The dining room at Bramblewood House, while modest in scale, had been arranged with evident care. Candlelight danced along the polished silver and gleamed softly upon freshly pressed linens, lending the space a gentle warmth that nearly masked the subtle strain of formality. It was a setting that spoke of propriety rather than grandeur—of a household eager to please, yet not entirely at ease.
Mr. Blyth sat at one end of the table, posture straight and composed, fully aware of the quiet attention that lingered on him like perfume on upholstery. His expression was serene—politely impassive—but within, he measured each glance and silence with the wary precision of a man who knew he was being gently appraised.
To his immediate right sat Miss Bennett, her composure so complete it might have been mistaken for detachment had it not been for the occasional glint of wit in her gaze. Every inch of her bearing reflected restraint and expectation—both the product and guardian of her position. Beside her was Miss Louisa Bennett, whose resemblance to her sister was striking, though softened by a ready smile and a tendency to glance around the table as if seeking mischief to admire.
At the head of the table presided Mr. Bennett, ruddy-cheeked and cheerfully boisterous, applying himself to the carving knife with the same theatrical solemnity he applied to all household rituals. He was a man who relished the sound of his own voice, though its content often floated pleasantly above substance.
To Mr. Blyth's left sat Mrs. Bennett—draped in lace, eyes bright with suggestion, and clearly restraining herself from orchestrating the entire evening like a stage play. Her hand fluttered near her glass, as though tempted to raise a toast at any moment. And beside her, lounging with the relaxed elegance of someone determined not to take anything seriously, was Mr. Nicholas Bennett: grinning, animated, his eyes alight with amusement that threatened to bubble into open laughter at the slightest provocation.
The room descended into that curious stillness unique to formal dinners—where every scrape of cutlery, every clink of glass seemed suddenly magnified, as if the air itself had grown too polite to breathe freely.
Feeling the weight of his silence at last, Mr. Blyth cleared his throat. A pause stretched—barely a moment, but long enough to be noticed. With all the poise of a man desperately reaching for something sensible and utterly uninspired, he offered, with courtly gravity:
"What excellent boiled potatoes."
A brief silence followed—pregnant with the kind of restraint that hovers just before laughter.
Mr. Bennett paused mid-carve, blinking once, then recovering with a genial smile. "Ah! Yes, indeed. Mrs. Bennett takes great pride in her kitchen. You must have a particular fondness for potatoes, then?"
Mr. Blyth, realizing—alas, too late—that he had stepped neatly into a conversational snare, hesitated. "I… I appreciate a well-prepared dish, certainly."
From further down the table, Mr. Nicholas Bennett, who had just lifted his glass, made a strangled sound—not quite a cough, not quite a laugh—and set the wine down with exaggerated care. His shoulders quivered with the effort of decorum.
Miss Louisa Bennett turned her head slightly, concealing her expression behind a polite dip of her chin, though the tremor in her shoulders betrayed the quiet mirth she made no real effort to disguise.
Miss Bennett, poised as ever, lifted her glass with elegant deliberation. She took a slow sip, but Mr. Blyth caught it—just there, at the corner of her mouth—a flicker of amusement, vanishing almost before it could be named.
Mrs. Bennett, never one to let an opportunity pass unremarked, clasped her hands with theatrical delight. "Oh, Mr. Blyth! How wonderfully refined your tastes must be! And yet, how rare—how refreshing!—to find a gentleman of such discernment who praises the humble potato with such candor!"
Mr. Blyth inclined his head, though any attempt at dignity had long since abandoned him. He could feel the conversation slipping further from his control, like butter on porcelain.
Mr. Bennett, sensing perhaps that the point had been sufficiently made, let out a hearty chuckle. "Quite right, quite right. A good potato is a fine thing. Though I confess, Mr. Blyth, I had not imagined you the sort to take a particular interest in cookery."
"Nor did I," Mr. Blyth murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.
Nicholas, who had observed the exchange with thinly veiled delight, leaned forward, his expression all wide-eyed innocence—an expression Mr. Blyth immediately distrusted.
"Tell me, Mr. Blyth," he inquired, tone light as meringue, "do you hold similarly strong convictions when it comes to turnips?"
Miss Louisa coughed delicately into her napkin, though the telltale gleam in her eye suggested the effort was less about manners and more about restraint.
Miss Bennett, ever the diplomat, set her glass down with elegant precision and directed her gaze firmly to her plate, as though entrusting herself to its silence.
Mr. Blyth exhaled slowly, placing his fork beside his plate with care—less out of etiquette, more to ensure he did not accidentally impale someone with it. "I fear I have exhausted my commentary on root vegetables for the evening, Mr. Bennett."
