The final notes of The Young Widow faded beneath a ripple of polite applause. Mr. Blyth bowed, and Miss Bennett dipped into a graceful curtsy—her smile calm, luminous, and entirely unhurried. But rather than returning to the ebb of guests, she stepped beside him, folding her fan with deliberate precision into one gloved hand.
"Shall we take a moment to breathe?" she asked, her voice pitched just low enough to suggest conspiracy.
"I would be grateful," Mr. Blyth replied, the corners of his mouth tilting upward.
Together, they moved toward the edge of the room, where a footman appeared at once with a tray of chilled punch. Mr. Blyth accepted a glass; Miss Bennett declined with a polite shake of her head. The drink was cool and subtly spiced—pleasant, but unremarkable. What surprised him, however, was that he wanted another sip.
They lingered near the tall windows, beneath the broad-leafed shadow of a potted lemon tree that had been coaxed into bloom for the occasion. From their vantage, they could see the full sweep of the ballroom—the careful lines of dancers assembling for the next set, the soft hum of laughter threading through the air, the elegant machinery of an evening engineered to appear effortless.
Mr. Blyth took another sip, his grip on the glass easy now, no longer stiff with ceremony.
"Mr. Blyth," came a warm voice beside them.
He turned to find Mrs. Eloise Thorne, her green and silver gown catching just a glint of chandelier light as she approached. She offered a courteous nod to Miss Bennett—who returned it with a smile both polished and pleasant—before directing her full attention to Mr. Blyth.
"I do hope you'll forgive me," she began, tone light, but with that unmistakable watchfulness that often accompanied women of her station. "I may have taken a few small liberties this evening."
Mr. Blyth arched a brow. "Liberties?"
"With your sister," Mrs. Thorne clarified, as though the matter were far less dramatic than the word implied. "And—more pointedly—with my son."
At that, Miss Bennett tilted her head, interest clearly piqued.
Mrs. Thorne pressed on, her voice smooth and wholly unrepentant. "He's been... quietly hopeful for some time now. Ever since that garden party your mother hosted last spring—the one where Miss Margaret insisted on having tea beside the orchard and somehow managed to attract a flock of sheep and half the gardener's staff."
Mr. Blyth made a faint sound. "That was a memorable afternoon."
"Well," she said, waving a hand, "in the midst of all that, my son managed to exchange exactly twelve words with Miss Eleanor—and he's been rehearsing his follow-up ever since."
Mr. Blyth blinked—once, slowly—like a man coming to terms with something he should've known weeks ago.
"I gave him time," Mrs. Thorne went on smoothly. "I gave him chances. But the boy's hopeless. When Miss Fitzwilliam called for a volunteer, and my Joseph just stood there like a stunned duck, I did what any sensible mother would do."
Miss Bennett raised an eyebrow. "You pushed him."
"With the firm encouragement of my left hand, yes."
Mr. Blyth let out the ghost of a laugh.
Mrs. Thorne's gaze drifted across the ballroom, her expression shifting just enough to draw attention. Mr. Blyth followed her line of sight instinctively, and beside him, Miss Bennett did the same—each turning in quiet unison to see what had caught her notice.
Across the room, Eleanor stood by the refreshment table, engaged in conversation with Mr. Joseph Thorne, whose smile was wide, genuine, and utterly unguarded. Eleanor—usually so composed—had one hand raised to her mouth as she laughed, truly laughed, at something he had said. Joseph looked faintly panicked by the success.
Miss Bennett gave a small, approving nod. "He's doing better than twelve words now."
"He certainly is," Mrs. Thorne agreed. "Though I daresay he hasn't the faintest idea what he's saying."
Mr. Blyth didn't respond right away. He watched the easy tilt of Eleanor's head, the relaxed curve of her shoulders. There was a softness in her he hadn't seen in some time, and it stirred something quiet and unfamiliar in his chest.
Mrs. Thorne glanced at him, one brow arched with practiced innocence. "Of course, if you disapprove, I'll deny everything. Swear I had nothing to do with it."
He looked at her. "Mrs. Thorne—he's a perfectly respectable young man."
"That's what I told him," she said brightly. "But he seems to think your opinion outranks mine."
Miss Bennett smiled. "It might."
