Montgory Townhouse, Berkeley Square—Late Evening
The drawing room was far too small for Benedict Montgory’s distress.
He paced from one end to the other, boots scuffing over the Aubusson carpet, his coat discarded onto a nearby chair as though it had personally offended him. The fire crackled rrily, completely unbothered by the emotional spiral occurring in front of it.
On the sofa sat Duchess Eleanor, elegantly sipping her tea, her expression hovering between maternal concern and barely concealed amusent.
Beside her, Duke Cecil tried valiantly to read the evening papers but kept glancing over the pages to monitor his youngest son’s agitation, and Lord Edward, Benedict’s older brother, lounged like a bored cat, swirling his brandy with a grin that was entirely too knowing.
Benedict dragged a hand through his hair for the fifth ti.
"I simply do not understand," he burst out. "A marriage of the mind? With Felix? Felix of all people?"
Edward snorted. "The Prince is handso, charming, and artistic. Hardly an outrageous choice."
"That is not the point," Benedict snapped. Then—realizing the vehence of his own voice—he exhaled sharply. "No... that is the point."
Eleanor set her teacup down with the poise of a general preparing to deploy troops.
"Darling," she said lightly, "Prince Felix is Sophia’s dear friend. Their families are close. You cannot fault her for confiding in him."
"I do not fault her," Benedict muttered. "I fault— the entire situation."
Cecil folded the paper. "You are pacing, Benedict. That is usually Edward’s job."
Edward lifted his glass in salute.
Benedict ignored them both and resud pacing.
"Felix said she wanted an escape," he continued. "A way out of the season, of the politics, of the parade of ambitious mamas. A marriage of the mind—sothing without romantic entanglents." He pressed a hand to his forehead. "And she offered that to him."
The room fell quiet for a beat.
Eleanor exchanged a look with her husband.
Edward smirked into his glass.
At last the Duchess spoke gently, "Benedict... why does this trouble you so deeply?"
He froze.
His mouth opened—closed—opened again.
"Because," he said slowly, "she cannot possibly think that is the extent of what she deserves."
Cecil raised a brow. "Or," he said mildly, "she does not realize how so people see her."
Edward’s smirk widened. "So people like you, dear brother?"
Benedict glared at him.
Edward only leaned back, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You stare at her as though she invented the concept of sunrise. And yet you are shocked she sees you as..."
He searched for a phrase.
Duchess Eleanor supplied sweetly, "A comrade in spirit?"
Benedict winced. "Yes. That."
Cecil coughed into his hand to hide a laugh.
Benedict resud pacing—until Edward stood and blocked his path.
"Tell honestly," Edward said softly, the teasing gone, "Does it pain you that she offered Felix sothing she has not offered you?"
Benedict’s breath caught.
He swallowed hard. "It pains ," he said, voice low, "that she sees as... safe. Predictable. A convenient ally. Anyone. Everyone."
He clenched his jaw. "And it pains that she does not see I—"
A pause.
Eleanor leaned forward, eyes bright with maternal victory.
"That you feel sothing more?"
Benedict shot her a helpless, cornered look.
Edward folded his arms. "Ben. The Prince said he plans to decline. Felix adores Sophia, but not in that way."
"Yes, I know," Benedict muttered. "That is the problem. Everyone except Sophia seems to understand their own feelings."
Cecil rose at last, placing a firm hand on his son’s shoulder.
"Then perhaps," he said, "you should begin by understanding yours."
Benedict froze.
And the truth—terrible and remarkable—settled into the room like a whispered confession.
He did understand his feelings.
He simply had no idea what to do about them.
Benedict dragged a hand through his hair for the—what was it now?—twenty-seventh ti that evening. He paced before the fireplace as though he ant to wear a trench into the rug.
Across the room, Duke Cecil sat in his armchair, fingers drumming lightly against the polished armrest. Duchess Eleanor watched her youngest son fondly, though with clear amusent in her eyes. Lord Edward, leaning against the mantel, had the nerve to look positively entertained.
"She wrote Felix a letter," Benedict muttered fiercely, "and proposed—no, suggested—a marriage of the mind. To him. A prince. And the man plans to decline. And yet here I am, pacing like a fool because she sees as... as..."
Edward supplied helpfully, "A comrade in spirit."
Benedict groaned. "Exactly. A comrade. Not... not anything else."
Eleanor hid her smile behind a teacup. "Oh Ben, do calm yourself—your expression is starting to match your father’s when he misplaces his spectacles."
Cecil raised one brow. "I do not misplace them. They relocate themselves."
Edward snorted.
But Benedict didn’t laugh—he sank into a chair, fingers steepled against his lips, jaw tense.
Cecil studied him for a mont before speaking, his voice deep and steady.
"Benedict," he said, "you are not a comrade in Sophia Fiennes’s eyes."
Benedict looked up sharply. "Then what am I?"
Cecil gestured toward him. "You are a young man who visibly loses all sense the mont her na is uttered. One who watches her like she is a storm he admires and fears at once. And," he added dryly, "you are perhaps the only gentleman in London who can endure her quoting Rousseau without fainting like that Arundel boy."
Benedict made a strangled noise sowhere between a laugh and despair.
Cecil continued more gently:
"If you wish Miss Fiennes to see you differently, then tomorrow you must give her reason to. Speak plainly. Do not lurk behind politeness. The girl clearly respects honesty."
Eleanor nodded. "And it so happens," she added lightly, setting down her cup, "that Josephine and I have already spoken."
Benedict blinked. "You... what?"
"Oh yes," Eleanor said with perfect composure. "Tomorrow marks the first day of social calls for suitors. Your father and I both agree it is only proper that you pay Lady Sophia a visit. It has been arranged."
Benedict’s heartbeat stumbled. "What—arranged? How arranged?"
Edward smirked. "Our darling mother ans she told Marchioness Josephine when to expect you."
Eleanor waved a hand. "I thought you’d appreciate the efficiency."
Benedict stared between them, speechless.
Cecil leaned back. "Tomorrow, Benedict. Go to her. And for once"—his gaze sharpened—"do not hide your intentions behind sarcasm and smiles. If you wish the girl, then claim nothing—but make yourself known."
Eleanor softened the mont with a warm, knowing smile. "And who knows? Perhaps Sophia Fiennes is not nearly as set on spinsterhood as she believes."
Benedict swallowed—hope flickering, fragile and bright.
Tomorrow.
He would see her tomorrow.
And perhaps... she might finally see him.
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