The aroma of coffee mingled with the faint smell of damp grass drifting in through the open window. My breakfast sat untouched, the golden yolks of the eggs staring back at me accusingly. I poked at the edge of my eggs with my fork, unable to summon an appetite. My mind was already halfway to the office, where the usual chaos of the Morning Herald would soon consume the hours. The soft creak of the floorboards behind me pulled me back to the room. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was; the deliberate rhythm of her steps was unmistakable.

“Good morning, brother.” Eliza’s voice was light, though I caught the faintest trace of fatigue beneath her greeting.

“Morning, Eliza,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder as she entered the room. She wore a cambric muslin slip, its hem finished with delicate lace and embroidery, beneath a loose Hesse breakfast robe of jaconet muslin. The robe’s long, full sleeves were trimmed at the wrists, matching the intricate details of the garment. A white lace half-cornette, tied with a blue ribbon beneath her chin, crowned her head, and pale blue kid shoes peeked out from beneath her skirts.

“You’re up early,” I noted, watching as she approached the table. She took her seat across from me, her gaze sweeping over the neatly arranged breakfast spread before settling on my untouched plate.

“As are you,” she countered with a small smile. “Though I suppose that’s not unusual.” She reached for the coffee pot and poured herself a cup.

I leaned back in my chair, studying her as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into the steaming liquid. There was a quiet weariness about her, one that spoke of another sleepless night. “You didn’t rest well,” I said, more an observation than a question.

She paused, the spoon still in her hand, before meeting my gaze. “And you did?”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair enough.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “You worry too much, Eliza. If they had any real evidence against us, they’d have acted by now.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she looked as though she might argue. Instead, she took a measured sip of her coffee, her eyes briefly closing as if the warmth alone could shield her from the weight of our circumstances. “It’s not just them I worry about,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “It’s you.”

Her words caught me off guard, and I sat back, regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Me?”

“You’re carrying too much,” she said, her tone soft but firm. “I see it every day—the way you shoulder everything, as though the world rests on your back alone. It doesn’t, Ezra. You don’t have to do it all yourself.”

Her words lingered in the air between us, heavy with an unspoken plea. I hesitated, my gaze dropping to the table. “It’s not that simple, Eliza. If I don’t—”

“Then let me help,” she interrupted, her tone sharper now. “We’re in this together, aren’t we? Or have you forgotten that?”

I met her gaze again, and the determination in her eyes was unyielding. For all her grace and composure, Eliza had always possessed a stubborn streak that rivaled my own. “You’re impossible,” I muttered, though there was no malice in my words.

“And you’re infuriating,” she replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

The tension broke, giving way to a moment of quiet understanding. I picked up my fork and took a deliberate bite of my eggs if only to appease her. Across the table, she sipped her coffee, the ghost of a smile lingering on her lips. After eating as much as my restless mind would allow, I made my way upstairs to prepare for the day. The silence of the past few days hung heavy in the air, and as I tied my cravat, I found myself replaying these quiet days over and over in my head. Simon, ever diligent, stepped in to adjust the knot with his usual precision, ensuring it sat perfectly before retreating to fetch my coat, hat, and briefcase. It was all so routine, so unnervingly normal as if none of it had happened. The calm felt out of place, an illusion that left me on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When I stepped outside, the familiar black carriage was already waiting, its polished ebony horses pawing at the ground. The same ride, the same route—unchanged for five years—yet today, it felt heavier somehow, laden with memories that refused to stay buried. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against dirt filled the quiet as I stared out the window, my thoughts drifting through the tangled mess of the past few months. Eliza returning to my life. The body snatching. Collins. Lady Griswold. The blackmail. One thread after another wound through my mind, each pulling at the frayed edges of my composure. And yet, there was a strange finality to it all. As though the story was nearing its end, its pieces falling into place at last.

