The next morning, I entered the dining room to find it already lively with the sound of clinking silver and chatter. The buffet was spread lavishly across the sideboard: golden eggs, sausages sizzling in their dish, baskets of warm rolls wrapped in linen, and a pot of tea sending curls of steam into the air. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, striking the glassware until it glittered.

I had scarcely taken two steps into the room when Helena nearly bounded out of her chair, a folded pamphlet in her hand.

“Elizabeth!” she exclaimed, her eyes alight. “Your engagement is in Lady Whistlefeather! The very first item, no less. I read it aloud to Caroline before you came down.”

The suddenness of it made me falter, my hand tightening against the back of a chair. “My engagement?” I echoed, though of course it could hardly surprise me. Lady Whistlefeather missed nothing.

Madeline, already buttering her toast with that maddening calm of hers, arched a brow. “The entire evening was written about in detail, Helena. The gowns, the carriages, even poor Mr. Gardiner tripping over his own feet during the quadrille. Naturally, the engagement was included.”

Caroline leaned forward, mischief dancing in her eyes as she set down her spoon. “Naturally,” she echoed with mock solemnity. “But Lilibet, you must marry quickly, preferably before May. I cannot have my debut eclipsed by your triumph. How am I to shine if all of London is still whispering about you?”

I laughed despite myself, shaking my head. “You forget, Caroline. I cannot do it alone. Benedict may have some say in when he is to be married.”

Caroline’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Oh, Benedict would marry you tomorrow if you asked him. He looked entirely devoted last night, did he not, Helena?”

Helena’s grin widened. “Utterly besotted. I saw him watching you across the room half the evening. I daresay he hardly noticed the rest of us existed.”

Madeline gave a quiet hum of amusement. “Which is impressive, given Caroline’s deliberate attempts to trip during her dance with Lord Knightley, just to be noticed.”

Caroline gasped, her cheeks coloring. “I did no such thing! The floor was uneven.”

“The floorboards are in perfect condition,” Madeline replied, her tone dry as dust.

The table erupted in laughter, myself included. Caroline pouted, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. “Very well,” she said at last, lifting her chin. “Mock me as you wish. Soon enough, it will be my name in Lady Whistlefeather, and then you shall all be forced to endure the fuss.”

“Let us hope for your sake it is a flattering entry,” Helena teased, pouring herself another cup of tea. “Otherwise, you will wish to crawl beneath the tablecloth rather than debut.”

“I should prefer an entry that does not mention my tripping,” Caroline retorted, glaring at Madeline, who only smirked behind her cup.

I reached for a roll, still smiling, though my thoughts tugged in another direction. It was one thing to laugh with my family, quite another to imagine strangers—ladies and gentlemen I hardly knew—reading of my engagement over their breakfast tables. My life, reduced to a line or two in gossip print.

“Lilibet,” Helena said suddenly, leaning toward me with bright curiosity, “did you know Benedict meant to propose last night? Or did he surprise you entirely?”

I nearly choked on my bite of bread, laughing to cover it. “Helena! Do you think I would reveal that here, before sausages and tea?”

“Why not?” Caroline chimed in. “Surely sisters are entitled to every secret.”

“Not every secret,” I said, but the warmth in my chest gave me away.

Helena clasped her hands together with a dreamy sigh. “It is all so romantic. Printed in Whistlefeather and everything. You are living a storybook, Elizabeth.”

 Before the laughter had quite settled, Mother laid down her napkin with a decisive little tap of her fingers. “Well, that settles it. We must begin planning at once.” Caroline immediately looked up from her tea with an expression that could only be described as wounded pride. Mother caught it instantly. “Do not give me that look, Caroline. We have been planning your debut all year long. Your gowns are already ordered, your dances mapped out. You can afford to take the back burner for a short while.” 

Mother turned her attention back to me, her eyes sharp with purpose. “Once we leave here, we will go directly to Madame de La Croix. Your trousseau will need time to be properly prepared, and the season waits for no one.”

I nearly dropped my fork. “My trousseau? Mama, I still have a job. I was surprised the matron allowed me this day off as it is. She guards her rules more fiercely than a bishop guards his sermons.”

Madeline chuckled softly, but Mother only waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. No one will begrudge you a morning for matters as important as this. And as for your hospital duties—well, even matrons must bend before a bride-to-be.”

