The Montgomery Townhouse, Berkeley Square. Late Morning.
London greeted Lord Benedict Montgomery not with fanfare, but with the dull roar of carriage wheels and the faint metallic scent of the city after rain. He stepped down from the coach, his tall frame unfolding with easy grace, his gloved hand brushing the edge of his coat as if reacquainting himself with civilization after too long away.
The townhouse loomed above him—pale stone, immaculate windows, and the proud banner of the Duke of Manchester fluttering faintly from the upper balcony. It was as stately and immovable as the family itself.
He paused for a moment at the threshold, taking in the familiar façade with a small, almost imperceptible sigh. Back to London, he thought. Back to duty, to parlors and politics and the peculiar theater that calls itself society.
Inside, the entry hall gleamed with morning light and marble. Footmen bowed; the scent of beeswax and polish hung thick in the air. Before he could hand off his gloves, a familiar voice echoed down the staircase.
"Benedict!"
Lord Edward Montgomery, two and twenty and already every inch the heir apparent, descended the steps with the poise of a man born for it. He had their father's severe handsomeness and their mother's composure—qualities that seemed, to Benedict, both admirable and exhausting.
"Edward," Benedict greeted, clasping his brother's hand with genuine warmth. "I had half-expected a lecture before a welcome."
Edward's mouth curved slightly. "Oh, you'll have that too. Father's in the study; he's been timing your arrival since the carriage crossed the square."
"Then I've already failed the first test," Benedict said dryly.
They crossed into the grand drawing room where Duke Cecil Montgomery and Duchess Eleanor awaited. The Duke—tall, silver-haired, his presence still formidable despite the softness of age—rose from his chair. The Duchess, elegant and serene, looked up from her embroidery with the fond smile of a woman who knew her younger son's every thought before he spoke it.
"Ah, the prodigal scholar returns," the Duke said, his deep voice echoing faintly against the carved ceiling. "Eton has not worn you thin, at least."
"I fear, Father, that Eton merely sharpened my arguments rather than my discipline," Benedict replied, bowing slightly in greeting.
That earned a glimmer of amusement from his mother. "Your wit will serve you well this Season, my dear. London has grown dull in your absence."
"Then I shall endeavor to improve its spirits," he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
But the Duke had already turned toward business. "You and your brother will accompany your mother this evening to Her Majesty's birthday ball," he declared, his tone leaving no room for protest. "It is expected that both the heir and the spare present themselves properly. There are matters of alliance and acquaintance to be tended."
Benedict suppressed a sigh. "As you wish, Father."
Eleanor reached out, touching his hand lightly—a soft rebellion against her husband's iron expectations. "You will enjoy it, Benedict. London has changed. The young ladies have grown cleverer, or at least they pretend to be. You might find one who can keep pace with your tongue."
He gave a quiet laugh. "If such a miracle exists, Mama, she deserves to rule the realm."
The Duke frowned faintly. "Wit is charming, Benedict, but charm must have purpose. Do not waste this Season in idle talk."
Benedict bowed his head respectfully. "Of course, Father."
He was practiced at this—agreeing without yielding.
As the family dispersed—the Duke to his correspondence, the Duchess to her dressmaker's appointment, and Edward to some discreet visit to White's—Benedict lingered by the window.
Outside, London shimmered beneath a thin spring sun, its squares alive with carriages, ladies, and whispers. A world spinning fast on names and fortunes.
He had left behind Eton's libraries, its quiet, and its reason, only to return to the noise and performance of the ton. Still, there was something—some unspoken current in the air—that felt almost like anticipation.
"Her Majesty's birthday ball," he murmured. "And already they prepare the stage."
A servant passed behind him, bowing low. "Shall I have your attire prepared for the evening, my lord?"
Benedict smiled faintly, turning from the window. "Yes. Make it something unremarkable, if that is possible. I should hate to compete with the Queen for spectacle."
The servant hesitated. "Unremarkable may prove difficult, my lord."
Benedict's laughter was soft but genuine. "So I have been told."
And as he ascended the staircase toward his chambers, the city hummed below, unaware that its newest returned gentleman was already dreading his own place in its glittering ballroom.
By the time dusk settled over Berkeley Square, the Montgomery townhouse glowed like a lantern against the violet sky. Candles flared behind tall windows, servants hurried through corridors, and the faint strains of a violin being tuned drifted from somewhere belowstairs.
In his chambers, Lord Benedict Montgomery stood before the tall mirror, still and thoughtful while his valet worked with quiet efficiency.
"Your evening coat, my lord," said the man, holding out a garment of deep midnight blue, the fabric fine enough to catch the light in subtle ripples.
Benedict nodded, shrugging into it with the ease of habit. The coat fit perfectly across his shoulders—broad from fencing, riding, and years of sport rather than indulgence. Beneath it, his waistcoat was ivory, the cravat tied with deliberate simplicity; he had always preferred restraint to ornament.
The valet stepped back, adjusting the fall of the coat. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"
Benedict glanced toward the mirror again, studying the reflection that gazed back. Five feet and eleven inches of expectation stared at him—his mother's favorite phrase when teasing his posture.
His skin, faintly sun-touched from long afternoons on horseback, stood out among London's winter-pale gentry. His hair, dark brown, fell in disciplined waves that never quite behaved, and his eyes—light brown with an amber cast—caught the candlelight like warm glass. The lines of his face were defined without severity; a strong jaw, a mouth inclined toward amusement, and a gaze that had been called magnetic more times than he cared to count.
He did not feel magnetic. He felt... observed.