The carriage ride into London was unremarkable, save for the fresh potholes carved into the roads by the relentless summer rains. Trees blurred by, which turned into houses, and houses turned into buildings until we came to a stop outside of the Morning Herald's office. The city lay cloaked in calm and darkness, with only mothers and maids beginning to stir—quietly preparing for the household to wake.

The workday seemed to slip away unnoticed, unfolding in a quiet, almost monotonous rhythm. Conversations drifted in and out like a steady undercurrent, while my thoughts were constantly being written, revised, and reworked. The persistent churn of the printing press echoed in the background, a reminder of the constant motion around me. I kept mostly to myself, engaging only in brief exchanges with my editor, the rest of the noise fading into a dull hum. At home, my mind was anchored to this place—drifting back to the work and the deadlines. Yet, as I sat there, surrounded by the clutter of my desk and the bustle of the newsroom, my thoughts felt like they belonged somewhere else.

 

The midday sun hung low and pale in the sky, its heat softened by the lingering haze of a summer morning that refused to give way entirely. The city streets were alive with movement—the clatter of hooves, the creak of wooden wheels, and the murmur of vendors hawking their wares blending into a symphony of routine chaos. My carriage rolled slowly through it all, the familiar route toward home offering little distraction from the constant swirl of my thoughts.

The carriage jolted slightly, pulling me back to the present as we turned onto the dirt drive. The familiar stone façade of the house came into view, a beacon of calm amidst the turbulence of recent days. Simon greeted me at the door with his usual calm efficiency, taking my hat and coat as I stepped inside. The house was quiet, save for the faint creak of floorboards somewhere above, and the silence was a balm after the noise of the city. I made my way toward the Drawing room, drawn by the faint scent of lavender and the soft rustle of paper drifting through the air.

Eliza was seated by the window, bathed in the gentle light of midday. Her shawl hung loosely over her shoulders, and her hair was arranged with the effortless precision that seemed uniquely hers. Before her lay a small pile of periodicals, their titles instantly familiar: The Morning Post, Lady Whistlefeather, and The Female Tatler.

She looked up as I entered, her expression thoughtful but edged with tension. “Welcome home, Ezra,” she said lightly, though her tone held little humor.

“I see you’ve been keeping busy.” I gestured toward the papers spread across the table.

Eliza leaned back slightly, her fingers trailing idly over the edge of one of the periodicals. “If you can call it that,” she said. “Though I’d hardly describe reading gossip as ‘keeping busy’.”

I raised an eyebrow, glancing at the titles again. “Lady Whistlefeather, I see. Surely her musings aren’t worth your time.”

“Not normally,” Eliza admitted, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “But today’s edition seemed... worth perusing.”

Her tone gave me pause. I reached for one of the papers, skimming the headline: Whispers from the English Opera House: Shadows Beneath the Spotlight. My chest tightened as I read on, the carefully veiled implications unmistakable. “All three of them?” I asked, gesturing to the pile.

She nodded, her expression unreadable. “The Morning Post is more restrained, of course, but the others...” She trailed off, her gaze flicking toward the window. “They’ve wasted no time weaving a tale from the opera’s events. And from the alleged constables’ visit.”

I frowned, setting the paper down and meeting her gaze. “What are they saying?”

“We were at the opera, of course, accompanied by Cameron. Naturally, we were seen conversing with Lady Griswold Mr. Collins. Then Cameron’s intervention caused quite the commotion, and from there, the rumors have spiraled out of control.” She sighed, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Now, they’re insinuating... improprieties. Whispers abound about whether the constables were even here, what they might have discovered—or worse, what they could still be searching for.”

The weight of her words settled heavily over me. London thrived on scandal, and the mere scent of it was often enough to ruin lives. “And Lady Griswold? What are they saying about her?” I asked carefully.

Eliza hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she replied. “Some papers cast her as a victim, others as a willing participant in Collins’ schemes. None of it is kind.” She paused, her gaze dropping to her folded hands. “They paint her as either naïve to the point of foolishness or cunning enough to rival Collins himself. One article even suggested she might have orchestrated parts of the scheme, though they offered no evidence—just conjecture wrapped in sensationalism. Either way, her name is being dragged through the mud.”

I leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. “And what do you think?” I asked finally, watching her closely.

Eliza’s gaze met mine, steady but filled with a quiet resolve. “I think the papers are wrong, Ezra. Whatever they say, they're just gossip. We know the true story.”

I nodded slowly, her words echoing in the stillness of the room. Outside, the sun climbed higher, its light filtering softly through the windows. I needed a distraction, a way to clear my mind from the weight of our conversation. Without a word, I made my way to the Morning room. The shelves lined with books offered a welcome escape, and I pulled Mansfield Park from the shelf, its pages promising the solace of another world. I returned to the Drawing room, where Eliza had settled onto the loveseat, and sank into a chair. With the book open in my hands, I began to read, the words offering a reprieve from the quiet tension in the room.

 

The sun had dipped closer to the horizon, casting the fields surrounding the house in shades of amber and rose, when the sound of wheels crunching over the dirt drive broke the evening’s quiet. I lowered the book and stood, glancing out through the tall window. Outside, a modest carriage rolled to a stop before the front steps, its door adorned with a familiar emblem. My heart tightened with a flicker of unease; no visits were ever truly casual these days.

A moment later, Simon’s voice echoed from the entryway. “Lady Griswold. What an unexpected pleasure.” He took her pelisse and bonnet.

Genevieve’s voice followed, calm and steady. “Thank you, Mr. Lancaster. I hope Mr. and Miss Geldart are receiving guests.”

I turned and adjusted my cane as she stepped into the room. Genevieve was a vision of composed elegance, her high dress of jaconet muslin falling gracefully around her form. The bodice, slightly fuller in the back, wrapped across in a fichu style, its richly worked trimming adorned with a double rouleau of muslin threaded with a colored ribbon. The skirt, full yet effortless, was embroidered with delicate patterns of upright leaves along the hem. Lemon-colored gloves and pale pink half boots completed the ensemble, lending her an air of quiet refinement. There was something resolute in the set of her jaw and the way her light brown eyes swept the room before settling on me.

“Mr. Geldart,” she said, her tone even, though I caught the faintest flicker of warmth beneath her formality. “Miss Geldart.”

Eliza stood, her expression brightening with surprise. “Lady Griswold! Please, come in.”

“I won’t stay long,” Genevieve said as she stepped forward, removing her gloves with precise movements. “But there’s something I needed to tell you.”

Simon, ever efficient, had already sent for Lottie, who arrived moments later with the tea tray. She set it on the low table by the hearth, her small hands steady as she arranged the porcelain cups. Eliza shifted to make room beside her and once Genevieve was seated on the loveseat, her posture graceful but upright, I took my usual place near the mantel. Genevieve accepted a cup of tea from Eliza but made no move to drink, instead holding it lightly in her hands. “I’ve ended the engagement,” she said, her voice clear and unwavering.

The silence that followed was brief but sharp. “You ended it?” Eliza asked, her tone carefully neutral, though I could see the curiosity in her eyes.

Genevieve nodded, a faint but confident smile playing on her lips. “I did. After the events at the opera—and the subsequent deluge of gossip—I realized I could no longer associate myself with a man like Bartholomew.” She exhaled softly but didn’t waver. “The papers painted him as they saw him: cruel, callous, and vain. For once, they weren’t wrong. I could no longer ignore what I’ve known for some time. So, I made the decision for both of us.” Her lips curved into a sharper smile, her tone cool. “Of course, he didn’t wait for me to make it official. The moment the rumors took hold, he fled to the mainland—likely hoping the scandal wouldn’t follow him. A coward to the last.”

Eliza leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped in her lap. “That was… incredibly brave, Lady Griswold. I can only imagine how difficult it must have been, knowing how society would react.”

