The Fiennes Estate, Grosvenor Square. Late Afternoon.
The hoofbeats of Coriolanus echoed smartly against the cobblestones as Lady Sophia Fiennes turned into Grosvenor Square, the blue of her riding habit glinting like enamel beneath the pale London sun.
Her attendant rode a respectful distance behind, holding the stallion's reins as Sophia dismounted at the gates of the Fiennes Estate — a stately Georgian façade of pale stone, adorned with the elegance of generations that had never once doubted their own importance.
A footman hurried forward to take her gloves and riding crop, though his eyes flickered nervously toward the street as if expecting a royal procession to appear at any moment.
Sophia's tone, however, was calm. "No need for alarm, Carter. I've arrived before the storm, not during it."
The footman blinked. "Yes, my lady."
Inside, the marble-floored hall gleamed in orderly perfection — portraits of her ancestors watching her pass, each painted expression silently reminding her that Fienneses were never late and always composed.
At the foot of the staircase stood Marquess Reginald Fiennes of Kent, her father — a tall man of scholarly bearing whose patience was legendary and whose wife's family had tested it for two decades.
He looked up from a sheaf of correspondence, smiling faintly. "My sapphire returns. I trust your ride was—"
"They're here," Sophia said breathlessly, cutting him off.
Reginald blinked. "Who?"
"Grandpapa and Grandmama," she said, pulling off her hat and gloves. "The Huntingtons. They arrived in London early. I saw them — they're on their way here as we speak."
Her father froze, the letter in his hand slowly lowering. "Already? But your mother assured me they would arrive by evening."
Sophia winced. "Then I am afraid the evening has come sooner than expected."
The Marquess looked toward the clock on the mantelpiece as though hoping it might offer mercy. "It is barely four o'clock."
"I am aware."
He exhaled heavily, running a hand over his brow. "And they saw you?"
"Yes," Sophia admitted. "With Ian, Jeremy, and the others."
He closed his eyes briefly. "Of course they did."
Sophia attempted a smile. "They seemed… pleased."
Reginald gave her a look that conveyed a lifetime of paternal disbelief. "Did they say they were pleased?"
"They said I should come home immediately," she confessed.
He sighed again, the sound equal parts resignation and affection. "Your mother is never going to forgive me for being unprepared."
Sophia tilted her head, amusement creeping into her voice. "Papa, I think Mama's forgiveness is the least of our worries."
"You are correct," he said grimly. "Your grandparents' arrival in this house is an event akin to a royal inspection."
A footman entered, bowing hastily. "My lord, the Duchess and Duke Huntington's carriage has turned into the square."
Sophia muttered, "And so the royal inspection begins."
Reginald squared his shoulders with the air of a man preparing for battle. "Quickly, Sophia. Remove your hat. At least pretend you have been waiting at home in dignified anticipation."
"But I've just returned from—"
"Dignified anticipation," he repeated firmly.
Suppressing a laugh, Sophia tossed her hat to the nearest attendant and attempted to smooth her habit into something resembling serenity.
The butler's voice rang out from the front hall a moment later. "Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess Huntington of Suffolk!"
The great doors opened, and in swept Duke Theodore Huntington and Duchess Arabella Huntington, regal as empire and twice as immovable.
Arabella's gaze swept the hall at once, assessing its readiness, its occupants, and her granddaughter's posture in a single breath.
"Sophia," she said, tone even. "I am relieved to find you upright and not mid-lecture."
Sophia curtsied smoothly. "You've only just arrived, Grandmama. Give me an hour."
Arabella's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close.
Reginald stepped forward, offering a practiced bow. "Your Graces. London welcomes you back."
The Duke regarded his son-in-law with that particular expression older men reserve for younger ones who married their daughters. "Reginald. You appear… startled."
Reginald cleared his throat. "Simply delighted, sir."
Arabella handed her gloves to a waiting maid. "We came sooner than planned. The situation in London seemed to require it."