Nicholas's grin widened, undeterred. "A pity. I was rather looking forward to your views on parsnips."
From the head of the table, Mr. Bennett gave a jovial chuckle and waved a hand. "Come now, Nicholas, do not torment our guest."
"Oh, never," Nicholas said easily, lounging back in his chair. "I find Mr. Blyth's insights delightfully invigorating. We've had such a parade of dull dinners of late. This evening already stands as one of the season's most entertaining."
Mrs. Bennett, either unaware or gloriously indifferent to the source of the entertainment, clasped her hands with open cheer. "Oh yes, what a lovely evening this is! And how very long it has been since you last dined with us, Mr. Blyth! We had nearly begun to suspect you were avoiding us altogether!"
Mr. Blyth—who had, in fact, been doing his utmost to avoid precisely such an evening—summoned a smile with all the politeness he could muster. "That was never my intention, Mrs. Bennett."
"Oh, I am so relieved to hear it!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands with the triumphant air of someone whose suspicions had just been confirmed as harmless. "Why, I told my husband only last week that we must have you over before the month was out. And how fortunate—how perfectly timed—that Miss Bennett thought to invite you this very evening!"
At this, Mr. Blyth allowed his gaze to shift—only just—toward Miss Bennett. She remained composed, unbothered, the picture of serene detachment.
It was difficult to say whether she found her mother's matchmaking efforts tiresome or simply inevitable. But there was something in the way she raised her glass again—unhurried, precise, clearly disinclined to rescue him—that suggested a woman long practiced in allowing such remarks to pass without contest.
Mr. Blyth, however, had not yet achieved that level of composure.
"I am most obliged to Miss Bennett for the invitation," he said, aware that no other response would be deemed appropriate.
"Oh, I am certain you are!" Mrs. Bennett declared, visibly thrilled. "And now that you are here, we must make the very most of your company!"
Nicholas, his eyes aglow with mischief and entirely too much enjoyment, leaned forward again, fingers laced atop the table with exaggerated innocence. "Tell me, Mr. Blyth—have you any other remarkable opinions we might explore? Your views on the virtues of mutton, perhaps?"
Miss Louisa pressed her lips together in a gallant effort to contain her laughter, her eyes sparkling with barely concealed delight.
Mr. Blyth, who felt more than ever like a man who had wandered willingly into a trap of his own design, lifted his glass and took a long, deliberate sip of wine—less for refreshment, more as a shield. He set it down with equal care, weighing whether silence might save him from being led into a dissertation on cabbages or worse.
But before Nicholas could continue his campaign of provocation, Mr. Bennett cleared his throat with a pointed sort of gravity.
"That will do, Mr. Nicholas," he said, cutting in with the easy authority of a man well-practiced in curbing his son's antics. His expression was equal parts amusement and mild censure.
Nicholas offered a smirk, unabashed and entirely unrepentant, before leaning back in his chair with a theatrical sigh, adopting the air of a man graciously conceding the floor—though it was clear he intended to reclaim it at the next opportunity.
Mr. Blyth allowed himself the briefest flicker of relief before Mr. Bennett—who had all the air of a man patiently waiting for the right moment to pivot the conversation—turned his full attention toward him.
"Mr. Blyth, I wonder—has your office received any word regarding the new tenant at Langmere Hall?"
At this, Miss Louisa straightened slightly in her chair, her curiosity piqued, though she remained silent. Miss Bennett, for her part, remained entirely composed, her hands folded loosely atop the tablecloth, her gaze still.
Mr. Blyth gave a measured nod. "Mr. Forsythe mentioned him this morning, though I know little beyond the usual town gossip."
"A Mr. Fitzwilliam, is it not?" Mrs. Bennett asked, her tone tinged with eager familiarity. "A gentleman from London. And quite well-situated, from what I understand!"
Nicholas, already grinning, gestured broadly toward his mother. "She's spoken of nothing else since Mrs. Harding came bearing the news. I do believe she's contemplating a visit herself."
Mrs. Bennett gasped in mock indignation, one hand fluttering toward her chest. "Nicholas! You make it sound as though I'm already matchmaking for the man! I daresay someone of his stature has no need of my assistance."
Nicholas arched a brow. "No? And yet, had he arrived with a sister or two, I expect you'd have drawn up a list of eligible bachelors by teatime."
Mrs. Bennett, choosing to disregard her son's provocation entirely, turned to Mr. Blyth with bright interest. "Do tell us, Mr. Blyth—what is your impression of this Mr. Fitzwilliam? Have you had the pleasure of meeting him yet?"
"I have not," Mr. Blyth replied, his tone carefully neutral. "Though I expect I shall in due course."
