Upstairs, the suit lay untouched on the bed for nearly an hour. Mr. Blyth had paced the length of his room more times than he could count, muttering under his breath and casting the occasional glare in the direction of the offending garment. He sat, stood, scowled, and seriously considered throwing the whole thing back down the stairs like a cursed object. But when the clock struck four and the household's noise grew louder with each passing minute, he finally gave in with a low, irritable curse and began to dress.
By the time he reached the mirror, the last of the silvered fastenings had been buttoned, the fall of the collar adjusted just so. He stopped.
The suit was perfect. Midnight blue wool, impossibly well-fitted, the embroidery along the collar and cuffs subtle enough to feel dignified but striking enough to catch the eye. The fabric moved with him like a second skin—neither stiff nor fussy—and for a moment, he didn't look like the man he saw every morning.
He looked taller somehow. Broader at the shoulders. His dark hair, still damp from its combing, lay neatly parted, a touch glossier than usual beneath the light. His face, always more solemn than not, seemed carved in finer lines—familiar, yes, but not entirely ordinary. There was something else in his reflection. Something steadier.
It was still him, of course. The same stubborn mouth, the same eyes that rarely gave anything away. But dressed like this—chosen, deliberate—he seemed… different. More like the man others expected him to be. Or the man Fitzwilliam might already believe he was.
And though he hated to admit it, the truth was plain.
It suited him. Far too well.
From downstairs came the sharp, unmistakable call of his mother's voice, echoing up through the stairwell. "Henry! We are leaving in thirty minutes—do not make me come get you!"
With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, cast one last glance at the mirror, and left the room.
As he descended the stairs, the sound of voices reached him first—laughter, footsteps, the soft rustle of skirts. When he reached the front hall, he stopped.
His mother stood near the door, draped in cream-colored satin that caught the light like polished ivory. A lace shawl rested on her shoulders, pinned neatly with her old blue topaz brooch—the one his father had given her decades ago. She wore matching gloves and had pinned her hair into an elegant twist, topped with a cream hat that tilted just enough to suggest she'd practiced the angle.
Eleanor stood beside her in a midnight-blue gown that mirrored his own suit with unnerving precision. Silver embroidery traced the edges of her sleeves and collar like frost on a windowpane. Her hair was swept up into a braided crown, fixed with silver ivy combs, and a delicate silver chain rested at her throat.
And Margaret—bright, irrepressible Margaret—wore a gown the soft blush of sunrise, with a rose-colored sash tied into a generous bow at the back. Her earrings were small pearls, her curls carefully arranged, and she clutched a fan she seemed unlikely to use except for dramatic emphasis.
For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes moved across each of them in turn—his mother radiant, Eleanor poised, Margaret glowing with uncontainable energy. "You all look…" he began, but the words caught in his throat. He cleared it softly. "You look absolutely beautiful."
Three heads turned toward him in perfect unison. Margaret blinked first. "Well," she said, eyes gleaming with mischief, "that may be the first time you've ever said that out loud."
Eleanor offered a quiet, knowing smile, and Mrs. Blyth tilted her head, visibly pleased. "You look rather fine yourself, Henry."
"Mr. Fitzwilliam has impeccable taste," Eleanor added, her gaze drifting briefly to his suit.
He didn't respond to that—mostly because he wasn't entirely sure how.
The clock once at four-thirty, and the household descended into its final chaos. Gloves were adjusted. Cloaks were fetched. Mrs. Blyth issued instructions to no one in particular while simultaneously correcting the way Margaret held her fan. Eleanor murmured something about remembering the invitation—Margaret, affronted, insisted she had tucked it safely into her reticule. Mr. Blyth, for his part, said little as they bundled into the carriage, which felt markedly smaller now that it contained four layers of satin, wool, chatter, and nerves.
Inside, the air was thick with anticipation—and sound. Margaret could not seem to stop talking, her excitement spilling out in breathless waves as she speculated on the guest list, the music, the floral arrangements, and the number of eligible gentlemen who might be in attendance. Mrs. Blyth interjected between subjects, offering commentary, adjusting hems, and occasionally scolding the driver through the window for hitting every rut in the road. Even Eleanor, who was typically a wellspring of quiet observation, allowed herself to be swept up in the current—laughing, teasing, and at one point raising her voice in half-hearted protest when Margaret accused her of harboring a secret attachment.