Genevieve’s smile widened, though her expression remained measured. “Yes, well, society has never been kind to women who make their own choices, has it?” She glanced at me then, her gaze steady. “I won’t lie, Mr. Geldart. It’s been… trying. The whispers, the stares—but they pale in comparison to the relief I feel knowing I’ve taken back control of my life.”

“You’ve done the right thing,” I said, my voice firm. “What society thinks doesn’t matter. What matters is that you claimed what was always yours—your freedom, your choice.”

Her eyes softened as they met mine. “Thank you. That means more than you know.” Genevieve set her cup down with careful precision, her fingers tracing the edge of the saucer. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her expression softening as the tension in her frame eased. “Do you know,” she began, her voice quiet but thoughtful, “When I first agreed to the engagement, I believed I was securing my future. I told myself I was fulfilling my late father’s wishes—doing what was expected of me, what was right.” She paused, her lips curving into a wry smile as her gaze shifted to Eliza. “But it’s remarkable, isn’t it? How quickly a man like that reveals his true nature the moment he believes he already owns you.”

Eliza’s eyes darkened with understanding, and she reached over to gently clasp Genevieve’s hand. “You’ve shown more courage than most, Lady Griswold,” she said firmly. “Few would have the strength to walk away, let alone face the scrutiny that comes with it.”

Genevieve’s smile deepened, this time warmer, more assured. “Strength, perhaps. Or just stubbornness. Either way, I refuse to let him—or society—define me. I may not know what lies ahead, but I know it will be on my terms.”

I cleared my throat softly, drawing her attention. “Your resolve is admirable, Lady Griswold. But if you ever find the weight of it too much, remember you’re not alone. You’ll always have a place here.”

Her gaze met mine, steady and grateful. “Thank you, Mr. Geldart. Truly.”

 

The moment stretched between us, quiet but comfortable, like the pause between breaths where no words were needed. The soft rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant chirp of crickets filled the air, a soothing backdrop to our shared stillness. It wasn’t awkward, just peaceful, as if the world had momentarily slowed to give us this fleeting sense of calm. Then, the rhythmic clatter of wheels over dirt and the faint creak of wooden axles broke the spell. Another carriage had pulled into the drive, its arrival punctuating the silence and drawing our attention back to the present.

Eliza tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “Are we expecting anyone?”

“No,” I replied, straightening slightly, my grip on my cane tightening.

The front door opened with its familiar creak, followed by Simon’s low, measured tones welcoming the newcomer. Moments later, Cameron’s voice rang out, bright and unmistakable, cutting through the tension like sunlight after a storm. “Simon! My friend, you really must share your secret of looking so young. Truly, it’s an art.”

Eliza glanced at me, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Our cousin has impeccable timing.”

Cameron appeared in the doorway, his coat immaculate, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. He froze briefly when he noticed Genevieve, his expression shifting into something softer, more curious. “Lady Griswold,” he said, bowing slightly. “What a delightful surprise.”

Genevieve rose gracefully, her confidence undimmed by Cameron’s sudden appearance. “Lord Brough,” she replied with a faint smile and curtsy before sitting back down.

“Cameron,” Eliza said lightly, "Don't be rude just standing there. Come in.”

Cameron crossed the room in a few long strides, taking a seat across from Genevieve. “Now, tell me,” he said, his voice warm, “What brings you here this evening?”

Genevieve hesitated only briefly, her gaze dropping momentarily before she began to recount her decision to break off the engagement. She spoke of the tension between her and Bartholomew, the growing unease that had settled in her chest, and the moment she realized it was time to let go. She told of his departure, the finality of his leaving, and the quiet that had followed in his absence. Each detail was measured and carefully chosen, though there was a sharpness in her tone that betrayed the weight of it all. Cameron listened closely, his expression unreadable as he followed her every word. His head tilted slightly to the side, as though he were weighing each sentence, considering the gravity of what she said. His eyes never left her, not once breaking contact, and Genevieve couldn’t help but feel a strange comfort in his steady attention. 

