Telling Benedict that my father had agreed to meet him—on his own terms, of course, and in his own house—had been something of a triumph. Benedict, ever composed, had broken into the warmest smile I had yet seen on his face. Delight didn’t sit on him boyishly. It settled into his features like he had earned it like he had waited years for the moment and found it at last.

Saturday, I had said, and Saturday it would be. My father hadn’t offered a day, so I had picked one for him. He would make time—even if he claimed he had none. This wasn’t a negotiation; it was an appointment. Now, the day was here.

I sat at the window, dressed but restless, the morning light crawling across the floorboards as slowly as my thoughts. My hands folded and unfolded in my lap. I could already hear Father’s objections echoing in my head, but he would not go unchallenged. He could say whatever he pleased once Benedict arrived—but I would be there to hear it. Let him try to treat this as a private matter between men. Let him try to keep me from speaking. I would not be a spectator to my own life.

Then, at last, a knock came at the door. I made my way to the front hall, breath held still in my chest as I heard footsteps—Mr. Lockhart’s measured tread was as precise as always. He opened the door with the quiet solemnity of a man who had done so a thousand times. And there stood Benedict. His charcoal coat was neat despite the summer wind, and his expression—calm, warm, resolute—softened when he saw me standing behind the banister.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Lockhart intoned, stepping aside.

“Thank you, Mr. Lockhart,” I said as Benedict offered his arm as I approached. I took it without hesitation. “You’re early,” I said, letting a small smile betray my nerves.

“Forgive me,” he replied. “I thought it best to face the gallows with a clear head and punctual feet.”

I let out a breath—half laugh, half something else. “You’ll live. I won’t let him hang you.”

His smile widened, but he said nothing more, only giving my arm the gentlest squeeze. We didn’t speak again as we crossed the threshold, Mr. Lockhart closing the door quietly behind us. The house loomed quiet and ready as if even the walls were listening. Father would not be kept waiting, but then, neither would I. We walked forward—together.

The carriage jolted softly as it pulled away from my aunt’s estate, wheels crunching over gravel before settling into the smoother rhythm of the country road. Benedict sat across me, his hands folded tight in his lap, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point beyond the window. The early morning light slanted through the glass, catching in the copper-red of his hair. He had said little since we stepped inside, and I had let him be. I knew the silence wasn’t avoidance—it was the kind a person held onto when measuring every word they might have to speak next.

After a time, he finally exhaled and said, “I can’t decide whether your father will have me thrown out or simply crushed underfoot with words.”

“He won’t throw you out,” I said evenly. “Not after agreeing to this. And he may try to crush you, but I assure you, you’re not that easy to break.”

Benedict gave a short laugh, not quite humorless. “I wish I believed I was as sturdy as you think me.”

“You are,” I said, with a calm certainty I hadn’t expected. “And you won’t be alone. Even if I’m not in that room, I’ll be just on the other side of the door.”

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. There was nothing else that needed to be said.

The rest of the ride passed in companionable quiet, the kind that held purpose rather than discomfort. The countryside blurred past in soft greens and browns, a wash of summer, the wind tugging lightly at the edges of the carriage as if to keep it from reaching its destination too quickly.

When at last we reached the long, tree-lined drive leading to my father’s estate, my heart picked up its pace. The sight of the house—familiar, imposing, etched into my memory like a recurring dream—rose before us, silent and waiting. The carriage came to a stop, the front door opened—and there stood Simon.

He blinked at first, clearly expecting only one guest, his gaze landing on Benedict and then shifting with mild alarm to me. “Miss Elizabeth—” he began, but I stepped forward, lifting a gloved hand gently.

“Simon, please. Don’t tell my father I’m here.” He hesitated. “I’ll stay outside the door,” I added. “Just there. I need to hear what’s said.”

Simon glanced toward the corridor that led to the study, clearly weighing duty against whatever sympathy still lingered from the years he had served our family. At last, he gave a single nod. “Very well, Miss.”

Simon stepped aside and led us through the hall, our footsteps tapping softly against the polished hardwood floor. The sound echoed faintly, crisp and unhidden, the kind of sound that made every step feel watched. The weight of the house pressed around us—aged oak, lined bookshelves, and the distant ticking of a longcase clock somewhere deep in the parlor.

