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Chapter Text

Sir Thomas Crane died as he had lived—shouting.

The sound still echoed in Phillip’s head, a raw, ragged bellow torn from a throat gone purple with rage. He had been standing by the hearth, jaw clenched, while his father roared about wasted potential and useless sons. Then, in a heartbeat, the tirade had splintered into a wet gasp, the veins in Thomas’ neck bulging, his face mottling crimson. His fingers clawed at the air as though to seize Phillip by the collar one last time. And then—silence.

The old man collapsed in a heap of limbs and velvet, his body striking the carpet with a dull, final thud. The silence that followed was obscene, unnatural. For a man who had filled every corner of Romney Hall with his voice, the absence felt almost louder than the noise.

Phillip had not moved. Not at first. He simply stood there, frozen by a strange mix of disbelief and inevitability. His father’s body twitched once, then stilled, and the great bull of a man—who had seemed immovable, eternal, the very tyrant of Phillip’s life—was nothing but flesh cooling on the floor.

The servants came rushing only after the silence stretched too long. Footmen stumbled through the door, eyes wide, as if they had been waiting for this moment all their lives but still could not believe it. None looked directly at Phillip. They skirted around him, bowing their heads to the new baronet without words. He saw the relief in their faces, even as they crossed themselves.

Relief. That should have been what he felt too. Instead there was only a cold, hollow dread curling low in his stomach.

For days afterward, the house seemed possessed by the ghost of the man who had ruled it. The corridors groaned with memory. The portraits leered down at Phillip with painted scowls, accusing him with every brushstroke. The baronetcy—his now, though he wanted it no more than he had ever wanted his father’s approval—settled on his shoulders like an iron mantle. He wore it poorly, and the house seemed to know it.

****

Three mornings later, as the heavy air pressed in like a storm that would not break, a letter arrived.

It was set before him at breakfast, on a silver tray polished to a fault. The seal caught the weak light from the windows—an unfamiliar crest, but unmistakably high-born. Phillip stared at it for a long while, his spoon idle above his porridge, his appetite fled. The weight of it seemed disproportionate to its size, as if the folded sheet contained not words but a summons.

When at last he slit the wax and smoothed the paper, the script within was neat, deliberate, commanding without excess flourish. Daphne Basset, Duchess of Hastings.

The words that followed struck him harder than his father’s death.

Lieutenant George Crane, the letter began, written in a hand both graceful and assured. Pray forgive my boldness in addressing you directly, but circumstances leave me no choice. Miss Marina Thompson, cousin to my close neighbors the Featheringtons, has confided in me. She is with child, and she insists the child is yours. She is alone and unprotected, and the future before her grows perilous. I cannot in good conscience allow her to bear such a burden without appeal to you. If you have any sense of honor, I urge you to come to London at once and set her situation right.

Phillip’s vision blurred, his fist tightening until the paper buckled in his palm.

George.

Even in death, his elder brother managed to claim the lion’s share of expectation. George had always been everything Phillip was not—polished, dutiful, favored. George had gone to war in fine uniform and shining boots while Phillip had buried himself in books of botany, finding solace in leaves and petals rather than swords and commissions. George had been the heir. Phillip the afterthought.

Now George was gone, struck down at Waterloo, his memory already a banner of sacrifice. And what had he left behind but ruin—an unborn child, a girl with no husband, and a family name trembling on the edge of disgrace?

The Duchess’s words burned. If you have any sense of honor, I urge you to come. Words written to George, never meant for him, yet they seared just the same. As though his brother still lived to answer, as though Phillip himself were invisible, a poor substitute no one would ever call upon unless necessity demanded it.

He folded the letter once, twice, again, until the edges cut into his palm. Honor. Duty. Obligation. Different words for the same chain. He hated them almost as much as he had hated the man who had wielded them like weapons. But George was gone. And the task—unwanted, inevitable—had fallen to Phillip alone.

Sleep deserted him that night. He walked the corridors of Romney Hall, the soles of his boots whispering against carpets his father had chosen decades ago, the portraits lining the walls watching with unyielding eyes. Row upon row of Cranes, painted stiff and stern, their mouths pressed thin in the same perpetual disapproval he had endured since childhood. He could not escape them. Even in silence, they accused.