I let out a long sigh and set down my fork, knowing resistance was useless. “Very well,” I murmured, more to appease them than out of eagerness. To distract myself, I reached for the folded issue of Lady Whistlefeather lying beside the preserves.

The pages still smelled faintly of ink. My eyes skimmed over the opening lines that spoke of my engagement, but I let them drift further, to where familiar names appeared. To my relief, the words surrounding Bartholomew and Andrew were kind for once, remarking on Bartholomew’s effortless charm and Andrew’s grace as a partner on the dance floor. I smiled faintly. Whatever else could be said about Whistlefeather’s pen, it had favored them this time. Folding the paper with care, I set it aside, letting the moment linger before asking, “Where is Benedict, anyhow? Shouldn’t he be here, eating with the rest of us?”

As if on cue, Genevieve entered the dining room, her gown trailing lightly behind her. She moved to the sideboard with practiced ease. “He is with the other men,” she said, selecting a slice of bread. “I passed them in the study just now. They were discussing the financial arrangements. I even heard a whisper or two about your dowry.”

I froze for the briefest instant, and my gaze flicked to Mother’s. Her eyes met mine in the same moment, and though neither of us spoke, the look we exchanged carried more weight than words. Caroline, however, leaned forward with wide eyes. “Your dowry? Oh, Lilibet, you are positively important now. Imagine being the subject of not only gossip columns, but also men whispering over ledgers.”

Helena stifled a laugh. “You make it sound positively romantic, Caroline. Nothing says everlasting love like a column of numbers.”

Madeline smirked. “Better numbers than poems. At least figures can’t be misquoted.”

Caroline wrinkled her nose. “You are all dreadfully unfeeling. If it were my dowry being whispered about, I should hope they’d be speaking of how generously it had been set.”

“You’ll have your turn soon enough,” Genevieve said, buttering her bread with delicate precision. “And no doubt, your mama will make certain the whispers are suitably flattering.”

Mother raised her brows, amusement tugging at her lips. “Whispers or not, Caroline, your debut will have plenty of attention. Elizabeth’s marriage will not rob you of your admirers. If anything, it may increase them—society delights in a family in high standing.”

Caroline sighed dramatically, as though resigned to her fate. “So long as I am not reduced to being introduced as ‘Elizabeth’s younger sister’ for the rest of the year, I shall endure.” Her words drew another round of laughter, and I joined in, though a small knot remained in my chest. Still, with their teasing ringing around me, I let it settle to the back of my mind—for the moment at least. 

 

By late morning, the house had grown still, except for the bustle of servants loading up the carriages for our departure. In the library, the fire was low and steady, and the light slanted in softly through the tall windows. I sat on the chaise lounge, my skirts pooled across the cushions, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame open in my lap. Benedict claimed the space beside me, leaning awkwardly against my shoulder, his presence warm and grounding.

I tried to focus on the words before me, but my thoughts wandered in restless circles until at last I closed the book and laid it aside. “Benedict,” I murmured, breaking the quiet.

He tilted his head to look at me, his expression as open as the touch of his arm against mine. “Yes, Lilibet?”

I drew a steadying breath. “There’s something I want to ask, but I don’t quite know how.”

His lips curved in that small, reassuring smile of his. “Then ask it plainly. Whatever it is, I promise I won’t be offended.”

I hesitated before speaking. “At breakfast… Genevieve mentioned hearing you and the other men talking. About finances. About my dowry.”

He straightened slightly, though he didn’t move away from me. “Yes, about your dowry. Because it is exactly that—yours. I’ve instructed your father that it will go into a trust, for you alone to use as you see fit. For your causes, your comforts, or whatever you wish. It isn’t mine to touch. It never will be.”

I turned my face toward him, surprise catching me unprepared. “A trust? For me?”

“For you,” he said firmly. “I don’t need it, I don’t want it. I told him as much. I don’t have to be bought to marry you, Elizabeth. I would choose you if you had nothing at all. If you were a farmer’s daughter with no shoes and no coin, I’d still be here. Nothing could keep me from you.”

The words wrapped around me like the warmth of the fire, steady and certain. I felt my throat tighten, and I lifted a hand to rest lightly over his. “You would do that for me?”

He gave me a look so unwavering it left no space for doubt. “I already have.”

