Benedict returned to the Montgomery townhouse long after dusk had settled over Berkeley Square, the lamps along the street glowing softly like witnesses to a secret he could barely contain.
He did not stride in with his usual measured composure. He nearly ran.
The footman barely had time to announce him before Benedict had already shrugged off his coat and made straight for the drawing room, where his family was gathered in the quiet comfort of the evening.
Duchess Eleanor looked up first.
One glance at her youngest son—and she knew.
She set down her teacup with deliberate calm. "Well?" she asked, her voice betraying nothing, though her eyes shone with anticipation.
Lord Edward leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Judging by that expression, either you've been rejected spectacularly—or the world has shifted on its axis."
Duke Cecil closed the book in his hand and regarded Benedict with sharp interest.
Benedict stopped in the center of the room.
