The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden sheen across the road as the party made their way toward Langmere. A warm breeze stirred the hedgerows, carrying with it the faint scent of wild thyme and early clover. The landau carriage rolled smoothly along the well-tended path, its open top letting the evening air curl gently around its passengers like a worn shawl.
Inside, the two families sat with the comfort of familiarity. On one side were the Bennetts—Mrs. Bennett, her eldest daughter Miss Bennett, and the ever-observant Miss Louisa. Opposite them sat Mrs. Blyth, Eleanor, and Margaret, their composure a gentle mirror. Conversation passed easily between the two mothers, a quiet exchange of domestic reflections and village news. Between them, the daughters spoke in more subdued tones—Margaret and Miss Louisa trading knowing glances and barely concealed grins, while Eleanor, poised and thoughtful, leaned forward now and then to share a soft word with Miss Bennett.
Miss Bennett herself sat with a composed stillness, her gaze often drawn to the countryside unfurling beside them, as though she were gathering her thoughts from the fields and hedges beyond.
Mr. Blyth had insisted on the landau—not out of ceremony, but practicality. With three women in his household and three more accompanying them, it was the most dignified and comfortable solution. And with the weather so obliging, it would have felt almost criminal to enclose them. The open carriage allowed the late spring air to wash over its passengers, teasing at curls and ribbons, occasionally catching on a burst of laughter.
He rode just to the side, his mare keeping an easy pace beside the rear right wheel. From his vantage point, he could see the sun gilding the shoulders of the women, turning hair to honey, ribbon to flame, cheek to rose. Their conversation reached him in fragments—a note of laughter here, a teasing remark there—but it was enough. Enough to know they were content, at ease, perhaps even quietly excited.
Mr. Blyth's own thoughts, however, were less easily defined.
The road to Langmere was long enough to allow for preparation but short enough to deny full clarity. Trees arched gently over the lane, dappling the path in warm, leafy patterns. The deeper they moved into the Fitzwilliam estate, the more the countryside softened—stone walls gave way to hedgerows, and the edges of wild grass had been trimmed to a kind of purposeful elegance.
And somewhere behind all of it—behind the birdsong and breeze, the rhythm of hooves and wheels—was the memory of a hand against his wrist, a voice low and measured, and eyes that had lingered a moment too long.
He hadn't seen Mr. Fitzwilliam since that afternoon in his office. And yet tonight, he was walking into his home.
Mr. Blyth shifted slightly in the saddle, adjusting the line of his coat. He had dressed with care, more than he cared to admit. His cravat was straight, his boots polished, the hem of his coat freshly brushed. He looked, by all accounts, precisely as he should: a young solicitor escorting his family and close acquaintances to a dinner with one of the town's most respected hosts.
It was perfectly ordinary. Perfectly respectable.
But then—
A voice called his name. He turned his head to see Miss Bennett watching him from the open carriage, her brow lifted in that soft, familiar way that suggested amusement more than inquiry.
He smiled and gave a small nod, one hand resting gently atop the saddle horn.
She said nothing—just turned her face forward again, as if to say: Whatever it is, you'll handle it.
Ahead, just visible through the trees, the first glimmer of Langmere's rooftop broke into view. As the carriage rounded the final bend, the house emerged in full: its grand façade aglow with the golden hush of early evening. The pale stone, warm and honeyed, seemed to drink in the light, casting long, gracious shadows across the gravel drive. Ivy curled up one side like embroidery on a gentleman's cuff, and the tall windows caught the sun like polished mirrors.
Mr. Blyth eased back on the reins, letting his horse fall slightly behind. It felt proper that the ladies should arrive first—after all, they were the true elegance of the party.
At the base of the stone steps, Mr. Fitzwilliam stood waiting—impeccably dressed as ever, his expression composed, his manner gracious. Beside him, Miss Genevieve Fitzwilliam was a vision in soft lavender, her hands clasped neatly before her, her smile radiant and just a touch mischievous, as though the entire evening were a secret she intended to reveal one course at a time.
As the carriage drew to a smooth halt, a Langmere footman stepped forward and opened the door with the polished ease of long practice. Mr. Fitzwilliam advanced and offered his hand to assist the guests, beginning with Mrs. Blyth and Mrs. Bennett, bowing with just the right measure of formality. Miss Fitzwilliam greeted each lady in turn, her compliments light and well-placed, with the practiced charm of someone who made graciousness look effortless.
