Hyde Park, Late Morning
Hyde Park shimmered beneath the spring sunlight, its winding paths dotted with ladies in pastel gowns, gentlemen in crisp riding coats, and the occasional child racing ahead of an exhausted nursemaid. Carriages lined the Row, glossy and immaculate, the finest horses prancing as though aware of the eyes upon them.
It was the hour for the Thursday Promenade—the weekly spectacle where reputation, gossip, and matchmaking turned the gravel paths into a battlefield of velvet and smiles.
At the edge of the Serpentine, Duchess Eleanor Montgomery stood waiting.
Tall, poised, and draped in a soft blue walking gown trimmed with silver, she looked like the serene queen of a kingdom built entirely upon excellent breeding and sharper strategy. Her parasol rested lightly over one shoulder, casting a delicate shade across her perfectly arranged bonnet.
She spotted Josephine almost instantly.
Marchioness Josephine Fiennes stepped from her carriage with the elegance of a woman who knew the ton could—and would—read meaning into every breath she took. Her lavender promenade gown fluttered gently in the breeze, ribbons catching the sunlight. She approached with a warm, composed smile, though her eyes glittered with curiosity.
"Eleanor," Josephine greeted, inclining her head. "You look lovely this morning."
Eleanor returned the gesture with equal precision. "As do you, my dear Josephine. Shall we walk?"
"Of course."
They set off side by side, parasols aligned like diplomatic flags. Their pace was leisurely, their posture immaculate—yet the air around them thrummed with expectation.
It took precisely ten steps before Eleanor spoke.
"I trust you saw the papers this morning."
Josephine gave a soft, knowing hum. "The incident at Almack's was… difficult to miss."
Eleanor's smile sharpened. "Indeed. My Benedict rarely draws attention. It seems your daughter brings it out of him."
Josephine kept her tone mild. "Sophia has a talent for stirring a room."
"A talent," Eleanor echoed lightly, "or a calling?"
Josephine's eyes twinkled. "Depends on whom you ask."
A pair of matrons passed them, heads bent together, whispering furiously. Both duchess and marchioness pretended not to notice—because to acknowledge gossip was to give it power.
Eleanor continued, her voice silky-smooth. "I must say, Josephine… last night's dance caused quite the stir."
Josephine let out a soft breath—half sigh, half laugh. "I heard. Reginald nearly choked when he learned Benedict had offered her a waltz."
"And yet," Eleanor said with a lift of her brow, "she accepted."
"Oh, she did," Josephine replied. "My daughter has a stubborn streak."
Eleanor smiled. "So does my son."
The two women exchanged a look—subtle, layered, and full of motherly calculus.
Josephine turned her gaze to the Serpentine's glittering water. "Sophia is… unusual. Brilliant, but unusual."
Eleanor tapped her parasol thoughtfully. "I find that refreshing."
Josephine laughed softly. "Do you? Most mothers of second sons prefer pliant, quiet girls."
"And most second sons," Eleanor said deliberately, "prefer women with spirit."
That landed. Josephine hid her astonishment well.
A group of young ladies strolled past, glancing curiously at the pair. Eleanor's smile remained serene.
"Josephine," she said gently, "may I speak plainly?"
"You usually do."
"My son likes your daughter."
Josephine walked for several paces in silence.
The admission—polite, indirect, but unmistakable—hung between them like suspended blossoms.
At last, she replied, "And my daughter," Josephine murmured, "likes him more than she realizes."
Eleanor's smile warmed—genuinely this time.
"Well then," she said softly, "we must ensure they are not torn apart by petty gossip."
Josephine slowed, turning to face her fully. "You mean to protect her?"
"I mean to protect them both."
A breeze drifted through Hyde Park, carrying with it distant laughter, clattering hooves, and the murmurs of curious onlookers.
Josephine exhaled.
"Then we walk together," she declared. "As allies."
Eleanor nodded. "As mothers."
The promenade had barely begun to settle into its rhythm when a collective gasp rippled across the Row.
Hooves thundered—clean, precise—and every head turned.
Sophia Fiennes, riding in a striking navy-blue habit trimmed with silver, guided her white Arabian stallion Coriolanus with flawless command. Her posture was upright yet fluid, her dark hair tucked neatly beneath a riding hat, her sapphire eyes bright in the sunlight.
Coriolanus, proud creature that he was, moved like a living sculpture—white mane streaming, muscles coiled, regal as any warhorse that ever carried a king.
And mounted behind Sophia—because of course he was—sat Lord Benedict Montgomery, arms relaxed, balance perfect, looking completely at ease atop someone else's horse.
His own black Hackney stallion, Plutarch, trotted a few paces behind, gently held by a bewildered stableboy. The ton froze.
A lady nearly fainted.
A gentleman spilled his coffee.
A footman tripped over a poodle.
Duchess Eleanor Montgomery and Marchioness Josephine Fiennes—mid-promenade—both inhaled sharply, eyes widening in perfect maternal synchronicity.
"Is that—?"
"Together?"