Miss Louisa, who had been relatively quiet throughout the evening, leaned forward, her curiosity now outweighing restraint. "It is rather unusual, is it not? For a gentleman of fortune to choose to settle here—of all places."
Miss Bennett, who had been observing without much expression, turned slightly toward her sister. "Perhaps he seeks respite from the city," she offered, her voice mild but deliberate.
Nicholas, ever ready to prod, tilted his head toward Mr. Blyth with a grin. "And what say you, Mr. Blyth? You, too, have spent time in London. Would you consider our quiet countryside an appropriate retreat for an ailing man?"
Mr. Blyth, who had formed no particular opinion on Mr. Fitzwilliam—nor wished to voice the fragments that lingered unformed in his mind—answered simply, "I suppose that depends on what he seeks to escape."
At that, Miss Bennett's gaze shifted—just briefly—toward him. Her lips parted slightly, as if she meant to speak. But whatever thought had stirred behind her eyes faded; she took another sip of wine instead, her composure unchanged.
Mr. Bennett, adopting the tone of a man finally turning to matters of consequence, addressed him again with narrowed focus. "And what of that other business, Mr. Blyth? The one you did hear of today—concerning my land?"
The mood around the table shifted, the earlier amusement folding itself into a more attentive silence. Even Miss Louisa, who had drifted into a light daze, glanced up with interest, though she said nothing. Miss Bennett, ever poised, set her wine glass down with deliberate care, her gaze sharpening just enough to signal her engagement.
Grateful, perhaps, to return to the steadier terrain of legal matters, Mr. Blyth inclined his head. "A minor dispute, as I understand it," he began, his voice composed, "though one that must nonetheless be resolved. It appears there was an error in the boundary filings several years ago—an oversight, most likely clerical in nature, but one that has since led to confusion as to where precisely your land meets Mr. Hayworth's."
At this, Mr. Bennett gave a disgruntled huff and reached for his wine with theatrical offense. "Confusion for whom? I should think there's no question of where my land stands."
"On that point, I quite agree," Mr. Blyth replied smoothly, unwilling to prod at pride already bruising. "However, the records themselves are… less certain. Or rather, they suggest very little at all—nothing firm enough to settle the matter without inquiry."
Mr. Bennett muttered something darkly about the incompetence of modern record-keeping, shaking his head as though the very notion of ambiguity were a personal affront. But Mrs. Bennett, ever alert to the smallest opportunity for performance, gave a delighted clasp of her hands and leaned forward as though Mr. Blyth had just saved the estate from ruin. "And here you are, Mr. Blyth, already taking such matters in hand! How very reassuring!"
Mr. Blyth offered a smile—thin, but well-practiced—though inwardly he marveled at how quickly a minor clerical tangle had been elevated to a moment of commendation. There was, he reflected, no end to the ways a dinner conversation might humble a man.
"It is a simple matter," Mr. Blyth assured them, his tone calm and practiced. "Nothing that cannot be resolved with a proper review."
Miss Bennett, who had until now permitted her father to speak on behalf of their family's affairs, turned to address him directly for the first time. Her voice, though measured, carried a quiet authority that gathered the room's attention. "And how long do you expect the review to take?"
Mr. Blyth met her gaze without hesitation. "A week, perhaps two. It will require examining the original filings in town, and a fresh survey of the boundary lines."
She gave a small nod of understanding, her expression thoughtful, then—after the briefest of pauses—added, "It is fortunate, then, that we have you to tend to it."
There was nothing in her words that could be called extraordinary, and yet something in the phrasing—deliberate, perhaps too deliberate—left Mr. Blyth with the peculiar sensation that the remark had been chosen with care. Whether it was meant as a kindness, a subtle reminder, or something else entirely, he could not say.
Nicholas, naturally unwilling to let any lull in conversation go unfilled, broke in with characteristic exuberance. "Yes, indeed! How fortunate we all are to have Mr. Blyth so devoted to our interests!"
***Mr. Blyth offered a tight, courteous smile. "I do what is required."
Nicholas's grin only deepened, as if that had been precisely the answer he'd been hoping for, as though he had baited the line and was now enjoying the tension it created.
Miss Bennett, however, regarded Mr. Blyth for a moment longer, her expression unreadable, before returning to her meal with the same composed precision she had maintained throughout the evening. Whatever thoughts lingered behind her dark eyes, she kept them carefully veiled.
The conversation soon drifted back toward the safer shores of town affairs—roads in need of repair, market yields, the cost of hay and the stubbornness of livestock. For the first time that evening, Mr. Blyth found himself grateful for the mundane. There was comfort in the dullness of such topics, and he welcomed the opportunity to sit quietly, contributing where necessary, while the rest of the table chattered on.