Mr. Blyth sat across from them, the din washing over him. The carriage was loud, cramped, and overflowing with speculation—but for once, he didn't mind it. He let the sound settle around him, warm and familiar, like a coat shrugged on after a long winter. Sunlight flickered through the window, casting golden light across the soft folds of Margaret's gown and catching on the silver thread that edged Eleanor's collar. His eyes drifted to his mother, who looked entirely in her element—radiant, composed, and beaming with the unmistakable pride of a woman who had arranged every detail of this evening in her mind long before it had ever been spoken aloud.
As the wheels carried them down the long, winding road toward Langmere Hall, Mr. Blyth allowed himself—just for a moment—to enjoy the ride.
But as the carriage pulled through Langmere's gates, he straightened. He had expected formality, grandeur, perhaps even spectacle—but what awaited them was something else entirely.
Both Mr. Fitzwilliam and his sister, Miss Genevieve Fitzwilliam, stood at the top of the front steps, tall and composed, framed by the afternoon light as if painted into the scene by a master's hand. Together, they looked like the frontispiece of an expensive novel—refined, poised, and just distant enough to unsettle.
Mr. Fitzwilliam wore a coat of deep green so dark it veered toward black in the shadows, but in the sunlight it shimmered with the quiet brilliance of emerald. The color made his fair skin luminous, his deep blue eyes impossibly clear. His cravat was ivory, his waistcoat a subdued gold brocade, and his boots polished to a mirrored sheen. But it was his hair that left the most lasting impression—thick and tousled, a burnished auburn with threads of gold that caught the light like fire at dusk. It was the kind of hair that defied fashion but somehow enhanced it, as if it had never been styled, only worn.
Beside him, Miss Genevieve Fitzwilliam stood like a mirror held at a gentler angle—equally striking, and just as deliberate. Her hair bore the same copper hue, arranged in a braided crown that caught the sun as if it had been burnished. She wore a gown nearly identical in color to Eleanor's midnight blue, trimmed in ivory lace, the cut elegant but unpretentious. A sapphire brooch gleamed at her shoulder, and her gloves were a shade of white so pale they might have been made of pressed clouds.
Mr. Blyth, catching sight of Eleanor beside him, noted the unusual color in her cheeks. She was blushing. He did not comment—he didn't need to. The flicker of amusement in his eyes said enough.
As soon as the carriage came to a halt, Mr. Fitzwilliam descended the front steps with the easy grace of a man accustomed to command. "Welcome to Langmere," he said warmly, extending his hand toward Mr. Blyth. "I trust the ride was pleasant?"
"It was... lively," Mr. Blyth replied, accepting the handshake. His tone was polite, wry, and just vague enough to mask any further detail.
As their hands parted, he noticed something odd: silence. The carriage, which had moments ago echoed with laughter and teasing, had fallen completely still. Margaret, so often on the verge of some irreverent observation, sat motionless. Mrs. Blyth held herself with a composed dignity more fitting for a royal audience. And Eleanor—cool, composed Eleanor—had lowered her gaze, her expression unreadable, her fingers still as porcelain against her skirts.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Blyth stepped aside and offered a subtle gesture toward his companions. "May I introduce my mother, Mrs. Josephine Blyth. My sisters—Miss Eleanor Blyth and Miss Margaret Blyth."
The women descended one by one, offering graceful curtsies and bows, the choreography of practiced politeness on full display.
Mr. Fitzwilliam's smile deepened. "An honor to meet you all at last. I've heard nothing but good things."
He turned then, sweeping a hand in quiet deference to the woman at his side. "And may I present my sister, Miss Genevieve Fitzwilliam."
Miss Fitzwilliam responded with elegant precision, her voice crisp and melodic. "It's lovely to meet you all."
Mr. Fitzwilliam let his gaze sweep over the group, and then—smiling with quiet amusement—he glanced between Eleanor and his sister. "Miss Blyth, it appears you and Genevieve are of one mind when it comes to fashion. What an excellent color to settle on."
Eleanor's eyes widened slightly. "Oh—I hadn't meant to—if I had known—"
Miss Fitzwilliam raised a gloved hand with graceful finality. "Please," she interjected, her tone light but certain. "Don't apologize. I'm thrilled to meet someone with such excellent taste."
And with that, before Eleanor could say another word, Miss Fitzwilliam slipped her arm through hers with casual familiarity. "Come," she said brightly. "Let's go in for tea. I insist we become fast friends before the evening begins."