We stopped at the door of my father’s study. Simon looked to me once more, and I nodded. He opened the door, cleared his throat, and announced with practiced calm: “Mr. Benedict Collins, Sir.” Then he stepped back, allowing Benedict to enter, and gently shut the door behind him.

 

I took my place just beside it, my heart suddenly louder than it had been all morning. My back pressed to the wood, I closed my eyes for a moment and listened. Whatever happened next—I would know. I would not be left out of my own life. I pressed my ear gently to the thick oak door, but the wood was too dense, the voices too muffled. I could hear only the rhythm of them at first—my father’s deeper timbre, controlled and deliberate, and Benedict’s steadier, quieter tone. I strained, shifting slightly, careful not to let the floor creak beneath me.

“…what I want to know,” my father said, voice just clear enough to catch now, “is what your intentions are toward my daughter.”

There was a pause—then Benedict’s voice came, firm but not forceful. “To marry her. To provide for her. And to protect her.” I let out the breath I’d been holding, my heart tight against my ribs.

Inside, Father made a sound—something between a scoff and a thoughtful grunt. “And your prospects?”

Another pause. I imagined Benedict drawing himself upright. “I’m the second son,” he said. “I won’t inherit the estate, nor the title. That will go to my elder brother, as it should. But my father is the Viscount of Devonport, and I was raised with every expectation and standard that entails. I do not lack for education, nor connections.”

A low, sardonic chuckle filtered through the wood. “Of course he is,” my father said, his voice clipped and cold. “Collins always did know how to sniff out a title like a hound on blood. It was only a matter of time before he clawed his way into the aristocracy.”

“I don’t lean on the title,” Benedict replied. “I have my own work, my own life. I’m employed as an almoner at King’s. I’m respected there. The position pays well enough for me to keep an apartment in London. Your daughter could choose to continue her work as a nurse, or not, if she so wished.” He hesitated—then added, with quiet conviction, “Though I rather doubt she would stop.”

A silence followed, long and measured. Then Father spoke again. “At least you know my daughter.”

There was a shift in his voice—something quieter, less combative. Not approval exactly, but something not far from it. I stayed pressed to the wall beside the door, my hands cool against the wood. I hadn’t expected my father to give his favor easily. But this? This was something. This was a beginning. I leaned closer to the door, the chill of the wood seeping through my sleeve. Their voices had settled into a steady rhythm now—until my father’s next question broke through, sharper, more deliberate.

“Do you even know,” he asked, low and measured, “what your father did to my family? What he cost us?”

“I do now,” he said. “I had no idea—until Elizabeth told me. I won’t make excuses for ignorance, but I never knew the extent of it. And when she did tell me…” His voice hardened, just enough. “I was ashamed. My father’s actions were abhorrent. There is no justification for what he did.”

Silence followed. I imagined my father weighing the honesty in Benedict’s voice. Whether he believed him, I could not tell. Then Father spoke again, more quietly than before. “So what do you intend to do? You and my daughter—this relationship between you—there can be no future so long as your father looms over it. You understand that, don’t you?”

Benedict didn’t hesitate. “I do. And I will do whatever is necessary to be with her. If that means severing ties with my father, with the name, the estate, the privileges—I’ll walk away from all of it.” There was a pause, and then his voice softened. “The only ones I’d grieve leaving behind are my mother and my younger siblings. His cruelty has not yet touched them. But if it came to it, if it meant protecting Elizabeth, I would go. And I would not look back.” My breath caught. I hadn’t expected to hear him say it aloud—not like that, not with such certainty.

Father was quiet again. Then he asked, “Are you sure? You would leave behind the family you’ve known your entire life for a girl you met not even a month ago?”

Benedict’s voice came, steady and full of conviction. “Yes. I am sure. Because I couldn’t stay away from her. Not even for a week. Watching her leave that first day—I hadn’t known her long, but already, the absence of her made the world duller. And when I saw her again… the color came back. I don’t just want her, Sir. I need her. I don’t care how short the time has been. I’ve never been more certain of anything.” My hand trembled slightly against the doorframe. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said them. Not to impress. Not to win. But because they were true.

Inside the study, there was a long pause. Then I heard the sound I least expected: my father sighing. Not a frustrated exhale or a scoff, but something quieter. Tired, perhaps. Or accepting. “Cameron,” he said. “You can come in now.”

