I sat pressed close to Eliza, her gloved hand resting lightly on her lap, her eyes fixed on the window as the countryside rolled past. Fields green with summer stretched to the horizon, broken here and there by cottages with smoke curling lazily from their chimneys, and by the proud silhouettes of grander houses—some freshly kept, others bearing the weary look of age and neglect. Benedict sat across from us, his hat tilted back ever so slightly, studying the road ahead as though his gaze might hasten the horses. He had spoken little since we set off, but his silence was not heavy—more the quiet of someone who measures his thoughts before letting them spill into the world.
The late morning sun climbed higher, warming the air that drifted through the open crack of the carriage window. Eliza leaned nearer to me, her shoulder brushing mine, and whispered about the houses we passed. She pointed out one with roses sprawling up its stone walls, another with its shutters closed against the light as though the very house slept. I nodded and humored her remarks, though my mind ran ahead to the Griswold estate. I had walked its halls often enough, sat at its long table, watched the seasons shift across its lawns. And still, every return brought a familiar flutter low in my chest, as though the house itself carried expectations along with its memories.
By the time the sun slanted toward its afternoon climb, we turned from the public road, the carriage slowing before the iron gates. High and black, they barred the way like sentinels. The footman climbed down, keys jingling at his side, and swung the gates wide with practiced effort. Only when the hinges groaned open did the horses step forward, drawing us onto the private lane.
Immaculate hedges lined the first stretch, clipped so evenly they might have been measured with a ruler. The air smelled of boxwood and summer warmth. Ahead, gravel crunched beneath the carriage wheels as the lane curved, and the view opened to the house itself. At its center stood a magnificent marble fountain, where water gurgled quietly as it flowed into a broad basin. The fountain marked the heart of a circular gravel drive, where the carriage turned gracefully before halting.
The house stood prominently, its façade made of pale stone, with tall windows reflecting the afternoon light. The hedges at its base were expertly trimmed into perfect symmetry, every line intentional and every corner sharp. Vibrant flowerbeds overflowed with color along the front steps, their blossoms arranged with the same meticulous order found throughout the grounds.
The carriage drew to a smooth halt at the foot of the grand stairs. As the horses stilled, their flanks shining in the sun, the footman sprang down and opened the door with a practiced bow. Benedict stepped out first, straightening his coat as he set his boots upon the gravel. He turned at once, his hand extended to me. I placed my gloved fingers in his, feeling the strength of his grip as he helped me descend. The sunlight struck me full in the face, and the sight of the house loomed all the greater from here.
Eliza was next, and Benedict steadied her as well. But no sooner had her slippers touched the ground than she released his hand, her excitement carrying her up the first steps without so much as a pause. Her laughter floated back as she darted ahead, her skirts brushing the flowers that flanked the stairs.
Benedict lingered. His eyes swept the façade, from the marble fountain murmuring at our backs to the symmetry of the hedges and the proud sweep of the portico above. He folded his hands behind his back and let out a low, appreciative breath. “Magnificent,” he said simply. “There’s a weight to it, Elizabeth. One could hardly pass this house without remembering it.”
I allowed myself a small smile. “It has always been impressive, though I daresay it grows grander with each year. When I was a girl, I used to think the windows too tall for the walls beneath them. Now I almost think the walls have caught up.”
He chuckled softly at that, still gazing upward. “It is a house with presence. A man could lose himself admiring it.”
We lingered there, the fountain whispering behind us, Aunt Eliza already vanished through the front door. For a moment, I let myself share in Benedict’s awe, though mine was colored by familiarity. This was not just a façade of grandeur—it was memory, history, and expectation, all cut into pale stone. At last, we mounted the stairs side by side, passing through the columns of the portico and into the shadowed cool of the great front door.
