Almack's Assembly Rooms, later that evening.
The private drawing room door opened, and the hum of Almack's swept in like a tide—whispers, laughter, violins, and the faint clatter of fans snapping open in anticipation.
Sophia stepped out first, posture poised, chin raised just a touch higher than usual. She had spoken her truth. She had survived the Patronesses. She had survived Margaret.
But she was not prepared for what came next.
Lord Benedict Montgomery offered his arm.
He did it calmly, smoothly—
as if it were the most natural thing in the world—
though his eyes held a warmth that suggested otherwise.
"Lady Sophia," he said quietly, tilting his head in the slightest bow,
"may I have this dance?"
The nearby matrons gasped.
Several debutantes dropped their fans.
A young lord actually choked on his lemonade.
Sophia blinked, breath catching.
"You are… certain?" she whispered back.
He met her sapphire gaze without wavering.
"Entirely."
The ton held its breath.
Slowly, with the grace of a duchess and the heart of a warrior, Sophia placed her hand in his.
A ripple burst across the ballroom.
"They are dancing."
"Lord Benedict—with her?"
"He's taking her side—publicly!"
"Good heavens, is it serious?"
"Are they courting?"
"No, no—this is far worse.
He is making a statement."
From across the room, Ian's jaw dropped.
Jeremy grinned like he had just witnessed a political coup.
Earnest wobbled again.
Andrew raised an eyebrow, impressed.
Elizabeth covered her mouth, delighted.
Beatrice froze—and then smiled like she had known it all along.
The orchestra, sensing drama (and patroness approval), shifted seamlessly into a waltz.
Benedict guided Sophia toward the center of the floor.
Gentlemanly, elegant, assured—
but beneath it all, there was something electric.
As he placed one hand lightly at the small of her back, Sophia felt her pulse jump.
Her breath trembled.
His did too.
The first spin of the waltz swept them into motion.
And all at once the ton had forgotten the lemonade, the ribbons, the flirtations, the gossip—
They watched them.
Sophia, the outspoken debutante who quoted philosophers.
Benedict, the charming Montgomery second son who never publicly favored anyone.
Together.
Perfectly in step.
His voice dipped low, just for her.
"I hope I did not overstep."
"You did," she whispered back.
"In precisely the right direction."
He laughed, soft and warm, and the sound did something traitorous to her heartbeat.
"Good," Benedict murmured. "I rather hoped so."
They turned, gliding effortlessly, his gaze never breaking from hers.
Under the chandeliers, her sapphire necklace reflected light like tiny stars caught at her throat.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
"You look…" Benedict began, then paused, searching for the right word.
Sophia tilted her head.
"Striking," he finished.
Her breath faltered—but only for a moment.
"Striking is for artillery, my lord," she muttered.
"In that case," he replied, "you have landed a decisive blow."
Her cheeks warmed.
Across the room, Lady Margaret watched, frozen in disbelief, gripping her fan hard enough to bend the ribs.
Her two debutante shadows whispered fiercely:
"Lord Benedict has chosen his side."
"He is with Sophia—openly!"
"What will her grandmother say?"
"What will the ton say?"
"What will his mother say?"
But Duchess Eleanor Montgomery stood with Lady Jersey and Lady Cowper—smiling.
Arabella Huntington watched from afar, arms crossed, expression impeccably unreadable.
But her eyes? It gleamed with the sharp glint of triumph.
On the dance floor, Benedict leaned toward Sophia, voice low:
"I hope this does not create trouble for you."
"Oh, it will," she said frankly.
He smiled. "And for me."
She laughed softly. "We make an alarming pair."
"Do we?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered. "And the ton will talk for weeks."
Benedict's eyes glowed with something dangerously close to admiration.
"Then let them."
The waltz slowed, the final turn drawing them together one last time before the music faded.
Sophia exhaled. Benedict held her gaze.
The ton sighed, swooned, and whispered frantically.
The orchestra stopped.
The scandal, however, had only just begun.
The Montgomery Townhouse, Berkeley Square — The Morning After
The morning sun poured through the tall windows of the Montgomery breakfast room, illuminating polished silver, neatly folded newspapers, and a family that was—by all appearances—completely calm.
This was deceptive.
For beneath the surface, Duchess Eleanor Montgomery was practically vibrating with excitement.
Her husband, Duke Cecil Montgomery, sat at the head of the table, attempting to read his newspaper.
Lord Edward, two-and-twenty and expertly avoiding responsibility, buttered his toast with studied languor.
And Lord Benedict, the cause of the current household tremors, sipped his tea as though nothing monumental had occurred the night before.
Eleanor set down her teacup with such purposeful precision that all three men looked up.
"Well," she said brightly, "last night was… illuminating."
Edward raised an eyebrow. "Is this about the scandal?"
Cecil lowered his newspaper halfway. "What scandal?"
Eleanor's smile widened.
"Oh, Cecil. You really must keep up. Your youngest son publicly aligned himself with Lady Sophia Fiennes."
