As she passed Ashford Manor on her way to the tree, she caught a glimpse of a carriage cresting the hill, the Ashford crest painted in gold, gleaming in the bright sunlight.

The sight sent her breath tumbling out in a rush.

She didn’t slow until she reached their oak, chest heaving, the sweet scent of clover thick in the summer air.

Moments later, he appeared—William Henry Ashford, taller and broader than when she’d last seen him, though his fair hair caught the light the same way it always had. His grey-blue eyes, which she’d once likened to the color of the lake when the sun hit it, warmed instantly when they found her.

“Violet,” he said, breathless.