White's, Afternoon
White's was unusually subdued.
Even the servants moved quietly, as though afraid another underaged heir might appear out of thin air and ignite fresh chaos. The older patrons murmured behind newspapers. The younger ones spoke in cautious tones.
It had been three days since Victor Campbell's dramatic infiltration, and the club had not fully recovered.
Benedict entered the reading room to find his friends clustered around a low table. Andrew lounged back with an amused smirk; Adrian twirled a quill between his fingers; Ian sat with the posture of a man aged prematurely by stress; Earnest stirred tea he wasn't even drinking; Jeremy looked seconds away from laughter; and Kurt was recounting something with expressive gestures.
"…and then," Kurt finished, "Victor told Lord James that addressing him improperly was an insult to the entire ducal line. At fourteen."
Jeremy snorted. "Fourteen and already ready to depose half the peerage."
Andrew clapped a hand over his mouth to restrain a laugh. "He very nearly caused a political crisis."
Adrian added dryly, "He caused a minor one."
Ian rubbed his temples. "The duel could have been disastrous. Thank heavens Duke Alexander reached them with the Queen's decree."
Kurt nodded solemnly."Indeed. An heir of fourteen nearly being shot over Soph—"
He stopped.
Because Benedict had not taken a seat.
He stood there, staring into the amber liquid of his untouched brandy, eyes unfocused.
Kurt narrowed his eyes.
"Ben?"
No response.
Kurt nudged him with the back of his hand. "Benedict."
Benedict blinked. "Mm?"
Jeremy leaned forward like a cat presented with fresh entertainment. "Oh-ho. He's gone. He's drifting. He's practically haunting his own body."
Earnest whispered, "He's thinking about Lady Sophia again."
Then turned scarlet when Benedict looked at him.
Ian let out a suffering groan. "Ben, please sit. You're worrying us and terrifying the staff."
Benedict finally sank into the empty chair, rubbing his jaw. "I simply… keep thinking of her."
"Aha," Jeremy declared triumphantly. "Knew it. Our very own brooding poet."
Andrew grinned. "It was only a matter of time."
Benedict shot them a glare, but his heart wasn't in it.
"She looked… shaken," he murmured, gaze drifting. "The ordeal with Victor. The whispers at Almack's. Margaret's accusations. She carries everything herself—and refuses to burden anyone."
Kurt's teasing softened into sympathy. "You care for her."
Benedict swallowed. "I… worry for her."
Ian folded his arms. "Then perhaps you should tell her that."
Jeremy waggled his brows. "Or escort her on another ride. Or bring macarons. Or—"
Benedict cut him off with a sigh. "She likely sees me only as an ally. A… comrade in spirit."
Adrian smirked behind his teacup. "Yes, because nothing screams 'comrade' like the way you stare at her whenever she walks into a room."
Andrew nodded. "And nothing says 'mere friendship' like dancing with her in front of half of London."
Kurt leaned back. "She is fond of you, Ben. Anyone with eyes can see that."
Benedict looked down at his glass again.
Fond.
Yes.
But fondness was not the same as wanting more.
Especially when Sophia was still declaring, with fire and philosophy, that she would never marry.
"Besides," Jeremy added, "Victor staged a one-boy war in her honor. That has to mean something."
"JEREMY—" Ian elbowed him sharply.
But Benedict exhaled a soft laugh. Victor Campbell being on Sophia's side was… a terrifying and oddly comforting thought.
His friends continued chattering—speculating on the next ball, predicting which mother would approach Sophia first, jesting about Victor requiring a leash—but Benedict drifted inward again.
Lady Sophia Fiennes.
Silver gowns.
Sharp wit.
Sapphire eyes that saw right through him.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He was in trouble. And he knew it.
The room was abuzz — still rattled, still traumatized, still whispering about the chaos of Victor's infiltration as though the boy were a ghostly apparition instead of a fourteen-year-old menace with a miniature cane.
Andrew recounted Victor's infamous line ("Address your betters properly") for the third time, laughing into his glass.
Jeremy added embellishments.
Earnest attempted to breathe steadily.
Ian wished desperately to disassociate from all of them.
And Benedict?
Benedict had been staring into his brandy for so long the amber liquid had become a reflective pool of pure, self-inflicted suffering.
Kurt nudged him with an elbow. "Montgomery," he murmured, "you have been brooding at that drink for an hour. Either drink it or marry it."
Benedict blinked. "I am thinking."
"Dangerous," Andrew said from across the table. "Historically unwise."
Before Benedict could reply, the door to White's swung open.
A hush fell instantly — the kind of hush reserved only for royalty, death, or truly scandalous gossip.
A footman bowed deeply.
"His Royal Highness… Prince Felix of Hanover."
The young man who stepped through the archway did not merely enter the room — he shifted the air.
Tall and refined, Felix carried himself with the quiet poise of someone who had been born to an audience. The light caught the soft, layered waves of his dark brown hair, framing a face that appeared sculpted by a distracted but exceptionally gifted artist. His grey-green eyes shimmered with thoughtful detachment, as if he were observing life from a slightly different angle than everyone else.
Even the seasoned patrons of White's straightened at his presence.
Felix glanced around the room, spotted Benedict's group, and offered the faintest smile — a soft, almost melancholy curve of the lips.