When she finally finished, there was a long pause before Cameron leaned back. A slow smile spread across his face, one that seemed to carry both amusement and something deeper, something almost approving. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it seems Collins has done you an unintentional kindness. You’ve freed yourself from a man who didn’t deserve you.”

Genevieve raised an eyebrow, her tone lightly teasing. “You sound very sure of that, Lord Brough.”

“Oh, I am,” he replied with a grin. “It’s rare to see someone handle such a situation with as much poise as you have. You’ve turned what others might see as a scandal into a triumph.”

Her smile softened, and for a moment, I thought I saw the faintest hint of color rise to her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord. That’s kind of you to say.”

“Not kind,” he said, his tone dipping into sincerity. “Merely honest. And if I may be so bold, Lady Griswold, I think you’re only just beginning to discover your strength.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, something unspoken passing between them, before she turned back to Eliza and me. “You’ve both been so kind to me,” she said. “I don’t intend to impose on you for long, but I needed to be somewhere I could breathe. Somewhere I could begin again.”

“You’ll always have that here,” Eliza said firmly, her expression warm.

Genevieve’s gaze lingered on Eliza for a moment, her light brown eyes searching for something unspoken. Perhaps it was reassurance—or perhaps it was the simple comfort of being believed. Whatever it was, she seemed to find it, for her lips softened into a faint, grateful smile. “I can’t tell you how much that means,” she said quietly, her voice steadier now. “For so long, I’ve felt as though I’ve been carrying this… weight. Trying to live up to expectations that weren’t even mine to begin with. It feels strange to let it go, as though I’m stepping into a life I hardly recognize.”

Eliza reached out, her hand resting lightly over Genevieve’s. “It isn’t strange,” she said gently. “It’s freedom. And it may feel unfamiliar now, but that’s only because you’re beginning to shape a life that’s truly yours.”

Genevieve blinked rapidly, her composure wavering for the briefest moment before she exhaled softly. “I suppose I never expected to feel relief amidst the scandal. I thought I’d feel lost. But sitting here with you all…” Her gaze flicked to Cameron and me briefly before returning to Eliza. “I feel something else entirely. I feel… safe.”

I straightened slightly at her words, my grip on my cane firm but my expression soft. “You are safe, my lady. Whatever storms the world throws at you, you’ll always have us to help you through it.”

For a long moment, none of us spoke. The quiet in the room was no longer heavy with unspoken tension but rather light, as though the weight of Genevieve’s burdens had begun to ease. Finally, she allowed herself to lean back against the sofa, the tension in her shoulders melting away. A soft laugh escaped her lips—light and unguarded, a sound I hadn’t realized we’d all been waiting for.

Cameron, ever the opportunist, leaned forward with a grin that bordered on wicked. “Safe indeed. And dare I say, Lady Griswold, you’re looking rather radiant for someone embroiled in a scandal.”

Genevieve raised an eyebrow, a smile curving on her face. “Radiant, am I? That’s an interesting word to use for someone the papers have called ‘headstrong and unbecoming,’ or worse, ‘a naïve pawn in a dangerous game’.”

Cameron placed a hand over his heart in mock indignation. “Ah, but that’s the problem with the papers, my lady—they rarely get things right. Headstrong? Perhaps. But unbecoming?” He gestured dramatically. “Utterly absurd. Frankly, I’d say you’ve never been more becoming. And as for the ‘naïve pawn’ nonsense...” He shook his head, a chuckle escaping. “It’s a convenient label for those who don’t understand the full picture.”

Eliza let out a soft laugh, shaking her head at him. “Cameron, you’re incorrigible.”

“I’m honest,” he shot back, his grin softening. “And if the rest of society had an ounce of sense, they’d see what I do—a woman who’s not only strong but utterly captivating.”

Genevieve blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. For a moment, her composure faltered, a faint blush coloring her cheeks, before she recovered with a smile. “You’ve missed your calling, Lord Brough. You’d make a fine poet.”