The change struck at once. Where the manor had once carried only a modest elegance, it now blazed with opulence. The marble floor, polished to a mirror sheen, gleamed beneath our feet, its pale surface traced with delicate arabesques in chalk that caught the light like fine lace. Flowers stood in profusion at every corner—arrangements bursting with color, their scents mingling until the air itself seemed perfumed. The grand staircase soared above us, its banister gleaming, its steps polished to a shine that spoke of untiring hands. And the hands themselves were everywhere. Dozens of servants hurried past, arms laden with vases, linens, and trays, each one moving quickly yet carefully, like a dancer knowing her steps. The hall hummed with activity, the energy of a household remade into spectacle. Above the commotion, a voice rang out—clear, bright, and unmistakably directed at me.
“Elizabeth!”
I looked up at once. At the top of the staircase, framed by light streaming in from a tall window, stood Helena. Her golden hair seemed almost to glimmer where the sun struck it, and she hardly paused before hurrying down, skirts swishing wildly with each step. Her day dress of challis, scattered with flowers, swayed with the rush of her movements—the low neckline trimmed with ruched collar, the sleeves flaring and narrowing as though echoing her restless energy.
I leaned closer to Benedict, lowering my voice. “That is the cousin I warned you of.” His mouth curved in a barely perceptible smile, but his gaze remained steady on the figure descending toward us.
Helena made her way swiftly down the stairs, not bothering with the careful poise most ladies would adopt. She came directly to me, seizing both my hands in hers with a warmth that left no room for reserve. “Elizabeth!” she exclaimed again, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “At last! I am beside myself for this ball. You must promise you’ll never leave my side, not once, not even for a moment.”
Her enthusiasm was impossible not to catch, and despite myself, I felt my lips curve into a smile. “You exaggerate, Helena. But I should be glad of your company.” She squeezed my hands once more before her gaze flicked to Benedict. A faint pause, just long enough to mark her curiosity.
“Lady Helena,” I said, turning to Benedict, “may I present Mr. Benedict Collins.”
Benedict bowed low, every movement measured, his expression courteous yet intent. “Lady Helena,” he said.
Helena, smiling brightly, dipped only the slightest courtesy in return—more gesture than ceremony—before straightening at once. “Mr. Collins. A pleasure indeed.” Helena released my hands at last. “Come, come—we must not linger here. Everyone is gathered in the Drawing room for tea. I had only stepped away for a moment.”
Without waiting for reply, she turned toward the grand staircase, motioning us to follow. Benedict offered me his arm, and together we moved past the sweeping rise of the steps, into a narrower hall that branched away from the main clamor of servants and preparations. The air here was cooler, quieter. Helena flitted just ahead, her skirts brushing lightly against the floor, her voice carrying back in cheerful snippets as she urged us onward. At last, she pushed open a set of tall doors and swept inside.
The Drawing room spread before us in bright, inviting warmth. The tall windows stood open, letting the summer air drift in with the hum of bees and the faint scent of roses. Deep chairs, generously cushioned, were drawn up in conversational clusters, their upholstery rich yet welcoming. Sunlight struck against polished wood and painted frames, giving the whole room a golden glow.
And, as ever, the “wall of blondes,” as I had often called them, were gathered within. Cameron, all restless energy, crouched near the carpet with little Theodore and Charlotte, the youngest of the brood, coaxing laughter from them with some impish game. On the sofas near the fireplace sat Genevieve and Madeline, their fair heads bent close to Aunt Eliza’s as they shared some quiet conversation. Nathaniel occupied the edge of that company, sprawled with studied carelessness, saying nothing and looking every inch the picture of boredom. Genevieve looked up as the door closed behind us, her smile quick and warm. She rose at once, smoothing her skirts as she came forward. “My dears,” she said, gesturing toward the sofa, “come, you must sit with us. We have been waiting for you.”
“Allow me to make the introductions,” Eliza said with her customary poise. “Lady Madeline, Lord Nathaniel Brough, this is Mr. Benedict Collins.”
Madeline offered a small, composed smile. “Mr. Collins,” she said softly, inclining her head.
Benedict bowed low, his tone measured. “Lady Madeline. Lord Nathaniel. An honor.”
Nathaniel, sprawled as ever in his careless fashion, gave Benedict a languid nod. “Collins,” he said, no more than that, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward as if to mark amusement.