On his desk lay the letter from the Duchess of Hastings, its neat hand still burning in his mind. She had written to George, believing him alive, believing him capable of honor. Her words had not been meant for Phillip. Yet they might as well have been carved into his chest: Marina is alone, carrying George’s child, and someone must come.

The unfairness of it pressed until he could hardly breathe. George—always George—summoned even now, though he lay in the earth. And Phillip, who had never been summoned for anything, was left to answer in his place.

He rubbed at his brow, but the ache did not ease. Memory rose unbidden: George’s easy laugh, the careless toss of his head, the way he filled a room as though it belonged to him. He had gone to war in gleaming boots, his father’s pride wrapped around him like armor. Phillip had stayed behind with dirt beneath his nails, bent over seedlings in the greenhouse. That image would not leave him: George riding away, straight-backed and certain, while Phillip stood rooted to the soil.

He told himself George’s death should have been enough. Yet sometimes, when the house grew too quiet, Phillip felt as though some mistake had been made—though he would never confess it aloud. As though fate had chosen wrong. The sensation lodged sharp in his chest each time his gaze strayed to the empty place across the dining table, the chair his brother would never again occupy.

Restless, Phillip found himself drawn to George’s room. The door creaked when he pushed it open, stale air spilling into the hall. Nothing had been touched. His father would not allow it. The bed stood tightly made, boots polished and aligned by the hearth, as though George might step through the door at any moment.

At the foot of the bed sat the chest. The War Office had sent it weeks ago, along with the curt letter of death—George Crane, fallen at Waterloo, personal effects enclosed. Phillip had not opened it until now.

He knelt, lifted the lid. Inside lay the remnants of a life carried across battlefields: a torn uniform coat, still faint with powder; a flask dented at the side; a deck of cards tied with fraying string. Beneath these, bundled in ribbon, a packet of letters.

Phillip’s breath stilled. Marina’s hand.

He untied them slowly. Page upon page, filled with her neat script, words of affection and longing sent to George in camp. Her letters smelled faintly of pressed flowers, as though even distance had not blunted her tenderness.

At the bottom, a single page stood apart—unfinished, George’s own hand, jagged where the ink trailed into nothing. Phillip read the few lines again and again: Marina—my dearest, I long for the day we may be together. I have spoken to no one, but I will find a way for us. Hold fast until—

The sentence ended mid-stroke, as if the pen had been wrenched away.

Phillip’s chest constricted. His brother had meant to return. He had meant to claim her, to claim the child. And now that duty—or curse—lay only with Phillip.

For a long while he sat on the floor, the letters spread across his knees, the shadows of the portraits pressing even here. He should have felt anger at George, for leaving a mess in his wake. Instead he felt only the old familiar ache: that George, even in death, commanded more of the world than Phillip had ever managed in life.

To remain in Gloucestershire would be easy. He could bury himself among his plants, let London devour itself in gossip and scandal. But the letters burned in his hands. Marina’s voice on the page, George’s unfinished promise—they bound him, whether he wished it or not.

By morning, his decision was made. He would go to London. Not for honor. Not for duty. But because the letter from the Duchess had found him instead of George, and because George’s chest held proof that someone had loved and been left behind.

And there was no one else left to answer.

****

The road to London stretched long and uneven, dust rising in pale plumes behind the carriage wheels. Fields slipped by in blurs of green and gold, hedgerows bristling in the press of summer heat. Inside, Phillip sat stiff and restless, his collar tugged askew, his thoughts circling like storm clouds with no break in sight.

Every jolt of the wheels struck the same refrain into his mind—inescapable, insistent. Obligation. Expectation. The name.

He thought of Marina—little more than a wisp in his memory. A polite girl, quiet, with a laugh George had once described in a letter. That laugh had led to this: scandal whispered behind fans, a child not yet born but already heavy with consequence.

Phillip pressed his fist against his knee, jaw tight. This life was not the one he wanted. It never had been. Yet choice had been stripped from him long ago, from the moment he was born a Crane and branded with all the weight that name demanded.

By the time London’s spires pierced the horizon, he felt scoured hollow. The carriage rattled onto cobblestones, the air thickening around him—soot and sweat, heat and the murmur of too many lives pressed too close together. Mayfair rose with its polished facades, stately and impenetrable, as if daring him to breach its walls.

