Another week had passed.
Two remained.
Fourteen days.
Sophia no longer counted aloud. She no longer marked lines in the margins of books or whispered the number before sleep as she once did when Laurence's departures approached.
But she knew.
Every morning when she opened her eyes, the knowledge greeted her before the light did.
Fourteen mornings.
Fourteen afternoons.
Fourteen evenings in which he might cross her path.
And then—
He would leave.
The thought hollowed her.
Ever since the walk to the stream — ever since that gust of wind and that impossible, effortless rescue — she had not quite returned to herself.
She moved through De Montfort as though wrapped in a thin veil of warmth and distraction. Her brothers' arguments seemed distant. Fredrick's explanations of mechanics floated past unheard. Arthur's laughter, once infectious, now felt faint beside the echo of a different voice in her mind.
Florian's.
She had preserved the bouquet.
Its once-vivid blooms had begun to curl and brown, but she refused to discard them. Instead, she selected the strongest petals and pressed them carefully between the pages of a heavy leather-bound volume in her chamber.
Each petal flattened slowly beneath weight.
Preserved.
Her first offering from a gentleman.
Her first proof that something extraordinary had occurred.
She touched the pressed flowers each evening as though confirming they were real.
It was one of those languid afternoons where time itself seemed reluctant to move.
The sun hung high but softened slightly by the faintest haze. The air smelled of warm stone, lavender, and distant cut grass. Bees drifted lazily among rosebushes, and the fountain near the hedgerow sang its quiet, endless melody.
Sophia wandered through the garden with a book tucked beneath her arm.
She had not intended to find him but she knew where he favored sitting.
And perhaps some part of her had guided her feet there all along.
Florian sat alone at a wrought-iron table beneath an elm tree.
The sight halted her completely.
He was seated with such natural grace that it seemed an art form.
One leg crossed loosely over the other — not careless, but balanced. His back straight without stiffness. Shoulders relaxed. His jacket — a soft cream linen that afternoon — rested perfectly across his frame. Beneath it, a waistcoat of muted sage green complemented the garden's hues as though he had chosen it in harmony with nature itself.
A porcelain cup rested near his hand.
His fingers — long, clean, precise — held the spine of a book as he read. He did not grip it tightly; he supported it gently. When he turned a page, he did so with the lightest brush of his fingertips, ensuring no crease marred the paper.
Even his stillness was deliberate.
The slight inclination of his head as he read.
The faint narrowing of his eyes when considering a sentence.
The subtle lift of his cup to his lips.
He did not gulp.
He did not slouch.
He existed in a kind of quiet symmetry.
Sophia's breath thinned.
How could someone sit so beautifully?
She studied him as though he were a painting in a grand gallery — every angle, every detail worth memorizing.
The sunlight filtered through the elm leaves above him, scattering gold across his hair. It caught faint copper tones she had not noticed before. A small breeze stirred the edges of his collar, but he did not fidget to adjust it.
He seemed… composed in the world.
As though nothing jarred him.
As though even wind negotiated politely around him.
Her heart fluttered — that same unfamiliar, almost painful sensation pressing against her ribs.
She should not stare. It was improper.
A lady did not stand hidden behind rosebushes observing a gentleman like some lovesick heroine from a scandalous novel.
And yet—
She could not move.
He lifted his teacup.
Paused.
Then looked up.
Their eyes met.
The world seemed to contract to that single line of sight.
Sophia's cheeks flamed instantly.
She had been caught.
Frozen in admiration.
Her instinct was to flee — but she found herself rooted to the path.
Florian closed his book with gentle precision, placing it neatly beside his plate. He rose unhurriedly — no abrupt movement, no scraping of chair — simply standing as though gravity had politely shifted.
He began walking toward her.
Each step measured. Confident. Light without being delicate.
She swallowed.
She dropped into a curtsy just as he reached her.
"Miss Sophia," he greeted warmly.
His voice carried a mellow timbre in the open air — warm but not loud, cultivated yet never affected.
She kept her gaze lowered a moment too long.
When she lifted it, he extended his hand.
And then—
He bent slightly.
Pressed his lips lightly to the back of her gloved hand.
The contact was brief.
Proper.
But the sensation lingered as though heat had branded her skin.
Her thoughts spiraled.
He knows how to do this without awkwardness.
He does not hesitate.
He does not stumble.
He makes even courtesy feel like poetry.
"Could I get the pleasure of your company?" he asked, gesturing toward the table.
She answered before her composure could intervene.
"Yes."
Far too quickly.
Her voice betrayed eagerness but she could not help it.
How could she refuse sitting beside her angel? And he regarded her company as pleasant!
He guided her to the table, ensuring her chair was drawn first. He signaled to a nearby attendant for an additional setting.
Sophia watched everything.
The way he waited patiently while porcelain was arranged.
The way he poured tea for her before himself.
The careful angle of his wrist as he lifted the pot.
The absence of spill.
The soft clink of cup against saucer.
"Milk?" he asked.
"Yes, please."
"One lump of sugar?" he inquired gently.
"Yes."
He stirred her tea slowly, precisely, never letting the spoon strike porcelain too loudly.
Her heart melted absurdly.
No one stirred tea like this.
He gestured toward the pastries.
"Which tempts you most?"