We took our places—Eliza and I side by side upon the sofa, Benedict standing behind me—while Genevieve, satisfied, folded herself back into her seat. Benedict’s hand found my shoulder lightly, as though to affirm it. I met his glance, feeling again that curious steadiness of his gaze.
We spoke of nothing in particular, and yet it filled the air—news of the household, familiar names repeated, laughter flaring and then softening. I found myself observing as much as speaking, the faces of my cousins half-lit in the afternoon sun, the rhythm of their talk a music I had known since childhood.
Then Cameron, still crouched on the carpet with Theodore and Charlotte, finally seemed to notice Benedict’s presence. He sprang up in his usual impulsive manner, abandoning the children mid-game, and came across the room in bounding strides. His hand fell heavily but warmly upon Benedict’s shoulder, and his grin was as broad as ever. “Benedict!” he exclaimed. “By heaven, how long have you been standing there without a word? Tell me—how have you been keeping yourself?”
Benedict returned Cameron’s grin with one of his own, though his manner retained its usual composure. “As busy as ever, I fear,” he said, his tone touched with a quiet humor. “There is no shortage of demands upon one’s hours in the hospital. And yourself, Lord Brough? How do you fare?”
Cameron gave a loud snort of amusement. “Busy? I should think so. Hospital work is no picnic, after all.” He swept his arm in a grand gesture toward the carpet, where Theodore was even now clinging with both arms about his father’s leg. “And as for myself, you see I am equally employed—though in somewhat different fashion.”
The picture of Theodore latched on to him so stubbornly drew a ripple of laughter from Genevieve. She was bent toward Charlotte, smoothing her daughter’s flyaway hair with gentle but efficient fingers, her face softening in the familiar rhythm of a mother’s care. In that moment, I caught the faintest sigh from Nathaniel where he lounged, half-slouched in his chair. The sound was soft, barely more than a breath, and no one else seemed to heed it. His gaze had drifted elsewhere, his expression carefully guarded, as though he were already weary of the company about him. I said nothing, though my eyes lingered a heartbeat longer upon him before turning back to the merriment between Cameron and Benedict.
Just then, the door swung open, the hum of voices and laughter shifting as all eyes turned. My father entered first, tall and steady as ever, his presence filling the room with quiet authority. Beside him was my mother, graceful in her bearing, her smile carrying warmth enough to soften the formality of our arrival. Anthony followed close behind, his expression set in its usual thoughtful lines, and Caroline trailed last, her bright step hardly contained by decorum. Helena was on her feet before any of us could rise, her skirts swishing as she darted across the room. “Caroline!” she exclaimed, arms already outstretched. My sister laughed as Helena caught her in a swift embrace, the two of them chattering with the eagerness of old conspirators reunited.
Meanwhile, Cameron had crossed the room in his bounding way, his grin broad as he clapped my father heartily on the shoulder. “Cousin! At last! We’d begun to think you’d abandoned us altogether.” My father’s laugh, low and genial, answered his welcome as he shook Cameron’s hand with fondness.
Anthony, saying little, made his way past the greetings and dropped into the empty seat beside Nathaniel. Neither of them spoke at first, but their shared air of detachment seemed to suit them both. I caught the faint curl of Nathaniel’s mouth—something between amusement and resignation—as Anthony leaned back in similar fashion, the two looking for all the world as though they had already struck a silent accord.
My mother moved with a gentler pace, her eyes sweeping the room until they found me. She came to sit at my side, her gloved hand brushing mine as she settled in. Her warmth radiated in every word as she greeted those nearby—Eliza, Genevieve, Madeline, and even Benedict, whom she acknowledged with particular kindness. “It is such a pleasure to see you all gathered,” she said, her voice a soft balm against the room’s lively energy.
I felt Benedict shift ever so slightly at my shoulder, his bow of acknowledgment as courteous as ever. And for a moment, with my family gathered in their several ways about the room, the house seemed fuller—livelier—and heavier all at once. At a word from my mother, we rose and spilled out through the open doors onto the lawn, the relief of fresh air upon us like a balm. Servants had been busy in our absence, and what awaited us there seemed no less carefully arranged than the splendor inside.
