Page 55

T he grand ballroom of the Rose & Heather Inn shimmered with candlelight, the chandeliers casting a glow over guests as the music swirled through the air. The evening was at its height, the laughter and murmur of conversation mixed with the rhythmic steps of dancers as they glided across the floor.

Mrs. Bainbridge had not intended to come. She had told herself it was unnecessary that she did not care for such gatherings. And yet, here she was, standing at the edge of the room, watching the spectacle unfold. Her mistake had been believing she would not search for him.

Her eyes had found him within moments of her arrival. The Commander, no, Mr. Kenworth, she reminded herself. He wasn’t just the Commander, not here. He was Mr. Kenworth, no battle to fight, no orders to give. Just a man. And yet, that realization unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

He stood on the far side of the ballroom, dressed in crisp evening attire, speaking with a group of gentlemen.

His posture, his ease, the way he carried himself.

It was all unmistakably him. There were women who had taken notice, whispering behind their fans, their gazes lingering on him in a way that made something coil low in her stomach.

Why should I care? she scolded herself, turning her attention elsewhere. But it was useless.

As if he had sensed her, he looked up. Their gazes locked across the room, and for a moment, the sounds of the ballroom faded. A slow smile played on his lips. It wasn’t mocking or teasing. It was knowing. He inclined his head in acknowledgment, and she found herself inhaling sharply.

Within moments, he was at her side, bowing slightly. “Mrs. Bainbridge.”

“Mr. Kenworth,” she replied, tilting her chin, forcing herself to maintain her composure.

“I trust you are enjoying the evening?” He extended his hand in invitation. “Or would you rather be persuaded onto the dance floor?”

Her pulse quickened. “I had not planned on dancing.”

“Perhaps you should reconsider.”

She hesitated, aware of the warmth of his gaze. “And why is that, Commander?”

He leaned in just enough for his voice to be a quiet murmur. “Because if you do not go, then whom shall I dance with?”

The words struck a familiar chord. Hadn’t he said something similar before?

She searched his face, realizing with a start that he had.

And that he knew she would remember. Her pulse fluttered, her lips parting as if to respond, but no words came.

There was a challenge in his tone, but something else, too. Something softer.

She should have refused. She should have laughed it off. Instead, she placed her hand in his.

The waltz was slow and measured yet charged with an energy neither of them spoke of.

He held her close, but not improperly so, his movements confident, guiding her effortlessly across the floor.

She had danced with many men before, but never like this.

Never with the feeling that each step, each turn, was leading them toward something neither of them were prepared to name.

“You dance well, Mr. Kenworth,” she said lightly.

“You sound surprised.”

“Merely making an observation.”

He smiled. “Then allow me one in return. Whatever reservations you may have had about coming tonight, I suspect you are no longer regretting them.”

She arched a brow. “And what makes you so sure?”

He tightened his hold just slightly, just enough that she felt it. “Because you have not let go.”

Heat flushed through her, though whether from embarrassment or something deeper, she could not say. She had been gripping his hand, her other resting against his shoulder, not thinking to adjust her hold. And yet, as she became aware of it, she did not pull away.

As the music slowed, so did they. Their steps stilled, but neither of them moved apart. His hand at her waist lingered, her fingers curled lightly into his coat.

His gaze flicked to her lips.

Her breath caught.

Just as the moment stretched too far, a voice interrupted. “Mrs. Bainbridge, might I claim the next dance?”

The voice was smooth and confident. Polished.

She blinked, the spell breaking as she turned toward the interruption.

A tall, well-dressed gentleman stood beside them, smiling, expectant.

He was everything a woman of her status should desire, wealthy, respected, proper. A perfectly acceptable suitor.

Barrington stepped back smoothly, too smoothly. His expression remained unreadable, though his eyes darkened imperceptibly.

“Of course,” she replied, though the words tasted hollow. She placed her hand in the other man’s grasp, aware of the absence of Barrington’s touch. As she was led away, she could not stop herself from looking back.

Barrington had not left the ballroom. Instead, he had moved to the opposite side, extending his hand to an older woman with an amused twinkle in her eye.

He bowed slightly, leading her onto the dance floor with practiced ease.

The woman laughed at something he said, and he smiled in return, genuine, warm, utterly unaffected. And it stung.

She had been playing a game, and he had played it better.

Later, when the night was cooling and the music had faded into the background, she stepped onto the terrace, seeking a breath of fresh air. The sea stretched before her, the waves silver under the moonlight.

She should have been alone. But she wasn’t.