Yet even as he listened, even as he nodded along to Mr. Bennett's complaints about stonecutters and poor weather, he could not quite dispel the feeling that Miss Bennett was observing him more closely than before—measuring something, perhaps, or waiting.
Dinner at last drew to its close, the clinking of silver giving way to the softer rustle of movement, chairs gently pushed back, and satisfied murmurs exchanged across the table. Plates were cleared with quiet efficiency, and Mrs. Bennett—never one to let the energy of an evening dissolve too quickly—rose with practiced flair, her hands spread in welcome as she gestured toward the drawing room.
"Come now, Mr. Blyth," she said cheerfully, her tone halfway between invitation and command, "you mustn't think you'll be allowed to slip away so soon. A fine dinner deserves fine conversation afterward, and I should be dreadfully disappointed if you thought us lacking in entertainment."
Though he had not the slightest intention of departing just yet, Mr. Blyth bowed his head with polite acquiescence and allowed himself to be shepherded into the next room along with the rest of the party, the low murmur of voices trailing after them like the fading warmth of the evening's meal.
***
The drawing room at Bramblewood House, though modest in its proportions, exuded a gentle charm born of use and familiarity. Its furnishings—well-worn, but lovingly maintained—offered comfort rather than grandeur, while shelves lined with well-thumbed books spoke to a household that valued both learning and leisure. The fire had been stoked to a steady, contented glow, its light pooling in golden puddles across the carpet and tracing warm shadows along the walls, softening the evening's edges into something intimate.
Mr. Nicholas Bennett, who rarely missed an opportunity to place himself at the heart of any gathering, strode without hesitation to the cabinet tucked beside the hearth and withdrew a decanter of brandy with the air of a man performing a public service. Pouring himself a modest glass—modest more in gesture than in volume—he turned and raised an eyebrow in Mr. Blyth's direction.
"Come now, Mr. Blyth," he said with a smirk, "you look as though you could use a drink after enduring such a thorough interrogation at dinner."
Mr. Blyth, who could hardly disagree, accepted the glass with a nod of thanks. He took a slow, measured sip before sinking into one of the deeper chairs near the fire—its cushions yielding with a sigh of familiarity—and allowed himself, for the first time that evening, the quiet luxury of stillness.
There was a particular rhythm that followed a well-managed dinner, a subtle unwinding of formality that eased each guest into their place—conversations rising and falling in gentle waves, the warmth of the hearth knitting together the voices in a shared cocoon of comfort. Mr. Bennett had already claimed his customary seat near the fireplace, stretching his legs with the satisfied grunt of a man who intended to remain there undisturbed. Mrs. Bennett arranged herself with dramatic flair upon the settee, her eyes bright, her posture alert, as though she had decided the evening's entertainment was only just beginning.
Miss Louisa took her place beside her mother with a cheerful plop, her expression one of easy contentment, while Miss Bennett, graceful as ever, moved with quiet confidence to her usual chair by the window—her fingers adjusting the folds of her gown with a precision that suggested she was more aware of the room than she let on. Nicholas, meanwhile, lingered by the decanter, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with mock solemnity, his expression one of playful meditation, as though choosing the precise moment to say something devastatingly clever.
"We have exhausted all matters of potatoes and property," Nicholas declared, lifting his glass in mock solemnity, "and I fear any further discussion of Mr. Fitzwilliam will only lead to disappointment when he proves to be dreadfully ordinary. Surely, we might find a topic of greater interest—something grand, something with fire in it."
Miss Louisa, smoothing the folds of her skirt with a smile, looked toward him with playful challenge. "Then you must direct us, Nicholas, if you are so determined to guide the evening's discourse."
Leaning back into his chair with theatrical ease, Nicholas allowed a dramatic pause to linger, his eyes gleaming with mischief as though savoring the anticipation. "Very well, then. Let us speak of love."
The word landed in the room with a peculiar stillness. Even the fire seemed to quiet.
Mrs. Bennett, who had until now been reclined with ladylike poise, sat upright at once, her face alight with unrestrained enthusiasm. "Oh, now—this is a subject I can agree with!"
Mr. Bennett muttered something indistinct into his brandy, the tone unmistakably that of a man who had endured such conversations before and knew the shape of the battlefield well enough not to engage.
Mr. Blyth, halfway through another sip of brandy, paused mid-motion and lowered his glass with slow resignation, already regretting that he had not taken his leave immediately after dinner. There were few topics more perilous to navigate in mixed company—and fewer still when one's presence had already been the object of subtle attention throughout the evening.