The long table had been set upon the lawn, draped in white linen that stirred faintly in the breeze. Platters of cold meats, fresh bread, berries, and cheeses gleamed beneath the late-summer sun, silver catching the light whenever a servant leaned forward to pour wine or arrange a dish. The air carried the mingled scents of herbs and roses from the nearby garden beds, a sweetness that seemed to linger above the meal. We sat together beneath the shade of a great elm, its branches spreading wide, dappling the table in shifting patterns of sunlight. The conversation was easy, punctuated by quiet laughter, the scrape of cutlery, the rustle of napkins. Even the children managed a measure of decorum at first, though Theodore’s legs swung restlessly beneath his chair.
When the meal was at last finished and the table cleared, the restraint broke like a flood. The children pulled us into play, their laughter ringing as lawn bowls rolled across the clipped grass and ribbons arced through the air in bright, fluttering lines. Benedict joined me in the Game of Graces, his movements neat and sure, the hoops flying between us with practiced ease. When the games at last slowed, laughter rose on all sides, carrying us beyond the garden’s borders until we spilled into the meadow. The wildflowers there were thick and untamed, bending in the breeze, their colors vivid against the deep green. The murmur of the river reached us, steady and soothing, its waters catching the sun like glass. Blankets were spread, and soon we were gathered close upon them.
The Brough children turned their attentions upon one another, pestering and prodding with sibling vigor, their laughter unrestrained. Only Madeline held her composure, hands folded in her lap, her posture the picture of propriety—yet her eyes betrayed the pull of mischief, lingering on her brothers and sisters with unspoken longing to join. Cameron, ever loudest, would not concede in his torment of my father, his laughter booming, his remarks as relentless as they had been since boyhood. My father bore it with long-suffering good humor, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself.
Through it all, Benedict’s gaze found mine. His smile was quiet, unguarded, and his eyes held such warmth that for a moment I forgot the chatter, the laughter, even the meadow itself. The world stilled, narrowed to that single look. Not far off, I could see Genevieve glance toward Eliza, who met her eye with the faintest knowing curve of her lips. A silent understanding passed between them, unspoken but plain. The afternoon stretched on in sunlight and laughter, the river’s voice threading through it all, as though time itself had grown gentle for us.
By the time we returned, the sun was low, spilling gold across the lawns and casting long shadows against the house. The air had cooled with the coming evening, and the stone of the façade caught the fading light in pale hues, as though it had been brushed with fire. Within, the hall was already dim with the hush of twilight. At the base of the grand staircase, Genevieve gathered her brood. Nathaniel lingered a step behind, Charlotte clutched her mother’s skirts, and Theodore fidgeted with the ribbon he had carried back from the meadow.
“My loves,” Genevieve said, her voice firm but gentle, “tonight is a very important evening. Lord Bassett and Lord Yates will join us for dinner and will be staying with us for a few days. They are fine gentlemen and your sisters’ future husbands. I expect you all to be on your very best behavior.”
Nathaniel gave a long-suffering sigh, though he did not protest. Charlotte nodded solemnly, and Theodore bobbed his head with vigorous determination. “Yes, Mama,” they said together, the words echoing softly against the high walls.
Genevieve’s expression softened into a smile. “That is all I could wish to hear.” She bent to kiss each of them in turn—first Nathaniel, who endured it with faint amusement; then Charlotte, who beamed under the touch; and lastly Theodore, who wriggled but grinned nonetheless. “Goodnight, my darlings. Off to the nursery with you now.”
Their nanny stepped forward, taking Charlotte by the hand and guiding the younger Theodore along. Nathaniel followed at a more leisurely pace, his hand trailing against the banister, but even he offered a parting glance before the three of them disappeared up the staircase. The hall quieted in their absence, the air settling like a held breath. Cameron gave a short laugh. “So the parade begins,” he said, glancing toward the rest of us as we lingered in the softening light.
“Indeed it does,” my mother replied, her tone touched with amusement. “Come—we must all prepare. It would not do to keep such guests waiting.” One by one, the rest of us began to ascend, each to our chambers to dress for dinner. Skirts rustled along the stairs, boots sounded faintly against the polished wood, and the hush of anticipation settled like a veil over the household as it readied itself for the evening ahead.
