Page 52

I n the morning, Mrs. Bainbridge enjoyed breakfast in her room, savoring the quiet before venturing into the day.

From her window, she watched the tide roll in, whitecaps cresting and crashing onto the shore.

Each wave claimed a little more of the beach, only to recede again as if reconsidering its advance.

The rhythm was soothing, a reminder that some things, the tide, the wind, the sea, moved on their own terms.

She finished her tea and set the cup aside. There were several shops she wanted to visit before the day grew too crowded. She had brought plain clothes to blend into the background, to move without scrutiny, without expectation.

But as she stood to leave, her thoughts drifted back to the previous night. The casual ease of dinner. The unexpected comfort in sharing a table. The way he studied her, as if measuring more than just her words.

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “A welcome diversion. Nothing more.” Still, she could not help but wonder, when had she last spoken so freely with a man? With one last glance at the sea, she pulled on her gloves, and left the inn for the center of town.

The town square was alive with activity. The scent of baking bread and salty air mingled with the stiff morning breeze as merchants called out their wares. Mrs. Bainbridge moved carefully through the crowd, keeping to the edges where she could observe without drawing attention.

She paused at a table filled with small trinkets, carved wooden animals, polished shells, and delicate silver pins.

She ran her fingers over a charm in the shape of a crescent moon, the cool silver pressing into her palm.

Something about it resonated, not as a memory, but as a promise, an echo of change, of something not yet fully formed. A new moon was a new beginning.

Across the square, a fabric stall drew her eye. A bolt of emerald green silk shimmered under the morning sun, its rich sheen begging to be turned into a striking dinner gown.

She approached, fingertips grazing the fine weave, already envisioning the way the fabric would drape.

“May I help you?”

The vendor, a severe-faced woman, barely looked at her before casting a glance beyond her as if searching for the real customer.

“Are you interested in that for your mistress?”

The words landed like a slap in the face, cool, casual, and utterly dismissive.

Her spine stiffened. An assumption. A deliberate one.

She had dressed plainly, preferring ease over display, but that did not excuse the woman’s sharp tongue.

She lifted her chin, letting a measured pause stretch between them before responding.

“For myself, actually.” Her voice was even, touched with ice.

The vendor hesitated. Her gaze flicked over Mrs. Bainbridge again, this time truly seeing her straight shoulders, the quiet air of authority, the unmistakable presence of a woman accustomed to deference. A flicker of realization crossed the woman’s face.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. I thought…”

Mrs. Bainbridge arched a brow. “You thought incorrectly.”

Mrs. Bainbridge tilted her head slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the woman to squirm. Then, with a dismissive turn, she walked away.

That was when she noticed the Commander.

He had been standing just within earshot, watching the exchange with a look of mild amusement. Dressed simply, with no hint of his true position, he might have been any other gentleman enjoying the market except for the unmistakable air of command he carried.

*

He had thought he understood her, sharp, quick-witted, undeniably capable.

But watching her now, standing her ground without flinching, something unfamiliar settled in his chest. Admiration was too small a word for it.

It was deeper, steadier, something that had taken root before he had even realized it.

He had known strong women before, but none like her.

“It seems,” he said, stepping toward her, “that even when dressed as a commoner, you are not so easily mistaken for one.”

Mrs. Bainbridge gave him a pointed glance but did not answer immediately.

“And what of you, Commander?” she countered smoothly. “Do you find it entertaining to lurk about in markets, observing others’ misfortunes?”

“Only when the misfortunes are handled with such remarkable efficiency,” he returned, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile.

She huffed but did not argue.

The tension from the fabric stall encounter faded, replaced by something lighter, sharper, and more engaging.

“And what brings you to the market, Commander?”

“Gloves,” he said simply, lifting the pair he’d just purchased. “Practicality above all else.”

“Of course,” she murmured, a teasing lilt in her voice. “I would expect nothing less from a man who selects his meals with military precision.”

His eyes gleamed with amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he were tempted to defend himself. For a moment, the bustling market around them faded the lively sounds and shifting crowd reduced to a distant hum.

He noticed her gaze flicked past his shoulder. Ah, yes. The bookshop across the square.

“And here I thought you lived by practicality,” she said, already stepping toward the bookshop. A slow smile curved her lips as she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Shall we put your reading choices to the test, Commander?”

He chuckled under his breath but fell into step beside her.

*

The Commander opened the door for her, and they stepped inside.

The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and fresh ink, a pleasant contrast to the salty tang of the sea breeze that had followed them in.

Her fingers drifted across the leather-bound spines, savoring the quiet sanctuary of the space.

There was a peace in bookshops, an order to them that soothed her.

She sensed the Commander watching her from a few feet away before he spoke.

“I would have thought you the type to make a direct selection, Mrs. Bainbridge. But I see you prefer to linger over your choices.”