Cecil blinked. "He what?"
Benedict's jaw tightened faintly, though he kept his composure. "It was only a dance."
Eleanor waved a delicate hand.
"A dance at Almack's is never only anything, my dear boy. You know that."
Edward leaned forward, curiosity gleaming.
"Was this the moment when she called Margaret Seymour a—what was it?—a magpie?"
Cecil stared. "She called someone a magpie at Almack's?"
Benedict muttered, "She was provoked."
Eleanor gave him a glowing smile.
"Oh, I have no doubt she was. Margaret Seymour has always been dreadfully prone to theatrics."
She took another sip of tea, completely pleased.
"However, it is not Margaret we must think of. It is Sophia."
Cecil set the newspaper aside entirely.
"Explain."
Eleanor leaned forward, fingertips touching.
"Lady Sophia is the granddaughter of Duke Theodore Huntington and niece of Duke Alexander Campbell. Marquess Reginald Fiennes is respected, her dowry will be considerable, and her status is beyond reproach. But more importantly—"
She gave Benedict a knowing look."—she is clearly important to Benedict."
Benedict stiffened, staring down at his tea.
Edward grinned. "Ah. So that is what this is."
"It is not what you think," Benedict muttered.
"Oh?" Eleanor purred. "You offered her a dance in front of the entire ton, Benedict. That is hardly subtle."
Cecil sighed, though a hint of approval flickered in his gaze.
"Well. The girl is intelligent. And her father is a solid political ally. If you are interested—"
"Father," Benedict interrupted, cheeks warming, "I have not made any decisions."
"Of course not," Eleanor agreed, far too quickly. "Which is precisely why I shall speak to Marchioness Josephine about this."
Benedict looked up sharply. "Mother—"
"It is simply a friendly conversation," Eleanor said innocently.
"Two mamas, enjoying a lovely promenade in Hyde Park, discussing their charming children. Nothing alarming."
Edward coughed. "Terrifying."
Cecil nodded gravely. "Pray for Josephine."
Eleanor ignored them entirely. "At any rate," she continued smoothly, "Josephine and I walk together during this late morning promenade. I shall inquire discreetly. Perhaps Sophia is merely overwhelmed. Perhaps she is misunderstood. Or perhaps—"
She smiled brilliantly. "—she and Benedict have more in common than even they know."
Benedict groaned softly, setting down his fork. "Mother… please do not start rumors."
"I never start rumors," Eleanor said, deeply offended. "I merely… direct them."
Edward snorted into his tea.
Cecil sighed. "This will be a dreadful Season."
"On the contrary," Eleanor said brightly. "It will be magnificent."
She rose from her chair with the serene determination of a general preparing for battle.
"I shall dress for the Hyde Park promenade. Josephine Fiennes will need… reassurance."
Edward muttered, "She'll need armor."
Benedict rubbed his forehead. "I suppose I must brace myself."
Eleanor patted his cheek on her way out.
"Do not worry, darling. If the Fiennes girl is unsuitable, Josephine will say so herself."
She paused at the doorway, eyes gleaming with triumph.
"But if she is suitable… Josephine will say so even faster."
And with that, Duchess Eleanor Montgomery swept out of the breakfast room, leaving behind:
a horrified Benedict,
an entertained Edward,
and a Duke who was already considering the political implications of a Fiennes–Montgomery alliance.
Fiennes Estate, Grosvenor Square—Late Morning
The Fiennes Estate glowed softly beneath the late morning sun, its windows bright against the crisp spring air. In her bedchamber, Marchioness Josephine Fiennes stood before her vanity as her maid pinned a delicate lavender ribbon into her bonnet.
She inspected her reflection—composed, graceful, every inch the impeccable marchioness—and exhaled slowly. After last night's spectacle at Almack's, she suspected today would require both elegance and fortitude.
Behind her, the door opened.
Marquess Reginald Fiennes leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching his wife with a smile that held both affection and curiosity.
"And where are you going, love?" he asked, voice warm.
Josephine adjusted her gloves with deliberate calm.
"Oh, my dear," she said lightly, rising to her feet,
"Her Grace, Duchess Eleanor Montgomery, is expecting me for a promenade this late morning."
Reginald's brow lifted. "Eleanor Montgomery?"
"Yes."
He took a slow breath. "This is about the dance, isn't it?"
Josephine paused only a heartbeat—then gave her husband a knowing, elegant smile that said everything and nothing at once.
"My dear Reginald," she replied as she swept past him, "when a Montgomery boy publicly dances with one's daughter at Almack's…"
She reached the top of the staircase, her skirts whispering with purpose. "…a mother would be foolish not to take a walk."
Reginald watched her descend, half-amused, half-terrified for Benedict Montgomery's future.
"God help the young man," he murmured.
"And God help our daughter."
Josephine merely lifted her chin, serene and prepared for diplomatic warfare.
Then she stepped out the door and into her waiting carriage— headed for Hyde Park.