Fiennes Estate, Grosvenor Square — Morning
Lady Sophia Fiennes fastened the last silver clasp of her navy-blue riding habit, satisfied with the sharp, clean lines of the tailored coat and the subtle glint of the buttons. The color—deep as a midnight storm and just as dramatic—felt like armor.
Her plud hat rested under her arm.
Her gloves were already on.
Her whip was tucked neatly at her side.
Coriolanus waited in the stables.
Beatrice’s suitors awaited scrutiny.
Harmony awaited absolutely no one.
Sophia was halfway down the staircase when her mother intercepted her like a general blocking the door of a battlefield.
"Where are you going, Sophia?"
"To the Campbells, Mama," she said briskly. "I intend to observe Cousin Beatrice’s suitors with Victor. He requires guidance."
Marchioness Josephine folded her arms. "You will do no such thing."
Sophia blinked. "I... beg your pardon?"
Josephine stepped aside, revealing the entrance hall—where the marble floors glead, the footn lined the walls, and the doors stood thrown open to the fresh spring air.
Sophia followed her mother’s gaze to the space before the steps.
A space where suitors should have been standing.
A space expected to be filled with eager young lords.
A space that was—
utterly, spectacularly—empty.
Sophia stared. Then stared harder.
No hats.
No horses.
No n.
Not even Earnest, who usually arrived early by accident because he woke too late.
Sophia turned slowly to Josephine. "...Surely you jest, Mama?"
Josephine shook her head gently. "My dear sapphire, I do not jest. Today is the beginning of social calls, and every well-bred young lady will receive hers."
Sophia gestured to the void outside. "And yet, I stand before a courtyard as barren as Rousseau’s concept of organized society."
A footman coughed behind his glove.
Josephine sighed. "It is nine o’clock."
Sophia’s eyes narrowed. "And?"
"Sophia... social calls begin at ten."
Sophia blinked. "Oh."
Her mother gave a kind, pained smile. "You wake up earlier than the entirety of London."
Sophia looked down at her gloves. "...That seems unfair."
"Quite."
Sophia exhaled, deflating slightly. "I suppose I cannot gallop to the Campbells and return before the hour?"
"No."
She straightened. "Then what am I to do until ten?"
Josephine looped her arm gently through her daughter’s.
"You, my dear, will sit in the drawing room, sip tea, appear serene, and pretend you did not intend to abandon your suitors on the very morning they are ant to call."
Sophia sighed. Gracefully. Dramatically. "You ask the impossible, Mama."
"Yes," Josephine said, patting her hand. "That is motherhood."
Earl Jeremy Eden arrived precisely three minutes into the appointed hour, gliding into the Fiennes drawing room with the deanor of a man who fully intended to cause trouble and absolutely no romance.
Sophia, seated beside the pianoforte in her tailored navy riding habit, lifted an eyebrow.
"Jeremy," she said, "you are not on my mother’s list."
Jeremy gave a dramatic bow. "That is because, my dear Sophia, I am not here as a suitor."
Before she could reply, Marchioness Josephine Fiennes entered, elegant and deadly, like a general entering the battlefield of etiquette.
Josephine’s eyes narrowed at the sight of him. "Lord Eden. To what do we owe this... unexpected honor?"
Jeremy lifted a calling card between two fingers as though it were a diplomatic treaty.
"I have co," he announced proudly, "to propose a most advantageous plan. You see, I intend to take Sophia—along with Ian and Earnest, naturally—to Alexandria. Imagine it, Marchioness! The Library’s remnants, ancient obelisks, lost temples—"
"Absolutely not." Josephine’s tone could have withered stone.
Jeremy blinked. "But—"
"Lord Eden," she said sharply, "calling cards are not to be used for gossip, fantasy, or plotting educational escapades to Egypt. They are for suitors, and you—"
"—am not one," Jeremy finished cheerfully. "Yes, Marchioness, but as Sophia’s friend and fellow admirer of philosophy, I thought—"
"You thought incorrectly." Josephine folded her hands with perfect precision. "If you wish to discuss Alexandria, you may do so outside of calling hours, and without presenting yourself at my door before proper gentlen seeking her hand."
Jeremy winced, the smallest flicker of chastened embarrassnt crossing his face. Sophia tried— and failed— to hide a smirk.
Jeremy leaned toward her and whispered, "Your mother terrifies more than any Pharaoh."
Josephine heard it. "Good. Now go."
Jeremy straightened at once. "Yes, Marchioness."
He bowed to Sophia with exaggerated flourish. "To be continued, milady. Alexandria awaits."
Sophia replied dryly, "And so does the door, Jeremy."
He exited with the dignity of a man deeply misunderstood.
As soon as the door closed, Josephine sighed toward the ceiling.
"Lord save . One suitor’s hour and already a philosopher has infiltrated the house."
Sophia chuckled softly. "That is Jeremy, Mama. He ans well."
Josephine sat beside her, taking her daughter’s hand. "Yes, dearest. But aning well is not the sa as behaving well."
The door had barely closed behind Jeremy when the butler entered again, looking as though fate had personally wronged him today.
"Viscount Darlington, my lady."
Josephine inhaled through her nose — slowly, carefully — as if summoning every saint in heaven.