The valet smoothed the cuffs. "You will cut a fine figure tonight, my lord."
"I should hope so," Benedict replied lightly, though his tone carried a faint weariness. "It seems to be the principal measure of a man's worth this Season."
The valet smiled carefully, uncertain whether to agree. "The carriage will be ready within the quarter hour, my lord. His Grace and Her Grace await you below."
"Thank you, Harding."
When the servant had gone, Benedict lingered before the mirror a moment longer. The lamplight framed him in golden half-shadows, turning silk into armor and civility into disguise.
He straightened his cuffs, then his cravat, then—because he could not help himself—smiled faintly at his own reflection.
"Well then," he murmured. "Back into the ballroom of polite warfare."
He took up his gloves and descended the staircase, the sound of his polished boots echoing softly through the marble hall.
Below, the Duke and Duchess of Manchester awaited, both radiant in the manner of those long accustomed to admiration. Edward was already by the door, perfectly dressed, perfectly composed.
"Punctual for once," Edward remarked as Benedict approached.
Benedict offered a half-bow, the ghost of a grin on his lips. "Miracles do occur when the Queen commands attendance."
Their father gave a curt nod, signaling the start of another evening in the endless parade of appearances. The footman opened the door to the waiting carriage, where the city beyond shimmered with lamplight and promise.
Benedict hesitated only a heartbeat, one hand on the doorframe. The scent of London drifted in—damp stone, candle smoke, and the distant murmur of society awakening.
He drew a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the night.
The carriage rolled through the gaslit streets of London, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoing softly off the stone façades of Berkeley Square. Inside, the glow of a single lamp threw warm light across brocade seats and faces half-shaded in gold.
The Duke of Manchester had been detained by Parliament, leaving the Duchess and her two sons to attend the evening's festivities alone. It was, Benedict suspected, a calculated absence—his father preferred policy to pleasantries.
Eleanor Montgomery, radiant in an emerald gown that brought out the depth of her auburn hair, sat opposite her sons, fan in hand, though the night was cool. "Her Majesty's presentation this morning," she began with the relish of one who loved society's theater, "was quite the event. There is already talk in every drawing room."
Edward glanced out the window, unconcerned. "There always is."
"This," his mother continued, ignoring him, "was different. The talk is of Lady Sophia Fiennes—the Marquess of Kent's daughter."
At that, Benedict turned his head, faint surprise flickering across his features. "Lady Fiennes?"
Eleanor smiled knowingly. "You do recall her, I trust? You and she were inseparable one summer at the Manchester estate, before your Eton days. Always on horseback, racing that poor black colt of yours."
A memory stirred—bright afternoons in the countryside, the sound of laughter carried on wind, and a dark-haired girl with eyes the color of sapphires and a mind too sharp for her age.
"Yes," Benedict said slowly. "Kurt Darlington's companion in horses. I remember her now."
Edward raised an eyebrow, half amused. "So this Lady Fiennes is the season's newest sensation?"
Eleanor's fan flicked open, the gesture equal parts grace and emphasis. "She caused quite the stir, apparently. Wore silver to the Queen's court instead of white—imagine that. And Her Majesty herself commended her. I recall the words precisely." She straightened a little, her tone assuming the soft authority of imitation:
"'A fine figure of a young lady,' she said aloud, her voice carrying through the chamber. 'And quite striking. Silver, not white—how very daring.'"
Edward chuckled. "Daring indeed. I daresay the ton will be divided between admiration and disapproval by midnight."
"That division," said Benedict lightly, "is what keeps them alive. Without gossip, London might die of boredom."
Eleanor gave him a look that blended fondness and mild reproach. "You jest, Benedict, but daring is a double-edged virtue for a young woman. Still, I must admit I find her spirit refreshing."
"She was clever even as a child," Benedict said, half to himself. "And opinionated. I once tried to explain to her why hunting was a noble pastime, and she lectured me for twenty minutes about ethics."
Edward laughed. "Then perhaps you've found your equal, at last."
Benedict smiled faintly, his gaze turning toward the window. "Or my undoing."
His mother's eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. "We shall see which, after this evening." Then, turning to her elder son, she added pointedly, "And speaking of young ladies—Edward, it is long past time you began thinking seriously about marriage. You are two and twenty, your title secure, your prospects favorable—yet you persist in waiting."
Edward sighed, not unkindly. "I prefer to take my time, Mother. Marriage is not a matter to be rushed, nor a negotiation to be conducted like a treaty."
Eleanor rolled her eyes, snapping her fan shut with a soft click. "You sound exactly like your father. One would think love a constitutional crisis."
Benedict bit back a smile. "Father would prefer it to be."
The carriage turned toward St. James's, the noise of the city swelling—the roll of wheels, the laughter of footmen, the faint trill of violins spilling from the palace windows.
Eleanor adjusted her gloves, her tone softening. "Regardless, tonight will be an occasion worth remembering. The Queen's birthday, the first ball of the Season… and perhaps a reunion, too."
Benedict glanced at her reflection in the carriage glass, amusement ghosting over his features. "If fate insists, I shall endeavor to behave with grace."
"See that you do," Eleanor said, smiling. "The Fiennes girl has already outshone half the court. You'd do well not to make a fool of yourself in her presence."
"Perish the thought," Benedict murmured. "I've had years of practice at appearing sensible."
The carriage slowed before the palace gates, the hum of London's elite rising like the sea around them.
The Montgomery family stepped out beneath the blaze of lanterns and music, Benedict caught himself wondering—not for the first time—if reason could ever truly stand its ground against curiosity.