Benedict and I reached the landing together. For a moment we lingered, eyes catching, neither speaking. His glance held me longer than it ought to, and then, with a faint incline of his head, he turned down the east corridor while I went west. My steps quickened, though my pulse lagged behind.
When I entered my chamber, Josephine was already waiting, nimble fingers busy with ribbons and pins laid neatly upon the bed. “Finally, here you are,” she said, her dark eyes flashing up to me. “We have not a moment to lose.” Off came my light-blue day dress, slipping to the floor with a whisper. Josephine gathered it swiftly, as though even a wrinkle might be an offense. In its place, she drew out one of the gowns I had saved especially for this house.
The emerald organza shimmered over satin, the inner skirt falling longer than the outer. Each hem was broad, finished with roses—one full and white at the left where the satin was looped high, another on the right to balance it. The bodice clung close, a faint point at the waist, the draperies across the bosom soft but deliberate. Short sleeves puffed and were caught at the arm with roses, another bloom set at the center of the corsage. The gown was not extravagant so much as exact, each flourish chosen as though it carried meaning.
Josephine held it up with a little sigh. “This one will make even the chandeliers jealous.”
I smiled faintly. “You think so?”
“Mais oui,” she replied, fastening the gown about me with quick, precise movements. “The color—it gives fire to your eyes. Emerald for the lady with secrets.”
“Secrets?” I laughed softly, though the sound caught in my throat. “What nonsense you speak.”
When the gown was fastened and smoothed into place, Josephine set her hands to my hair. She drew the front locks into sleek bands, pinned flat to the line of my ears, then worked the rest into a broad braid. Her fingers moved with quick, sure confidence as she coiled the braid low against my neck, twisting it into an elegant knot that sat heavy but secure. She tucked stray strands with a pin clenched between her teeth, then stood back to check her handiwork.
“Voilà,” she said, brushing a wisp from my temple. “You look ready to conquer an empire—or at least a dining room.” The necklace of pearls came next, cool against my throat, then the white gloves, barely grazing the wrist. Last, she slipped on the satin shoes, tied neat and firm. She stood back at last, surveying me with the satisfaction of a painter stepping from her canvas. “Perhaps I am wrong,” she said softly, “but fabric does not lie.”
I thanked Josephine warmly before dismissing her. The room seemed strangely still after she left, the air heavy with the faint scent of rosewater. I sat a moment before the glass, staring at the figure it reflected back—emerald, pearl, and rose. It was not only tonight’s dinner I prepared myself for, but the greater trial to come. Tomorrow, we would stand before Bartholomew Collins. The thought brought a tightness to my chest, and I smoothed my gloves against my lap as though the motion could steady me. After a silence long enough to gather my resolve, I rose, the skirts whispering as they fell about me, and made my way back to the drawing room.
Voices reached me first—my father’s measured tone, Cameron’s easy laughter, Benedict’s deeper cadence threading between them. They stood together by the hearth, speaking of some matter I could not catch. Yet as I stepped into the room, Benedict turned. His words faltered, stopping mid-sentence. A flush spread swiftly across his cheeks, his composure undone in an instant. Cameron, oblivious, carried on a moment before noticing Benedict’s silence and following his gaze to me.
The sight of Benedict’s sudden discomfiture drew a laugh from my lips, soft but irrepressible. I crossed the room toward him, teasing lightly, “Have I stolen your words, sir? I did not mean to render you speechless.”
Cameron grinned, pouncing at once. “Speechless, indeed! Look at him. Elizabeth, you’ve struck the poor fellow dumb. I’ve never known Collins at a loss for words, but here he is, felled by a dress and a pair of pearls.”
I glanced sidelong at Benedict, whose color deepened all the more. My smile widened. “Then I shall count it an accomplishment.”
Cameron laughed loudly, clapping Benedict on the shoulder. “Accomplishment? It’s a triumph!”