"Love, Nicholas?" Miss Louisa tilted her head with a skeptical smile, her tone caught between amusement and caution. "Are we now to be entertained by your philosophies on the subject?"
"If I am not to be entertained," Nicholas replied with a shrug, "then someone ought to be. Come now—we speak of war, of politics, of duty and honor, as though those things were the true architects of a life. And yet—what subject occupies mankind more thoroughly than love? What inspires greater madness? Greater folly?"
Mrs. Bennett gave a dreamy sigh, clasping her hands against her bosom with rapturous agreement. "Indeed! I have always said it—there is nothing more important to a well-lived life than love. It is the very soul of happiness."
Nicholas, encouraged by her delight and evidently warming to his performance, went on. "And yet," he mused, raising his glass again, "no two people speak of it the same. To some, it is a virtue. To others, a weakness. Some say it is the root of all good things, while others argue it is the undoing of even the wisest among us."
Miss Bennett, who had thus far allowed the conversation to unfold without her intervention, folded her hands neatly in her lap and regarded her brother with a quiet, composed gaze. Her voice, when it came, was soft but steady. "And which is it to you, Nicholas?"
He grinned, lifting his glass in a mock toast. "A pleasure, of course. What else?"
Miss Louisa laughed lightly. "A fleeting pleasure, then? Or one that lasts?"
Nicholas tilted his head in exaggerated thought. "Ah. That, I think, depends on the nature of the lover."
Mrs. Bennett nodded approvingly. "Yes, quite right. There are those who are steadfast and those who are fickle. It is why one must be very careful in choosing a match!"
Mr. Blyth, who had thus far been content to listen, found himself fixing his gaze on the fire, half-wishing Nicholas had chosen any other topic.
Nicholas, naturally, was not finished.
"But then, if love is merely a pleasure, is it not a selfish thing?" he mused. "And if it is a duty, then is it not a burden?"
Mr. Blyth, against his better judgment and before the better angels of restraint could silence him, spoke.
"Does it follow," he asked, voice even but low, "that duty is always a burden?"
Nicholas turned to him with unmistakable delight, as though a stage play had suddenly gained a second actor. "Ah! And here we have our first challenge! Tell me, Mr. Blyth—do you believe love can be a duty?"
Mr. Blyth exhaled quietly and set his glass down on the small table beside him, fingers briefly lingering at the rim. "I believe," he said with deliberate care, "that there are those who love because it is their nature to do so. And there are others who love because it is expected of them."
Across the room, Miss Bennett tilted her head, just slightly, at the words—her expression unreadable but no longer detached.
"And which," she asked, her voice calm, steady, and without ornament, "do you believe to be the truer love?"
Her gaze met his then—not sharp, not challenging exactly, but searching—and for a moment Mr. Blyth had the distinct sensation of being examined, as if his reply would be measured against something not yet named.
"I do not believe duty and love are opposed," he said, after a pause that felt longer than it was. "A man may be bound by duty, and yet love all the same."
Nicholas let out a soft breath of laughter, his grin broadening. "That is a dreadfully practical view of love, Mr. Blyth."
"Perhaps," Mr. Blyth replied, with a slight tilt of his head. "But love without any foundation in duty—without purpose beyond itself—is, in my view, a fragile thing. It burns brightly, yes, but it rarely endures."
Mrs. Bennett, her eyes shining with the thrill of the subject, clasped her hands in delight. "Oh, but surely love need not be bound by duty to give it weight! Some of the greatest romances in history were born of rebellion—of passion defying all reason!"
Nicholas snapped his fingers with theatrical approval. "Ah, now there is a point. What of love that forsakes all else? That breaks every tie, every vow, and demands everything in return? Surely that is the kind worth writing about."
"That is not love," Mr. Blyth said flatly—too swiftly, too sharply. The words escaped before he could temper them.
A silence followed—not tense, but surprised. Even the crackling of the fire seemed to recede.
Miss Bennett, whose expression had remained unreadable for much of the conversation, narrowed her gaze just slightly, a flicker of something—interest, perhaps, or scrutiny—passing behind her eyes.
Nicholas, quick to fill any pause and never one to forgo a hint of dramatic tension, leaned forward with a gleam. "Oh? You mean to tell me the poets have deceived us? That love is not meant to overwhelm us—ruin us—make heroes or madmen of us? That it ought to be measured, contained… controlled?"
Mr. Blyth lifted his glass once more, though he made no move to drink. His fingers turned it slowly between thumb and forefinger, the firelight catching along the rim. "I mean only this," he said quietly, "that love which demands the ruin of all else ceases to be love at all. It may be vanity. It may be obsession. But it is not love."