The Featherington house soon appeared. Its brick front was smothered in black crepe, windows shuttered tight as though to keep out even the sunlight. Mourning clung to the house like costume—deliberate, showy, more a display for society’s eyes than an expression of grief. Even the steps had been scrubbed raw, their strained neatness speaking more of desperation than dignity.

Phillip leaned forward, the carriage leather groaning under his weight. For one fleeting moment, he thought of ordering the driver to turn back, to take him anywhere else. But the letter in his pocket seemed to burn hotter with every mile traveled, a brand he could not set aside. Running was no longer his privilege.

The horses shuddered to a halt. He stepped down heavily, cobblestones ringing under his boots. Dust clung to his coat and trousers, the grime of the road refusing to be shaken off. He tugged at his cravat—still crooked from the journey—and squared his shoulders, though the gesture felt borrowed from men more certain of their place in the world.

He paused at the bottom of the steps, his broad frame casting a shadow across the blinding stone. The black-draped windows gave nothing back, yet he felt the weight of unseen eyes on him all the same.

He drew a long breath. London’s air was different—thick, close, and acrid with smoke—as though the city itself smoldered eternally.

His hand slipped to his pocket, fingers curling around the Duchess’s and George’s letters. The paper edges were softened from handling, but the words within remained sharp, carved into him as surely as if with a blade.

He had not wanted this errand. He had not wanted this title. He had not wanted this life.

But George was gone.

And Phillip was all that remained.

****

The Featherington house was dressed in mourning, its black crêpe curtains theatrical against the bright summer light. A house in decline, Phillip thought, hiding itself behind ribbons of grief.

He tugged at his cravat as he mounted the steps. It had slipped loose in the carriage, and he had not bothered to fix it. His boots struck hard against the stone, each sound reminding him how little he belonged in Mayfair, how his life had been spent in greenhouses and fields, not parlors lined with gilt chairs.

The maid who opened the door looked him up and down nervously, her hands twisting in her apron. “Whom shall I announce, sir?”

Phillip drew a steadying breath. “Sir Phillip Crane. I have come to speak with Miss Marina Thompson.”

The name startled her, but she bobbed a curtsy and hurried off. Phillip waited, the hush of the house pressing close, scented with beeswax, perfume, and the faint, cloying tang of flowers left too long in their vases.

At last came the rustle of skirts. A young woman with vivid red hair, its brightness only sharpened by the black of her mourning gown, entered first. Her round face was pale with strain, her expression caught between curiosity and alarm. She supported another girl by the arm. The second was wan and wide-eyed, her hands knotted together as though they were the only thing keeping her upright.

Phillip bowed stiffly. “Miss Thompson.”

“You asked for me?” Her voice trembled, already fragile.

“Yes.” His throat was raw, but he pressed on. “I am Phillip Crane. George’s brother.”

The silence that followed pressed heavy against the walls. Penelope gasped softly. Marina swayed, her lips parting as if the air had been stolen from her lungs.

“I have come with news,” Phillip said, forcing each word. “My brother George died on the battlefield. Several weeks ago.”

Marina staggered back a step. “No—” The syllable splintered in her throat.

Phillip reached into his coat and drew out the letter he had carried across counties, its edges worn soft by his thumb. He held it out. “I found this among his belongings. It was meant for you.”

She seized it with shaking hands, tore it open, and read. The words blurred before her eyes almost at once, but she clutched the paper to her chest as though George might return if she pressed hard enough. Her sobs tore through the room, wild and uncontainable.

Penelope tried to catch her arm, whispering comfort, but Marina broke free, grief bowing her small frame.

The door burst open. A tall woman swept in, black mourning weeds flaring about her like banners. Her hair, a striking red even beneath the heavy veil, marked her at once as kin to the younger girl Phillip had just seen — likely the mother, though her manner was more theatrical than maternal. Another woman followed close behind, younger, finely dressed, her poise unmistakable. There was an air of breeding in the set of her shoulders, though Phillip could not place her.

“Marina?” Lady Featherington demanded, sharp with alarm. “What is the meaning of this noise?”

Her gaze fastened on Phillip. “Lieutenant Crane, how delightful to make your acquaintance,” she said breathlessly, not waiting for an answer. “I had no idea a soldier such as yourself was coming to town.”