Mrs. Thorne gave a conspiratorial wink. "Well, in that case, I'll take your silence as a blessing and excuse myself while I'm ahead."
And with that, she disappeared into the crowd, her skirts whispering contentedly at her heels.
Around them, the hum of the ballroom swelled once more—polished laughter drifting like perfume, the soft slide of shoes across marble, the gentle tuning of conversation into the rhythm of the next forming dance.
Mr. Blyth's gaze lingered on his sister. Across the room, Eleanor still stood by the refreshment table, her expression bright, her hands moving as she spoke. Joseph Thorne remained utterly enchanted, watching her with the open awe of a man who feared his luck might vanish if he so much as blinked.
"She's changed," he said softly, mostly to himself.
Miss Bennett followed his gaze. "She's grown," she corrected gently. "That's not the same thing."
He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. "I still see the little girl who insisted on reading out loud to the garden snails."
"And now she's making young men forget how words work." She turned toward him with a knowing smile. "I call that progress."
Mr. Blyth shook his head, his smile tinged with something quieter—almost reverent. "I don't know when I missed it."
"You didn't miss it," she said. "You preserved it. That's not the same thing either."
Before Mr. Blyth could speak again, a voice trilled just over his shoulder—light, airy, and alarmingly loud for such a delicate frame.
"Oh, Mr. Blyth! I didn't know you danced!"
He turned just as Miss Partridge descended upon them—though "descended" implied grace. It was more of a fluttering lurch, a staccato rustle of pale yellow satin and a frankly absurd number of ruffles. Her sleeves puffed like overstuffed pastries, and her gown shimmered in the candlelight with all the coordinated elegance of a weather vane in a windstorm.
Atop her head, an overambitious arrangement of ribbons and feathers bobbed and shivered with every jostled step, giving her the look of a Polish hen mid-courtship. Her fan snapped open and shut like a beak, her voice clucking along with it.
"I mean—with Miss Bennett, no less!" she chirped. "I do hope I haven't stumbled into something dreadfully romantic. Are you engaged? Oh dear, have I ruined a surprise?"
Mr. Blyth blinked. "We are not—"
"Oh!" Miss Partridge gasped, already redirecting her focus to Miss Bennett. "But you must be the reason he's smiling tonight. You know, someone once told me he'd only danced once before—and that was for charity—and he looked absolutely miserable the whole time."
Miss Bennett's smile shifted—still pleasant, but with a glint of something sharper. "Well, if I am the reason, I do hope it hasn't caused a stir. Smiling in public, you know. People might start to expect it."
Miss Partridge giggled—a quick, shrill sound—and flapped her fan with renewed fervor. "Oh, I think everyone's thrilled! I was beginning to wonder if Mr. Blyth's face had simply... settled like that."
Mr. Blyth exhaled slowly through his nose.
Miss Bennett tilted her head. "That must have been such a troubling thought to carry around."
Miss Partridge blinked. "Pardon?"
"An unrelenting curiosity," Miss Bennett said sweetly. "It must be terribly loud in there with all that speculation."
Miss Partridge gave a nervous laugh. "In where?"
Miss Bennett's smile widened, all sugar and silk. "Your head, of course."
Miss Partridge tilted her head sharply to the left, blinking again. "Oh. Oh—well! I think that's my mother calling."
No one had called her. She curtsied—nearly catching her sleeve on her fan—and rustled off in a series of flaps and flourishes, her feathers bouncing wildly, her path zigzagging like a startled hen making a dignified escape.
Mr. Blyth exhaled, slowly.
Miss Bennett watched her go, then turned slightly toward him. "Come," she said, tapping her closed fan lightly against his sleeve. "That encounter demands a refill."
Together, they made their way toward the refreshment table, the air around them warm with music and perfume.
"She really does remind me of something," Mr. Blyth said under his breath.
"A chicken with a very enthusiastic hat?" Miss Bennett replied, not bothering to look up.
He glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I was going to say a wind-up music box with feathers, but your answer's more efficient."
Miss Bennett let out a low laugh. "Efficiency is key in these matters."
They walked a few steps in quiet before she added, more thoughtfully, "You know… women like her are always the first to point out someone else's joy. Loudly. Repeatedly. It's not about cruelty, really—it's about needing to know where the happiness is so they can trace its path back to themselves."