When Miss Bennett descended, Mr. Fitzwilliam's expression shifted—not more welcoming, but more intent. His gaze lingered just a heartbeat too long, not so much impolite as precise, and whether it settled on Miss Bennett or on someone else entirely, no one said.
Mr. Blyth dismounted a moment later and approached on foot, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeves. Miss Fitzwilliam spotted him first and lifted a hand in greeting.
"Mr. Blyth," she called out brightly, "you've brought the whole countryside with you."
He offered a half-smile. "Only the finest parts, Miss Fitzwilliam."
Mr. Fitzwilliam turned at the sound, and when their eyes met, something passed between them—quick, quiet, almost nothing. A flicker of recognition, perhaps, or memory. It slipped beneath the formalities like a stone under still water.
"Welcome," Mr. Fitzwilliam said, voice low but steady. "We're very glad you could come."
Mr. Blyth inclined his head. "The pleasure is ours."
And with that, the doors of Langmere opened wide, spilling soft lamplight into the deepening dusk as the guests stepped inside. They did not close so much as glide shut behind them, quiet and seamless, as though the house itself had drawn them in.
The entryway—spacious, echoing—allowed only a moment's pause before the guests were gently ushered onward. There was no grand tour, no elaborate introductions. The staff moved like a quiet current, guiding them down a high-ceilinged corridor lined with ancestral portraits and marble-topped tables, toward the heart of the evening: the dining room.
And there, as the doors opened, came the first true sound of the gathering—a soft swell of delighted murmurs, as though even breath had paused in appreciation. The dining room, anchored by a long table dressed in impossible elegance, was a vision of abundance that bordered on the mythical. Silver gleamed from polished candelabras, crystal glasses caught the light like drops of frozen rain, and the floral arrangements—lavender, rose, a touch of sage—spilled in careful intervals down the length of the cloth, woven between platters of roasted meats, glistening vegetables, sugared fruits, and pastry swans posed in pairs above mirrored trays, admiring their own reflections. Even the scent—rosemary, citrus, the faintest note of honeyed bread—seemed curated to lull the senses into ease. There were soft gasps and reverent exclamations.
"Well, I never—" Mrs. Bennett whispered, barely above a breath.
"How splendid," Mrs. Blyth murmured, a wide smile already claiming her cheeks.
Even Mr. Blyth, not typically moved by spectacle, blinked once—twice—as he took it all in.
They were invited to sit without ceremony, Miss Fitzwilliam guiding them with a breezy elegance that made the evening feel more like an impromptu garden supper than a dinner meticulously planned. The Bennetts took one side of the table, the Blyths the other—an arrangement both simple and symmetrical, with mothers at the ends and daughters between.
Miss Fitzwilliam claimed a seat at the center, positioned to face no one directly yet able to draw everyone into her orbit. It was the sort of placement chosen only by someone who understood how to conduct a conversation like a symphony—directing attention with a well-timed glance, a deft comment, a smile deployed to shift the mood without drawing notice.
Mr. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Blyth, by quiet agreement or some unspoken choreography, had taken seats directly opposite one another. They exchanged only a brief, cordial glance—just enough to register the other's presence.
A footman passed with a tray of wine; the gentle clink of glasses and rustle of napkins filled the room.
And then, dinner began.
The clinking of utensils against porcelain was the table's first music—a polite overture to what would surely become a livelier score. Conversation began to unfurl like a fan, first in manageable sections: Mrs. Bennett praised the lemon glaze atop the duck, prompting Mrs. Blyth to lean in with enthusiasm and a whispered question about how one might replicate such a thing at home.
"My cook has tried her hand at citrus sauces," she said, "but never with such confidence. This tastes like something dreamed up in a greenhouse."
Miss Fitzwilliam, catching the thread, offered a modest wave of her hand. "Oh, it's entirely Mr. Peren—our head cook. Terrifyingly gifted. I merely told him I wanted something that tasted like spring and scandal." She beamed at Mrs. Bennett. "Apparently, this is what scandal tastes like."
A chorus of laughter followed.