For a long moment, I could only stare at him, my heart racing at the certainty in his words. A trust—entirely mine. His vow that nothing, not fortune or rank or expectation, could keep him from me. The weight of it pressed against my chest until the only thing I could do was act.

I tilted my face toward his, my hand sliding up along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the faint rasp of stubble beneath my fingertips, and kissed him. At first, it was tender, tentative, as though testing the edge of something fragile—but the warmth of his mouth, the way he leaned into me, urging me closer with every breath, pulled me deeper. His lips parted against mine, coaxing, and the slow burn of it made my pulse race.

He angled himself into me, his arm braced against the back of the chaise as if he meant to cage me there, to claim every inch of space between us. My fingers threaded into his hair, curling tight, unwilling to let him go, needing the rough silk of it twined in my grasp. He groaned softly into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me until I thought I’d unravel.

The library faded—the shelves, the lamplight, even the cool air around us—melted into nothing but the heat radiating from him. Every shift of his body pressed me further into the cushions, the steady weight of him anchoring me in the moment. His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of my waist before venturing over the slope of my hip, his fingertips teasing at the fabric of my skirt. He caught the hem between his fingers, tugging it upward by slow degrees, as though daring me to stop him, while his mouth never relented on mine. The brush of his knuckles against my thigh sent a shiver spiraling through me, tightening my grip in his hair.

There was only the heady taste of him, the unrelenting press of his body against mine, the breathless urgency building between us with each kiss that grew hungrier than the last. It felt endless, like a tide I never wished to retreat, a surrender I couldn’t stop even if I’d wanted to.

 

A sharp creak of the door broke us apart. I startled, my hand flying to smooth my hair, as Benedict straightened quickly, his chest still rising fast. Father stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“Father—” I began, but he raised a hand gently.

“Forgive me for intruding,” he said evenly. “But, Benedict, I should like a moment alone with my daughter.”

Benedict glanced at me, concern flickering in his eyes, before inclining his head respectfully. “Of course, Sir.” He reached for my hand, brushing his lips over my knuckles in parting, and then left the room in silence, the door clicking shut behind him.

I swallowed, my pulse still unsteady. “What's the matter?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

Father exhaled a long sigh and crossed the room. He lowered himself beside me on the chaise, the scent of pipe smoke and starch clinging faintly to his coat. Without a word, he slipped his arm around me and drew me gently against his side. The solidity of him, so familiar and so firm, left me still as a child again, curled under the quiet weight of his protection.

His arm was heavy around my shoulders, the silence stretching between us as though he were weighing his words. At last, he spoke, his voice quiet but certain. “Do you remember the last time we had a serious conversation in this room?”

I turned slightly against him, my cheek brushing the fabric of his coat. “Yes, I do. It was before Benedict and I were as serious as we are now.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, and he rested his head lightly atop mine. The familiar warmth of him steadied me, though his sigh carried something heavier beneath it.

“What is it, Father?” I asked gently.

For a long moment, he said nothing, his breath steady but pensive. Then, with another sigh, he murmured, “I am still not ready to let you go.”

My throat tightened at the rawness in his tone. I pressed closer, my words quiet but firm. “The only time you’d ever be ready for that is if you were no longer among the living.”

His arm tightened around me, and though he did not answer straight away, I felt the weight of his love in the gesture—the struggle of a man torn between pride and loss. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his breath warm against my hair. “Speaking of the dead…” His voice faltered, low and rough. “Elizabeth, I must beg your forgiveness. I should have told you the truth long ago. About my past. About being a resurrection man. About… everything that happened.”

I closed my eyes, letting his words settle. They no longer struck me with shock, as they might have once. Instead, there was only a quiet ache for all he had carried. “I understand now,” I said softly. “Aunt Eliza told me everything. About your motives, and what truly happened. Not the twisted tale Bartholomew spread.”

He drew back just enough to look at me, his brow furrowed. “She told you… everything?”

“Yes,” I said, meeting his gaze steadily. “And you might think the two of us are alike, but we’re not. I am more like Aunt Eliza than I am like you.”

For the first time in the conversation, a faint smile broke through his solemnity. He gave a quiet, almost weary laugh. “You must be right. That is what I get for naming you after my sister.”