Mr. Kenworth stood at the balustrade, hands braced against the stone, watching the tide. He did not turn immediately, but she knew he had heard her approach.

“Did you enjoy your dance, Mrs. Bainbridge?” he asked, his voice calm. Too calm.

“It was perfectly pleasant.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Must you always do that?”

He turned now, watching her. “Do what?”

“Act as though none of it matters. As though you feel nothing at all.”

His expression shifted, something unreadable passing over his face. He stepped toward her, just enough to close the space between them. “And if I do?”

She swallowed. “Then why do you not say so?”

“Because saying it would make it real.”

Silence stretched between them, taut, charged.

A movement grabbed her attention. A flicker of motion in the shadows, too fast, too deliberate.

Before she could fully process what was happening, a figure lunged toward Mr. Kenworth. His hand dove for his pocket.

“Mr. Kenworth!”

Instinct overrode thought. She seized the man’s wrist, twisting sharply. But he fought back, jerking free with a hard shove that sent her stumbling.

Mr. Kenworth was already moving. His cane struck fast, a sharp crack against the attacker’s forearm. The man snarled. In his other hand, a blade flashed.

She barely had time to react before Kenworth twisted, knocking the attacker’s wrist aside with the head of his cane. The knife glanced harmlessly away, but the man recovered quickly, too quickly.

Her pulse hammered, but she wasn’t a bystander. The moment the attacker reeled from Kenworth’s counterstrike, she drove her elbow hard into his ribs.

The man gasped, staggering. Kenworth took advantage of the thief’s imbalance. He gripped his collar and wrenched him off his feet. It was a short, brutal scuffle. One they won together.

The would-be thief twisted free, stumbling backward. This time, he did not hesitate. He turned and ran, disappearing into the night.

For a moment, neither she nor Kenworth spoke, both catching their breath.

Kenworth was the first to break the silence. He turned to her, eyes alight with something dangerously close to admiration. “Tell me, Mrs. Bainbridge, do you teach all your students to throw a punch like that or just the promising ones?”

She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “You disapprove?”

“Not at all.” He adjusted his cuff, then arched a brow. “In fact, I think this calls for a celebration. A well-earned glass of brandy, perhaps?”

She smirked, still feeling the lingering adrenaline in her veins. “You’re suggesting we toast a street brawl?”

Barrington grinned. “I prefer to think of it as a tactical victory.”

She considered, then looped her arm through his, allowing him to guide her back into the inn.

He stared at her for a long moment, then stepped forward. His hand lifted, brushing a loose curl from her face. His touch lingered.

A breath passed between them, thick with something unspoken.

Then his expression softened as if something within him finally gave way.

His fingers lifted to her cheek, tracing lightly as if committing her to memory.

He cupped her cheek and stepped close. He leaned in, his eyes never leaving hers. As she closed her eyes, he kissed her.

It was slow, deep, deliberate. A kiss meant to be remembered. He wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her close. She didn’t resist. She leaned into him, grasping at his coat, at the solid warmth of him, at the impossible certainty of the moment.

When they parted, it was not by choice.

He exhaled, forehead resting against hers, the hush between them pulsing with unspoken promise. One hand stayed firm at her waist, grounding her, holding her close.

“I’ve wanted to do that for some time,” he said, the words barely more than a breath.

Her fingers curled against his coat, her heart pounding.

“I know,” she whispered. “I hoped you would, Mr. Kenworth.”

He let out a soft chuckle, his breath warm against her cheek. “Please, my name is Reese.”

She hesitated, the intimacy of it making her pulse race. Then she smiled. “Reese.”

A tremor passed through him at her words.

A confession. One he hadn’t expected, one that unraveled whatever restraint he had left.

His hand slid from her waist to the nape of her neck, drawing her in once more.

This time, the kiss was not tentative, not uncertain.

It was deeper, richer, a slow unraveling of everything they had been holding back.

Her hands gripped his coat, anchoring herself as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, allowing himself this single moment of indulgence. She met him without hesitation, her fingers sliding to his shoulders as if committing the feel of him to memory.

When they finally parted, breathless, his forehead pressed against hers once more, but this time, his lips found her cheek, just a brush, tender and reverent, before he pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, soft and deliberate.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, warm and teasing. “Twice in one evening. This may become a habit, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

She tilted her head, searching his face. “Honoria. My name is Honoria.”

Something shifted between them, the last of their formalities melting away.

She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “This habit. It may become a most dangerous one, I suspect.”

But neither of them moved away.