Benedict groaned softly under his breath, though his eyes flicked to mine with a look that betrayed more warmth than protest. The others began to gather not long after—my mother and Aunt Eliza side by side, their heads bent in quiet conversation; Genevieve with Charlotte clinging at her skirts until the child was coaxed away by her nanny; Anthony and Nathaniel drifting in together, their silence companionable if not especially cheerful. Helena, restless as ever, could hardly sit still, pacing between the window and the sofa where Madeline had composed herself with perfect poise.
The room filled with the hum of small conversations—snippets of news, trivial remarks about the weather, laughter rising and falling like the crackle of a fire. I answered when spoken to, but my eyes strayed often to Benedict, who lingered near Cameron and my father, his voice low, his manner attentive though his gaze wandered more than once in my direction.
At last, the heavy tread of boots sounded in the hall. The door opened, and Lord Yates was announced. Tall, ruddy, and eager, he crossed the room with scarcely a pause before Helena swept forward to meet him. She greeted him with such unrestrained delight that it seemed she had rehearsed it, her cheeks flushed, her hands clasping his without hesitation. His answering smile was broad, almost boyish, as though her enthusiasm left him no choice but to mirror it. Mere minutes later, Lord Bassett entered. His manner was quieter, measured, yet no less intent as his eyes sought out Madeline. She rose with the grace of a queen receiving homage, her bow practiced to perfection, her smile restrained but genuine. He bowed over her hand with solemnity, and though not a word carried across the room, the satisfaction in Madeline’s face spoke plainly enough.
The air shifted with their arrivals; conversations grew more purposeful, the gathering no longer a family circle but a company assembled for formality’s sake. I felt it like a tightening cord around us all, drawing each into the roles we were expected to play. A few minutes passed in this mingling, laughter chiming, compliments exchanged. Then the door opened once more. A footman stepped in, his bow brief, his eyes cutting to Cameron.
Cameron straightened at once, his grin breaking wide. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he declared, sweeping his arm with a flourish, “the table awaits us. Let us not keep the feast waiting.” With a stir of skirts and the shifting of boots upon the polished floor, the company began to move toward the dining room, the hum of conversation trailing after us like a tide drawn forward.
The procession carried us into the dining room, and I could not help but pause at the threshold. It was as though the front hall had been echoed here—every surface polished to brilliance, every wall adorned with garlands of flowers and gleaming sconces that made the candlelight glitter. The table stretched the length of the room, laid with linen so white it seemed almost to glow, silver and crystal catching the light in countless reflections. Tall arrangements of roses and lilies divided the courses of plates and cutlery, their fragrance mingling faintly with the warmth of the room.
Anthony and my father took the heads of the table. Genevieve and Cameron were seated midway down the length, presiding with practiced ease. To one side of them sat Madeline and Lord Bassett, their posture composed, their conversation quiet. Opposite, Helena leaned toward Lord Yates, her gestures lively, her eyes bright. Eliza and I were placed across from Genevieve and Cameron, Caroline and Nathaniel close to my left. My mother and Benedict sat on Eliza’s other side, Benedict positioned directly beside my father at the head of the table. It was an arrangement so precise that I could not doubt it had been considered with care—balances of family, of expectation, of alliances both present and to come.
The first course arrived—soup, steaming and delicate, served in porcelain bowls rimmed with gold. Servants moved with quiet efficiency, filling glasses, replacing dishes, carrying platters with scarcely a sound. The talk around the table ebbed and flowed, voices rising and falling in easy rhythm. Some laughed, some listened; the clink of silver against porcelain marked the only constant. With each course, the pace of the meal shifted: meats and fish, sauces rich and fragrant, bread still warm from the ovens. The steady murmur of voices filled the air like a current carrying us forward. I found myself watching more than speaking, tracing the play of expression across familiar and unfamiliar faces alike.
By the time the salad course was set before us, a soft patter had begun at the windows. The rain tapped gently against the panes, first scarcely noticed, then gradually forming a rhythm of its own, mingling with the murmur of voices and the scrape of cutlery. The air seemed to cool with it, the candle flames steadying as though braced against the sound.