Nicholas's grin widened, unbothered by the intensity of the reply—indeed, encouraged by it. "Well! I must say, I did not expect such vehemence from you, Mr. Blyth."
"Nor did I," Mr. Blyth muttered under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching with the barest flicker of self-awareness.
Mrs. Bennett, who had been listening with wide-eyed interest, gave another wistful sigh, as though their lofty theorizing had at last exhausted her patience. "You men speak of love as though it were a puzzle to be solved! But I should hope it is much simpler than all that. A well-made match, a happy home, a life of affection and understanding—there is no great mystery to it."
Miss Louisa, ever the observer of her brother's performative tendencies, gave a small smile as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "And yet, I think Nicholas would rather it remain a mystery. He enjoys talking of love far too much to wish to fall into it himself."
With dramatic flourish, Nicholas pressed a hand to his chest, staggering back in his chair with mock-injury. "You wrong me, Louisa. I should love nothing more than to fall madly, disastrously in love. But until that blessed day arrives, I must content myself with pondering the matter at great length—and, naturally, with great style."
Miss Bennett, who had until now watched the entire exchange with cool amusement, gave her head a small shake. "I am sure the world will be grateful for your philosophical musings, Nicholas."
Though the conversation in the room had gently shifted course—now meandering toward lighter fare, half-laughed anecdotes and the latest town absurdities—Mr. Blyth found himself unable to follow. He sat quietly, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, the other loosely curled around his glass, untouched. His mind, however, remained elsewhere—still circling the earlier question, still turning it over as though it had not quite finished with him.
Which do you believe to be the truer love?
It had been asked so simply, almost casually, and yet the shape of it clung to him. Had she posed the question as idle curiosity—an evening's diversion? Or had it carried something more beneath its calm surface? Had she wanted to know him—his beliefs, his inclinations—or had she merely wished to see how he would answer?
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced along the room's edges. Candlelight gilded the space in a muted hush, turning upholstery and books and idle hands into silhouettes touched with gold. The conversation had continued without him, unhurried and companionable, as though the room itself had gently exhaled.
He had intended to let the matter rest. He had spoken his part—measured, appropriate, nothing to revisit. And yet.
Which do you believe to be the truer love?
It lingered, not as an accusation, but as a thread left unknotted. He told himself it had been nothing more than parlour talk—a harmless foray into the abstract—but she had asked it with a kind of quiet deliberation, as if it mattered. And perhaps that was why, when she finally spoke again, he answered her without hesitation.
"You believe, then," he said, his voice low but clear, "that love can exist entirely outside of obligation?"
She turned toward him, the movement graceful, effortless. In the firelight her expression remained unreadable, but her gaze was steady, her voice composed. "I do."
***"Then you believe," Mr. Blyth asked, his voice steady but probing, "that it should ask nothing of a person?"
Miss Bennett turned to him fully now, her brow lifting just slightly in response. "Is love something that ought to be weighed in debts and obligations, Mr. Blyth?"
"Not in debts," he replied, choosing his words with care, "but obligations? Surely you would not argue that love does not come with expectation."
"Expectation," she said, the word crisp and deliberate, "is not the same as duty."
Mr. Blyth exhaled, the motion subtle, his gaze never leaving her. He leaned back slightly into his chair, not in retreat, but in contemplation. There was something in her manner—her calm defiance, her unflinching steadiness—that held his attention more than he intended. "That is an interesting distinction, Miss Bennett."
She met his gaze evenly, her expression composed. "Do you disagree?"
He was silent for a moment, weighing not only her question, but what answering it might reveal. "I think love without duty," he said at last, "is something fleeting. A thing easily cast aside when it is no longer convenient."
Her eyes did not waver. "Then you have never seen love that is freely given."
His brow furrowed, just slightly, as though her words had struck deeper than he'd anticipated. "All love is given freely at the start," he said, voice even. "It is only later that one finds whether it can endure."
Miss Bennett regarded him closely. Her lips pressed together—not tightly, not in disapproval, but with the faint tension of someone balancing thought against instinct. For a moment, she seemed to weigh something privately before speaking again.
"And have you found it endures, Mr. Blyth?"
The question did not land lightly. It came not as a continuation of a philosophical exchange, but as something pointed, personal—cutting through the comfortable distance that had allowed the conversation to meander without consequence.
Something in him pulled taut, unseen but undeniable.
It was not a question meant for debate. It was a question meant for him.
He hesitated—no longer than a heartbeat, but it was enough. She noticed. Of course she did.
Then, smoothly, he offered the sort of answer a gentleman might give at any dinner table. "I should not count myself so unfortunate."
But she did not look away.
