Everything about living at Darby Farm was exactly as Aidan Bedford imagined it would be. Or at least it had been—until four days ago.

“Do you agree with me or not, Aidan? It’s important to me that you do. Surely you know that.”

The insistence in Priscilla’s voice all but drowned out the call of the lush green meadows and hills lying just beyond the open windows of the study. The meadows and hills he’d ridden every morning since arriving here a month ago, save the last four days since she’d arrived.

“What I know, Priscilla, is that whether I agree with the changes you’d like to make to the house is ultimately of little importance to you. Of that I’m certain.” Smiling, he turned, fully expecting the arched curve of her dark eyebrow. “And while I never had a sister, nor did my late mother gain pleasure from decorating a home, I realize the activity is generally one of immense pleasure for the female gender. So . . . alter a few things to your liking. Make the house your home.”

One . . . two . . . three . . . He silently counted, waiting. And there it was.

Her lower lip pudged. “But I want you involved in the changes too, dearest. This is our home. Yours and mine. Or it soon will be. And I want it to be a reflection of our combined tastes.”

He laughed, knowing better. “If that were truly the case, then half of everything in this home would stay precisely as it is.”

Her expression went from one of gentility to that of someone smelling something putrid. “But the furnishings are all so . . . quaint. And . . . Southern.”

“I find them full of character and warmth. And they’re called antiques, Priscilla. Surely you’ve heard of them.”

She scoffed. “Antiques are works of art, Aidan. Think of timeless pieces from the Elizabethan era, or William and Mary. Or Louis the Sixteenth.” Her sigh hinted at infatuation. “Admittedly, there are a few good pieces in the house. But the rest of the furniture”—she grimaced at the massive oak desk separating them, then at the matching breakfront bookcases across the room that shouldered a small but impressive library, including the leather-bound works of Shakespeare—“I’d categorize more eighteenth-century pioneer than heirloom.”

Accustomed to the woman’s expensive taste, Aidan overlooked her pretension and impatience and reminded himself of her finer qualities. Priscilla Sinclair was cultured, intelligent, beautiful, from one of the finest families in Boston, and their pending marriage—while not one planned since infancy—had most definitely been the object of both sets of their late parents’ wishes for as long as they could remember. And with good reason. He and Priscilla were well suited to each other. The perfect Bostonian couple. Only . . .

They weren’t in Boston anymore. And things about her that had only niggled at him over the past three years now gnawed.

Likely the last fleeting thoughts of a man too long a bachelor. Or at least that’s what he hoped.

He ran a hand over the top of the desk, the object of her momentary disdain, and found the workmanship exemplary, just as he had the first time he’d stepped foot into this house. When business had brought him to Nashville a year ago, he’d seen this land, this house, and he’d known he would purchase it. Same as he’d known, somewhere deep inside, that he would live in Nashville. Someday. He simply hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

How a conversation with a complete stranger six years ago had so altered the course of his life, he couldn’t explain. A most unlikely exchange on a field in North Carolina during the lull of war. With a Johnny Reb, no less. It was a conversation—and battle—he would never forget.

He’d never told Priscilla about what happened that day. He’d never told anyone. But for sure Priscilla Sinclair, daughter to one of the finest families in Massachusetts, wouldn’t understand.

Since finally closing the door to the most prestigious law firm in Boston nearly two months ago, he’d not once looked back.

But she did.

Even now, as she studied the draperies framing the windows, the table and chair to the side, he sensed her longing for home, her thoughts undoubtedly returning to the handsome redbrick brownstone he still owned in Beacon Hill. He’d thought about selling the home in recent months but had held back, wanting to make certain he enjoyed living here as much as he thought he would.

And he did.

Darby Farm was exactly what he wanted, what he’d been searching for. The house was older, yes, but it was well built and full of character and had cost a fraction of what he would glean from selling his brownstone.

But even without the capital gained from the sale, he had the funds to get the farm up and running again. Which was a good thing, because despite his investment thus far, there was much yet to be done.

“Aidan,” Priscilla purred, moving around to his side of the desk. She pressed a hand against his suit jacket, her pale-blue eyes hinting at conspiracy and her coy smile saying she didn’t mind him knowing. “Now that I think of it, why don’t you leave the redecorating to me? It’s one of my fortes, after all. Your job is to transform this”—she hesitated, her brow quirking the way it did whenever she sought a word other than the one that described her true feelings—“humble little property into the grand estate we both know it can be.”

“ ‘Humble little property’? It’s nearly four hundred acres, Priscilla. And as I’ve told you, this will be a working farm. Not an elaborate estate. Remember that as you’re putting your touches on things.”

Her lips firmed, then just as quickly formed a smile. “It’s such a beautiful morning, Aidan. You should go for a ride.”

