Now she was seventeen, and he twenty-two, and he had been gone for months, off in London for the Season. But this morning, his carriage was due.

The thought of hearing his voice again, of seeing that smile she had missed more than she dared admit, made her pulse quicken and her palms grow damp.

She thought of their shared memories as she plaited her curls, fingers clumsy with excitement. Summers, once he had returned from London, had always belonged to them—teaching him to trust Apollo instead of forcing the horse to obey; swimming in the creek until their skin prickled with cold; climbing trees until they were scolded for returning with torn hems and muddy boots. With William, the boundaries between servant’s daughter and heir to an earldom always seemed to blur into nothing.

Her father’s voice broke through her reverie. “You’ll wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing, Violet.”

She whirled toward him, cheeks hot. “He’s due any moment, Papa.”