St. James's Palace, London. Evening, 1813.
The chandeliers of St. James's blazed with a thousand candles, their light cascading across marble columns and silk-draped walls. The orchestra's overture swelled above the murmur of conversation, laughter, and rustling silk — the Season's first grand affair had begun.
When the Montgomery carriage drew to a halt beneath the palace portico, a stir passed through the waiting crowd like a whisper down a corridor.
"The Montgomerys have arrived."
"Both brothers, together."
"And the Duchess herself—does she ever age?"
The footmen opened the doors, and Duchess Eleanor Montgomery emerged first, regal in emerald satin, a vision of grace that made even the Queen's attendants straighten their spines. Behind her stepped her sons: Lord Edward Montgomery, every inch the future duke in his black and gold finery, and Lord Benedict, whose quieter charm drew no less attention.
Where Edward's elegance was deliberate, Benedict's magnetism seemed accidental — born of confidence rather than effort. The two brothers together were enough to set half the debutantes whispering behind their fans and the other half pretending not to.
"Do you hear it, boys?" Eleanor murmured as they ascended the stairs. "That's London falling in love with you all over again."
Edward sighed good-naturedly. "I'd prefer if London would find a new hobby."
Eleanor gave him a look sharp enough to pierce armor. "Eddie and Ben, you must find an eligible lady to dance with tonight. I am looking at you, Edward."
Her elder son chuckled softly. "But Mother, I am taking my time."
"You have been taking your time for four years," she retorted. "At this rate, your younger brother will be married before you."
Benedict raised his brows, smiling faintly. "That seems unlikely, given my inclination to avoid social traps."
His mother arched an eyebrow. "A dance floor is not a trap, my dear. It's an opportunity."
"Some traps are beautifully decorated," Benedict murmured, but followed her nonetheless.
Inside, the ballroom gleamed — all light, perfume, and the rhythmic glide of white-gowned debutantes twirling in perfect symmetry. The Queen herself sat at the far end beneath a canopy of gold thread, observing her court with the calm of one who had seen a hundred such evenings before.
Everywhere Benedict looked, he saw repetition — smiles rehearsed, compliments exchanged, alliances negotiated between waltzes. His gaze drifted across the crowd, disinterested, until it caught upon a glint of silver near the far corner.
And then — stillness.
Lady Sophia Fiennes of Kent stood among the glitter and motion like a moonbeam caught in human form. Her gown, of pale silver satin, shimmered subtly with each turn of her head; at her throat gleamed a sapphire pendant that drew the eye, but not as much as the clarity of her gaze. Her hair, swept into an elegant updo, framed features that were not merely beautiful but alive — eyes bright with wit, a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of remarking upon the absurdity of it all.
But what arrested Benedict most was not her beauty, nor the rumors that had already begun to swirl around her — it was her company.
She stood not amid giggling debutantes, but with Viscount Ian Beaumont, Earl Jeremy Eden, and Baron Earnest Arundel — three young men who looked more like scholars in a salon than suitors at a ball. They were debating.
The strains of the orchestra faded in Benedict's ears as fragments of their voices reached him:
"Rousseau insists on man's natural liberty—"
"—yet society demands decorum—"
"—and reason demands balance, though Lady Sophia seems to prefer liberty's side of the argument—"
A flash of laughter from Sophia — bright, unguarded, utterly sincere — broke through the hum of the ballroom. The sound hit Benedict like a remembered chord.
So that was what London had been whispering about.
His mother followed his gaze, a knowing smile curving her lips. "Ah. So she is as lovely as they say."
Benedict forced a casual tone. "You've been listening to gossip again, Mother."
"Of course," she said lightly. "It's the only honest thing in London."
Edward smirked. "You'll need to be introduced properly, Ben. One does not simply march up to Lady Fiennes and discuss philosophy."
Benedict's eyes lingered on the silver figure across the room, the sapphire gleam at her throat catching the candlelight. "No," he murmured, almost to himself. "I suspect one must earn that privilege."
He did not yet move to approach — etiquette forbade it. The Queen's ball was not a place for impropriety, and besides, he wanted to observe her as she was: unguarded, brilliant, unaware that the boy she once beat at chess now stood across the room, utterly transfixed.
Eleanor's voice cut through his reverie. "Do try to look pleasant, Benedict. You have the expression of a man contemplating exile."
