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S wallowing hard, Nic steeled himself, forcing his emotions to stay hidden. No matter what, he had to keep up the charade. He couldn’t afford to let his true identity slip—not now, not when so much was at stake.

Tabitha turned to face him, offering a polite smile and a graceful curtsy.

His heart flipped wildly, and for a moment, he struggled to catch his breath.

She was absolutely stunning—more beautiful than he remembered from their last encounter, when he had unjustly accused her of murder. The transformation was astonishing.

Gone was the simple maid’s dresses she had always worn.

Now, she stood before him in the elegant attire of a refined lady.

Her gown, a rich yellow satin with a delicate white-laced overskirt, flowed gracefully down her figure.

The short, slightly puffed sleeves framed her shoulders, lending her an air of effortless grace.

A strand of small pearls rested at her throat, adding a touch of sophistication that took his breath away.

Her hair, once plain and pulled back, now cascaded in perfectly styled russet ringlets that rested on her shoulders. Nic couldn’t help but wonder if they were as soft as they appeared. His fingers itched to touch one and find out.

Yet the one thing that hadn’t changed was her eyes—those striking blue eyes that had once captivated him.

He had called them amazing, and they still were, the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.

In that moment, the past seemed to fade away, leaving him with only the undeniable pull she had always had over him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Woodland,” she said.

Even the sound of her voice sent a wave of memories crashing over him, making his breath hitch in his throat.

Their time together had been brief, but unforgettable.

He dropped his gaze almost instinctively to her mouth—a mouth that had robbed him of all coherent thought in the past, especially when he remembered the softness of her lips against his.

But just as quickly, her demeanor shifted. Her eyes flickered nervously from Mrs. Stiles to the other woman near the window. His heart skipped a beat when he recognized her companion—Sally, the maid. Why was Sally with Tabitha?

A storm of questions brewed in his mind, but he forced himself to focus.

His pulse quickened, and he cursed himself for standing there in stunned silence.

Say something, Hawthorne, he inwardly shouted, but he couldn’t be sure what kind of expression he was wearing—probably a mix of shock and confusion.

Whatever he did next, he needed to stay in character. He couldn’t afford to let Tabitha catch even the slightest hint of his true identity. Taking a breath, he steadied himself, reminding his heart to stay composed even as it raced uncontrollably beneath the surface.

He cleared his throat and smiled. “Miss Paget, it is a pleasure to meet the grand-niece of such a wonderful woman.” He bowed. “Mrs. Burls is one of God’s greatest blessings in this township.”

Tabitha nodded. “I thank you. I’m sure my aunt will be happy knowing you hold her in such high esteem.”

“How long will you be staying with her?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It’s undecided now. If my aunt will have me, I wouldn’t mind staying for a few months.”

He silently groaned, but at the same time, his heart sped with excitement. This confusing reaction from his body would not do! He could not—under no circumstance—let her know who he truly was. To be sure, her presence here would not be a good thing if he and Frederick planned to trap a thief.

“Well, I’m certain your aunt would love your company, and I can assure you, the community—as well as myself—will welcome you with open arms.” He gritted his teeth. Why had he said it that way?

She gave a hesitant nod as her smile weakened. “Uh, I thank you again.”

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, leaving Nic in an unfamiliar and unsettling position.

Never in his life had he felt so tongue-tied.

As the Marquess of Hawthorne, his smooth words had always been his escape, capable of turning the tide in any awkward or messy situation.

But now he wasn’t the marquess—he was Mr. Woodland, a simple clergyman.

And at this moment, he could summon none of the charm or wit he was so known for.

Tabitha seemed equally uneasy, her eyes darting nervously around them, searching for an anchor in the uncomfortable quiet. When her gaze finally landed on him again, it wasn’t on his face—it was on his beard, as if she were trying to reconcile the man before her with the one she once knew.

The tension mounted with every passing second.

He needed to say something—anything—to break the silence, but all he could manage was to stand there, wondering if she was beginning to see through his disguise, or if perhaps the mere sight of him brought back the same cascade of emotions that it did for him.

Chuckling, he ran his hand over his hairy face. “You’re probably wondering why a clergyman sports a beard. Am I correct, Miss Tabitha?”

She shrugged. “I suppose that thought did cross my mind.”

“My sickness made it impossible for me to shave. And until I’m fully healed, I must leave this on. I hope you don’t mind seeing me so scruffy.”

“Not at all, Mr. Woodland.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Stiles interrupted, “we should join the others now.” She turned to the maid still by the window. “Sally, will you make sure there’s enough food being served, and just help the other two servants tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sally curtsied and hurried past him into the other room.

Mrs. Stiles smiled. “Well, shall we go now?”

“Splendid idea.” Nic breathed a relieved sigh. He motioned with his hand. “After you ladies, of course.”

As Mrs. Stiles and Tabitha walked by, Tabitha’s curious stare stayed on him. Uncomfortable, he dropped his gaze as he followed behind.

Did she recognize him? She couldn’t possibly…yet why did she look suspiciously at him with narrowed eyes?

*

Tabitha stepped into the large room where her aunt sat surrounded by guests, the lively hum of conversation filling the air.

More people had arrived since she had first entered, and Mrs. Stiles had eagerly taken on the task of introducing her to each one, as Aunt Clara was deeply engaged in conversation.

However, through all the introductions and polite exchanges, Tabitha found her gaze continually drifting toward one man—the clergyman.

There was something about him that unsettled her.

