The terrace doors closed softly behind her.
Andrew did not turn at once, though he had known it would be her.
Elizabeth stepped into the cool night air without hesitation, the hem of her silver-blue gown whispering faintly against the stone.
"You were about to say something," she said.
No greeting. No softness.
Only truth.
Andrew remained facing the square. "I was not."
Elizabeth's breath stilled. "Andrew."
He turned then, and the distance between them felt far greater than the width of the terrace.
"I was not about to make an announcement," he repeated, quieter now.
"I saw you," she said steadily. "You opened your mouth."
He said nothing.
The music inside swelled faintly, a waltz turning without them.
Elizabeth took a step closer.
"I am not a fool."
"I never thought you were."
"Then do not pretend," she said, her voice tightening just slightly, "that nothing happened in that ballroom."
Andrew exhaled slowly. "You do not understand Lizzie."
Her eyes flashed. "Do not," she said sharply, "Lizzie me."
The old nickname landed between them like something fragile and misused.
"I loved you when you were only Andrew," she continued, her voice low but unwavering. "Before titles. Before responsibilities. Before society decided what we ought to be."
Andrew swallowed.
"You loved me when I was still being corrected on how to hold a teacup," she went on. "When I tripped over etiquette and could not remember the order of introductions."
Her chin lifted slightly.
"So speak plainly, Andrew Russell."
The use of his full name did not sound affectionate.
It sounded final.
He felt it.
"I—" he began.
And stopped.
The silence stretched.
Elizabeth watched him closely now. Not with softness.
With scrutiny.
"I am trying," he said at last.
"Then try harder."
He ran a hand through his copper hair, displacing the careful arrangement the evening had required.
"You deserve—" he began again.
"Yes?"
"You deserve certainty."
Her expression flickered, just slightly. "And you believe you cannot give it?"
"That is not what I said."
"It is precisely what you implied."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You deserve a husband who is fully prepared."
"For what?" she demanded quietly. "Marriage? Responsibility? Me?"
He faltered.
The hesitation—small, but unmistakable—shifted something in her.
Her eyes, which had always been warm blue-grey, cooled.
"What holds you back?" she asked again.
This time, there was no gentleness in it.
Andrew looked at her as though the answer were a weight he could not lift.
"Liz—" He stopped himself. "Elizabeth."
She waited.
He could speak of estates.
Of expectations.
Of inheriting the marquessate at seven and ten.
Of watching his father collapse from apoplexy.
Of never feeling quite ready.
But none of those sounded sufficient beneath the weight of her gaze.
"I am not my father," he said finally.
The words were quiet.
But they were honest.
Elizabeth stilled. "That is not what I ask of you."
"I know."
"Then why do you speak as though you must become him before you may marry me?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Something in her expression shifted again—not to anger, but to something worse.
Understanding.
"You are afraid," she said softly.
He did not deny it.
The music inside the ballroom ended.
Applause followed.
Elizabeth drew in a slow breath.
"I have waited two Seasons," she said. "I did not wait because I doubted you."
Andrew's chest tightened.
"I waited because I trusted you."
The words were not loud.
But they struck harder than anything spoken in the ballroom.
When he did not answer immediately, she stepped back.
Not dramatically.
Not theatrically.
Just enough.
"I will not beg to be chosen," she said quietly.
And for the first time that evening, Andrew felt the true danger of hesitation.
Not society.
Not gossip.
But the slow erosion of something that had once felt unshakeable.
The morning after Bloomsbury Square dawned with an unforgiving clarity.
Russell House stood dignified along St. James, its stone façade indifferent to the turmoil within. Servants moved quietly through polished corridors, unaware—or perhaps wisely pretending not to be aware—of the storm gathering in the drawing room.
Andrew stood near the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back.
Opposite him sat Kurt, Adrian, Ian, Earnest, Jeremy—and Benedict.
Kurt had done the damage already.
He had described the ballroom.
The pause.
The silence.
Elizabeth stepped onto the terrace.
And Andrew said nothing.
The room had grown progressively colder with every word.
Benedict leaned back in his chair, arms folded, expression no longer amused.
"You hesitated," he said plainly.
Andrew did not answer.
"You allowed her to stand there," Benedict continued, "while society watched."
"It was not like that," Andrew replied tightly.
Kurt muttered, "It was exactly like that."
Ian shot him a warning look.
Andrew's jaw set. "You do not understand."
Benedict's eyes sharpened. "Then enlighten me."
Andrew exhaled sharply. "You cannot understand."
A beat.
"And why is that, Andy?" Benedict asked quietly.
The nickname carried history.
Andrew met his gaze. "You are not an heir."
The air shifted.
Adrian straightened.
Ian's brows lifted slightly.
Jeremy went very still.
Benedict did not move at first.
But the warmth left his expression. "Ah," he said softly. "That is the argument."
Andrew's voice hardened. "You were free to choose when you wished. You did not inherit an entire estate at seven and ten."
"And what does that have to do with loving someone?" Benedict shot back.
"It has everything to do with it."
Andrew stepped forward now, the restraint fraying. "I did not have the luxury of becoming a man gradually. I became a marquess overnight. Every decision I make affects more than myself."
Benedict rose. "And you believe marriage does not?"