Sophia winced. "You mean I required it."
Her grandmother's expression was kind but unyielding. "You are the situation, my dear."
The Duke and Duchess Huntington were barely seated before Reginald leapt into action with the frantic but dignified precision of a man torn between filial duty and existential peril.
"Your Graces," he said, guiding them toward the drawing room with a respectful bow, "please make yourselves comfortable. Josephine is upstairs getting dressed… she will be down any moment."
Arabella lifted a brow. "She was not expecting us?"
"She was," Reginald replied carefully. "She simply… expected you later."
The Duke gave a hum that suggested misunderstanding was not a possibility he entertained.
They had only just crossed the threshold into the drawing room when the front doors opened again.
The butler's voice rang out, steady but unmistakably strained:
"Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess Campbell of Sutherland… and their children."
Reginald's face shifted through eight emotions and landed firmly on despair.
"Oh, great," he muttered under his breath.
Sophia tried—and failed—to suppress a sympathetic wince.
The Campbell family swept in like a perfectly choreographed diplomatic delegation:
Duke Alexander Campbell—tall, broad-shouldered, and carrying the weary dignity of a man who had negotiated treaties and toddlers.
Duchess Catherine Campbell—radiant, elegant, and every inch the younger sister of Marchioness Josephine.
Behind them followed:
Lady Beatrice Campbell—serene, poised, and graceful as a porcelain figurine come to life.
And finally:
Victor Campbell—fourteen, bright-eyed, and trying very hard to look like he owned the entryway. (He nearly did.)
Alexander and Reginald's eyes met—two aristocratic men sharing the exact same thought:
We are doomed.
Sophia almost burst into laughter. Almost.
Before anyone could speak, the rapid click of footsteps on the staircase filled the hall.
Marchioness Josephine Fiennes descended with all the controlled elegance of a woman who had not been ready three minutes ago but had miraculously achieved perfection out of sheer fear of her relatives.
Her eyes widened, but she recovered instantly.
"Mama! Papa! " She swept forward and embraced her parents with genuine warmth.
Then, turning, "Catherine, my dear! "
The two sisters embraced—a flurry of lace, perfume, and affection sharpened by lifelong rivalry.
Reginald stood behind them, shoulders sagging in relief and resignation.
At least the greetings seemed pleasant—for now.
Beatrice stepped delicately toward Sophia, dipping her head. "Cousin. It is good to see you."
Sophia smiled warmly. "Bea. You look lovely, as always."
Beatrice's lips twitched—the closest she came to mischief. "And you… look like you've ridden here directly from the battlefield."
Sophia lifted her chin. "I did."
Victor strode up next, beaming. "Sophia! Did you bring Coriolanus? I heard him from the street—he sounds magnificent."
Sophia softened at once. "He's in the stables. I'll take you to see him later."
Victor nodded solemnly, then leaned in to whisper, "Are we being invaded? "
Sophia whispered back, "Yes. And you are part of the invasion."
Behind them, Arabella and Catherine clasped hands.
"Sophia," Arabella called, "come here, darling. We must discuss several urgent matters."
Sophia closed her eyes. "Of course we must."
Reginald sent her a sympathetic look of pure paternal suffering.
In the drawing room, the servants had scarcely finished pouring tea before the atmosphere thickened like a storm cloud trapped indoors. The Huntingtons and Campbells arranged themselves in a semi-circle of authority, the seating precisely—and terrifyingly—symmetrical.
Sophia sat on the chaise in the center, her posture perfect, her expression serene.
Exactly like a woman being ceremonially sacrificed.
Josephine sat beside her daughter, wearing a diplomatic smile so tight it might crack.
Reginald stood behind them like a loyal foot soldier who knew the battle was already lost.
Beatrice sat gracefully, hands folded, observing with serene curiosity.
Victor planted himself beside Sophia with righteous loyalty, glaring at anyone who raised their voice.