"That is not an answer," she said quietly, not with accusation, but with a kind of steady insistence.
Something shifted—not in the room, but within him. The warmth of the fire, the muted voices in the background, the candlelight flickering softly at the edges of the drawing room—all of it faded into something more distant, less important. Her words settled in the space between them, quiet and unmoving.
He inhaled slowly, the movement deliberate, grounding. His fingers curled around the rim of his glass, not for the comfort of the drink, but to anchor himself to the moment.
"Perhaps not," he said, and this time, there was no disguise in it.
And it was only then—only in the hush that followed his admission—that Mr. Blyth noticed Nicholas was gone. So too were Miss Louisa and Mr. and Mrs. Bennett. The chairs that had once held their familiar presence now stood empty, the soft impressions in the cushions already beginning to vanish, as if the room itself conspired to erase any trace of them.
They were alone.
His gaze swept the vacant spaces with slow realization, though it brought none of the urgency or discomfort he might have anticipated. Instead, there was only a curious stillness, as if the air had shifted when he wasn't looking—settled into something heavier, more deliberate. Across from him, Miss Bennett seemed to register the absence at the same moment. Her eyes moved briefly to the chair her brother had occupied, her lips parting slightly, not in alarm, but in the quiet awareness of a change. When she turned back to him, there was no trace of embarrassment in her expression—only calm attentiveness, and the faintest glimmer of understanding.
She did not speak immediately, and neither did he. Yet the silence between them was no longer the easy quiet of a room grown tired after conversation. It had gained substance—an unspoken weight that neither one seemed inclined to dispel. There was no visible shift in posture, no stolen glance, no lean of bodies across the space between. And still, it was different. Something had changed, though it refused to name itself.
"It seems we are alone, Mr. Blyth," she said at last, her voice composed, even-toned—neither tentative nor bold. It carried no implication, no demand for reply. It simply acknowledged the moment, and in doing so, made it real.
Mr. Blyth, for all his practiced composure, felt something unfamiliar press low and insistent beneath his ribs. It was not panic, not even nervousness exactly, but the slow, dawning realization that the moment had shifted—and that he had no script prepared for what came next.
"So it seems, Miss Bennett," he said quietly.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke further. And yet, something had settled between them—something quiet, invisible, and entirely undeniable. It hovered not like a question, but like an answer neither had known they were seeking.
For the first time in a long while,Mr. Blyth found himself uncertain of what to do. The silence was not strained, nor was it awkward; it held a kind of recognition, unspoken but mutual, that the boundaries between politeness and something else had blurred.
Miss Bennett's gaze drifted briefly toward the doorway, then returned to him. Her breath escaped in a slow, thoughtful exhale. "I do believe we've been left to our own devices, Mr. Blyth."
He set his glass down with deliberate care, each movement measured. "That would appear to be the case."
Her smile in response was small, wry—knowing—but it did not quite reach her eyes. "I imagine my mother will reappear at any moment to insist I should have engaged you in a duet by now."
Mr. Blyth let out a quiet, genuine laugh, the sound low in his throat. He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in kind. "Then I am fortunate indeed that you have spared me that torment."
Miss Bennett tilted her head, watching him with a look he could not quite place—something between amusement and curiosity, with the faintest glint of challenge beneath it. "Do you find it such a torment, then?" she asked lightly. "Being at the mercy of a family's expectations?"
The question was pointed, but not unkind—more observation than accusation. And Mr. Blyth, who had spent the better part of his life maneuvering such expectations with careful, deliberate grace, found himself replying with unusual candor.
"I find it… tiresome," he said, the word falling from his lips more easily than he expected.
She laughed then—a soft, genuine sound that warmed the edges of the room. "That is a very measured response."
He arched a brow, his tone dry. "Would you have preferred something dramatic?"
"Oh, certainly not," she said, her smile widening with fond irony. "My mother provides enough theatrics for the entire household."
Mr. Blyth huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, the weight in his chest easing just slightly beneath the comfort of shared amusement.
Miss Bennett turned her gaze toward the fire, her expression thoughtful, the flickering light catching in her eyes as though it might help shape her next words. She was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "They mean well, you know."
Mr. Blyth followed her line of sight before answering, his voice low. "I do not doubt it."
There was a pause—not strained, but expectant. Then, with a tilt of her head, she prompted gently, "But?"
He pressed his lips together for a moment, weighing his words—not because he feared them, but because they mattered. "But I suspect there are some things a person ought to decide for themselves."
At that, she looked back at him. There was no startle in her face, no shift toward disagreement or surprise—only something steadier, quieter: recognition. "Yes," she murmured. "I should think so."