She paused, her eyes narrowing. “And Miss Thompson has not received any correspondence from you in quite some time.”

Phillip’s jaw tightened. The words cut, though not in the way she intended. He could not force the truth past his lips—he didn’t need to.

Marina lifted her tear-streaked face, voice shaking but clear. “That man is not who you believe him to be. It is not George. It is his brother. Sir Phillip.”

The air stilled. One of the daughters at the doorway sucked her teeth in disapproval.

Phillip straightened, dragging up the final words. “George is gone,” he said flatly. “My brother died on the battlefield, several weeks ago.”

Lady Featherington paled. Penelope’s hand flew to her mouth. Daphne flinched, then immediately moved as Marina gave a strangled cry and fled the room, the letter crumpled in her fist.

“Marina!” Lady Featherington cried, sweeping after her. Daphne, skirts caught up in her hands, darted past and was the first into the corridor.

Phillip remained a moment longer, the echo of sobs carrying through the house. From the corridor came Marina’s voice, broken and raw, each word forced out between choking breaths.

“He was writing to me… George… to tell me he loved me—” her voice cracked, rising to a near wail, “to tell me we could run away together and marry and have our child!”

The sound of paper crumpling carried through the air as she clutched the letter. “Sir Phillip found this half-written letter amongst George’s belongings after he—after he fell,” she sobbed, the words dissolving into jagged breaths. “If it were not for your inquiries, I never would have known… never would have known he loved me.”

Her voice pitched higher, ragged with despair. “All this time—” she gasped, nearly shrieking, “he loved me! I thought him a villain, but he was not!”

Her sobs shattered what little composure remained, wild and unrestrained. “He had a perfectly reasonable explanation for not writing back. And I—” she broke off, words drowning in tears, “I was wrong!”

Phillip stood rooted, the hysteria reverberating through the stairwell and into his bones. He had not meant to hear her confession, but it struck him like a series of blows, each more punishing than the last. George’s ghost filled the house, louder and more commanding in death than Phillip had ever been in life.

He turned at last to Lady Featherington, who hovered on the threshold. “I will not trouble your household further today,” he said stiffly. “I shall return when Miss Thompson is in better health.”

Lady Featherington, too stricken to protest, only gave a jerky nod.

Phillip stepped into the hall, the door closing softly at his back. The echo of Marina’s sobs clung to the air. Ahead, the red-haired girl half-dragged Marina up the staircase, the crumpled letter pressed to her chest as though she could anchor herself with it. Their voices faded as they disappeared upstairs.

“Sir Phillip.”

He turned. The poised young woman lingered in the corridor, blonde hair gleaming against the dove-gray of her gown. Her composure steadied the very air, though her eyes were grave.

She inclined her head. “Daphne Basset, Duchess of Hastings. I had written to you. Thank you so much for coming.”

Phillip bowed, his movements stiff, unsure. Gratitude sat uneasily on his shoulders — he was more accustomed to censure than thanks. Her words pressed into him like an unwanted truth: he was here not from choice, but because she had willed it. A duchess had summoned, and he had come. He despised the thought, yet he could not deny its power.

She studied him with a quiet intensity that unsettled him further. Unlike Lady Featherington’s shrill display, this woman needed no theatrics to command a room — she did it with stillness, with the calm assurance of someone who had never been ignored in her life.

“You did what you came to do,” she said gently, her voice measured but certain. “It was not easy, I know. But it was necessary.”

Phillip inclined his head again, though inside the words scraped like gravel. Necessary. Always that word. It was his father’s word, his brother’s word — a word wielded like a cudgel. Necessary had never once meant wanted.

The duchess’s expression softened. “You must not vanish back into Gloucestershire. Appearances matter, now more than ever.”

His stomach tightened. Appearances. The very thing he loathed most about the world. To be judged not for truth but for how it might be draped in silks and smiles.

“In a few days’ time,” she continued, “my husband and I host a ball at Hastings House. You should attend.”

Phillip felt his shoulders stiffen. The word ball conjured a vision of chandeliers, perfumed crowds, and endless eyes raking across him, weighing him against the ghost of George. He would rather stand knee-deep in mud among nettles than endure such a trial.

Yet this was the Duchess of Hastings. And he knew well enough that courtesy offered him no escape.