A pause fell between us then, not heavy, but tender. We sat together on the chaise, the fire murmuring in the grate, simply content to be close—no need for more words just yet. At last, I found myself whispering, “Father… are you walking me down the aisle?”

He stirred, sitting up a little straighter. His hand slipped from my shoulder so he could turn and look directly into my eyes. His own glistened in the firelight, steady and unwavering. “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice firm but warm, “I would not miss it for the world.”

The tears that had threatened since the conversation started finally welled in my eyes. I threw my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest, and breathed out a muffled, “I love you, Father.”

For a heartbeat, he held still, and then I felt it—a warm drop hitting the crown of my head. He was crying, too. His arms tightened around me, his voice rough but certain. “And I love you, my dearest Lilibet.”

We stayed like that for some time, letting the past settle gently between us. He told me small things I had long forgotten—how I would tug on his sleeve as a child whenever I wanted a story, how I once insisted on bringing a basket of frogs into the house and Eliza had to chase them all out. I laughed through the tears, adding my own memories—of his voice in the evenings, of the way he always knew when to let me stumble and when to catch me.

The spell was broken at last by the quiet creak of the door. Mother stepped in, her gown rustling softly on the carpet. Her eyes took us in at a glance, though she said nothing of the tears still clinging to my cheeks. Instead, she smiled gently. “The carriages are ready,” she said.

Father pressed one last kiss to my temple before releasing me. I wiped at my eyes quickly and stood, my heart still warm from his embrace as we prepared to face what lay ahead.

 

By afternoon, the carriages rattled through London’s crowded streets, the din of vendors and wheels against cobblestone rising around us. When we finally drew to a halt outside the familiar shopfront of Madame de La Croix’s establishment, the sign above the door gleamed gold in the weak sunlight.

The bell chimed as we entered, the air inside heavy with the mingled scents of silks, muslins, and lavender sachets tucked discreetly along the shelves. Bolts of fabric in every hue lined the walls, and the mannequins stood like elegant sentinels draped in gowns of the newest cut.

Mother wasted no time. “Madame de La Croix,” she called, sweeping forward with her usual authority. “We will need an entire trousseau prepared—day dresses, visiting gowns, dinner attire, evening ensembles, underthings, everything. The engagement was in Whistlefeather this morning. We cannot afford a moment’s delay.”

Madame de La Croix, small and sharp-eyed beneath her cap, clasped her hands together with an approving nod. “Mais oui, Madame Geldart. I had a feeling the news would arrive so early. We shall begin immediately—every gown, every detail, exactly as you wish.”

As Mother and Madame de La Croix launched into an animated discussion about timeframes, fabrics, and embroidery houses, Caroline slipped her arm through mine and steered me toward a long counter stacked high with swatches.

“Look,” she whispered, lifting a length of pale blue silk so fine it shimmered like water in the light. “This would suit you, Lilibet. Soft, but elegant.”

I trailed my fingers over it, the fabric cool and smooth beneath my glove. “It’s beautiful,” I admitted. My gaze drifted to another bolt nearby, a deeper shade of green that reminded me of the woods at home. “But I think this one feels more like me.”

Caroline pursed her lips, half-teasing. “You always did favor green. I suppose you want half your wardrobe to make your hair look even redder.”

I laughed softly, nudging her with my shoulder. “Perhaps I do. Better red than forgettable.”

She grinned at that, tugging another bolt of silk free. “Then at least let me choose one or two, or people will think you dress like an oak tree every day of the week.”

Together we leaned over the swatches, the rustle of fabric and the muted murmur of Mother and Madame de La Croix forming a familiar backdrop, as if this were simply another outing and not the beginning of something entirely new. The little brass bell above the door chimed again, its delicate ring carrying through the shop. I glanced up—and froze. Standing in the doorway was Lady Collins, draped in a dove-grey traveling cloak, and beside her was Gabriella.

“Lady Collins,” I called out before I could stop myself. My voice carried further than I intended. Lady Collins turned toward me at once, her face composed, polite. Beside her stood Gabriella, her gloved hands clasped neatly in front of her. She was as I remembered her—sweet-faced, though her gaze lingered anywhere but directly on me.

“Miss Geldart,” Lady Collins said, inclining her head. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“I might say the same,” I replied, stepping forward with a small, careful smile. “Are you here for a fitting?”