Mr. Blyth turned his head, surprised. "You make her sound sympathetic."
"Only slightly," she said, dry. "Desperation wrapped in organza and stitched into a bodice isn't the same as malice. It just… leaks."
They reached the refreshment table. He poured two glasses, handed one to her.
"That's rather more generous than a chicken joke," he said, almost teasing.
Miss Bennett accepted the glass, pausing just before she drank. "The chicken joke was for you." She lifted her gaze to his, steady. "The rest was for me."
A beat passed—neither smiling now, but not uncomfortable either.
They were still sipping their punch when a familiar voice joined them from just over Mr. Blyth's shoulder—smooth, dry, and unmistakably timed for effect.
"I see Miss Partridge made her usual entrance," said Mr. Nicholas Bennett, sliding neatly between them with the ease of someone who made himself welcome wherever he pleased. "I was beginning to worry she wouldn't complete her seasonal migration."
Miss Bennett let out a soft laugh, her eyes still on her cup.
Mr. Blyth lifted a brow with polite skepticism. "Does she always arrive in such... plumage?"
Nicholas tilted his head in thought. "That wasn't a gown," he said lightly, "that was a bird sanctuary with sleeves."
Miss Bennett pressed a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, nearly spilling what remained of her drink.
"And I swear," Nicholas continued, clearly delighted by the reaction, "I once saw a goose fling itself at a parlor window with less chaos."
This time the laughter could not be contained. It broke between them in warm, unrefined waves—unexpected and unguarded. Miss Bennett leaned slightly toward the refreshment table for balance, her shoulders shaking with mirth. Mr. Blyth, who so rarely allowed himself anything resembling indulgence, had to steady his glass and lower his gaze in a vain attempt to maintain composure. Even Nicholas, who seemed entirely at ease in his own cleverness, looked slightly surprised by the sound he'd drawn from them.
When the laughter began to quiet—fading not abruptly, but with the reluctant warmth of something well-shared—Miss Bennett wiped at the corner of her eye with the edge of her glove, cheeks still faintly flushed. Mr. Blyth cleared his throat, once with purpose, and again with less certainty, the remnants of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Nicholas stood between them, wholly satisfied.
"To think," he said with a crooked grin, "I nearly stayed home."
Nicholas gave Mr. Blyth an exaggerated once-over, eyes theatrically wide as he gestured with his cup. "Look at you. Laughing. Drinking punch. Conversing. If this trajectory continues, you'll be wearing color by summer."
Mr. Blyth turned to him with measured disdain, one brow lifting just enough to qualify as a threat. "Don't be absurd."
"I'm merely observing," Nicholas replied, lifting his drink in mock salute. "Tonight you've smiled twice and danced once. If we're not careful, you'll be hosting poetry readings by next month."
Miss Bennett leaned in, adopting a tone of faux concern. "Is it contagious?"
Nicholas placed a hand to his chest with mock gravity. "It starts in the shoes. Dancing releases the joy. From there, it travels to the face and settles in the personality. By then, it's too late."
Mr. Blyth sighed as if under great duress. "Tragic."
"I suppose we'll just have to stay vigilant," Miss Bennett said with a small nod. "If he begins humming, we flee."
That drew another round of laughter, softer than before, but easier now—comfortable, like cushions after a long day. Mr. Blyth's smirk was fleeting, but present. Miss Bennett's eyes sparkled, and Nicholas, ever the instigator, leaned in a fraction closer.
"Still," he said, lowering his voice to something more conspiratorial, "the night feels incomplete. We've only had one mild scandal and not a single tear shed in a hallway. It's almost unnerving."
Miss Bennett tilted her head, adopting a thoughtful tone. "Perhaps they're saving it for the final set."
"Someone's bound to fall in love before dessert is served," Nicholas mused, his gaze drifting back to the dancers. "Or fall into dessert. I'm not picky."
"And who are you betting on?" Mr. Blyth asked, tone dry but indulging.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes, scanning the room like a seasoned bookmaker evaluating a volatile race. "Miss Partridge and the lemon tart."
Miss Bennett nearly dropped her cup.
Mr. Blyth gave a low, genuine laugh. "A brave prediction."