“You honor me, your grace,” he said, bowing stiffly.

Her mouth curved into the faintest smile. “Then we shall expect you.”

Phillip bowed once more and turned toward the entrance hall. The front door opened, spilling harsh sunlight into his eyes. He strode out, desperate for air, his boots striking hard against the polished steps—

He had just reached the stairs when motion blurred before him — a young woman ascending in haste, skirts swishing as she took the steps two at a time.

They collided squarely, the impact jolting him back a pace. He reached out instinctively, his large hands closing around slender arms to steady her.

The impact jolted him backward. She startled, her bonnet strings fluttering loose, and stared up at him.

Phillip froze.

The young woman was unlike anyone he had expected to meet at such a doorstep. Curly chestnut hair spilled rebelliously from beneath a bonnet that sat slightly askew, as though tied in haste. Her face was animated, quick with intelligence, her gray eyes wide with shock yet flashing with defiance. She was no wilting bloom like so many ladies he had endured — but vivid, arresting, alive.

For an instant, the world went still. Marina’s sobs upstairs, Lady Featherington’s shrill cries, the clatter of carriage wheels outside — all of it blurred into nothing. There was only her eyes, locked on his. Sharp as flint, unflinching, startled yet unafraid.

A strange, electric awareness sparked through him, something primal and unnerving. It was as if a bolt of lightning had found him in the dim hall, striking clean through the shell of the man he thought he was. His palms burned where they pressed the thin muslin of her sleeves, every nerve alive to the contact.

He dropped his hands as though scorched, his body moving before his mind could catch up. A stiff bow followed, an anchor in a moment that felt terrifyingly unmoored.

“Forgive me, miss,” he managed, his voice low and rough, worn from disuse.

She did not answer. Or perhaps she did — he could not tell, for his pulse roared too loudly in his ears. All he could see were her eyes: storm-gray, lit with a force that pinned him where he stood. He had faced professors at Cambridge, sparred until his ribs ached in the boxing ring, endured his father’s tirades — but never had he felt so wholly undone by a single glance.

The crooked tilt of her bonnet tugged at him inexplicably, as if the hastiness of it betrayed a life far larger than the narrow roles he had come to expect of women. A life unruly, restless, unwilling to bow. She seemed, in that heartbeat, less a stranger than a sudden truth — a spark thrown onto tinder he had not realized was waiting.

The sensation hit harder than any fist that had ever found his jaw in the ring. A look from her — just one startled look — and his balance was gone, his footing stripped away as surely as if he’d been knocked to the floor.

He straightened too quickly, retreating down the steps as though distance might restore sense. His boots struck hard against the stone, each echo reminding him of who he was meant to be: the dutiful brother, the reluctant baronet, the messenger of death. Not a man stopped short by a girl on a staircase.

And yet — the impression lingered. Her eyes followed him, even when he no longer dared to look back.

Chapter Text

Phillip Crane did not sleep.

The bed in his Mayfair lodging might as well have been a bier, its thin mattress unyielding, its sheets coarse and suffocating. He turned and turned, restless as a man hunted, the pillow beneath his head feeling more like stone than feather. His body ached with exhaustion from the road — shoulders knotted, legs heavy — yet fatigue brought no peace. Each breath dragged uneven through his chest, shallow and sharp, as if he could not draw enough air to steady himself.

His mind thrashed like a wild animal in a cage.

Marina’s face rose behind his eyes each time he shut them: stricken, colorless, her hands trembling as she clutched George’s unfinished letter to her breast. She had looked like a woman splitting apart in real time, and he had stood there useless, rooted, delivering pain instead of comfort. He had spoken the words, given her the truth, placed George’s last message in her palm — and yet nothing felt settled. Nothing could.

He knew what his father would have commanded. Marry her. Seal the breach. Preserve the name. Spare no thought for yourself. That edict had been beaten into him too many times to fade; it lived in his marrow, a voice hissing failure, coward, disgrace through every shadowed corner of his mind.

But the thought of it — of binding himself to Marina, of waking beside a stranger and enduring a marriage chained only by duty — sickened him. No affection. No warmth. Only silence stretched across years, broken by obligation. He had lived in such a house already. He had grown in its soil: a mother dead before he could know her, a father whose contempt had been as constant as breath. Romney Hall had never known laughter, only slammed doors and the bite of leather. To enter such a prison again, willingly, was unthinkable.