He smiled faintly. "In a sense, I am."
The Duchess sighed, but amusement softened her eyes. "Well, if exile looks as handsome as you, London will forgive it."
The orchestra began the next waltz, the strings shimmering like starlight, and Benedict straightened his cuffs — outwardly composed, inwardly curious.
Across the room, Sophia Fiennes laughed again at something Jeremy said, unaware that the Season had just acquired its most intrigued observer.
The orchestra swelled, the ballroom glittered, and the Duchess of Manchester was, mercifully, momentarily distracted.
Edward, ever the dutiful heir, had mastered the art of diversion — he was now deep in conversation with their mother and Lady Pembroke about the comparative virtues of Venetian lace. Benedict, seeing his chance, bowed discreetly and slipped into the shifting tide of guests.
He moved through the ballroom with practiced grace, nodding to acquaintances, exchanging brief courtesies with dowagers and debutantes alike, but his true destination was the small knot of familiar figures near the refreshment table.
Viscount Kurt Darlington spotted him first — tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair immaculately arranged, his expression lighting into a grin. "Well, if it isn't the prodigal Montgomery."
Marquess Andrew Russell of Cheshire turned at once, his red hair catching the candlelight like burnished copper. "Ben! About time you emerged from the shadows of Eton and Parliament gossip."
Earl Adrian Routledge, quieter but no less present, inclined his head with the restrained courtesy of a man who preferred influence over attention.
And beside them, Lady Elizabeth Talbot turned, her gown of soft rose silk moving like breath against her frame. She smiled warmly — genuine, without the artifice that marked so many others. "Welcome back to London, Lord Benedict. We were just speaking of you."
"Hopefully kindly," Benedict said, bowing slightly. "I am outnumbered as it is."
Kurt chuckled. "You needn't worry. Andrew was only lamenting how you'd stolen his fencing instructor's approval."
"I was merely correcting his technique," Benedict replied with mock severity. "He had a tendency to lead with his ego rather than his sword."
Andrew laughed, raising his glass in surrender. "And I see exile hasn't dulled your tongue."
Benedict's attention shifted, his gaze softening as he turned toward Elizabeth. "Lady Elizabeth, it's been far too long. I expected to see you in your mother's company this evening."
Andrew and Elizabeth exchanged a quick glance — the kind that spoke of an intimacy they no longer needed to hide. Andrew grinned. "Ah, about that. She is now my intended."
Benedict blinked. "Your intended? I thought you and Lizzie were still courting as of last Season?"
Elizabeth's cheeks colored faintly, but her smile was radiant. "We were, until last autumn. My father gave his blessing at Michaelmas, though we agreed to wait until the Season to make it known."
Andrew leaned an elbow against the nearby column, expression full of quiet pride. "Mother insists I've done something right for once."
"You've done better than right," Benedict said with genuine warmth. "Congratulations, both of you. I'll admit I never thought you'd surrender your rakish freedoms so soon, Andrew."
The Marquess smirked. "Oh, I've surrendered nothing, my friend. I've merely discovered there's more pleasure in constancy than conquest."
Kurt gave a low whistle. "You'll make poets faint with talk like that."
Elizabeth laughed softly. "Andrew's been quite earnest about his reformation, I assure you. He's even taken to morning rides instead of late suppers."
"Outrageous," Benedict said dryly. "Next he'll be drinking tea instead of brandy."
"Already has," Adrian murmured, his quiet amusement rippling through the group.
Benedict looked at Andrew in mock disbelief. "Then society truly is ending."
Andrew raised his brow. "It might just be beginning — at least for us. You should try it, Ben. Falling in love, I mean."
Benedict gave a small, humorless smile. "I've found myself rather skilled at avoiding it."
"Only because you've not yet met the woman capable of besting you," Elizabeth said gently, the perceptive gleam in her eyes cutting through his nonchalance.
Her words lingered longer than she likely intended.
Benedict turned, half-smiling to disguise the strange flicker in his chest. "If she exists, Lady Elizabeth, I expect she's been warned about me by now."
Andrew clapped him on the shoulder. "Then may she ignore all warnings. For your sake."
