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T oo soon. It was too soon. What had he been thinking? He should never have let his father talk him into it.

William urged his horse into a gallop, but it didn’t help. The truth stayed with him.

“If you had a fine woman to come home to of an evening…” That was what Mrs. Lockhart had said. He knew she had meant her daughter. After all, wasn’t that why he had come?

And would it really be that bad? Miss Lockhart had done a lot of growing up.

The dull, little mouse he had strived to avoid as a child was now rather more intriguing.

She still had that odd fascination with insects, but at least she was pleasing to look at.

Her features were delicate, her hair almost a silvery blonde, her pale-blue eyes intelligent.

But she could not hold his gaze like Ellena did.

Heat rose in his chest as he remembered Ellena’s warm-chestnut hair and the way she would look at him with bold honesty. He missed how she could match his wit, their banter driving away the emptiness that always struggled to overwhelm him.

Ellena was everything he yearned for. Yes, indeed, a fine woman to come home to of an evening.

Only… she would never be his. William thought back with deep bitterness to their last conversation.

How he had misjudged the situation! He had never stood a chance.

He had risked much and lost everything. And now he had to settle for this life he never wanted: as a country vicar, married to a vicar’s daughter.

He should have waited, let his wounds heal a little. It might have made the choice—or lack thereof—more bearable. But his father had grown impatient. Even a good man has his limits.

The northern city of Munro and its bittersweet memories were scarcely a week behind him. And it would take far longer than a few days to shake his heart free of Ellena.

No—not Ellena. Lady Howell. He must remember that. No more lively conversations with Miss Trenton. For she was Miss Trenton no more. She was utterly lost to him, forever the wife of that pompous viscount. The man had won, taken the one thing in the world William had been sure of.

His horse slowed to a trot as it recognized the hedge adjacent to its stable.

He gave the animal its head, and it immediately lowered its neck and folded its lips around the last of the year’s dandelions.

William let it finish a mouthful, then clicked his tongue.

“Walk on,” he coaxed, steering the way to the stalls with gentle pressure from his calves.

He left his horse in the care of the stable hand and crossed the yard to the east entrance, knocking clods of mud from his boots with his whip as he walked.

He smiled ruefully as he thought of the location of his rooms. “Facing east, so you may rise with the sun,” his father had said.

Mr. Marcus Cole had assumed his younger son would be just like Lawrence—hardworking, dedicated, predictable. Well, he couldn’t always be right.

Leaning against the door frame, William tugged at his boots until his stockinged feet were free.

He left the dirty articles there to be fetched and cleaned and padded across the thick rug to the inner door that led to his drawing room.

His eyes fell to the writing desk, but there was no post awaiting him.

He threw himself onto the settee. There was nothing to do in Fernbridge.

He could go riding, of course. But as for the rest, the options were small pickings: an afternoon aimlessly browsing the library; tea with his mother’s friends; some project his father wanted to involve him in.

Or dinner with Lawrence and his brood of children.

That was arguably the worst—an evening in the company of the golden son, with his delightful wife and charming children.

Oh, he was happy for them, of course. But it was just too sickeningly perfect.

At least when he visited Charlotte in Munro, his sister was not a constant reminder of everything he had failed to be.

A knock on the door shook him from his thoughts.

“Come,” he summoned.

A timid young woman in a starched uniform entered.

“Please, sir, I am to say the master wants you. He is in his study.”

“How does he know…?” William began, then bethought himself. Mr. Cole had no doubt told the stableboy to report when his youngest had returned to the house. Even so, his father had an uncanny grasp on everything that happened under his roof.

William sighed. “I am on my way.”

“Yes, sir. Although if I may say, sir?”

“Yes?”

“Um… you might want to put on some shoes.”

William looked down at his feet, then back at the maidservant, who was blushing deeply.

“Thank you. That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.”

The maid fled, and William rose from his chair to collect the needed items from his dressing room. Then he sauntered casually down the corridor—a subtle rebellion against his father’s summons.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked from the doorway of the study.

Marcus Cole looked up from a very neat pile of papers. His greying hair curled around his ears and neck, softening the long oval of his face.

“Ah, William, come in. Take a seat. Tell me all about your visit with the Lockharts.”

William grimaced. Time to report. He sat down reluctantly.

“What do you wish to know?”

“Don’t be coy, William. You and I both know what we’re about.”

“Mr. Lockhart is well and asked after you,” came the evasive reply.

“William.” Mr. Cole’s voice had an edge of warning to it.

William sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Miss Lockhart is pleasant enough, if that is any recommendation.”

“Good. I told you she is no longer the scrawny lass you remembered.”

“She still has some odd notions.”

Mr. Cole furrowed his brow. “Such as?”

William pictured Verity’s pout at not being able to study further. Somehow, it seemed a betrayal to lay her secret desires bare to his father’s scrutiny. Instead, he chose another, lesser flaw for a woman to have.

“She is preoccupied with the study of butterflies.”

Mr. Cole gave a gruff laugh. “If that is her only fault, William, you have little cause for complaint.”

“It was but a first meeting since childhood.”

Mr. Cole pressed his lips firmly together. “I suppose you will make sure to visit just frequently enough to find something unacceptable about her.”

“It shouldn’t take long.”

Mr. Cole rose from his chair and rapidly crossed the floor toward his son.

William flinched. He had gone too far. But his father had never been a violent man. Surely, he wouldn’t…

Mr. Cole strode past him. He pulled the door closed with a soft click, then turned to face his son.

“William, let us speak plainly. You are a man now. But you are a man without purpose. You do not serve your king or country as a good Englishman should. You offer nothing back to your community, nor do you provide for a family. In short, you do nothing but gamble with your friends, flirt shamelessly, and ride about the countryside. What value is there in such a pointless existence?”

Ah, there it was. The speech of the long-suffering parent. A reminder of how worthless he was.

“Well, do you have nothing to say for yourself?”

“What would be the point?”

“The point , William, would be that you actually cared what happened to you!”

“Why bother when everyone else has such firmly decided plans for me? You tell me to find a wife, but you already have one in mind for me…”

Mr. Cole interrupted with an exasperated wave of his hands.

“We only suggested Miss Lockhart because you spent an entire summer in Steeples, supposedly looking for a bride, but came home empty-handed! Even your little detour to visit your sister in Munro brought you no new prospects. Honestly, William, are you even trying?”

William was silenced by these words. He had believed Munro held the answer—a life with Ellena, the one woman for whom he would willingly be the better man. But it had ended badly. His sudden return to Fernbridge had not been his choice.

At least this one failure had been successfully hidden from his family. He suspected that his father’s tolerance, though extensive, would find its limit if he knew the circumstances surrounding his departure from Munro.

Perhaps he should at least offer a semblance of effort. It would not do to test his parents to a breaking point.

He forced the words from his lips. “I will try, Father. If you wish, I will return to the Lockharts tomorrow.”

His father breathed out his visible relief. It was at once replaced with caution.

“No, no, that would lack propriety. You are not officially courting Miss Lockhart yet and should not seem overly eager. But she turned eighteen last month, and her parents have indicated she will soon be allowed to come out into society. A visit to the family once a week would be neighborly and indicate a general interest for when the time is right. Besides, you could learn more about the duties of a vicar and what will be expected of you when Mr. Lockhart retires.”

William bit his tongue. This was not the time to argue. He had gained a few weeks’ reprieve. A handful of visits enduring Mrs. Lockhart’s chatter was a small price for perhaps a month of freedom. And then? He had no idea. But he suspected that young Miss Lockhart would hold the key.