Kurt stepped inside with that calm, polite air he carried everywhere, a quiet contrast to the whirlwind that had just left. His dark hair was neatly tied back, his riding gloves tucked into his coat.
"Sophia," he greeted warmly, offering a courteous bow. "Lady Josephine."
"Kurt," Sophia smiled, "I expected you at the boxing ring, not in my drawing room."
"Ah," he said, his expression brightening, "that is precisely why I’m here."
Josephine’s eyes narrowed.
Kurt continued obliviously, "There will be a match this afternoon — Barrett versus Collins. A rather anticipated one. I ca to ask whether you’d like to attend. We can place a friendly wager. I know your instinct for assessing fighters is better than most gentlen I know."
Sophia lit up like a candle. "Oh! Barrett will win. His stance alone—"
"Sophia." Josephine’s voice cut through the air. "You are not wagering in my presence."
Sophia blinked. "Why not? It is harmless. And educational."
Kurt nodded solemnly, as if this were a scholarly argunt. "Indeed, Lady Josephine. Studying boxing is an excellent way to understand discipline, strategy, and—"
Josephine lifted one hand. "Viscount Darlington."
He fell silent.
Josephine exhaled through her teeth. "So far today, Lord Eden ca to discuss Alexandria, and now you appear wanting to drag my daughter to a boxing match."
Kurt shifted. "...Yes, my lady."
Sophia bead at him.
"I would love to—"
Josephine’s glare sliced across the room.
Kurt cleared his throat. "—love to, soday in the far future, with proper permission, of course."
Sophia looked betrayed. "Kurt."
He mouthed: Your mother will kill .
Josephine rubbed her temples. "This is a social call, Viscount. Not an invitation to pugilism."
"Of course," Kurt said graciously. "I simply wished to share the news. And... to ensure Sophia was not succumbing to boredom here."
Josephine stiffened. "Is my daughter’s company so unbearable you two must seek entertainnt in fistfights?"
Kurt went rigid. "No, no, of course not, Lady Josephine—not at all—Sophia’s company is quite pleasant—very pleasant—exceptionally—"
Sophia suppressed a laugh. Josephine did not.
After a strained bow and a look exchanged with Sophia that said "I tried," Kurt retreated with all the dignity a man could manage under maternal fire.
The door shut behind him.
Josephine turned to Sophia with the expression of a mother who had resigned herself to fate.
"Sapphire," she sighed, "I am surrounded by children."
Sophia brightened. "Not children, Mama — comrades in spirit."
Josephine’s soul montarily left her body.
The butler scarcely had ti to close the door behind Viscount Darlington before another knock echoed through the foyer—this ti softer, more asured, carrying the weight of soone who had rehearsed this mont far too many tis in his head.
The servant announced with a slight bow, "Lord Benedict Montgory, milady."
Sophia, who had just risen from laughing over Kurt’s absurd suggestion of betting at a boxing match, turned sharply. Her posture straightened without her permission. Whatever breath she ant to take simply didn’t arrive.
Benedict stepped into the drawing room—not in full riding attire, nor in the careless dayti coat he often wore among friends, but in sothing more formal. The kind of ensemble a man chose when he intended to be taken seriously.
His gaze found her instantly, softening in that quiet way it always did around her.
Josephine, who had not missed the shift in her daughter’s expression, rose gracefully to greet him.
"Lord Benedict," she said warmly, "to what do we owe the pleasure? You are here to gossip with my daughter, I presu—like the other two?"
Benedict bowed—first to Josephine, then to Sophia.
"With respect, Your Ladyship," he replied, steady and gentle, "I am here for the latter."
Sophia blinked. "The... latter?" she echoed.
Josephine arched a brow. "To court her."
Sophia’s jaw dropped so quickly it was a rcy she did not physically step back.
"Surely you jest, milord?" she blurted, sapphire eyes wide.
But Benedict—unlike Jeremy, unlike Kurt—did not laugh.
He did not smirk.
He did not dodge or deflect.
He simply t her gaze with a quiet sincerity that seed to still the room around them.
"I do not jest in matters of the heart, milady."
The air thinned. Sophia forgot how to blink.
Her hands instinctively reached for her skirts, smoothing the folds to hide the way her fingers suddenly trembled. Josephine, sensing exactly when a mother should excuse herself, glided toward the door.
"I shall give you two a mont," she murmured, regal and far too pleased.
The door closed.
Sophia sank into the nearest sofa—more like fell into it—eyes still fixed on him.
"But—" she stamred softly, "I told you we are comrades in spirit."
Benedict crossed the room, every step asured, steady, deliberate. "And yet, milady..."
He lowered himself into the seat beside her—close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, distant enough to remain perfectly proper. "...here we are."
Sophia, who could debate Rousseau with rakes and recite Wollstonecraft at balls, suddenly found herself utterly... wordless.
Her pulse drumd in the hollow of her throat.
She swallowed, tried to recover her composure, failed entirely, and whispered, "...oh dear."
Benedict’s lips tugged upward—just slightly. "But a good sort of ’oh dear,’ I hope," he murmured.
Her blush said everything she could not.
Reviews
All reviews (0)