faint rustle of clothing, the whisper of movement in the grass.