"On the same horse?"
"At Hyde Park?"
"In daylight?"
Scandal had arrived.
Sophia slowed Coriolanus near the lakeside path where their mothers stood, her expression somewhere between mortification and fury.
"Milord," she muttered under her breath, "our mothers are promenading together. This is dire."
Benedict's grin was absolutely unlawful. "So I see."
She shot him a look. "We must clarify. Immediately. Before the rumors grow wings."
Benedict tilted his head. "Oh? And what shall we clarify, Lady Fiennes?"
"That we are friends," she hissed.
Benedict, amused beyond salvation, leaned slightly closer. "Are we merely friends milady?"
Sophia whipped her gaze toward him with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Do not 'milady' me with that tone," she whispered fiercely. "Do you wish Coriolanus to throw you into the Serpentine?"
Coriolanus snorted loudly as if agreeing.
Benedict chuckled—that low, warm sound that made several debutantes swoon from five yards away.
"Sophia," he murmured, "I fear you give Coriolanus too much credit."
"Do not test him," she answered, "or me."
He straightened, hands lightly resting behind him, utterly unfazed. "This is hardly a matter to laugh at, Lady Fiennes."
"No," Sophia said gravely, "which is why I am panicking. We must clear up the rumors. We are comrades in spirit."
Benedict raised a brow. "Comrades in spirit?"
She nodded firmly. "Yes."
"But not," he asked softly, "in heart?"
Sophia blinked—caught off guard. Her lips parted, an instinctive retort forming—but the mothers were approaching.
Josephine, horrified but striving for gentility, rushed toward the horse with her skirts lifted slightly.
"Sophia Fiennes!" Her voice was quiet but lethal. "Why is Lord Benedict on your horse?"
Eleanor Montgomery arrived at her son's side with equal alarm. "Benedict! Why are you on Lady Sophia's horse? What on earth—"
Sophia lifted her chin. "Plutarch was… being uncooperative."
Behind them, Plutarch—docile and sweet, held by the stableboy—blinked innocently.
Benedict added smoothly, "I thought it best to accompany Lady Sophia in case her stallion grew too spirited."
Coriolanus snorted again, offended.
Josephine looked at Eleanor.
Eleanor looked at Josephine.
Both women knew a lie when they heard one.
Behind them, the entire Hyde Park promenade buzzed like a disturbed beehive.
"Oh, they're together—"
"They must be courting—"
"Riding habit and riding double—scandalous—"
"The Montgomery boy is absolutely besotted—"
"Lady Sophia must have charmed him utterly—"
Sophia whispered under her breath, "Milord, we are in the middle of a catastrophe."
Benedict smiled gently. "No, Lady Fiennes. We are simply in the middle of Hyde Park."
Sophia resisted the urge to shove him off the horse.
Lord Benedict dismounted first—smooth, controlled, and far too graceful for Sophia's liking. He landed lightly on the gravel path, then reached up toward her with a gloved hand.
"Allow me," he said.
Sophia hesitated, aware of the small crowd forming, aware of the whispers and the gasps and the fact that both their mothers were staring like hawks ready to swoop.
Still, propriety demanded she accept. Her fingertips brushed his palm, and he guided her down from Coriolanus with a steadiness that sent an unwelcome warmth flickering across her cheeks.
The moment her boots touched the ground, their mothers pounced.
"A word," Josephine and Eleanor said in unison.
No one could refuse that tone.
Not even Sophia.
Not even Benedict.
They followed their mothers a few paces away from the path—close enough to maintain propriety, far enough that the ton could only speculate wildly.
Josephine turned first, arms crossed, expression a blend of disbelief and predictable maternal distress.
"Why," she began slowly, "were the two of you riding together?"
Sophia straightened. "Oh, Mama—Papa told me you were going on a promenade with Her Grace, so I thought I should see you. That is all."
Josephine's eyes narrowed. "That explains why you are here. That does not explain…"
She gestured between them. "…this."
Benedict stepped in with a polite bow. "Edward informed me that you and Marchioness Josephine would be in the park, Mother. I wished to join the promenade and thought to greet you both."
Eleanor looked at him like she was evaluating a suspect in a jewel heist.
Sophia added quickly, eager to provide further explanation—and accidentally digging a deeper hole:
"So I went on my way and found Lord Benedict with his stallion Plutarch and a stable boy. Plutarch appeared a bit restless, so Lord Benedict said that to avoid exhausting our horses, he wished to tag along with Coriolanus and me."
Josephine inhaled sharply. Eleanor blinked twice. The mothers of the ton had heard many lies in their lifetimes, but this one—this one deserved a medal for creativity.
Sophia pressed on, perhaps unwisely, "We are friends, Mama. It is my duty to help a friend."
Josephine stared at her daughter. Eleanor stared at her son.
Both pairs of eyes said, You two are terrible liars.
Eleanor cleared her throat delicately. "So. You chose to ride… together."
Sophia nodded firmly. "Yes."
"And you thought nothing of how it might appear?" Josephine asked, eyes burning a hole through her.