 

Before I could stop myself, I pushed open the door as well. The three of them turned toward me as I entered. My father raised an eyebrow, unsurprised. Benedict looked startled. And the third man—tall, with close-cropped curls the color of pale straw, green eyes glinting behind silver spectacles—smiled like he’d been expecting me all along.

“Uncle Cameron?” I blinked. “What are you doing here?”

He spread his arms as if to say well, naturally, and gave me a warm, teasing grin. “I knew you’d be listening, Lilibet. You always were terrible at hiding when you cared too much.”

I flushed but didn’t deny it. Father leaned back slightly in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he looked between the two of us. “Did you truly think I could make a decision of this magnitude alone? Without consulting the one man who knows how to rein me in?”

Cameron chuckled, stepping farther into the room and folding his arms. “We wouldn’t want another impulsive Geldart mistake, would we?”

Father shot him a look, but it lacked any real heat. “Now,” he said, “what are we going to do about Bartholomew?”

Cameron’s expression sobered only slightly. “We’ve bested him before. Can’t be too hard to do it again.”

My father gave a low hum of agreement. Then he turned to Benedict, studying him for a long, weighty moment. “I believe you,” he said at last. “About your feelings for Elizabeth. About your willingness to leave your family if it comes to that. And I believe your loyalty—to her, and this family. Even though you’re not a part of it,” he said, voice steady before he paused. “Well, not yet.”

I felt something shift in the air like a lock clicking open, quietly but decisively. I looked at Benedict and saw the way his shoulders straightened, how his chest rose with a careful breath. I felt something unfurl in my chest, too—something strong and steady.

My father stood, brushing his coat sleeves as if only now remembering himself. “How terribly rude of me,” he said with a theatrical sigh, gesturing between the two men. “I never did make the proper introductions.” He turned to Cameron first. “Lord Cameron Brough, the Duke of Bedford’s heir, my cousin, and my most trusted advisor—though don’t let that inflate your ego.” Cameron raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“And here,” my father continued, now turning to Benedict, “is Benedict Collins—son of Bartholomew, and, more importantly, the young man who’s gone and captured my daughter’s heart.”

Benedict gave a slight bow, formal but not stiff. Cameron approached with an easy gait, extending his hand. “A pleasure, Benedict,” he said, clasping his hand firmly. “Takes no small amount of bravery to pursue Elizabeth, family complications aside.”

Benedict smiled at that, a hint of mischief flickering in his expression. “Thank you, my lord. Though I imagine things will go much smoother, so long as she still loves me down the road.”

I folded my arms, raising an eyebrow. “You imagine correctly.”

Cameron let out a warm laugh and gave Benedict’s shoulder a brief pat before stepping back. “You’ll need that wit to survive us.”

My father was already walking toward the door. “Well, since you’re both here, and my house is apparently some kind of diplomatic neutral ground, we might as well sit down for luncheon. I assume you don’t object to meeting the rest of the family?”

Benedict straightened. “Not at all, Sir. I’d be honored.”

“Lovely,” Father replied, already halfway into the hallway. “Just don’t let Caroline interrogate you. She’s worse than I am.”

Cameron chuckled. “Only slightly.”

Benedict looked to me, a quiet question in his eyes—Are we really doing this?—and I nodded once, slipping my hand into his.

“We’re doing this,” I said. And we followed them out together.

 

The dining room was already buzzing by the time we entered. Plates clinked, silverware glinted under the early afternoon sun, and the table—long, polished, and set for far more than usual—was laid with care. Familiar faces looked up as we arrived.

Caroline was the first to react. She gasped so dramatically that I thought she might drop her fork. “Oh!” she exclaimed, nearly toppling the water jug as she sprang from her chair. “So you’re Benedict!” He barely had time to reply before she swept up to him, eyes wide and gleaming. “I knew it,” she declared, wagging a finger between us. “I knew Elizabeth had feelings for you before she did. She talked about you like you were a problem she couldn’t solve, which—trust me—is always the first sign.”

Benedict glanced at me with a lopsided smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment… I think.”

Caroline nodded solemnly. “It was.”

Our mother approached next, composed as always, though I saw the warmth already settled in her expression. “I’ve heard a great deal about you,” she said, reaching out to clasp Benedict’s hands in hers. “I’m glad to finally meet the young man who’s stirred up such conversation in this household.”

He bowed his head respectfully. “Thank you, Ma’am. It’s an honor.”

