The morning light slanted through the tall windows of the Fiennes breakfast room, soft and golden, catching on porcelain teacups and the polished silverware.
Sophia sat primly—well, as primly as Sophia ever managed—her navy morning gown crisp and proper, though her expression betrayed the slightest flicker of mischief.
"Sophia," she began, her tone caught sowhere between disbelief and prayer, "why did you enter White’s for the second ti yesterday? You didn’t learn from the last incident? The one involving n’s garnts, a stolen cravat, and a declaration that you would personally defeat Napoleon?"
Sophia bit delicately into her toast, as if she’d simply been asked about the weather. "Mama, I simply wished to express my appreciation to Their Graces of Manchester," she said with perfect sincerity. "Lord Edward said they liked vodka, and Russia is known for its distillation thods. It seed logical." She paused thoughtfully. "Besides, we have potatoes in Kent."
Duke Theodore of Suffolk choked on his tea.
Duchess Arabella pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips, fighting between outrage and laughter.
Duke Alexander stared at the ceiling as though praying for deliverance.
Duchess Catherine muttered sothing about early gray hairs.
Josephine inhaled—a long, steadying breath.
"So," she said slowly, "you are fond of Lord Benedict."
Sophia nodded with grave earnestness. "He is a comrade in spirit. And he courts , Mama. It is only proper that I return the sentint by impressing his family."
Reginald Fiennes barked a laugh before he could stop himself, covering it with a cough that fooled no one. Arabella gave her son-in-law a warning glance.
Josephine pressed her fingertips to her temple. "Yes, my darling, but appreciation need not involve diplomatic disasters, Russian spirits, or White’s."
Sophia considered this. "Perhaps."
Reginald’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Alexander leaned toward him with a whispered, "Your daughter will soday conquer a nation," to which Reginald replied, "Yes, and she will do it politely."
Arabella finally exhaled and said, "Sophia, my dear child... just—try not to start an international incident before luncheon."
Sophia smiled sweetly. "I shall endeavor to restrain myself, Grandmama."
That afternoon, the butler had barely announced, "His Highness, Prince Felix of Hanover," before Sophia straightened on the drawing-room sofa, brushing an imaginary wrinkle from her pale blue day dress.
Felix entered with the unhurried grace of soone who had never once been denied entry into any room in his life. His grey-green eyes swept the chamber before settling on her—calm, piercing, and already exasperated.
"Sophia," he greeted, offering a polite bow.
"Your Highness," she said brightly. "I did not expect you today. Is it about Beatrice? She is unfortunately practicing pianoforte with my aunt."
Felix remained standing a mont longer than necessary, as if gathering patience, then lowered himself into the chair opposite her.
"No," he said slowly, "this visit concerns you."
She blinked. "? Oh dear, am I in trouble? If this is about my intention to go to Russia, my mother and grandmama have already chastised . I assure you my diplomatic mission has been postponed."
His jaw tightened. "Sophia."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"What," he asked with the weary resignation of a man who had tried reason before, "do you truly feel for Lord Benedict Montgory?"
She tilted her head. "I told you—I see him as a comrade in spirit. Just as I see you as a comrade in spirit."
Felix inhaled, long-suffering. "Sophia, I am quite certain you are being disingenuous."
Her eyes widened, indignant. "Your Highness, I never lie. Unless it concerns infiltrating White’s and dressing as a man. But that was for a noble cause: defeating Napoleon."
Felix closed his eyes briefly. "This is not helping your case."
"You asked for honesty!" she protested.
"Yes," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "but I did not anticipate this degree of it."
Silence settled.
Then, with all the delicacy of a man prying open Pandora’s box, "You attempted to travel to Russia because Benedict’s parents enjoy vodka."
She lifted her chin. "I wished to return the favor. They welcod warmly during last season’s visit to Manchester."
"And you needed," Felix clarified, "to cross Europe, convince the Tsar himself to part with a family recipe, and personally deliver alcohol to your suitor’s parents."
Sophia nodded, entirely earnest.
Felix stared at her for a heartbeat.
Then another.
"Sophia," he said finally, "that is not sothing one does for a comrade."
"I would argue otherwise," she replied primly. "Comrades in spirit support one another in noble endeavors."
"Sophia."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"You are in love."
She gasped, hand over her heart as though he had hurled blasphemy into the drawing room. "No, I am not, Your Highness. That is a grave accusation. Love is irrational. I am not irrational. I am guided by Enlightennt philosophy."
Felix raised an eyebrow. "Enlightennt philosophy does not typically require one to fetch vodka from Russia."
She frowned. "I believe in reciprocity. Benedict courted . Therefore, I must show my appreciation. It is simple logic."