She picked up a book and turned it over thoughtfully. “Books are not so different from people, Commander. A quick glance at the cover rarely tells the full story.”

He smirked. “And yet, I suspect you can judge both rather well. Perhaps even more than you let on.”

Ignoring his remark, she pulled a volume from the shelf, Some Thoughts Concerning Education by John Locke. A familiar text, one she had read more times than she could count, yet still, she found comfort in its pages.

The Commander peered over her shoulder. “An educational treatise?” His brow lifted. “I thought you were here for leisure.”

She turned slightly, her lips curving. “One can find pleasure in knowledge.”

His gaze flickered to the other books she had gathered: a travel memoir, a collection of unusual tales, a book of poetry, and—

He plucked The Mysteries of Udolpho from her pile with a grin. “Ah. And here, I thought you were only interested in intellectual pursuits. I stand corrected.”

She made a move to snatch it back, but he held it just out of reach. “It is a classic,” she said, tilting her chin. “And an entertaining one.”

“A gothic novel of intrigue and peril?” He chuckled. “I can only imagine what you take from its pages.”

“Perhaps,” she said smoothly, “that one should never underestimate a woman who enjoys a mystery.”

He handed the book back, his fingers grazing hers in the exchange. A fleeting touch but one she felt all the same. She turned away before he could see the effect it had on her, and stepped toward the counter to make her purchases.

As the bookseller wrapped her selections, he glanced between them with curiosity. “Are you, by chance, accepting students, madame?”

Mrs. Bainbridge’s smile did not falter, but the Commander noticed the slight pause before she answered. “The seminary is by invitation only.”

A smooth response, but there it was again, the careful choice of words, the measured control. He filed the moment away, knowing he would return to it later.

They stepped back into the sunlight, the weight of books in her arms and something else, something unspoken, settling between them.

Without a word, he reached over and took the stack from her hands, his grip firm but effortless.

“I can manage,” she said, though she made no move to take them back.

“Of course you can.” His lips twitched. “But I was raised with the old-fashioned belief that a gentleman does not let a lady carry heavy burdens.”

She arched a brow. “And what of the burdens she chooses to carry?”

He considered her for a moment, then adjusted the books under his arm. “Perhaps that depends on whether she allows anyone to share the weight.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. For once, she had no ready retort.

His grin widened. “A rare moment, Mrs. Bainbridge. Shall we walk?”

The narrow path along the square led toward the cliffs, where the sea stretched endlessly beyond the headland. He adjusted the books under his arm. “You were rather careful in answering the bookseller’s question. Your seminary is by invitation only?”

“It is.” She didn’t elaborate.

“That’s rather exclusive.” His tone was light, but she knew he was testing her.

“A school is only as strong as its students,” she replied smoothly. “Not everyone is suited for a rigorous education.”

“And what makes one suited?”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Intelligence. Strength of character.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Like choosing books, then? One must know what’s worth the investment.”

Her lips quirked. “You understand perfectly.”

He let the conversation pause as they reached the cliffside path, the wind picking up with each crashing wave below.

She could feel him watching her, his gaze intent, assessing.

He said nothing, but the weight of his scrutiny pressed against her composure.

It wasn’t the look of a man indulging idle curiosity.

He was reading between the lines, searching for something unspoken.

“Tell me,” he finally said, his tone deceptively casual. “Do your students write to request admission?”

She hesitated just a fraction too long. “No.”

“Then how do they find their way to your door?”

She turned fully to him now, her hazel eyes unreadable. “I find them.”

“She finds them.” The phrase lingered. A school that did not accept applications but instead sought out students. His instincts told him there was more to it.

A gust of wind swept in from the sea, catching the ribbons of her bonnet, twisting them free. Instinctively, she reached for it, but the force nearly pulled her off balance.

A firm grip caught her at the small of her back, steadying her. Warm, solid, and unwavering. She inhaled sharply, acutely aware of his closeness. Only then did she register his discarded cane on the ground.

For a moment, neither moved.

The bonnet tumbled along the grass, forgotten.

The space between them was suddenly too close, the air thick despite the sharp bite of the wind.

Her wide hazel eyes met his, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them.

He could see the wind tugging at the loose tendrils of her hair, but for once, neither of them moved to correct what was out of place.

Mrs. Bainbridge stepped back first. “I should retrieve that,” she murmured, her voice not quite steady.

He didn’t release her right away, not out of reluctance but because he recognized something in her hesitation.

A quiet moment of understanding passed between them.

This was not just a woman teaching at a school.

She was something else. Something undeniably compelling.

Finally, he stepped away, letting her retrieve the bonnet while he retrieved his cane.

As they resumed walking, the moment hung between them, like the pause before the tide turned.

Each step made her increasingly aware of his presence, of the measured pace he kept beside her, of the warmth where his hand had steadied her moments before.

The wind carried the salty tang of the sea, but it could not dispel the quiet tension between them.