And yet — what choice was left?

His chest constricted, breath shortening. He pressed his forearm over his eyes until the darkness bloomed red, his teeth grinding until pain lanced down his jaw. Still the tightness worsened, ribs aching, lungs dragging too little air. His gut clenched, harder this time, and bile surged in his throat.

He lurched upright, the mattress groaning, and fumbled beneath the bed for the chamber pot. His hands shook so badly he nearly overturned it. He bent over, retching until his ribs screamed, at first only spit and bitterness, then the acrid sting of half-digested bread and wine. The heaves came in punishing waves, tearing through him, leaving his throat raw.

When at last it passed, he slumped forward, sweat dripping down his temple, his forehead pressed to the rim of the pot. His chest heaved like he had run miles. Shame hollowed him, colder than the night air. This was what he had become: a man sick not with illness, but with his own life. Sick with the weight of choice, with his father’s shadow, with George’s ghost.

And beneath it all — absurdly, unshakably — her.

The girl on the Featherington steps.

He had not asked her name, had scarcely managed more than a rough apology, but her image clung. The press of her against his chest had been so sudden, so real, that even now he swore he could feel the imprint of her body’s feminine curves, seared through his clothes and into his skin, as though she had branded him by accident.

He remembered the faint crush of muslin, warm from the body inside it. The give of her arm against his hand — slight, feminine, yet alive with a strength that had held him still. A curl, dislodged from its pins, had brushed the inside of his wrist, softer than anything he had a right to touch. And with it came a fragrance that startled him: jasmine, subtle and heady, tangled with the starch of her gown. A gentle, delicate scent — at odds with the storm-gray eyes that had fixed him as though daring the world itself to move aside.

And then her breath, sharp and uneven, had lifted against him. The rise of her chest pressed into his own, breasts yielding softly through the thin barrier of muslin and wool, startling in their nearness, their warmth. That fleeting contact had branded itself into him more vividly than any memory of fists or fury. She had been all softness against his solidity, warm where he was cold, alive where he had thought himself half-dead.

Her mouth had parted in surprise, flushed with breath, her skin close enough he might have counted the faint freckles scattered across her cheek. When her brow knit, a dimple appeared in her cheek — a detail absurdly small, and yet it lodged like a thorn. Her bonnet, tied in haste, had sat slightly askew, the ribbon pulling uneven beneath her chin. That imperfection struck him as keenly as her gaze: eyes sharp, unyielding, demanding to be seen.

She had not asked permission to exist; she had simply taken up space, as though the very world must bend itself around her or break. It unsettled him to the core. He had spent his life moving like a shadow through rooms that never wanted him, a son tolerated but not cherished, a mistake that had cost a mother her life and earned only a father’s contempt. He had breathed, eaten, grown — but always with the gnawing sense that his place among the living was conditional, precarious, undeserved.

And then this girl — this stranger — had collided with him as if her place were never in question. Her eyes had dared him to see her, dared him not to look away. No apology, no meekness, only an existence claimed as her right.

It stirred something nameless in him, sharp and aching. That instant had sliced clean through the mire of grief, of duty, of guilt, lodging deep in the marrow where it would not be shaken free. For the first time in years, perhaps ever, he found himself wondering what it might be like not simply to endure life, but to inhabit it as she did: without permission, without fear, without question.

He dragged a trembling hand down his damp face, muttering into the dark. Madness. Utter madness. She was nothing to him. A stranger. A passing collision in a city of countless others. And yet his mind betrayed him, circling back to her again and again, as though she were the only fixed point left, the only clarity amid the storm.

Marina’s sobs still echoed. George’s shadow still loomed. The Crane name still pressed like a stone upon his chest.

And yet — through all of it, there she was.

****

When dawn seeped gray against the shutters, Phillip rose hollow-eyed, his body wrung dry. The night had left him scoured and unsteady, as though he’d been scraped raw from the inside out. Each movement was stiff with fatigue, his limbs heavy, his breath dragging shallow. He dressed by rote, fumbling at buttons with fingers that would not quite obey him. The shirt clung damp to his back. His cravat lay crooked, no matter how he tugged at it, and the coat pinched across his shoulders as though it belonged to someone else.

