William

The meadow smelled of warm earth and sweet clover, but all William could breathe was Violet. Her nearness filled every space inside him—the warmth of her fingers, the brightness of her eyes, and the way the wind tugged at her curls as if even nature wanted to touch her.

London had been all glitter and noise, silks rustling, chandeliers blazing, endless faces smiling without meaning it. He had smiled back, played the dutiful son, endured his mother’s parade of heiresses, but every false laugh had only reminded him of Violet. Mud on her hem, sunlight in her hair, laughter untrained and unguarded.

She had been ten when she first demanded his friendship—gap-toothed and bold, unafraid to take him to task for giving up too quickly on the gelding her father insisted he learn on.

He had thought her remarkable then.