"It is not logic," Felix said flatly. "It is affection."
Sophia huffed. "You say that because you are smitten with my cousin—after eting her all of one evening! How do you explain that? I introduced you to Beatrice; you are the sa age, and now you are courting her."
Felix’s composure cracked. "No, Sophia—this conversation is not about . This conversation is about you refusing to acknowledge what is glaringly obvious to every sentient being in London."
She crossed her arms. "I have no idea what you are implying."
"Of course not," he muttered. "Because you are Sophia Fiennes."
"Thank you," she said, taking it as a complint.
Felix stared at her—long, exhausted, and utterly defeated. Then he rose.
"I shall leave you to your revelation, which will likely arrive in a blaze of chaos and gunpowder."
She narrowed her eyes. "That felt insulting."
"It was," he replied gently, bowing. "Take care, Sophia."
And with that, he departed—leaving her sitting very still, one finger tapping thoughtfully on her sapphire pendant.
"Love," she scoffed under her breath. "Absolutely not."
But she was frowning, and she did not realize her cheeks were pink.
Montgory Townhouse, Drawing Room
Lord Benedict Montgory had barely settled with a cup of tea—an attempt by the household to calm his frayed nerves—when the butler cleared his throat at the doorway.
"Your lordship... His Highness, Prince Felix of Hanover."
Benedict nearly dropped his cup.
Prince Felix entered with his usual soft, painterly grace—coat immaculate, expression composed, but with that unmistakable glimr in his grey-green eyes: the I know sothing you don’t gleam that made n twice his age nervous.
"Ben," Felix greeted, taking the seat opposite him as if he owned every chair in England. "I’ve just co from Fiennes Estate."
Benedict sat straighter.
His pulse quickened.
This was never a sign of anything restful.
Felix folded his hands neatly."I confronted Sophia about this vodka fiasco."
Benedict groaned. "Please tell she is not still insisting she can speak to the Tsar."
"Oh, she absolutely is." Felix’s tone was maddeningly serene. "Sothing about ’diplomatic mission,’ ’potatoes in Kent,’ and ’a comrade deserves appreciation.’"
Benedict buried his face in his hands.
Felix continued, unbothered. "But that is not why I’m here."
He leaned forward. "She truly is in love with you, Ben."
Benedict froze.
Felix delivered the line like a physician stating a diagnosis.
"You—" Benedict sputtered, "you told her that?"
"I did," Felix said calmly. "She denied it, naturally. Called it ’a grave accusation.’ Accused back by asking why I am smitten with her cousin Beatrice when I only t her recently." He waved a hand. "Irrelevant."
Benedict blinked. "You admitted it?"
"Of course," Felix replied. "But as I said, that was beside the point. Our topic was you."
Lord Edward had wandered into the drawing room mid-conversation, drawn by the sound of his brother’s distress. Duchess Eleanor followed monts later.
Felix continued as if presenting evidence before Parliant:
"She does not realize she looks at you differently, Ben. I have eyes, after all." He shrugged elegantly. "When you enter a room, she lights up like soone opened all the windows in her mind."
Eleanor gasped softly, hand to chest. Edward smirked like a proud older sibling who had known this all along.
Felix went on, "She thinks she sees you as ’a comrade in spirit,’ but she was fully prepared to march to Russia to secure vodka because your brother ntioned your parents like it. She says she did it to ’return the favor.’ That is not camaraderie. That is devotion."
Benedict’s face went several shades of red—pink, rose, crimson, then mortified-plum.
Felix tilted his head. "And she only ever does absurd things when you are involved."
Edward coughed into his hand. "That part is true."
Eleanor shot him a look. "You will not tease your brother in his mont of emotional crisis."
Felix clasped Benedict’s shoulder with cool sympathy.
"Ben... she is brilliant, but she is oblivious. She rationalizes every feeling she has. If you leave her to think her way into love, she will take a decade." A soft smile tugged at his lips. "You may need to gently show her."
Benedict stared at him, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the ticking clock. "You truly think she feels—?"
Felix nodded. "With certainty. Enough to stake my royal reputation."
Edward: "You don’t even care about that."
Felix: "Precisely."
Eleanor bead. "Benedict, you must go call on her tomorrow. This is progress!"
Benedict swallowed hard. For the first ti since this chaotic courtship began, hope blood—terrifying, exhilarating, real.
Felix rose smoothly.
"I will leave you, then. I should return to Beatrice’s good graces before she notices my absence." His lips quirked. "She is... delightful."
Edward and Eleanor exchanged looks.
Benedict barely noticed—his thoughts spinning entirely around Sophia Fiennes.
Felix paused at the door. "Ben."
Benedict looked up.
"Do not hesitate. She may be rational... but even rational won want proof."
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