The two women ascended the front steps together, deep in immediate conversation. Mrs. Blyth and Margaret followed behind at a slightly slower pace, each doing their best to look as though they were not intensely curious about every detail.
Left behind, the two men exchanged a glance, and then—without speaking—began the climb at a more leisurely pace of their own.
Mr. Fitzwilliam cast a glance toward Mr. Blyth, his tone light with mischief. "Well. That went smoothly."
Mr. Blyth, still watching his sister's retreating form, let out a short breath—half amusement, half suspicion. "Too smoothly."
Fitzwilliam's grin widened. "Give it time. It's barely five o'clock."
As the great front doors of Langmere closed behind them with a soft but definitive thud, Mr. Fitzwilliam glanced sideways, something measured in his expression—pleased, certainly, but tempered with the kind of precision one reserved for moments of quiet importance.
"I must say," he remarked, his voice easy but warm, "you wear that suit remarkably well. Better than I imagined, if I'm honest."
Mr. Blyth glanced down at the midnight-blue wool as if just remembering he was wearing it, his fingers brushing a button. "You didn't have to go through all that trouble," he said. "It was generous—and unnecessary. I'm in your debt."
Fitzwilliam looked at him again, something unreadable behind the curve of his smile. "You owe me nothing," he said evenly. "But if you're determined to settle a debt…" His voice lowered, almost teasing, "I daresay I'll think of something suitable."
Mr. Blyth didn't respond at first. He kept his gaze forward, jaw set, expression neutral—as though determined not to acknowledge whether the comment had landed at all. Whether it had or hadn't was beside the point; he would not give it air.
They passed through Langmere's grand entrance hall, where sunlight filtered through tall windows and spilled across polished stone floors. The architecture, built to impress, was tempered by domestic warmth: paintings hung at eye level rather than lofted for effect, thick rugs muffling each step, and somewhere—faint but persistent—the unmistakable trace of lavender.
Their path curved through a series of increasingly elegant rooms. The conservatory opened wide with glass and green, ivy curling along the windows like delicate handwriting. The library stood tall and still, its shelves rising like sentries, the scent of old paper clinging to the quiet. The gallery followed—lined with portraits that looked on with the resigned judgment of those who had seen too much and said too little.
At last, they reached the western drawing room.
It was exactly as promised—lovely without ostentation. Bay windows welcomed the afternoon light in long, golden streaks across pale ivory walls. Chairs had been arranged in soft conversational arcs around low tables dressed in tea service: porcelain cups, delicate cakes, crystal dishes of preserves. A pair of footmen lingered at the edges like punctuation—present, but silent.
The party settled in easily. Mrs. Blyth positioned herself where she could survey the entire room with strategic grace, claiming a seat that gave her a full view of the conversation and the tea tray alike. Margaret wasted no time helping herself to a raspberry tart, declaring its quality with a pleased hum. Miss Fitzwilliam and Eleanor had already resumed their easy conversation, seated side-by-side on a tufted settee, their postures elegant and yet entirely unforced. Though nearly opposites—Miss Fitzwilliam lively and full of sparkle, Eleanor reserved and wry—they moved together with the ease of two women who had always known how to complement one another.
Mr. Fitzwilliam sat across from Mrs. Blyth, charming her with a story that had her dabbing at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief, torn between laughter and decorum. "And then," he said, brandishing an empty teaspoon like a prop, "I stepped directly on her foot. Not gently. With full, unforgiving force."
Mrs. Blyth gasped, eyes wide with delight. "Oh no!"
"She let out a sound so sharp I thought I'd broken something. The duchess didn't cry because I broke her heart—she cried because I nearly broke her toes."
Margaret burst into laughter, nearly spilling her tea, and even Eleanor bit her lip to hide a smile. The atmosphere lifted with their amusement, a shared moment that settled over the room like the last note of a favorite song.
Miss Fitzwilliam leaned toward Eleanor with a conspiratorial whisper. "You see? He's chaos wrapped in charm."
Eleanor arched a brow. "I'm not sure that's a compliment."
"It is," Miss Fitzwilliam replied with a smirk. "Though I wouldn't recommend telling him."
**As tea gave way to music, the women gathered near the pianoforte at the far end of the drawing room. Mrs. Blyth, ever the consummate hostess even when not in her own home, took her place at the keys. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, conjuring a cheerful, familiar tune that warmed the air like sunlight. Miss Fitzwilliam sang first, her voice bright and assured; Margaret joined moments later, swaying in time, her enthusiasm unmistakable. Even Eleanor, usually content to observe, was soon coaxed into humming softly under her breath.