She wasn’t sure if it was the way his eyes seemed to follow her every move, or the fact that whenever she caught him looking, he quickly averted his gaze, as though trying to hide his interest. He thought she hadn’t noticed, but she wasn’t foolish. He had been watching her—constantly.

The strange part was, despite never having met him before, something about him felt oddly familiar.

It gnawed at her, the sense that she should recognize him, though she couldn’t quite place why.

Was it his eyes? His voice? Or was it simply the unnerving way he looked at her, as if he could see through her outer facade, straight into the deepest parts of her soul?

Whatever it was, it left her feeling both curious and unsettled, and she couldn’t shake the sense that there was more to this man than met the eye.

“Oh, Miss Tabitha.” Mrs. Stiles leaned closer and whispered, “I do believe you have caught the eye of Mr. Woodland.” She grinned. “He’s a handsome man, is he not?”

Handsome? Tabitha rubbed her forehead. She hadn’t really noticed. “I suppose for a man of his age, he’s handsome.”

“His age? Oh, Miss Tabitha, he isn’t very old.”

“What age is he? He looks like he’s in his fortieth year.”

“But that’s not too old, is it? He probably looks a little older to you because of his recent illness. But he’s well now.” Mrs. Stiles bumped her elbow against Tabitha’s. “And it seems to me that he fancies you quite a bit. He is unwed, you know.”

Tabitha’s stomach roiled with worry. “Mrs. Stiles, I appreciate your trying to play the matchmaker, but I’m not here to look for a husband. In fact, I don’t believe I wish to marry at all.”

“What?” Mrs. Stiles gasped. “Are you jesting? You are too lovely not to marry. Why would you not want a husband?”

“I’m just not ready to be married.” Taking a deep breath, Tabitha calmed her raging mind.

Whenever she reflected on her past and the hardships she had endured, she was certain that marriage was not something she could ever consider.

The idea of relying on a man—of opening herself up to vulnerability—seemed utterly foreign and unwelcome.

She was convinced that she would be far happier and more content if she never had to deal with a man again.

Thankfully, time passed quickly this evening, and Tabitha kept herself getting to know her aunt’s guests. They were kind and warm, just as the clergyman had predicted. They welcomed her with open arms, making her feel more at home than she had anticipated.

Inwardly, she chuckled as she recalled the way Mr. Woodland had said it. There had been something about his expression right after the words left his mouth—an almost startled look, as though he hadn’t meant to reveal his thoughts so openly.

What an odd fellow. There was something about the clergyman that didn’t quite fit with the small town’s simplicity. Yet she couldn’t quite place what it was that made him so difficult to ignore.

When the time came for Aunt Clara to open her gifts, she settled comfortably in the center of the room, surrounded by her guests.

The giver of each present stepped forward, offering it to Aunt Clara, who received each with the delight and enthusiasm of a young girl, her eyes sparkling and her laughter light and girlish.

Tabitha watched with a warm smile, charmed by her aunt’s joyful spirit.

When Mr. Woodland stepped forward to present his gift, Aunt Clara’s face lit up with eager anticipation.

She tore at the wrapping with surprising energy, her fingers trembling with excitement.

A gasp escaped her lips as she held up a beautifully painted box adorned with butterflies, hearts, and delicate flowers.

The old woman’s expression glowed with delight as she turned the box over in her hands, marveling at the intricate designs.

“Oh, it’s simply lovely!” Aunt Clara exclaimed, her eyes shining as she looked at Mr. Woodland with deep appreciation.

The whole room shared in her joy, but Tabitha couldn’t help but notice the subtle way Mr. Woodland shifted, as if the attention made him slightly uncomfortable.

Still, there was something undeniably sincere in the way he smiled at her aunt—a warmth that made him seem, for a fleeting moment, more familiar than ever.

“It’s a music box.” He reached over and lifted the lid.

As the room quieted, the soft strains of music filled the air, weaving through the crowd like a gentle breeze.

The melody was unmistakable to Tabitha—an old Irish song her mother used to sing to her when she was just a child.

The familiar tune stirred something deep inside her, and in an instant, tears pricked at her eyes.

A wave of homesickness washed over her, settling heavily in her chest. Those memories of her mother were among the happiest she had, filled with laughter and love.

But the reminder that her mother was no longer alive made her heart ache, the bittersweet nostalgia clinging to her like a shadow.

“Mr. Woodland…” Aunt Clara brought a hand to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes as well. “You remembered my favorite song.”

“Indeed, I did.” He smiled brightly.

“Then if you remembered, I’m certain you also recall that I enjoy hearing you sing it to me.” She waggled her thin eyebrows. “Would you do so now?”

Mr. Woodland’s eyes widened, and for a fleeting moment, the color drained from his face. Tabitha noticed the brief, almost imperceptible shift in his demeanor—his usually composed expression had faltered, giving way to something that looked unmistakably like panic.

It was strange, almost unsettling, to see such a reaction from a man who should be well accustomed to public speaking. After all, as a clergyman, he regularly stood before his congregation, delivering sermons and leading them in hymns without hesitation.

Yet here he was, in a room filled with familiar faces, reacting as though the simple idea of joining in song terrified him.

Tabitha couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Why would a man so accustomed to the spotlight of spiritual leadership appear rattled by the mere thought of singing in front of a few guests?

The contrast between his role and his apparent fear intrigued her, deepening the sense of curiosity she already had about Mr. Woodland.

There was something more to this man, something hidden beneath his calm, clerical exterior.

She couldn’t help but wonder what it was—what secret he was guarding so carefully that even a simple gathering like this seemed to threaten its exposure.

Very curious, indeed.