In the warped glass above the washstand, the reflection that stared back was scarcely familiar: broad, unshaven, eyes bloodshot and bruised with sleeplessness. He looked like a man wearing another man’s life.

The silence pressed in. Only the sound of his own breath filled the narrow room. Phillip braced both hands on the washstand, shoulders bowed, staring down until the water in the basin blurred. He could see it all too clearly—the road Society would have him walk. A hasty marriage to Marina, a life of quiet penance in George’s stead. A hollow union, empty of affection, bound only by obligation. He imagined the years stretching out, the weight of silence growing heavier until it smothered them both.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, the words breaking loose before he could stop them. His chest tightened, breath hitching. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to go through this.” The refrain beat against his skull like a drum. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

His stomach clenched, but nothing came; he had already retched the night empty. What remained was worse: the hollowness afterward, the shame of having no strength left even for his own despair. He pressed his fists against his eyes, but the darkness behind them only echoed back his words—relentless, merciless. I can’t do this.

When he lowered his hands, his gaze caught on the straight razor lying beside the basin, the blade glinting faintly in the pallid light. He froze. His thoughts collapsed into silence, save for one terrible clarity: here was an escape. Simple. Absolute.

His breath turned shallow. He reached out, fingers hovering above the handle, then drew back as though it burned. The thought surged, unbidden but irresistible: one motion, and all of it—the obligations, the weight, the endless years—would vanish. No more mornings like this. No more nights clawed raw with dread. Just quiet. Just peace.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered again, this time to the razor itself. His throat tightened, his pulse hammering in his ears. He pictured it—too vividly. The release, the blessed stillness after. His knees wavered beneath him.

Yet the image shifted, unbidden, to Marina. Her face pale with grief, her body bent beneath loss. To heap this upon her—his own cowardice, his own surrender—was unbearable. The vision of her finding him, ruined utterly, struck through him like cold iron.

He lingered still, torn between revulsion and temptation, his hand trembling inches from the handle. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. The words twisted in meaning—first despair, then defiance. With a strangled sound, he snatched the razor up, snapped it back into its case, and shoved it hard into the drawer. The clatter rang through the room, final and violent, as if he could banish the thought by force.

Phillip staggered back from the washstand, chest heaving. He pressed a hand over his mouth, nauseated, ashamed, shaken by how near he had come. For a long moment he could only stand there, staring at nothing, forcing breath after ragged breath until the pounding in his head began to ebb.

“No,” he said aloud, rough as gravel. “Not like this. Not today.”

The walls of the lodging still leaned inward, heavy with demands he could not meet. He could not stay in this room another moment. He needed movement, distance, anything to outrun the echo in his head. But no matter how far he walked, he knew it would follow.

To do what was expected. Or to do what he could bear.

****

Hastings House glittered that night like some enchanted citadel carved from crystal. Lanterns blazed along the portico, casting molten light over polished carriages as they drew up in a steady procession. Within, chandeliers hung heavy with candles, their flames refracting off mirrored walls and polished floors until the air itself seemed gilded. Violins wove their melody through the room, threading together the hum of conversation and the chiming laughter that rose and fell like clockwork. Perfume clung to the air, cloying and heady, mixed with the sweet bite of champagne and the faint tang of beeswax candles burning too hot.

Phillip loathed it.

The crush of bodies pressed too close, a sea of silk skirts and black coats brushing against him with every step. The air was stifling, saturated with roses, wine, and powder until his stomach turned. Voices pitched too high with forced delight scraped against his ears. Everywhere, jewels flashed, smiles gleamed, and masks of civility were worn so tightly he wondered how any of them drew breath.

His boots struck the parquet with the weight of a man wading through mire, each deliberate step reminding him that he did not belong here. Heads turned as he passed, some with curiosity, some with open suspicion — a broad man in a dark coat, his cravat already askew, his hair untamed by pomade or powder. He caught the looks and let them pass over him. He had no wish to return them.

He had come because the Duchess of Hastings had asked it. No — because she had told him it was necessary. He had bowed to her in that hallway of grief, stiff and reluctant, and now here he was: dragged into Society’s glittering cage, its bars made of chandeliers and candlelight.