She studied them only briefly.
"Strawberry."
"An excellent choice," he smiled.
He placed it upon her plate as though presenting something ceremonial.
Their eyes met briefly.
His smile widened — soft, easy, unguarded.
She felt warmth rush to her face again.
They began to speak.
He asked her how her summer had been thus far.
She answered carefully at first, then more easily as she realized he listened attentively — not merely politely, but genuinely.
"I enjoy the mornings best," she admitted. "When the estate is quiet and the dew still rests upon the grass."
"A refined preference," he replied. "I am fond of mornings as well — though I confess I rarely rise early enough to earn them." A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
She smiled lightly feeling encouraged to ask questions of her own.
"And you?" she ventured, gathering courage. "Do you prefer mornings or evenings?"
"Evenings," he answered thoughtfully. "There is something honest about dusk. The day has revealed itself fully by then and anything urgent can be slept on."
She studied him.
He speaks as though everything he says has weight.
She dared another question.
"And your studies? Do you enjoy them truly, or only tolerate them?"
He laughed softly.
"A mixture of both. I admire discourse. I endure mathematics."
She found herself laughing too.
Conversation flowed more easily than she had dared hope.
He asked about her reading. She confessed a fondness for poetry, though she sometimes found it overly dramatic.
He smiled.
"Dramatic poetry is necessary in youth," he said. "One must exhaust such passions early."
Her heart skipped.
Is he speaking of passion?
She hesitated.
Then, emboldened by the softness of the moment, she asked the question that had been building inside her all week.
"May I ask you something?" Her voice softened, "I do not mean to sound improper, it is just mere curiosity." She felt like a pit was stuck in her throat, for what she was about to ask would be deemed improper.
He leaned back slightly, amused.
"I shall permit it."
She drew a careful breath.
"What… what sort of lady do you admire?"
The question hovered between them.
She attempted to keep her tone casual.
But her pulse thundered.
He did not seem startled.
He did not interpret it as a declaration.
He saw her — quite sincerely — as something between younger sister and bright, curious child.
He answered honestly.
"I admire kindness above all," he said first. "A lady who carries herself with grace but does not mistake grace for coldness."
Sophia's shoulders relaxed slightly.
Grace — she could cultivate grace.
"And intelligence," he continued. "Conversation that does not tire easily."
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
"I think wit is a treasure," he added. "A woman who can laugh gently at the world rather than bristle at it."
She considered her own temperament.
Could she laugh gently? Perhaps.
He paused thoughtfully.
"I confess," he added lightly, "I admire skill of the hand."
She froze slightly.
"Skill?"
"Yes. Embroidery, perhaps. Or painting. There is something rather charming in receiving a small gift made by a lady's own hand."
She had never tried to paint but embroidery...
Her heart sank just slightly.
Embroidery she tried on more occasions than she can count and it was not her strength.
She could manage simple patterns.
But nothing exquisite.
He noticed nothing of her internal shift.
"It is not essential," he added easily. "Heaven forbid I demand such things. But it is pleasant — a token, you see."
A token.
A gift made by a lady's hand.
Sophia's mind seized upon it.
She would learn.
She would master embroidery if it meant aligning herself closer to his ideal.
He continued.
"And, above all, sincerity. A lady who does not pretend to be what she is not."
She looked at him then, almost fiercely.
"I would never pretend," she said quietly under her breath.
He smiled and looked up to the leaves of the elm tree, watching as the reflection of the sun danced from leaf to leaf.
Florian's words wrapped around her heart like silk.
Their eyes met once more and held briefly.
Time stretched.
She imagined herself one day presenting him with embroidered handkerchiefs, carefully stitched with silk threads.
She imagined herself refined, accomplished, gentle — his ideal made flesh.
He asked her then about her favorite books.
She confessed to rereading certain passages repeatedly.
He laughed softly.
"I do the same," he admitted.
And in that shared admission, she felt seen.
Validated. Special.
The tea lasted longer than she expected.
Longer than it should have.
She savored every second. Every word. Every glance.
From the upper study window, Laurence saw them.
Seated close. Speaking easily.
Sophia leaning forward slightly, animated.
Her expression open in a way she had once reserved only for him.
Something dark stirred.
He did not descend in fury.
He did what he always did.
He intervened quietly.
"Send for Florian," he instructed his aide evenly. "I require his opinion."
Moments later, the interruption arrived.
Florian stood immediately.
Duty called.
He turned back to Sophia.
"I have greatly enjoyed our tea," he said sincerely.
Her heart soared.
He noticed her ribbon then — pale cream against blue.
"A charming pairing," he observed. "Your ribbon complements your dress beautifully."
She nearly forgot how to breathe.
He noticed.
Again.
She curtsied.
Speech abandoned her entirely.
Florian departed while she remained standing long after he vanished.
Her thoughts soared wildly.
From this afternoon alone, she could endure a year of waiting.
Twelve months.
Fifty-two weeks.
She would count them gladly.
She might even gather courage to ask Laurence to invite him again next summer.
Surely—
Surely angels revisited the places they had blessed.
She touched the back of her hand where he had kissed it.
And resolved — with the solemn devotion only first love can produce —
That she would become exactly the kind of lady Florian admired.
Even if she must learn to embroider by candlelight every night until her fingers ached.