The words, though spoken gently, settled with quiet certainty in the space between them. They did not need to be emphasized. They did not invite further discussion. And yet, in their simplicity, they marked a turning.
For the first time that evening, they were speaking without adornment—no measured pleasantries, no practiced evasions, no clever diversions. Just this: a mutual understanding, unspoken and whole.
Miss Bennett sighed, her gaze drifting once more toward the empty chairs as though she could still hear the echo of her family's presence lingering there. "My mother would be delighted if I fell hopelessly in love with you, Mr. Blyth."
Caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation, Mr. Blyth let out a short breath of laughter. "Then we share a predicament, Miss Bennett."
She turned back to him, one brow lifting in quiet curiosity. "Oh?"
"My mother, I suspect, would be equally delighted."
At that, she laughed—softly, but with genuine mirth—shaking her head as though the whole situation were both absurd and entirely predictable. "Then it is good we are both so dreadfully measured, is it not?"
"Indeed," he replied, eyes glinting with amusement. "If we were not, we might already be composing our wedding announcements."
She smirked, tilting her head just enough to suggest mock consideration. "And what a tragedy that would be."
"A most dreadful one," he agreed, lips twitching at the corners.
They slipped into silence again, but this time it rested easily between them, warm and companionable. No longer a chasm to be crossed, nor a moment to be filled—it was simply shared.
And yet, as Mr. Blyth leaned back ever so slightly, he found himself drifting into memory. Once, conversation had come without weight or calculation. Once, affection had been a thing freely given—offered without thought of consequence or expectation. Love, in those distant moments, had not been something to be weighed or endured. It had simply… been.
"Do you ever think of when you were younger?" Mr. Blyth asked, the words slipping out more suddenly than he had intended, as though pulled from a place deeper than conscious thought.
Miss Bennett's brows lifted just slightly, the question catching her off guard. She didn't answer right away, but when she did, her voice was thoughtful. "I suppose I do. Less so than I ought."
Mr. Blyth hummed, not quite agreement, but something near it. "I think of it often."
She tilted her head, her expression open, curious. "And what is it you recall, Mr. Blyth?"
He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting somewhere past the firelight. "The ease of things. The certainty of them. The way the world felt so much larger, and yet so much simpler."
Her features softened at that, the corners of her mouth curving not into a smile, but something quieter, more reflective. "Yes. I suppose I remember that, too."
The moment stretched between them again—calm, unhurried. A shared memory neither had named, but both recognized.
Miss Bennett leaned back slightly in her chair, her breath leaving her in a slow exhale, as though she were trying to shake off a memory before it settled too deeply. "It is strange, is it not?" she murmured. "How different love seems when one is younger? How simple it appears?"
Mr. Blyth's smile came faintly, but it failed to touch his eyes. "Yes," he said. "And how impossible it becomes."
She regarded him then—not sharply, not with surprise, but with something quieter, more searching. Her expression held no judgment, only a thoughtful stillness, as though she were reading something just beyond his words. After a moment, she nodded—slowly, deliberately.
"I do not believe it must be impossible, Mr. Blyth," she said. "Only… chosen."
The words landed softly, but with a weight that could not be dismissed. They did not carry the tone of expectation, nor were they burdened with longing. They simply were—calm, unadorned, and deeply true. Not the echo of a life dictated by others, but the quiet declaration of something self-determined.
A choice.
And in that stillness, it became clear: it was a choice neither of them was making. Not now. Not yet.
Mr. Blyth exhaled, straightening in his chair with a quiet resolve. "Then let us make an agreement, Miss Bennett."
Her brows lifted in mild surprise, though there was no alarm in her gaze—only interest. "An agreement?"
"That neither of us shall concern ourselves with what our families wish of us," he said, his voice even. "That we shall allow things to unfold as they will—nothing forced, nothing expected."
She regarded him for a moment, the firelight flickering gently against the curve of her cheek as she considered his words. Then, slowly, she smiled—small, genuine, a gesture of quiet understanding. "Yes. I think I should like that, Mr. Blyth."
He inclined his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in answer. "Then we are agreed."
Her eyes remained on his for a beat longer, something unreadable and still flickering just beneath the surface. Then, with the same gentle certainty, she murmured, "Good evening, Mr. Blyth."
Mr. Blyth rose to his feet, bowing with practiced grace. "Good evening, Miss Bennett."
And with that, he took his leave, stepping into the hush of the hallway and beyond, the quiet click of the door behind him closing not an ending, but something subtler. No promises. No expectations. Only an agreement.
And yet, as he stepped into the December night, the cold biting at his gloves and his breath curling visibly in the air, he could not shake the feeling that something—however tentative—had already begun.