The wind howled through the bare branches of Hawthorn Hill as Eleanor Grey stood on the precipice, her cloak billowing behind her like the wings of some dark, forgotten bird. The moorland stretched endlessly before her, bleak and lonely, under the heavy weight of a sky burdened with clouds. It was a desolate place—wild and unrelenting—but Eleanor had always felt at home in its solitude, as if the quiet melancholy of the landscape mirrored the quiet melancholy of her soul.

She had walked the familiar path from Briarwood Hall, her father's vast estate, every evening for the past year. At first, it had been out of necessity—a means to escape the oppressive gloom of her father's household. Now, it was habit. Eleanor had always been a creature of quiet routine, finding comfort in the small predictabilities of life, though life had given her little else to depend upon.

Briarwood Hall was as suffocating as it was grand, its tall windows casting pale light across rooms that held no warmth. Her father, Lord Grey, was a man of rigid expectations, whose love had long since withered into an expectation of duty. Her mother, once a woman of bright laughter and soft affections, had passed away when Eleanor was but twelve, leaving behind a daughter who had never quite learned how to live without her.

And then there was Richard.

Eleanor's breath caught in her throat at the mere thought of him, though she had promised herself she would not think of him on this particular night. But the heart, she knew well, was not so easily governed by promises or pride.

Richard Weston had been a guest at Briarwood Hall for only a fortnight, but in that time, he had managed to unravel every defence Eleanor had built around herself. He was different from the other suitors who came to Briarwood—men who saw only her dowry, or the reputation that came with marrying Lord Grey's daughter. Richard had looked at her as if she were not a prize to be won, but a puzzle to be solved. And for the first time in her life, Eleanor had allowed herself to believe that someone might wish to know her—not the Eleanor that society demanded, but the Eleanor who wandered the moors at dusk, who wrote poetry no one would ever read, and who longed, above all else, for a life of her own choosing.

But Richard was gone now. He had left as quickly as he had come, summoned back to London by family obligations, leaving behind only a brief, formal letter of farewell. He had spoken of duty—of the life that awaited him in the city, one that could not accommodate the wild heart of a girl from the moors.

Eleanor had burned the letter the night it arrived, though she had read it more times than she cared to admit before striking the match.

A sudden gust of wind pulled her from her reverie, and she wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders, shivering not from the cold, but from the bitterness of her memories. She turned her gaze toward the dark horizon, willing herself to be rid of him—of his ghost that clung to her, haunting every corner of her mind.

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"Enough," she whispered to the wind. "He is gone, and I must let him be."

And yet, as if in defiance of her resolve, a sound broke the stillness—a distant, rhythmic clattering. Hoofbeats.

Eleanor's heart leapt in her chest. She strained to see through the gloom, her eyes narrowing against the thickening mist. Surely, it could not be him. Her mind must be playing tricks upon her, conjuring the one thing she wished for most, only to taunt her with its impossibility.

But no—there was a figure, distinct and undeniable, riding up the narrow path toward her. The rider was cloaked in shadow, his face obscured by the night, but the familiar outline of his frame sent a thrill of recognition through her.

Richard.

He reined his horse to a stop just a few feet from where she stood, dismounting with the practised ease of one accustomed to travel. For a moment, he did not speak, and neither did she. They simply looked at one another, as if unsure whether to trust what lay before them.

Finally, it was Richard who broke the silence, his voice low and rough, as though he, too, had been fighting some unseen battle.

"Eleanor," he said, her name falling from his lips like a plea. "I had to return. I had to see you."

Her heart, traitorous as ever, skipped within her chest. But she would not allow herself to be so easily swayed. Not this time.

"You left," she said, her voice steady but cold. "You left without a word, and I was a fool to think you might care for me beyond what was convenient."

Richard's expression twisted with something like regret—or perhaps it was something deeper, something darker. He took a step toward her, then another, until he was close enough that she could see the faint lines of weariness etched into his features.

"I left because I was afraid," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid that I could not give you the life you deserve. That you would come to resent me for it. But I have been more miserable without you than I ever was with those fears."

Eleanor's heart ached at his words, but she would not allow it to soften her just yet. "And now? What has changed? Will you leave again, when duty calls?"

Richard reached for her hand, his touch warm against the chill of the night. "I cannot promise you a life free of difficulties, Eleanor. But I can promise that I will face them with you, if you'll have me."

For a moment, she said nothing. She simply stared at him, at the man who had broken her heart, standing before her and offering her its mending. The wind whipped around them, cold and biting, but in that moment, it no longer mattered.

The moors, the mist, the vastness of the world—all of it faded into insignificance.

"I will," she said softly, allowing her hand to remain in his. "But if you leave me again, Richard Weston, I will not wait for you a second time."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he brought her hand to his lips. "I swear to you, I will not."

And for the first time in what felt like years, Eleanor allowed herself to believe.