Duke Theodore Huntington cleared his throat. The room snapped to attention.
"Well then," he said, voice deep enough to shake the porcelain. "Sophia. Let us begin."
Arabella folded her hands. "Your declaration last night—"
Catherine cut in kindly, "—caused quite a stir, dear."
Alexander added dryly, "The ton nearly collapsed."
Josephine inhaled sharply. "She was asked a question and answered it!"
Arabella glanced at her daughter with practiced maternal calm. "Josephine. We will come to you in a moment."
Josephine fell silent immediately.
Sophia exhaled and prepared to face the tribunal.
Theodore spoke first. "Lady Sophia, is it true that you announced your refusal to marry?"
"Yes, Grandpapa."
"And," he continued, "that you did so using Rousseau and Wollstonecraft?"
Josephine muttered, "She was provoked—"
Arabella raised a hand. "Josephine."
Sophia lifted her chin. "Yes, Grandpapa. I spoke truthfully. Man may be born free, but everywhere he is in chains—and matrimony is one of those chains. I should not willingly step into a prison."
A collective inhale swept the room.
Catherine pressed a hand to her forehead. "Good heavens."
Alexander groaned softly. "You sound like Victor."
Victor perked up. "Thank you, Father!"
Alexander sighed. "That was not praise, my boy."
Sophia remained unshaken. "I simply stated what philosophy teaches us—"
Arabella turned her sharp gaze to her daughter.
"Josephine… Sophia's tutor is the same as Beatrice and Victor's, is she not?"
Josephine blinked, startled. "Yes, Mama. Miss Davenport has tutored all three of them since childhood."
Theodore frowned deeply. "Then why do Sophia and Beatrice have such different demeanor? Why does Sophia quote war and revolution while Beatrice quotes poetry and etiquette?"
Beatrice gave a polite nod. "I do enjoy poetry."
Sophia answered before Josephine could jump in.
"Because we are not the same person, Grandpapa."
Silence.
Even the clock seemed to hesitate.
She continued, her voice steady:
"Beatrice and I were raised in different homes, even though we share a tutor. I am the daughter of a Marchioness with a mother who taught me sharpness. Bea is the daughter of a Duchess who taught her gentleness. We learned the same texts, but we drew different truths."
Beatrice smiled softly in agreement. "Sophia sees the world as a debate. I see it as a piece of music. Both are valid."
Arabella's eyes glimmered—half pride, half headache.
Theodore leaned back, rubbing his temples.
"But why, Sophia, did you declare such sentiments publicly? Before the court? Before the Queen?"
Sophia's voice dropped to something honest and unvarnished.
"Because I was asked if I had found a bachelor to my liking. And I refuse to pretend. I do not wish to marry for obligation. I do not wish to lose my autonomy. I will not bow to a man simply because society instructs me to."
Josephine's hand flew to her heart—proud, horrified, both.
Alexander chuckled darkly. "The ton is going to implode."
Catherine sighed. "It already has."
Arabella's stare softened—just a fraction. A grandmother's affection slipping beneath the steel.
"Sophia Fiennes," she murmured, "you are a whirlwind."
Victor grinned. "She is magnificent."
Sophia squeezed his hand gently. "Thank you, Victor."
Arabella sat straighter. "However—"
Sophia tensed.
"Your sentiments, though admirable in private, are unwise in public. And reckless when stated in front of Her Majesty."
Josephine winced. "We are aware."
Theodore's voice rolled through the room. "As your elders, we must intervene. You are eighteen. You are impressionable. And you must be… guided."
Sophia shut her eyes. "I feared you would say that."
Arabella folded her hands.
"My dear, you are clever. You are capable. But you are also young. And the world is far less forgiving than your books."
Sophia said nothing.
Beatrice reached over and squeezed her cousin's hand.
Victor moved closer to her like a small knight defending his embattled general.
Josephine exhaled, resigned yet proud.