Cameron leaned back with a satisfied air. “Oh, I’d make a dreadful poet. But I’ve always had a knack for recognizing beauty—and for speaking my mind, much to everyone’s dismay. I propose a toast,” he continued, gesturing toward the teacups. “To Lady Griswold and Eliza—two women who dare to defy the expectations of society and reclaim their futures.”

Genevieve lifted her cup, a new light in her eyes. “To new beginnings,” she said, her voice filled with quiet determination.

 

The warm glow of twilight seeped through the windows as laughter echoed throughout the house, mingling with the soft clink of glasses and the rustle of skirts against polished floors. Genevieve looked as if she felt lighter than she had in weeks, surrounded by the ease of good company and free of the suffocating shadows that had once clung to her. Cameron, as always, was the center of lively conversation, his wit sparking rounds of laughter that lingered in the air like the last notes of a song. Eliza, for once, seemed to relax, her usual guarded composure softened by the warmth of the evening. The tension that often seemed to hover around her had melted away, replaced by an easy charm. She looked as though she truly belonged in the lively atmosphere, her laughter blending seamlessly with the others, her presence adding to the lightness of the evening.

The clock struck six, and its chime was a gentle reminder that the evening was drawing to a close. Genevieve rose gracefully from her seat, smoothing the fabric of her gown. "I should be going," she said softly, a warm smile directed toward Eliza. "Thank you for the lovely evening."

Eliza returned the smile, her voice light as she replied, "You’re always welcome here. Don’t be a stranger."

Cameron, who had been leaning casually against the mantle, straightened at Genevieve’s words. "Allow me to see you out," he said, stepping forward with a practiced ease that carried only the faintest hint of urgency.

Genevieve hesitated for a fraction of a moment before nodding, her expression soft. Together, they walked toward the front door, where Simon was already waiting with Cameron's coat and Genevieve’s pelisse.

Simon, ever efficient, handed Cameron his neatly folded coat. "Your coat, my lord," he said in his steady, measured tone. Then he turned to Genevieve with her pelisse in hand, holding it open as she slipped her arms into the soft, silk-lined garment.

"Thank you, Mr. Lancaster," Genevieve said, her voice light, as she adjusted the front of her pelisse and smoothed its edges. She glanced toward Cameron, who was shrugging into his coat with practiced ease, his movements confident yet unhurried. She gracefully took her bonnet from Simon's hands and placed it on her head.

As Simon stepped discreetly aside, leaving them a moment of privacy, Cameron turned to Genevieve. His gaze held hers for a beat longer than necessary, a touch of seriousness softening his usual charm. "Lady Griswold," he began, his voice low but steady, "May I call on you tomorrow? Or later this week, if you’d prefer."

She studied him for a moment, her gloved hands tying the pink silk ribbon of her bonnet underneath her chin. Her expression was calm but not unkind, her light brown eyes searching his face as though measuring the sincerity of his words. "Tomorrow, then," she said finally, her voice soft. "But only if you promise to keep things… simple."

Cameron’s lips quirked into a half-smile, his green eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. "Simple? I’ll try my best, though I can’t promise not to be myself."

Simon opened the door, allowing the cool evening air to greet them fully. Genevieve stepped out, her carriage already waiting at the foot of the drive. Cameron helped her descend the stairs, the faint crunch of dirt beneath her half boots blending with the quiet rustle of the trees. He held out his hand for her as she stepped into the carriage.

 

Cameron stepped back into the empty hall, the soft click of his boots echoing against the polished floor. Behind him, Simon quietly closed the door, the faint thud reverberating in the stillness. Cameron lingered for a moment, his hand brushing the lapel, his gaze distant, as though lost in thought as he removed his coat. Then, with a faint smile still playing on his lips, he made his way back to the Drawing room, his coat draped casually over his arm. I didn’t need to be an expert in subtlety to know what that smile meant—or to whom it was owed. I glanced at Eliza, who had already caught on, her lips curving into a grin as she lowered her teacup.