Grandmother, sharp as ever despite her silver curls and slow steps, leaned slightly forward in her chair, appraising Benedict with a pointed, squinting look before nodding once, decisively. “Well. Handsome boy, isn’t he?” she said, loud enough for the whole table to hear. “I see what you like about him, Elizabeth.”

Heat rose to my cheeks as I rolled my eyes. “Grandmother, please.”

She waved a hand as if brushing off my modesty. “I may be old, darling, but I’m not blind.”

Anthony hadn’t risen from his seat. Instead, he looked Benedict up and down with the precision of a ledger-keeper assessing an uncertain investment. The corner of his lip curled just slightly—enough to be noticeable, not enough to be called out directly. But Father noticed.

He stepped beside Anthony, his voice quiet but firm enough to carry. “Benedict is the son of a Viscount. And he is courting your sister.” He leaned in just slightly. “If you plan on being insolent, Anthony, be aware—I won’t hesitate to trim your allowance.”

Anthony blinked, then straightened abruptly in his seat like someone who’d just been told the ground beneath them was about to give. He rose, extended his hand, and gave Benedict the world’s shortest handshake. “Anthony Geldart,” he said coolly. “Welcome.”

“Pleasure,” Benedict replied evenly, matching his tone with just enough civility to make it sting.

With introductions done, we all took our seats. The food was rich and plentiful—beef barley soup, roast ham, fresh greens from the garden, and warm bread that filled the room with a comforting scent—but I could barely concentrate on my plate. Caroline, Mother, and Cameron took it upon themselves to interrogate Benedict with the relentless curiosity of three people who had waited far too long to get answers.

What was his favorite book? Did he play cards? Did he ride? What were his intentions for work long term? What did he think of the current state of Parliament? Did he prefer the country or the city? How had he learned to tie his cravat so neatly? I lost track of the questions by the sixth or seventh. And Benedict—bless him—answered each one with grace, good humor, and just enough charm to keep them asking.

And all the while, at the head of the table, my father sat with a wine glass in hand and a quiet smile on his face. Not the smile of a man defeated. Not a smirk, or a test passed. Just a father, watching his daughter glow in the presence of someone who saw her clearly. And that, I think, meant more than any approval spoken aloud.

 

The afternoon sun poured gently over the estate, casting a soft amber glow across the gravel drive. The front steps were crowded—Caroline practically bouncing, Mama holding my hand in both of hers, Anthony managing something close to civil, and Father standing just behind, arms crossed but entirely at ease. Grandmother, too, was there, perched on the front bench like royalty, offering Benedict a parting nod that might as well have been a benediction. They had all come out to see us off.

As Benedict helped me into the carriage and climbed in after me, I looked back one last time. My family—still standing there, still waving. Even Anthony raised a hand. I waved until they were out of sight. Until the trees swallowed the house again, and it was just us and the road.

The inside of the carriage was warm with sunlight and laughter. We sat close, shoulders brushing as the wheels hummed beneath us. I felt lighter than I had in weeks like some part of me had exhaled fully for the first time. Benedict turned toward me, his smile still resting easily on his face. “So… does this mean we’re actually courting now?”

I glanced at him, cheeks warming despite myself. “I suppose it does.”

He grinned. “Good. I’d rather not have to go through another formal approval process.”

I laughed, ducking my head. “Well, let’s see how you manage one battle at a time.”

His expression sobered slightly, though the smile never fully left. “Speaking of battles… I suppose now we have to figure out how to let my father release me without turning it into a war.”

My smile faded a little, but not from doubt—only thought. “Yes. He won’t make it easy.”

“No,” Benedict agreed. “But he doesn’t get to dictate my life.”

I nodded, the breeze lifting the carriage curtain as I looked out at the sunlit fields passing by. “Still… how we do it matters. We already know he’s capable of cruelty to both our families. We’ll have to be careful.”

Benedict reached over and took my hand, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. “Then we’ll be careful. But we’ll be together.”

I looked down at our hands—his steady, mine still slightly trembling from everything that had happened—and gave a small, certain smile. “Yes,” I said. “We’ll be together. No matter what.”

The rest of the ride passed in peaceful silence, the kind born not of things left unsaid—but of things fully understood. And just ahead, beyond the forest path and the winding road, Aunt Eliza’s home waited. The world hadn’t changed, but we had. Together.