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Her eyes were so filled with tears, she could barely see him.

He reached for a cloth and gently dabbed her cheeks. “Is it so upsetting to contemplate a future with me?”

She shook her head. “It is upsetting to contemplate a future without you.”

William released a deep breath, his shoulders lifting with the effort. “Then let us set it aside for now. I am sorry to have interrupted our meal. Just … know that the offer stands.”

She nodded, tension easing as he awkwardly shifted himself back onto the settee. Caroline reached for her plate, but her thoughts remained with him—his words, his expression, his unwavering regard. She imagined what it might be like to say yes. To share dinners with him forevermore. To bear his children and teach her daughters to sew. To hand her child a silken strand of embroidery floss for the first time.

She imagined a little boy with William’s black hair and brilliant blue eyes, tugging the bellows chain with a determined little arm while his father held him aloft. It was so tempting.

If only she had not ruined her future two years ago—if only she had not broken her own trust in herself.

There could be no idyllic future for a woman who harbored such shameful secrets. No trust given to one who could not trust herself. Resolutely, she lifted her fork and took a bite of mince pie, forcing herself to focus on its sweetness. On this meal. On this moment.

These were dreams, nothing more. And they would have to sustain her.

As they ate in silence, William fought his frustration. He almost missed the deadness of his soul these past years. At least then he had been entirely logical, not driven by impulse or unruly emotion. The success of his business had been built upon single-minded focus, yet he could scarcely recall what that had felt like since Caroline had awakened him from his self-imposed slumber and unraveled all his careful plans to remain indifferent.

His timing had been abysmal.

He was desperate to keep her at his side, to hold on to this unexpected magic between them. As the hour of her departure drew closer, the rising panic threatened to unman him.

He knew she harbored a secret, and it had been a grievous miscalculation to ignore the instinct that warned him of it. Proposing while she carried that invisible weight—whatever it was—had been foolish. All he could do now was try to restore her good cheer, distract her, and bide his time.

He would try again. Later.

Chewing slowly on the delicious mince pie, William forced himself to release the turmoil. If this was all he would have of her, then he would relish it. Every second.

“This is the first Christmas I am celebrating in some years,” he finally said, once his disappointment had dulled to something tolerable.

Caroline took a sip of her tea before replying, “Because of what happened to your cousin?”

He nodded. “I am pleased to be sharing this day with you.”

Her full lips curved into a gentle smile, and the sight eased something tight within him. Witnessing her weep earlier had undone him completely.

“As am I.”

He smiled in return. “Last year, I worked after Christmas service.”

She giggled. “So did I! I was the housekeeper for a doctor in Somerset. We had to see to the household, and then we celebrated the following day with the Feast of Saint Stephen.”

“Yet here we are,” he murmured, “together in Chatternwell, eating Mr. Andrews’s pie.”

“Here we are,” she echoed softly.

William hesitated. Then, unable to stop himself, he said, “I think perhaps this is how I would like to spend every Christmas.”

He held his breath.

Seconds passed. Caroline stared down at her plate, the fire crackling behind them, before she finally whispered, “I would like that, too.”

He blinked, caught entirely unprepared by her admission. Yet he kept his expression calm, unwilling to startle the moment. Inside, however, joy welled like a spring beneath stone—quiet, powerful, and unstoppable. It was a step. A step toward everything he hoped for.

Do not encourage his attentions!

He deserved much better than herself, but Caroline could not help grasping onto the possibility that, come next year, she might return to visit him. If William were still unwed then—as she certainly would be—it would be heavenly to rejoin him in this festive fantasy. When she left this evening, she could carry the promise of their reunion like a charm in her pocket. When she awoke alone in her bed, and the old memories threatened to devour her, she could turn her thoughts to this one sweet hope—a future respite from her solitude.