Before Benedict could reply, the orchestra struck up a new waltz — brighter, livelier, and louder. The swirl of dancers parted briefly, and through the moving crowd he caught again the unmistakable shimmer of silver — Sophia Fiennes, head bent in laughter among her unlikely companions, light glancing off the sapphire at her throat.
Kurt followed his gaze. "Ah, I see you've spotted Kent's diamond."
Benedict's voice was quiet. "Silver, not diamond."
Andrew grinned. "Oh no. Don't tell me you still remember her?"
"From childhood," Benedict said, still watching. "Though she was not quite so—" He stopped himself, unsure of the word. Formidable? Beautiful? Distracting?
Kurt supplied it for him, smirking. "—so grown?"
Benedict gave a short laugh, shaking his head. "So impossible, perhaps."
Andrew raised a brow, intrigued. "Impossible? Then she'll suit you perfectly."
The orchestra reached its crescendo, the dancers spun faster, and the silver figure across the ballroom caught the candlelight once more.
Benedict exhaled slowly, a faint smile curving his lips. "Yes," he murmured. "That she might."
The waltz ended in a whirl of satin and sighs, and the ballroom gradually rearranged itself into smaller circles of conversation and calculation. Benedict found himself near the refreshment table once more, his friends gathered about him in various states of amusement and distraction.
Andrew was describing some scandalous rumor about a Viscount's runaway daughter, Kurt was arguing amiably with Adrian about the price of horse breeding, and Elizabeth smiled at their antics with the mild tolerance of a woman accustomed to male absurdity.
Then — a voice, clear as crystal and unmistakably hers, carried across the din.
"Jeremy," came Sophia Fiennes' tone, dry but not unkind, "you ask questions you already know the answer to."
Benedict turned slightly, his attention sharpening. She stood only a few paces away, surrounded by her three companions — the quartet that had already become the subject of half the ton's murmurs.
"Come now," said Earl Jeremy Eden, his smile mischievous. "Surely you must have found someone worth your notice this Season?"
Beside him, Viscount Ian Beaumont muttered under his breath, "Jeremy, not now—"
But Sophia, unflappable as ever, tilted her head and replied with the composed intensity of a scholar lecturing the House of Lords.
"I shall not wed."
Her words dropped into the air like stones into still water. Conversations faltered, fans stilled, and the nearby musicians hesitated over a note.
Sophia continued, entirely unfazed. "You see, man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains—and matrimony is chains itself. Besides," she added, voice rising just enough to carry, "I love man as my fellow, but his scepter, real or usurped, extends not to me, unless the reason of an individual demands my homage. And even then, the submission is to reason and not to man."
A heartbeat of stunned silence.
Then—
Baron Earnest Arundel let out a strangled sound, blinked twice, and promptly fainted dead away.
The nearest footman leapt forward, catching him before he hit the floor, while a murmur swept through the crowd like wind through reeds.
"Did she just quote Rousseau? "
"No—Wollstonecraft, surely? "
"At the Queen's ball! "
"Heavens preserve us!"
Jeremy looked horrified and delighted in equal measure. Ian simply pressed a hand to his brow, muttering something that sounded very much like a prayer. Sophia, for her part, seemed perfectly serene, as though quoting Enlightenment philosophy in the middle of royal festivity were the most natural pastime in the world.
Benedict's group turned toward the spectacle at once.
Andrew choked on his champagne. "By God—did she just denounce marriage at the Queen's birthday ball?"
Kurt, whose expression hovered between admiration and alarm, said quietly, "Only Lady Sophia Fiennes would have the courage—or audacity—to do so."
Adrian's mouth twitched. "Courage and audacity are often the same thing in London."
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her lips, fighting back laughter. "Poor Earnest! Someone fetch smelling salts before his reputation dies of shock."
Benedict said nothing for a long moment. He simply watched.
Watched the way Sophia stood amid the rippling whispers, tall and unbowed, her eyes bright with conviction rather than shame. Watched the play of candlelight across the silver of her gown and the sapphire at her throat, steady as a heartbeat.
He felt—unexpectedly—amused. And impressed. And, if he were honest, something else entirely.
Andrew elbowed him lightly. "There's your match, Ben. She'll either marry you or murder you."
Benedict's gaze didn't waver. "Either would be preferable to boredom."
Elizabeth laughed softly, shaking her head. "Just don't faint next, my lord."