“Yes,” she said. “We came to see about adjusting some of Gabriella’s gowns. Her debut is next year, but I prefer to have things seen too early.”

Gabriella glanced up shyly. “Madame de La Croix insists it’s better to plan ahead,” she murmured, then quickly lowered her gaze again.

By then, Mother had noticed the exchange. She turned from Madame de La Croix with her most gracious expression. “Excuse me a moment, Madame,” she said before joining us. “Lady Collins—how lovely to see you again.”

Lady Collins gave a polite nod. “Mrs. Geldart. You have my congratulations.”

Mother smiled, perfectly measured. “Thank you. It’s all been rather swift, but we’re quite pleased.”

Caroline, at my side, dipped a small bow. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting before, Miss Collins,” she said brightly. “I’m Caroline Geldart.”

“A pleasure,” Gabriella replied, her tone cordial but distant.

I caught Gabriella’s eye then and offered her a small, genuine smile. “I didn’t realize you’d be in town so soon.”

“Mother thought it best,” she said softly. “She wanted to see the latest styles.”

There was a small pause—one of those moments where civility stretched thin enough to see the awkwardness beneath. Lady Collins broke it neatly, turning to me once more. “I imagine you must be busy with preparations. Benedict mentioned there’s to be quite a wedding.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “It’s all happening rather quickly.”

Her lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile. “That’s often for the best. Fewer delays, fewer distractions.”

Mother gave a small, polite laugh. “Quite right, Lady Collins. The less time for interference, the better.”

The two women exchanged knowing looks that didn’t quite reach warmth. Gabriella shifted slightly beside her mother, and I wondered if she felt the stiffness in the air as keenly as I did. After a moment, Lady Collins glanced toward the back room. “We shouldn’t delay Madame de La Croix any longer. It was good to see you, Miss Geldart.”

“And you, Lady Collins,” I said, bowing slightly. “Miss Collins.”

Gabriella returned the gesture, her voice a whisper. “Congratulations, Miss Geldart.”

With that, they moved toward the fitting rooms, and the door curtain swayed closed behind them. The air felt lighter almost at once, though a faint tension lingered—politeness doing its best to mask something far less simple.

Mother exhaled softly beside me. “Well,” she said, smoothing her gloves, “that was... civil.”

Caroline leaned closer with a quiet, irreverent grin. “Barely.”

 

I bit back a laugh, though my heart still thudded unevenly. After Lady Collins and Gabriella disappeared into the fitting rooms, the shop soon returned to its usual rhythm—the soft whisper of fabric, the quiet hum of women’s voices, the occasional snip of shears.

Madame de La Croix beckoned me toward the raised platform near the long mirror. “Now, Miss Geldart, we must take your measurements properly before we begin,” she said, her tape already unspooling between deft fingers.

Mother followed close behind, brimming with brisk efficiency. “Yes, let’s be thorough. We’ll need the wedding gown started first, of course. Everything else can wait.”

Caroline lingered near one of the displays, pretending to study the lace trims while keeping one ear on the conversation.

Madame de La Croix circled me, murmuring measurements in a soft French accent as a young assistant jotted them down. “The gown,” she said, glancing up, “do you have any preference, mademoiselle? The cut, the fabric?”

Before I could answer, Mother spoke. “White,” she declared firmly. “Just as Her Majesty wore. A proper wedding gown should be white—pure, elegant, traditional. The Queen set the standard, and it’s one worth keeping.”

Madame de La Croix nodded approvingly. “Oui, a timeless choice.”

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, then back at Mother. “White, yes,” I agreed softly. “But I don’t want anything too showy. A bit of lace perhaps, but something simple—graceful, not grand. I’d rather it feel like me.”

Mother arched a brow, though there was affection in it. “You mean not like Caroline’s presentation gown.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Exactly so.”

Caroline gasped in mock offense. “There was nothing wrong with my gown!”

“No, of course not,” I said, feigning innocence. “It is beautiful. I believe one will be able to see the embroidery from halfway across the room.”

Mother pressed her lips together to hide a laugh, while Madame de La Croix’s assistant nearly dropped her notepad. Even the modiste herself allowed a small, knowing smile.

“Something simpler, then,” Madame de La Croix said delicately, as if smoothing away the edges of our teasing. “Elegant lines, light lace, fine silk—but nothing to outshine the bride herself.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said.