Nicholas shrugged with mock humility. "I only bet on inevitabilities."
"And do inevitabilities always involve pastry?" came a voice from just behind them—measured, composed, and far too dry to belong to someone still enjoying themselves in earnest.
They turned as one to find Mr. Fitzwilliam approaching, one hand tucked behind his back, the other holding a perfectly full glass of punch that looked untouched. His expression wore the softness of a polite guest, but his eyes betrayed something keener, sharper—too focused to be casual.
Nicholas, unbothered, broke into a grin. "Ah, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I feared you'd fled the scene entirely. That would've left me to keep Mr. Blyth out of mischief alone."
"Tempting as that was," Mr. Fitzwilliam replied smoothly, stepping into their small circle, "I thought it wise to return before Mr. Blyth grew too comfortable. He's been smiling, after all. People might talk."
Mr. Blyth, who had just taken another sip of punch, gave a quiet, sideways glance. "And here I was hoping no one would notice."
"Impossible," Mr. Fitzwilliam said, tone light but eyes narrowing faintly with interest. "You rarely look as though you're enjoying yourself. I had to see what all the fuss was about."
Miss Bennett, raising her glass with a glint of mischief, chimed in before Blyth could respond. "We were just saying the same. There's something unnerving about contentment on his face. It gives the impression he might be... approachable."
Mr. Fitzwilliam's gaze shifted to her then—curious, assessing, but not unkind. "Then perhaps I've walked into the reason."
She held his stare with practiced calm, her smile poised and unbothered. "I do hope that wasn't meant as an accusation."
"Not at all," Mr. Fitzwilliam said, returning the smile, though his tone carried a faint edge. "Only an observation."
Nicholas tilted his glass toward her. "You've been caught, sister. You've done the impossible—Mr. Blyth, smiling in public."
"Twice," Mr. Blyth muttered, without thinking.
"Three times, by my count," Nicholas added, grinning. "At this rate, he'll be positively radiant by supper."
Mr. Fitzwilliam's voice cut in softly, almost contemplative. "That is impressive."
Miss Bennett, without looking up, swirled the liquid in her glass. "Well. I suppose we all have our talents."
There was a pause. Brief, but not quite comfortable.
Nicholas took a sip and gave a sharp cough. "Forgive me—must've swallowed a seed or something." He cleared his throat, a little too forcefully.
Mr. Blyth glanced over, brows lifted in mild concern, but Nicholas waved it off with a half-hearted shrug. Miss Bennett offered him the faintest glance, part amusement, part suspicion.
Mr. Fitzwilliam hadn't moved. He stood still a moment longer, gaze steady, and then adjusted his cuff with practiced ease. "I believe I'll step out for some air," he said—the words smooth, unhurried. But as he turned to go, his eyes lingered on Miss Bennett for just a breath too long.
Not obvious. But not lost on her, either.
Nicholas dipped into a shallow bow. "Don't stay out too long. The punch bowl gets territorial."
Mr. Fitzwilliam allowed himself a small, thin smile. The punch bowl has its charm—bright, sweet, and fleeting. I've no taste tonight for things that fade so quickly."
He nodded to Mr. Blyth, briefly, and disappeared into the room with a calm that felt a little too curated.
There was a pause. Just long enough for the aftertaste to settle.
Nicholas tipped his glass. "Well. That was... unexpectedly poetic."
Miss Bennett, still watching the space Mr. Fitzwilliam had left, tilted her head. "Or carefully rehearsed."
Mr. Blyth's gaze lingered a moment longer on the crowd before he spoke. "He's... usually more talkative."
Nicholas took another measured sip of his drink. "Yes. And somehow just said absolutely nothing."
Miss Bennett raised her glass, her tone dry but knowing. "Except exactly what he meant to."
Before anyone could answer, the music changed—bright, familiar, almost mischievous in tempo. The first few notes sprang like a beckoning hand across the ballroom.
A voice, likely Genevieve's, called out with crisp enthusiasm, "Tythe Pig, everyone! Take your places!"
Nicholas nearly choked on his punch. "Oh no. They've actually done it."
Miss Bennett turned to him with narrowed eyes. "Done what, exactly?"