It was the kind of sound that made a house feel lived in—laughter and melody weaving into the walls, anchoring the afternoon in something unmistakably warm.
On the other side of the room, Mr. Blyth and Mr. Fitzwilliam found themselves alone, seated beside each other in matching armchairs with identical cups of untouched tea in their hands. For a long moment, neither spoke. The music swelled. A window creaked open. A breeze carried in the scent of lilac through the room's quiet edges.
"…Your mother plays well," Mr. Fitzwilliam said finally, his voice low and even.
Mr. Blyth gave a small nod, not quite looking at him. "She does."
Silence returned, though not the awkward kind—just a stretch of quiet that neither man seemed eager to disturb. From the other side of the room came the sound of laughter. Miss Fitzwilliam said something amusing, Margaret clapped, and Eleanor's voice could be heard faintly above the melody.
Mr. Fitzwilliam exhaled slowly, the breath more like a thought made audible. "It's nice," he added, as though that explained everything.
Mr. Blyth did not respond, nor did he shift in his seat. But he didn't move away either.
"I ought to apologize," Mr. Fitzwilliam said, his voice even, though the measured cadence suggested the words had been prepared in advance. "For disappearing. For how everything's unfolded these last few months. My health hasn't been what I'd hoped."
Mr. Blyth turned to look at him. "I'd noticed."
There was no malice in his tone—only the weary plainness of someone who had endured the silence without complaint, but not without cost. After a pause, he asked, "Are you recovering?"
Fitzwilliam's gaze shifted toward the window, to the long view of the lawn beyond. "In a manner of speaking."
Mr. Blyth waited, patient but unmoved, offering space for explanation.
None came.
Whatever else Fitzwilliam might have meant, it remained unsaid.
After a moment, Mr. Fitzwilliam straightened—subtly, but with the practiced air of someone slipping back into charm. "In any case, I wanted to thank you. For indulging me. I know asking for your help with introductions was… unconventional. Possibly gauche."
Mr. Blyth arched a brow. "Possibly?"
Fitzwilliam gave a soft laugh—quick, self-deprecating. "Well. I've never been especially good at custom. But I meant it. You've done more than I deserved."
Mr. Blyth regarded him, something wary flickering behind his expression, though not unkind. "You made it rather difficult to say no."
"Another talent of mine," Fitzwilliam replied lightly, but his voice carried a note of caution, as if testing the waters. A pause followed—not quite tense, but weighted with the residue of things unsaid.
"I know I've asked more than I had a right to," he added, quieter now. "But I hope I haven't worn out your patience entirely."
Mr. Blyth's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "Not entirely."
Just then, footsteps approached—the crisp, deliberate rhythm of a servant trained to arrive precisely when needed, without apology or delay.
"Pardon me, sir," the footman said with a bow. "The first guests have begun to arrive." Mr. Fitzwilliam stood at once, smoothing the front of his coat with the ease of someone accustomed to stepping into a role. "Perfect timing," he murmured, as though the evening had unfolded precisely to his design.
Across the room, the music had faded, and the women were already stirring. Margaret squealed and tugged gleefully at Miss Fitzwilliam's arm, her delight unrestrained. Eleanor rose with more composure, her expression serene, but her fingers twitched as she adjusted her gloves—betraying the anticipation beneath the surface. Mrs. Blyth had that look again: the gleam of someone about to step into the theater of society, ready to take her place under the lights.
Mr. Blyth stood more slowly. A breath caught in his chest—tight, insistent. Not dread. Not exactly. But something close to it. That particular kind of pressure one feels when everyone else is already in stride and you've just realized your shoes don't quite fit. They looked perfect. Ready. Poised for the spectacle to begin. And he? He wasn't sure if he'd ever belonged to such a moment—or if he'd simply been dragged into it by others' certainty.
He adjusted his cuffs with quiet precision, letting the small, familiar motion center him. The suit was still immaculate, every line intentional, every stitch a whisper of expense and care. He looked the part, certainly. But beneath the polished surface, his breath was the only thing out of place—tight, uneven, and entirely his own.
Mr. Fitzwilliam turned back, catching his eye with an inviting smile and a touch of command. "Shall we?"
Mr. Blyth gave a single nod. And followed.