Mother nodded approvingly, though I could tell she still envisioned pearls and embroidery and half the royal court gasping at the sight. I met her gaze in the mirror and smiled, already knowing that somewhere between her taste and mine, we would find the right gown.

 

The sun was already dipping low by the time we climbed into the carriage, its light soft and gold as it filtered through the city haze. The wheels rattled over cobblestones, the noise of London slowly giving way to the quiet rhythm of the road as we made our way toward the outskirts.

I sat opposite Mother and Caroline, the sketches of my gown folded neatly in my lap. The air inside was warm and faintly scented with lavender from the sachet tucked near the window. For a while, none of us spoke. I could still hear Madame de La Croix’s brisk voice in my mind, Mother’s firm opinions about lace, Caroline’s playful teasing—and, threading beneath it all, the memory of Lady Collins’s measured politeness.

It lingered unpleasantly, that exchange. Her smile had been kind enough, her words perfectly proper, but something had felt strained beneath the civility. And Gabriella—sweet, quiet Gabriella—had hardly met my eye. I told myself I was imagining it, that it was only the stiffness of a new acquaintance. But still, the thought stayed with me.

My gaze drifted toward the window, and with it, my mind wandered to the morning in the library. The warmth of the fire. The smell of old books. Benedict’s shoulder pressed against mine as he leaned closer to see the page I wasn’t reading. The way the world had seemed to narrow until it was only us—his voice, low and certain, telling me I’d have a trust of my own. The gentle brush of his hand against mine, the way his thumb lingered at my wrist as though he couldn’t help himself.

And then that kiss.

I could still feel it—the hesitation of that first breath, the way the air between us had gone utterly still before everything gave way. His hand had come to rest at the back of my neck, anchoring me as if he feared I might vanish, and I had leaned into him without a thought. My fingers had tangled in his hair; his breath had caught against my cheek. The fire had murmured softly beneath the pounding of my heart, each beat loud enough to drown out thought.

It had been more than a kiss. There had been a moment when the world tilted, when it felt as if one more heartbeat, one more breath, might have carried us somewhere we could never have returned from. The memory of that edge still lived in me—warm, dizzying, dangerously sweet. Even now, I could feel how much I’d wanted him to stay in that closeness, to forget everything else.

My face grew hot. If Father hadn’t walked in when he did…

Caroline’s voice broke through my thoughts like a splash of cold water. “Elizabeth, why are you blushing?”

I sat up straight. “I’m not.”

She leaned forward, eyes narrowing in triumph. “You are. You’re bright red! What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, turning to look out the window.

“It was Benedict, wasn’t it?” Caroline’s grin was positively wicked. “What did he do? You have to tell me!”

“Caroline,” Mother said without looking up from the fashion magazine she’d opened.

Caroline ignored her. “Come now, Lilibet, you can’t go pink like that and expect me not to ask. Tell me! Did he—”

“Caroline.” Mother’s tone sharpened, the warning unmistakable.

Caroline sank back into her seat with a groan. “You never let me have any fun.”

I bit back a smile, grateful for the rescue, and fixed my gaze on the passing countryside. The golden fields and hedgerows rolled by, quiet and familiar, a balm to the storm of thoughts in my head. By the time the carriage turned onto Aunt Eliza’s lane, the sun had fallen low, streaking the horizon in amber and rose. The house came into view with its ivy-clad stone, and something inside me softened.

Mother leaned forward as the carriage slowed. “We’ll continue to the estate tonight,” she said. “Your father will want an update on the arrangements. I’ll send word once we have firm dates for your next fitting.”

Caroline gave me a teasing smile. “Don’t let Benedict steal you away before the wedding.”

I rolled my eyes. “Goodnight, Caroline.”

“Goodnight, darling,” Mother said warmly, reaching to squeeze my hand before I stepped down.

The carriage door shut, and the wheels carried them away down the lane until only the sound of hooves on dirt remained. I stood for a long moment on the path, watching the last streaks of sunlight fall across Aunt Eliza’s front garden. The house looked much the same as the day I’d arrived—still modest, still warm—but I was not the same girl who had come to London only months ago. Then, I’d been uncertain, a little frightened, and wholly unaware of what waited ahead.

Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined it would lead here—to love, to a future, to the version of myself now standing at the threshold of it all.