After dinner we drifted once more to the drawing room, where laughter and talk resumed in smaller clusters. The hours blurred with the warmth of firelight and conversation, but as the evening stretched on my fatigue began to press in. At last, I rose from my seat. “I think I shall retire,” I said, smoothing my skirts.
My mother’s gaze lifted to me, gentle as ever. “Sweet dreams, my dear.”
Eliza, close at her side, added softly, “Goodnight, Lilibet.”
I inclined my head in return, but as I turned to go, Benedict was already standing. “Allow me,” he said quietly, offering his arm.
I hesitated, weary as I was, then accepted. Together we crossed the grand front hall. Outside, the rain that had begun so gently over supper had grown into a storm. Wind rattled the great windows, branches scraped faintly against the glass, and thunder rolled in the distance. Servants moved quickly through the hall, watering the enormous flower displays as if to protect them from the coming night, others polishing the banisters that gleamed even brighter whenever lightning flared. The staircase rose before us in solemn grandeur, our footsteps muted beneath the storm’s growl.
Arm in arm, we climbed in silence. The hush between us was underscored by the storm’s voice, every gust and rumble a reminder of what tomorrow might bring. At last, we reached the corridor, and my chamber door stood waiting. We paused there, the air thick with the scent of rain seeping through unseen cracks. Benedict’s voice broke it, low and certain. “At last—just the two of us. I’ve never seen a family so lively before.”
I smiled faintly, though my heart quickened. “You had better get used to it, if you mean to be part of this family.” My voice dropped, softer, more hesitant. “That is something you still want, isn’t it?”
His hand rose to my cheek, gentle, steady, his eyes holding mine with unflinching warmth. “Absolutely,” he said.
Heat rushed to my face. I drew a shaky breath, my words faltering. “We shouldn’t… not here, not with my family so near—”
He leaned closer, his voice hushed, earnest. “Then perhaps this is the only time we’ll have alone.” The storm roared beyond the walls, a crash of thunder shaking the glass as he bent toward me. My resolve faltered, then fell away entirely. I leaned into him, and our lips met.
At first it was a feather’s touch, hesitant, almost questioning. Then, as though some barrier had broken, his mouth pressed more firmly to mine, warm and insistent. The scent of rain drifted faintly through the corridor, mingling with the sharper note of roses and candle wax from the sconces, but all of it blurred into nothing as I sank into him. His hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, holding me with a quiet surety, while his other arm wrapped tight around my waist, drawing me close. The bodice of my gown felt suddenly too stiff, too narrow, as though even the fabric resisted how near I longed to be. I could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat matching my own frantic pulse.
A shiver coursed through me, not from the storm but from the way his breath mingled with mine between kisses. My hands, trembling yet certain, clutched at the lapels of his tailcoat, pulling him closer still, as if there were no space in the world wide enough to hold what I wanted of him. He yielded nothing, only deepened the kiss, his lips parting mine until the world tilted, thunder rolling outside in time with the racing in my chest. The storm battered the windows, wind rattling the panes, yet here we stood cocooned in our own tempest. The heat of him, the taste of him, the way his hand slid down my back to anchor me—each sensation blurred into the next until I no longer knew where I ended and he began.
At last, breathless, we parted only for an instant before he sought me again, kisses tumbling one upon another, each more urgent than the last. My fingers twisted in the fabric of his coat, desperate, unwilling to release him. He groaned softly against my mouth, and the sound set fire low in my belly. Only when the need for air overcame us both did we finally break apart, gasping, foreheads nearly touching. His face was flushed, his lips parted, and his eyes held mine as though nothing else existed. Silence stretched between us, but for the storm. Then, with visible effort, Benedict cleared his throat, his voice ragged. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
I could barely form words, my cheeks burning, my breath uneven. “You—you don’t need to apologize,” I stammered, “But… apology accepted.”
His gaze fell, shame and desire warring in the curve of his mouth. “Goodnight, my dearest Lilibet.”
I slipped into my room with trembling hands. Closing the door, I leaned back hard against it, the echo of his touch lingering on my lips, my waist, my very skin. My heart raced wildly, as relentless as the storm that crashed against the windows, a storm that felt less like weather than an omen for all that tomorrow might bring.