"There is no need for that," Felix said gently as the men rose in respect, his voice holding that subtle musical lilt of the Hanoverian line. "We are old friends — do not bow to me here."
He approached their table, and even Adrian, normally unflappable, sat a little straighter. "My aunt — Her Majesty — insisted I return to London earlier than planned," Felix continued as he accepted the chair Andrew offered. "Apparently, a prince should not stay in Prussia so long that rumors begin."
Jeremy snorted. "What kind of rumors?"
Felix blinked slowly. "That I am too selective. Or too romantic. Or too disinterested in securing a bride."
Andrew laughed. "Are you any of those things?"
Felix ignored the question entirely.
"I also bring news," he said, folding his gloves neatly. "From Sophia."
Benedict stopped breathing.
Felix produced a folded letter from the inner pocket of his coat — sealed with the unmistakable sapphire crest of the Fiennes family.
"She wrote to you?" Benedict asked, far too quickly.
Felix nodded, completely unaware — or perfectly aware — of Benedict's sudden tension.
"Yes. She wrote that if I do not find a wife by the end of the season…" He paused delicately. "…she will offer me a marriage of the mind."
The men stared.
Jeremy dropped his glass.
Andrew blinked twice.
Earnest made a strangled noise.
Felix went on, serene as snowfall. "She argues we share similar miseries — that she is rational and isolated among debutantes, and I am romantic and equally isolated among princesses. She suggests we may escape the pressures of society by aligning our minds, if not our hearts."
Kurt whispered, "She… what?"
But Felix was not finished. "Of course," he added softly, "I am a romanticist. Sophia is a rationalist. I would never marry without love — and she knows that. But I believe she offered it in kindness… and frustration."
Then he looked directly at Benedict.
And Benedict felt the floor drop a little.
"She is disillusioned with the ton," Felix said quietly. "And she trusts me. She always has."
Silence spread like a slow wave across the table.
Kurt glanced sideways at Benedict.
Andrew smirked just a little.
Jeremy mouthed, Oh this is going to be good.
Benedict finally managed, "She wrote that to you?"
Felix smiled, gentle and tragic around the edges. "Yes, Benedict. She did."
And for the first time since arriving, Prince Felix's gaze sharpened.
"As her friend," he said softly, "I hope you take care around her."
Benedict swallowed. "I intend to."
Felix's smile deepened — amused, knowing, almost sympathetic.
"Good," he murmured. "Because Sophia does not need a marriage of the mind."
Another beat.
"She needs someone who sees her."
Felix's words lingered in the smoky air of White's, drawing every male ear at the table taut. The prince stood with effortless poise, that painterly face unreadable, grey-green eyes flicking from one lord to the next—until they settled, at last, on Benedict.
The room, already hushed in reverence to royalty, grew downright silent.
Felix tilted his head slightly. "Of course," he said in a quiet, almost meditative tone, "I am aware that you are… fond of her."
Benedict stiffened.
Kurt's eyebrows shot so high they nearly left his face.
Ian choked on his brandy.
Jeremy openly mouthed, He knows??
Earnest sank into his chair as though witnessing a duel of emotions.
Andrew just muttered, "Well, this should be entertaining."
Benedict cleared his throat, attempting dignity. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness?"
Felix blinked once—slow, deliberate, almost angelic.
"It is simply an observation," he continued softly. "You look at her as though she is the morning sun—bright enough to blind you, yet you keep staring anyway."
Benedict nearly died on the spot.
A few gentlemen nearby pretended very poorly not to overhear.
Andrew whispered to Adrian, "He's poetic. Why is he poetic?"
Felix went on, unbothered, "Sophia is very dear to me. Not as a lover, but as a companion of thought. She sees the world through knowledge, not romance. But you—" his gaze sharpened, finally losing its softness, "—you see her."
Benedict's heart gave a traitorous jump.
Felix stepped closer, lowering his voice so only their group could hear.
"She trusts you. That alone is rare. Let alone in a season where half the ton is trying to court her for her dowry or her pedigree."
A pause.
"Do not disappoint her."
Jeremy whispered, "Good grief. Even the prince knows it."
Kurt elbowed him.
Benedict tried—and failed—to find his voice.
"With respect, Your Highness," he managed at last, "my intentions toward Lady Sophia are—"
Felix raised a hand, stopping him politely.
"You do not need to justify them to me," he said. "Only to her."
He gave Benedict the faintest smile—a strange mixture of melancholy and gentle amusement.
"One more thing," Felix added, glancing around the club. "Do tread carefully. Sophia is rational… until she loves something. Then she becomes utterly unreasonable."
Jeremy snorted so loudly he drew stares.
Felix didn't miss a beat.
"I am certain," he said, turning back to Benedict, "that she would become unreasonable for you.
The question is whether you are brave enough to match her."
And with that, Prince Felix gracefully drifted toward the gaming tables, leaving a trail of stunned noblemen behind him.
Andrew let out a low whistle.
"My condolences, Benedict," he murmured. "You've just been blessed—and threatened—by royalty."
Kurt smirked. "Well? Are you going to match her, Ben?"
Benedict stared at his untouched brandy.
His voice was quiet, but steady.
"I intend," he said, "to try."