"It was simply practical," Sophia insisted.
"Mhm," Josephine replied, which was mother-language for I do not believe you at all, but continue digging your grave.
Eleanor folded her hands gracefully. "And Benedict… you felt it necessary to accompany Lady Sophia on her horse?"
Benedict looked her dead in the eye. "With respect, Mother, Coriolanus is faster, more reliable, and—"
Sophia coughed loudly. "—jealous," she added.
Coriolanus snorted as if on cue.
Josephine pressed two fingers to her temple. "Good heavens."
Eleanor glanced between them—the white stallion, the navy riding habit, her son standing suspiciously protectively at Sophia's side.
Then she looked at Josephine.
A silent exchange passed between them.
A maternal prophecy.
Josephine exhaled slowly. "Very well. We shall accept… for now… that this was innocent."
Sophia nodded vigorously. Benedict inclined his head.
"But," Josephine continued, voice sharpening, "you two must remain conscious of the eyes upon you. This is Hyde Park. Nothing goes unnoticed here."
"Indeed," Eleanor added. "The entire ton is watching."
Behind them, half the promenade pretended not to stare.
Sophia resisted the urge to mutter. Benedict did not resist the urge to smile.
Josephine sighed. "Let us rejoin the path," she said, linking her arm with Eleanor's. "And pray that no more rumors ignite today."
Benedict and Sophia exchanged a glance.
Too late. The park was already ablaze.
The four adults—Josephine, Eleanor, Benedict, and Sophia—had hardly made it ten paces along the path before another stir rose behind them.
Small footsteps.
Purposeful strides.
The authoritative tap of an absurdly tiny cane.
Victor Campbell, heir to the Dukedom of Sutherland—fourteen, opinionated, and dressed like a miniature statesman—strode toward them with the confidence of a man twice his age.
He stopped before them and executed a perfectly practiced bow.
"Auntie Josephine. Your Grace. Cousin Sophia. Lord Montgomery." His voice carried a crisp, diplomatic clarity. "What an honor to see you here. May I join you?"
Josephine took one look at him—immaculate cravat, polished boots, top hat tilted just so—and sighed.
"Victor," she said, "where is your mother? And where is your governess?"
Victor flicked a gloved hand dismissively. "Auntie, Mama is occupied listening to Beatrice's newest composition."
He lifted his chin. "And as a gentleman, I do not concern myself with governesses who cannot keep pace. Miss Sinclair, for example."
Sophia bit her lip to avoid laughing. Benedict coughed to hide his smile.
Josephine exhaled her one hundredth sigh of the morning."Victor, you cannot simply dismiss your governess."
"Auntie," Victor replied solemnly, "she dismissed herself when she failed to keep up with me."
Benedict muttered under his breath, "You and Sophia are indeed related."
Sophia gave him a subtle elbow.
Victor continued breezily, hands clasped behind his back like a miniature diplomat: "I understand Cousin Sophia and Lord Benedict are friends. I am glad she is expanding her circle…"
Sophia froze.
Benedict raised an eyebrow.
Josephine and Eleanor exchanged a look of alarm.
"…but," Victor added plainly, "I hope they remain friends. Since there are better matches for my cousin."
Sophia choked.
Benedict blinked.
Josephine whispered, "Good heavens."
Eleanor tilted her head, intrigued. "And who, pray tell, would those matches be?"
Victor didn't hesitate for even a second.
"Viscount Ian Beaumont," he declared. "He has always been good to Sophia, and she listens to him—even if she does not admit it."
Sophia sputtered, "I do listen to Ian—occasionally—"
Victor continued, ignoring her entirely. "And Viscount Kurt Darlington," he added. "They both love horses. They are the same species."
Coriolanus snorted approvingly.
Benedict's jaw tightened with something dangerously close to jealousy.
Josephine pinched the bridge of her nose. "Victor, darling, that is not how matchmaking works."
Victor gave her a solemn nod. "I understand, Auntie. But I am merely stating the obvious. Sophia needs someone who grounds her. And who is less… reckless."
Sophia stared at him in betrayal. "I am right here."
"I know," Victor said. "You are very loud."
Before Sophia could throttle him, the sound of frantic footsteps approached.
Miss Sinclair—Victor's exhausted governess—appeared at last, nearly out of breath.
"There you are, my lord!" she gasped. "Your mother is looking for you—it is nearly luncheon—"
Victor bowed elegantly to the group. "Duty calls. Good day."
He gave Sophia one last pointed look, as if saying, "Choose wisely," then turned and followed Miss Sinclair back toward the Campbells' carriage.
The moment he was out of earshot, Benedict murmured dryly, "He is… direct."
Sophia groaned. "He is fourteen."
Josephine sighed. "He is a Campbell."
Eleanor folded her arms, amusement dancing in her eyes. "And he is not wrong about the attention you are receiving, Lady Sophia."
Sophia stiffened.
Benedict glanced at her, expression unreadable—but warm.
The promenade was far from over.
And so was the scandal.