His gaze sought the shadows at the room’s edge, the places where the candlelight thinned and the air cooled. He drifted toward them instinctively, as a man desperate for shore, his hands clasped behind his back to stop himself from tugging at the knot of his cravat.

And then—

She was there.

At first only a flash, a shift of color through the crowd: violets tucked into dark curls, a gown of pale lilac shimmering under the blaze of candlelight. The tilt of her head, the restless energy in her movements — they marked her apart from the sea of practiced elegance around her. She did not glide as the others did, practiced and smooth. She moved as though the gown were a cage, as though she longed to kick free of silk and lace and breathe.

He still did not know her name. Only the memory of her pressed against him lingered, and now the sight of her here — alive, vivid, electric among the pearls and powder — was like being struck again by that lightning bolt, sharp and merciless.

His chest tightened. He turned away too quickly, forcing his gaze to the floor, to the polished shoes of strangers, anywhere but her. He told himself she was not the reason he had come. Marina was. Marina’s grief, Marina’s child, Marina’s impossible future. But the music blurred into a hum, the voices dulled into meaningless chatter, even the Duchess’s eyes on him faded to haze. The only clear point in the room was her.

The dance whirled on — partners exchanged, silks whispered, laughter rang. Phillip edged along the periphery, deeper into shadow, until at last he found a corridor branching away from the glare. He slipped into it like a man escaping a fire. The air cooled. The press of bodies thinned. Only the faint scent of lilies and melting wax clung to the walls, gentler than the roses and champagne behind him.

He walked until he reached a door left half-open, golden lamplight spilling across the floor in slender bars. A library. He stepped inside.

The hush wrapped around him at once, soft as balm on raw skin. Rows of shelves towered above, their spines gleaming in lamplight. Shadows pooled in the corners where the firelight did not reach. He drew in a breath — fuller, steadier — and tugged once at his cravat until it sat looser against his throat. For the first time that evening, he thought he might breathe.

On a side table lay a familiar volume. His hand closed around it almost without thought: The Botanical Register. The weight was comforting, the worn leather known to him. He carried it to the hearth and leaned one shoulder against the mantel, the unopened book balanced in his palm. For a moment he let the heat of the flames soak into him, loosening the chill that had clung since he’d entered the ball.

At last he opened it, eyes falling on a plate of orchids. Their engraved petals and steady symmetry should have anchored him, should have stilled the storm beneath his ribs.

But the lines wavered. The words blurred. His chest did not unclench.

The door shifted.

He turned.

She stood framed in the threshold—the same young woman who had collided with him earlier, who had invaded his thoughts in the hours since, unbidden and relentless.

Her eyes were wide, startled, the gray of storm clouds catching the lamplight. A faint flush touched her cheeks, her chest rising and falling too quickly as though she had run. The violets pinned in her hair trembled slightly with her breath.

For one suspended moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched taut, thrumming with something more dangerous than any crowd.

Phillip bowed stiffly, his body moving by rote more than thought.

She dropped into a curtsy, clumsy in its haste, nearly overbalancing. Something in him lurched hard at the sight — that a girl so sure-eyed, so vivid, could falter at all.

“I—” he began, then faltered. His voice felt rough, ill-fitted to the stillness. “I didn’t think anyone would be here. I’ll… go.”

He stepped toward the door, desperate to flee before he made a fool of himself.

But she stopped him. Her voice broke the silence, too quick, too loud.

“No—”

The word froze him mid-step.

She gestured weakly at the towering shelves, her tone softening. “It’s a large library.”

A pause.

Phillip’s jaw worked. He could leave—should leave. Yet the thought of returning to the ballroom, to the din and the crush of bodies, made his chest tighten. That would not be easier. Not tonight. Not when silence and firelight offered at least the pretense of peace. Something in her voice, uncertain but insistent, rooted him as surely as the memory of her earlier touch. He told himself it was only courtesy that kept him here. That was reason enough. Or so he tried to believe.

Phillip nodded once, stiff, and turned back toward the hearth. The fire crackled, filling the silence that stretched between them.

She stepped deeper into the room, her skirts whispering over the carpet. The door eased shut behind her with a soft click, sealing them in the hush together.

And they stood there — two strangers bound by chance, the air alive with the weight of words neither yet knew how to speak.