Mr. Blyth's expression softened into something unexpected—unguarded, even gleeful. "They've played my favorite."
Nicholas shook his head in mock defeat and lifted his cup in salute. "And now he's completely defenseless."
Mr. Blyth turned toward Miss Bennett, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. "May I claim one more dance? Before I'm forced to hum it wistfully into my punch?"
Miss Bennett gave him a look of mock seriousness. "Well, we can't have that."
They stepped onto the floor as the couples began to assemble, the air around them shifting—lighter, freer, the formality softened by the sheer absurdity of the dance. The steps were quick, the partners constantly changing, hands meeting only to part again. Mr. Blyth moved with surprising ease, his laughter slipping between turns, Miss Bennett's eyes bright with amusement as they spun through the sequence.
At one point, she nearly missed the turn—he caught her hand just in time, and they both laughed aloud.
They turned again.
And just as the pace reached its lively peak, Mr. Blyth caught a movement in the distance. The tall French windows at the far end of the ballroom had been opened slightly, allowing the faintest breeze to drift inside.
There, in the gap between light and dark, stood Mr. Fitzwilliam—half in shadow, half in candle-glow. He lingered only a moment. Then, without a word, he stepped through the opening and vanished into the garden beyond.
***
"Do men often vanish into hedges like that," came a voice just behind him, "or is that considered a local sport?"
Nicholas turned.
The young woman standing at the punch table was, by all accounts, a stranger—and that alone was cause for suspicion. Elversford did not accommodate strangers. It endured newcomers, occasionally married off a daughter or two in their general direction, but it did not simply allow unfamiliar faces to loiter at the edges of society events without at least three formal introductions and one shared anecdote about harvest yields.
And yet, here she was.
Her gown was plum—neither daring nor demure, but stranded somewhere between "sensible" and "worn by particularly stylish widows." Still, it fit her too well to be accidental. Her posture was no less deliberate: one elbow resting with mathematical precision, her glass lifted not for refreshment but as if it were holding down a particularly incriminating letter. There was an air about her—not haughty, not humble, but practiced. The sort of composure that suggested she had opinions about the quality of the punch and the metaphysical failings of men, and was prepared to share both at a moment's notice.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes, intrigued despite himself.
"Excuse me?" Nicholas said, more from habit than any genuine confusion.
"I said," she repeated slowly, with the gentle condescension reserved for men recently concussed or born into titles, "does that happen often? Gentlemen brooding in doorways only to vanish into hedgework?"
He blinked. "Only on Fridays. It's tradition."
Her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, more the muscular rehearsal of one. Amusement, yes, but guarded. The sort of expression cats wore when humans tried to be clever. "Good. I was worried I'd be disappointed."
"And who, precisely, is being disappointed by our shrubbery-based customs?"
"Thalia Darrow," she replied, like someone announcing both her name and the likelihood that she would be the cause of several minor scandals. "Recently arrived. Unintentionally observant."
"Nicholas Bennett," he said, offering a shallow nod.
"A local?"
"Tragically."
"Oh, I know," she said, inspecting her punch like it might hold secrets. "I asked. Quietly. Twice."
Nicholas stared. She didn't flutter, didn't preen, didn't even seem particularly invested in impressing him—which, if he was being honest, was rather impressive.
"Should I be flattered or concerned?" he asked.
"I haven't decided yet," she replied, sipping slowly. "Depends how well you dance."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I suppose we'll both be disappointed," she said breezily. "But I'd rather find that out myself."
She held out her hand—gloved, steady, unapologetic. There was no coquetry in it. Just expectation, like the universe had arranged for this moment and was waiting to see if he'd botch it.
Nicholas hesitated. Only for a second. It wasn't that she'd caught him off guard—very few people ever did. It was that she hadn't even tried to. And that, somehow, made it worse.
He set his glass down.
Her hand was warm, her grip firm with the faintest air of amusement. Not smug, exactly—just aware of the effect she had. She didn't wait for him to lead. She turned toward the dance floor like a woman stepping into a duel she knew she'd already won.
And Nicholas followed—because of course he did.
Because the truth, whether he admitted it or not, was that he had always liked polite ambushes. Especially the kind dressed in plum, drinking punch, and making conversation about shrubbery-based existential crises.