"Tempting," he murmured, "but I prefer to stay conscious when revolutions begin."
As servants fussed over Earnest and Sophia's friends scrambled to restore order, the Queen's musicians resumed their hesitant playing. The ton, ever hungry for new scandal, began to whisper with renewed vigor.
Benedict Montgomery, standing at the edge of it all, knew with unshakable certainty that London's most intriguing woman had just declared war on convention—and that he had every intention of enlisting.
The orchestra, ever dutiful, began its next waltz as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. Yet the ripples of Sophia Fiennes' declaration had not subsided—they merely glimmered beneath the surface, disguised as polite conversation.
Everywhere Benedict looked, there were tilted fans and darting glances; whispers fluttered from lady to lady like nervous sparrows.
And at the center of it stood Sophia—still perfectly composed, her sapphire eyes bright with the kind of calm that follows a storm, one meant to start.
Then, cutting through the murmurs like the crack of a whip—
"Sophia Fiennes."
The Marchioness of Kent approached, regal as ever, her expression carrying the precise serenity of a woman who could not scream only because it would be undignified.
The crowd, sensing drama of the most refined kind, subtly drifted away to grant them "privacy" while listening all the harder.
Benedict watched from across the ballroom, half-hidden behind a pillar beside Andrew and Elizabeth.
The Marchioness inclined her head stiffly toward the courtiers. "Smile, my dear," she said through her teeth. "If one must commit social treason, one should at least do so beautifully."
Sophia obeyed—or rather, she smiled with the serene defiance of a martyr. "I only answered truthfully, Mama."
Josephine drew a sharp breath. "Truth is a virtue, not a weapon to be unsheathed before the Queen's orchestra! "
"But I was asked a question," Sophia replied, her tone maddeningly reasonable. "Jeremy asked if I had found a bachelor of my liking. It would have been dishonest to imply I seek one."
"You quoted Rousseau!"
"And Wollstonecraft," Sophia added helpfully.
The Marchioness closed her eyes as though invoking divine patience. "Must you always speak as if you are standing in Parliament instead of a ballroom?"
"I merely stated a principle," Sophia said, lowering her voice but not her conviction. "If a woman must endure a thousand questions about her prospects, then surely she is permitted one honest answer."
"Honesty," Josephine murmured darkly, "is rarely fashionable."
"Then perhaps it ought to be," Sophia replied, her chin lifting.
From where he stood, Benedict nearly laughed—not out of mockery, but sheer astonishment. He had witnessed many scandals in London ballrooms: fainting debutantes, drunken lords, and mistaken proposals. But this—this was something rarer.
It was integrity. Beautiful, inconvenient, and completely ungovernable.
Andrew murmured beside him, "Her mother's going to faint next."
Elizabeth, ever serene, sipped her punch. "No. The Marchioness will survive. She's endured Sophia for eighteen years; one more won't kill her."
Kurt chuckled softly. "Ben, you're staring."
Benedict blinked, torn abruptly from his thoughts. "Am I?"
"You are," Adrian said dryly. "If you stare any longer, the chandeliers will notice."
He didn't bother denying it. "She's remarkable."
"Remarkably dangerous," Andrew countered. "Half the mamas here are clutching their pearls."
"And the other half," Elizabeth added with a knowing smile, "are wishing they had the courage to say the same."
Across the ballroom, the Marchioness placed a steadying hand on her daughter's arm, whispering something that seemed half reprimand, half reluctant pride. Sophia inclined her head in acknowledgment, but the faintest curve of her lips betrayed satisfaction.
Benedict caught that smile—the smallest, most defiant flicker of triumph—and felt his own mouth curve in answer.
Andrew noticed. "Oh no," he muttered. "That's your I've found a problem worth solving expression."
"Perhaps," Benedict said quietly, his eyes still on Sophia. "Or perhaps I've found a question worth asking."
The musicians shifted into a livelier tune, servants discreetly removed the fainted Baron Earnest from the ballroom, and the ton's whispers began to soften into amusement — as scandals always do when they are too delicious to condemn for long.
But the night had changed. The air hummed differently now, charged and curious.
Lady Sophia Fiennes had declared her mind before the Queen's court — and somewhere across the room, Lord Benedict Montgomery had just decided he very much wanted to hear her speak again.