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H onoria sat at the small writing desk in her room at the inn, staring at the blank parchment before her.

The inkpot remained untouched, her quill poised but unmoving.

She had intended to write a letter, perhaps to her solicitor, arranging for her departure.

Or maybe to her housekeeper in London, instructing her to prepare the townhouse.

She wasn’t sure. She only knew she had to do something before her thoughts came apart completely.

Her hand trembled as she lowered the quill. Duke Everhall . His name still echoed in her head as though the wind had carried it from the market square to her very bones.

She walked away from him without looking back, without seeing his expression. But she had felt it. The heaviness of his gaze followed her as if bound to her by something neither of them had the strength to sever.

She had been foolish. Foolish to believe for even a moment that she had met a man who could simply be a man. That she had found someone who, like herself, wished to exist outside of expectations. Outside of titles, outside of London’s sharp-eyed judgment.

Her fingers traced the edge of her glove, rolling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. He had not lied to her, not directly. But neither had he told her the truth.

And why would he?

Had she not done the same? She had worn her maiden name like armor, weaving a careful story about her life with just enough truth to keep it believable, just enough omission to ensure no one saw the whole of her.

A knock sounded at the door, sharp but not urgent.

She stiffened. For a foolish moment, she thought, she hoped, it was him. That he would come to explain himself, to tell her she had been mistaken, that nothing had changed. But nothing had changed, and that was the problem.

She rose, smoothing her skirts, composing herself before opening the door.

The innkeeper stood there, a small, wrapped parcel in his hand.

“This was left for you, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

She hesitated. “Who left it?”

“A gentleman,” the man replied, then added with a knowing look, “a fine gentleman.”

Honoria inhaled slowly, steadying herself before she accepted the package. The innkeeper gave a polite nod and disappeared down the hall.

She stepped back into her room, closing the door with a soft click.

Placing the package on the desk, she stared at it for a long moment before finally untying the twine. The cloth fell away, revealing something small and familiar.

The crescent moon charm.

She sucked in a breath. The one she had admired at the market. The one she had nearly purchased before changing her mind.

Her fingers closed around it, the delicate weight pressing into her palm. Beneath it there was a note.

For the woman who already knows what she wants, even when she hesitates to claim it. ~R

Honoria pressed her lips together, her breath catching. This wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t an apology. It was a reminder.

She clenched the charm in her hand. She could leave. She could pack her things, board the first coach to London, and return to the life she had so carefully constructed. Or she could stay.

She had told herself she needed to leave to protect herself. To spare herself from whatever heartache would inevitably come. But was she running from him? Or from herself?

The answer settled in her chest like the tide rolling in. Honoria exhaled slowly, lifting her gaze to the window. The sea stretched out before her, vast and unyielding. And she was still standing at the shore, deciding whether to step forward or turn away.

*

Reese stood near the cliffs, his hands braced against the wooden railing that overlooked the water. He had come here every morning before the town stirred awake before duty and expectation demanded his attention. But today, there was no peace to be found in the rhythmic pull of the tide.

He had known this moment would come. Had felt it building from the moment he met her. Yet, somehow, he had allowed himself to believe, just for a short while, that he could exist in her world as a man, not a duke. That was the real foolishness.

The realization settled like a stone in his chest. He had spent years on battlefields, deciphering movements before they even began, anticipating strategy before the enemy made their first advance.

But Honoria? He had not anticipated her.

She had unsettled him from the start. She had seen through his every deflection and had challenged him without even realizing it. And she had left.

His fingers curled against the railing, knuckles whitening for a brief moment before he forced himself to ease his grip. A man could strategize his way through war, through duty, through expectation, but not through this, not through the ache sitting heavy in his chest.

Damn it all, he had let himself hope. That was the real foolishness.

He let out a slow breath, glancing down at his hands. There was nothing to be done. No battle plan to devise, no maneuver that would change what had already happened. Except…

His fingers brushed the inside of his coat pocket. The small charm, tucked away from when he had returned to the market alone.

She had admired it but hadn’t purchased it. Whether it was because she had thought it impractical or because she feared claiming something simply because she wanted it, he wasn’t sure. But he knew her well enough to understand hesitation. He would remind her.

Reese straightened, the decision settling in his bones. He would not chase her. But he would not let her leave without a sign that he understood. Tucking the charm into a small cloth, he turned back toward the inn.

Honoria could make her choice. But she would know, without question, that he had already made his.