“Well, that was quick,” I remarked, barely bothering to mask my amusement. “I thought you’d be standing at the door until sunrise.”

Cameron shot me a sharp look, though the easy confidence in his stride betrayed no offense. “Standing at the door? Please, Ezra. I escorted her like a gentleman, which is more than you’ve ever done for a lady.”

Eliza let out a laugh, setting her teacup down with deliberate care. “Oh, don’t play coy, Cameron. We all saw it—your expression when Lady Griswold was leaving. It was…” She paused for dramatic effect. “…endearing. Like a puppy watching its mistress leave the room.”

Cameron froze in place, narrowing his eyes at her. “A puppy?” He pressed a hand to his chest, his voice dripping with exaggerated offense. “Eliza, how dare you? I am no one’s puppy. If anything, I am a lion—majestic, composed, and utterly terrifying.”

“Terrifyingly obvious,” I said, leaning back against the sofa and crossing one leg over the other. “I’m surprised Lady Griswold didn’t ask for smelling salts to recover from all the attention you were lavishing on her.”

Cameron’s gaze turned to me, and I knew immediately I had made a mistake. His smile sharpened, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, I see how it is,” he drawled. “It’s my turn on the rack tonight. Well then, dear cousin, let’s not forget who else has been… distracted, shall we?”

My brows furrowed. “Distracted?”

“Don’t play innocent,” he said, draping his coat over the arm of the sofa furthest from me. “Or have you forgotten how many times you’ve suddenly ‘misplaced’ your pen or your cane whenever Lottie is around? It’s almost as though you’re inventing excuses to keep her close.”

Eliza gasped, her eyes lighting up with unrestrained delight. “Oh, Cameron, do go on.”

“There’s not much more to say,” Cameron continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Unless, of course, you’d like to tell us why every single compliment you give her cakes and biscuits sounds like an ode worthy of Byron?”

“That’s absurd,” I replied sharply, though I could feel the heat rising to my face. “Lottie is an exceptional cook. Acknowledging her efforts is simple courtesy.”

“Courtesy,” Cameron repeated with mock solemnity. “Of course. Just as it’s ‘courtesy’ to linger in the Morning room every time she happens to be arranging flowers.”

Eliza laughed so hard she nearly knocked over her teacup, and I glared at Cameron, though the warmth in my cheeks betrayed me. “You’re inventing things,” I said firmly. “And even if I were, this isn’t about me. This is about your blatant infatuation with Lady Griswold.”

“Infatuation?” Cameron replied, sinking into the spot on the sofa next to me with an air of self-satisfaction. “You make it sound as though I’m following her around like some lovesick poet. I simply admire her—a remarkable woman with intelligence, grace, and resilience. Can you blame me for taking an interest?”

Eliza tilted her head, grinning. “Oh, we’re not blaming you, Cameron. We’re just marveling at how obvious you’ve made it. If you’d been any more attentive, you’d have offered to carry her to the carriage yourself.”

Cameron laughed, a low, rich sound that only seemed to add to his confidence. “Well, she deserves admiration. Captivated though I may be, I still have my limits.” His gaze flicked toward me with a grin. “Unlike some people, who would probably recite sonnets over a batch of freshly baked scones.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but Eliza jumped in first, shaking her head at Cameron. “Oh, you’re impossible,” she said, though her tone was fond. “Both of you are.”

“And yet,” Cameron replied smoothly, raising an imaginary glass, “you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

I rolled my eyes and picked up Mansfield Park again, flipping it open in an effort to dismiss the conversation. But even as I turned the page, I couldn’t ignore the grin tugging at Cameron’s lips—or the smug satisfaction radiating from him. And though I would never admit it, the teasing—about Lottie, about Genevieve—somehow made the room feel warmer, the night less heavy. It was these moments, rare and fleeting, that reminded me how much we truly needed each other.