The tension snapped like pulled wire.
"At least," Benedict said, voice rising, "I did not make Sophia wait while I debated my own adequacy."
Andrew's eyes flashed. "You were not responsible for tenants, for revenues, for legacy—"
"I am now managing the ports along the Thames and the Channel," Benedict cut in sharply. "Do not speak to me of responsibility."
Kurt stepped between them instinctively. "Gentlemen—"
Andrew did not back down. "Ports are not a marquessate."
"And fear," Benedict replied, "is not prudence."
The words landed cleanly. Earnest looked alarmed.
Adrian moved subtly closer in case something truly foolish occurred.
Ian placed a steady hand on Andrew's arm. "Enough."
But Andrew's temper—rare and slow to ignite—had flared.
"You cannot comprehend what it is to feel insufficient before you even begin."
Benedict's expression shifted—not anger now, but something sharper.
"I comprehend loving a woman who would walk into gunfire for me," he said. "And deciding she would never doubt my place beside her."
Silence fell.
Jeremy, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally snapped. "Will you both listen to yourselves?"
They turned.
Jeremy stood now—not theatrical, not amused.
Serious.
"For once," he continued, "this is not about titles. Or ports. Or who inherited what."
He looked directly at Andrew. "She does not require you to be your father."
Andrew's throat tightened.
"She requires you to choose her," Jeremy said. "And you did not."
No one spoke.
The drawing room, usually filled with banter and careless wit, felt unfamiliar in its stillness.
Jeremy exhaled slowly.
"You speak as though marriage is a test you must pass," he went on. "It is not. It is a promise you must make."
Andrew looked away.
Benedict's voice softened slightly. "You think being an heir makes you cautious. It does not."
"It makes you afraid," Ian added quietly.
Andrew closed his eyes briefly.
He had faced estate crises.
Financial negotiations.
Political scrutiny.
But this—
This felt far more precarious.
Across the room, Kurt muttered under his breath, "For once, we are not the scandal."
No one laughed.
The silence in the drawing room thickened after Jeremy's words.
No one moved.
No one dared soften the truth that had just settled into the room.
Then—
A knock.
The butler entered with composed neutrality, though his eyes betrayed mild alarm. "My lord… Lady Sophia Montgomery is here."
Every man stiffened.
Kurt muttered under his breath, "We are not surviving this."
Benedict closed his eyes briefly. "I should have intercepted her."
Andrew did not move.
The doors opened.
Sophia entered without waiting to be formally announced a second time.
She wore a navy riding habit, fitted and severe, her posture straight, her expression sharper than the cut of her tailoring. A pair of gloves still clung to one hand, and the faint scent of cold morning air followed her in.
She did not curtsy.
She did not greet.
She walked directly toward Andrew.
Every step measured.
Every eye is on her.
Andrew held his ground. "Soph—"
The slap echoed cleanly across the room.
No one breathed.
Andrew's head turned slightly with the force of it—not dramatic, not theatrical—but unmistakable.
Sophia's hand remained suspended for half a second before she lowered it.
"You," she said, voice trembling not with weakness but fury, "are tarnishing Lizzie's reputation."
No one intervened.
Not yet.
"Do not," she continued, eyes blazing, "tell me I do not understand."
Andrew said nothing.
"You are a man," she went on. "You may end an engagement and society will murmur for a fortnight and then forget."
Her voice sharpened. "But a woman?"
She took one step closer. "We do not recover."
The words struck harder than the slap.
"If you withdraw," she said, "if you hesitate long enough that whispers become certainty—she bears that stain. Not you."
Andrew swallowed.
"At this point," Sophia added coldly, "I am prepared to duel you myself for her honor."
Kurt inhaled sharply.
Earnest nearly choked.
Ian muttered, "This is escalating."
Benedict stepped forward at last, placing a steady hand on his wife's arm.
"My love," he said gently, though his own expression was not forgiving, "let us not resort to firearms."
She did not look at him.
"She trusted you," Sophia said to Andrew.
The words were quieter now.
And somehow worse.
"She defended you," Sophia went on. "Last night. This morning."
Andrew's chest tightened.
"I do not know," Sophia said, her voice lowering, "if she still does."
The room fell into absolute silence.
Benedict's grip on her arm softened—not restraining, but grounding.
Andrew finally spoke. "I would never disgrace her."
"You already have," Sophia replied.
There was no hysteria in her tone.
Only fact.
Jeremy looked at Andrew.
Adrian did not move.
Ian's jaw set.
Kurt stared at the floor.
Earnest looked ready to faint on principle.
Sophia straightened, regaining her composure with visible effort.
"You are not afraid of failing as a husband," she said quietly. "You are afraid of failing as a legend."
Andrew flinched.
"Elizabeth does not require a legend," Sophia continued. "She requires you."
Benedict exhaled slowly. "My love," he said again, softer now.
Sophia finally looked at him.
For a brief moment, the anger wavered—just enough to show the exhaustion beneath it.
"She loved him before the marquessate," Sophia murmured. "And she loves him still."
Her gaze returned to Andrew. "Do not make her regret it."
The drawing room remained suspended in the aftermath. Only the quiet truth that Andrew Russell had never feared a duel—until now.