"She is stubborn because she is brilliant. She is my daughter."
Arabella hummed. "Brilliance and stubbornness are a dangerous combination."
Theodore added, "Especially in a debutante."
Sophia sighed. "I understand your concerns. Truly. But I refuse to be—"
Arabella held up a hand.
"And that, my dear, is why we have come. We shall help you… refine these convictions. So that they do not ignite London a second time."
Sophia looked heavenward.
"Grandmama… that may be impossible."
Arabella smiled with terrifying serenity.
"Then we shall attempt the impossible."
After the storm of philosophical interrogation had passed, the atmosphere shifted with the delicate clink of teacups and the rustle of skirts. The Huntingtons and Campbells exchanged meaningful glances—the kind that heralded a change of agenda, not a cessation of interrogation.
Catherine Campbell cleared her throat delicately.
"Well," she began with a proud mother's smile, "since Sophia's situation is now… understood, perhaps we might turn to Beatrice. She will be re-entering society this Season, and her marriage prospects—"
Sophia groaned softly. "Aunt Catherine, must we truly talk of marriage prospects? Why can we not discuss her proficiency in Japanese, French, Prussian, Latin—and her exceptional skill in the pianoforte?"
Beatrice's eyes widened, scandalized and flattered all at once.
Catherine blinked, pausing mid-sip. "Because, my dear, society does not measure a young lady by her languages."
"Well, it should," Sophia replied sharply.
Reginald murmured under his breath, "Heaven help us."
Arabella pressed her lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile.
Victor straightened with gusto.
"Yes! Sophia is right. Beatrice is very good at piano."
Beatrice's head snapped toward her brother so fast she nearly knocked over the sugar dish.
"Victor," she hissed, cheeks coloring, "that is not the point."
Victor shrugged innocently. "You are good at piano. You won the competition at Sutherland last year. Father even cried—"
"I did not cry," Alexander said immediately, eyes narrowing.
He absolutely had.
Catherine looked heavenward. "Victor, darling, do not announce private family matters."
Victor blinked. "But Sophia asked—"
"I asked about her skills, not your father's emotional state," Sophia said dryly.
Alexander muttered, "It was dust in the ballroom."
Arabella lifted a brow. "During a pianoforte recital indoors?"
Alexander straightened stiffly. "A very powerful dust."
Beatrice covered her face with both hands.
Catherine sighed, adjusting her shawl. "Regardless… Beatrice's talents are admirable, but marriage is the matter at hand."
Sophia leaned forward, indignant. "Aunt Catherine, Beatrice is brilliant. She speaks more languages than half the diplomats in London. Why must her worth be measured by the number of suitors at her heels?"
Beatrice lowered her hands, eyes soft with gratitude.
"Sophia… thank you. Truly. But Mama is correct. It is expected of me."
"But expectation does not equal destiny," Sophia countered.
Arabella stepped in gently. "My dear Sophia, not every young lady desires the same freedoms you do. Beatrice has always embraced conventional paths."
Beatrice nodded slowly. "I do not mind it, Sophia. Truly. I wish to marry—but I appreciate that you see me as more than a bride."
Sophia softened, guilt flickering behind her eyes.
"Oh… Bea. I did not mean to imply you shouldn't wed. I only meant you should be valued beyond the dowry list."
Victor chimed in with the confidence of a child who has never faced consequences:
"And judged beyond her piano recitals and Mama's gossip circles."
Beatrice glared at him again. "Victor!"
He flinched. "What? It's true."
Alexander groaned. "Son, sometimes silence is a virtue."
Arabella chuckled lightly. "Not in this family."
Josephine smoothed her skirts. "Perhaps we can agree that Beatrice is a talented and eligible young woman—who will make her parents and grandparents proud."
Beatrice nodded modestly. "I shall do my best."
Sophia squeezed her cousin's hand.
"I never doubted you would."
And for a moment—just a heartbeat—the room softened.