He eyed her, knowing something was amiss. “You began this conversation by telling me a seamstress—”

“A Miss Anderson,” she supplied.

“Miss Anderson,” he repeated, “was coming to discuss proposed changes to the house and you wanted my input. Now you want me to go riding? And this after the last four mornings you’ve said that leaving you to go riding would be considered rude since you’re only here for a matter of days.”

She met his gaze, then gave a seductive little laugh. “No wonder you’ll soon be Nashville’s leading attorney. Nothing escapes your scrutiny. Or memory.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then lingered, making her mouth available to him. When he didn’t respond, she moved closer, yet not even the brush of her body against his stirred his desire as it once had.

And she knew it.

Early on, he’d found these games she played mildly intriguing. Not so anymore. Aidan planted an obligatory kiss on her forehead, unable to reconcile this distance between them and the growing unease he felt when they were together. She sensed it, too, he knew.

Hence why she was trying so hard.

But he was trying as well. He knew how painful it was to lose both parents. Her father, a good man he’d greatly respected, had passed last fall. Her mother a month later. The adjustment had been difficult for her. Especially as an only child.

“Give it time,” a trusted colleague had told him. And he was. He only hoped things smoothed between them soon.

“I believe I will go for that ride,” he said gently, sensing subtle triumph in her eyes. “It’ll give me a chance to check with the foreman before leaving for town. The office is expecting me midmorning.”

She smoothed a hand over his lapel. “That sounds splendid, Aidan. And when you return, I’ll give you a full accounting of everything Miss Anderson and I have discussed.”

“Which will contain far more detail than required, I’m sure.”

All smiles, she preceded him into the hallway where Mrs. Pruitt, his housekeeper from Boston, was busily dusting the marbleized pier table. When he’d told the older woman he was moving to Tennessee, her request to move with him had caught him off guard, something which didn’t happen often. But widowed and childless, Mrs. Pruitt seemed almost as happy to be here as he was.

Besides her skills, there was another reason he was grateful for her presence. Though he was no prude, and Darby Farm was likely too far from town to draw gossip, he was grateful to Mrs. Pruitt for playing the role of chaperone during Priscilla’s visit. The housekeeper’s quarters were on the main floor, while the rest of the bedrooms were aloft on the second story, but having her in the house fulfilled the letter of the law. And for the time being, at least, his present feelings toward Priscilla more than fulfilled its spirit.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pruitt,” he offered, noticing Priscilla didn’t even look her way.

“Good morning, Mr. Bedford.” The housekeeper offered her customary smile, curtsying to them both. “Will you be taking lunch here today, sir?”

“No, Mrs. Pruitt. It will be only Miss Sinclair today. But I’ll be back for dinner.”

“Very good, sir.” She moved on to the small study.

“Aidan, before you go . . .” Priscilla paused in the entryway to the central parlor. “Have you given further thought to the date?”

Knowing to which date she referred, he resisted the urge to look away. “Not since we discussed it last night after dinner.”

Her pouty smile said she’d caught his meaning. “I know I’m being a trifle impatient, dear. But it’s only because I want to be with you. As your wife.”

The response he knew she wanted to hear, the words he would’ve said to her only a few weeks earlier, wouldn’t come. “You’re not being impatient. I said we’d set a date for the wedding before you return to Boston, and . . . we will.”

With effort, he pushed past the doubt inside him, trusting it would fade and trusting in the wishes of so many they’d known in Boston who’d said how splendid they would be together. He hoped they were right. Because in asking her to marry him, he’d given her his word, something he didn’t do lightly. He’d never gone back on a promise yet, and he didn’t intend to start now.

Priscilla’s expression brightened. “So within a month I’ll know when I’m going to become Mrs. Aidan Gunning Bedford.”

He smiled, but the gesture felt traitorous.

Remembering his portfolio in the study, he retrieved it and was on his way to the front door when he caught sight of Priscilla in the parlor. She ran an index finger over the draperies, the settee, the chairs, even the mantel over the hearth, then cast a frown about the entire room, including the Persian runner beneath her feet, as though she wished she could make it all disappear in a blink.

He’d told her she could redecorate, and he’d meant it. After all, what harm was there in allowing her to make a few changes? But sensing the woman’s fervor . . .

“One request, Priscilla, as you meet with this Miss Anderson this morning.”

She looked up, her expression first conveying surprise, then guardedness.

“Not a single change to my study.”

Savannah stared up at the house, her heart heavy as the gap between the present and the past swiftly evaporated. Seconds slowed to a crawl.

The last she’d seen her family home it had looked so neglected and lonely, with the grass gone to seed and the weeds leggy and wild, the occasional shutter hanging at odds with its window. But now the grounds were neat and tidy, grass clipped, weeds tamed, all shutters behaving nicely. She’d even seen workers in the fields.