"Then I fear I've lived a very dull life indeed," Mrs. Bennett said, lifting her glass.
"Not for lack of trying, I imagine," Miss Bennett murmured under her breath.
Mr. Blyth caught the remark and turned slightly, hiding his smirk in his wine.
Across the table, Mr. Fitzwilliam tilted his head slightly, one eyebrow lifted in quiet amusement. "Mr. Blyth," he said, his voice just loud enough to rise over the hum of conversation, "is this your usual crowd at dinner, or have I imported a particularly wicked strain of wit?"
Mr. Blyth looked up, one brow arched in return. "You've only added water, Mr. Fitzwilliam. We've been steeping for years."
Miss Fitzwilliam placed a hand to her chest in mock astonishment. "What an image. Shall I assume I'm the lemon slice or the brandy?"
"Brandy," said Eleanor, without hesitation.
This time, the laughter was more genuine—looser, brighter. Even Mr. Blyth allowed himself a real chuckle.
The warmth of the food, the gentle gold of the candlelight, the easy cadence of conversation—it all wove together into something dangerously pleasant. A feeling that perhaps nothing beyond the table existed, that the world and all its expectations had quietly stepped outside for a breath of air.
And yet, even amid the comfort, Mr. Blyth could feel it—that subtle weight of eyes. Not constant, not overt. But every so often, when he glanced down at his plate or passed the bread, he'd sense it at the edge of his vision.
Mr. Fitzwilliam, watching him.
Not unkindly. Not intrusively.
Just… watching.
As though he were listening to a part of the conversation that hadn't yet been spoken aloud.
Miss Louisa was midway through recounting a recent encounter with a particularly bold bee—one that had flown straight into her bonnet, leaving her shrieking in the middle of Elversford Square. "I'm certain the whole town thought I was being abducted," she said, cheeks flushed with laughter. "Mrs. Forrester nearly dropped her parasol!"
"Bees are creatures of great discernment," said Miss Fitzwilliam, reclining with artful ease. "They always seem to find the most fashionable heads."
"Or the most fragrant," Eleanor added with a smirk.
"Oh, Eleanor," Miss Louisa huffed, "you wore that dreadful rose pomade last week, and you were all but swarmed."
Eleanor drew in a breath, clearly ready to retaliate—but before she could, Miss Bennett leaned forward just enough to be heard and, with the unbothered authority of an empress presiding over her court, murmured, "Perhaps we might save tales of pollination for dessert."
A fresh ripple of laughter passed down the table. Mr. Blyth hid a smile behind his hand and took a slow sip of wine, letting the moment roll over him like sunlight through a window.
Then—he looked up.
Across the table, Mr. Fitzwilliam met his gaze.
It was, on the surface, an ordinary moment—two guests exchanging a glance over dinner. But this wasn't the idle eye contact of polite company. It was steady. Intentional. The kind of look that studied rather than simply observed.
With slow, unhurried grace, Mr. Fitzwilliam dipped his spoon into the bowl of white soup before him. His hand—bare, elegant, finely veined—curved easily around the stem, fingers catching the soft gleam of candlelight. The silver glinted as he lifted it, steam curling gently in the space between them.
It should have been unremarkable. A simple act. A bite of soup.
But his eyes—
They didn't waver.
Blue as a storm-tossed sea.
Too knowing. Far too calm.
He brought the spoon to his lips, pausing just long enough to stretch the air between them thin. Then, slowly, he tasted it. His lower lip caught briefly on the rim of the spoon—an ordinary movement made extraordinary by the precision of it.
He swallowed. Quietly.
And still, he did not look away.
And Mr. Blyth felt that effect.
His breath hitched, shallow and sudden, catching somewhere behind his ribs. His fingers twitched faintly where they rested on the tablecloth, the fine linen suddenly too textured, too present. Around him, the sounds of the dining room dulled—the clink of silver, the flutter of conversation, Mrs. Bennett prattling on about barometric pressure. All of it blurred.
Mr. Fitzwilliam's tongue emerged—not hurried, not shy, but slow. Unapologetic. It traced the curve of his lower lip with maddening precision, pausing at the center as though to taste the moment itself.
To catch a drop of broth?
To make a point?
To ruin him?
Mr. Blyth couldn't tell. But the sight struck like a match to dry parchment. His spine snapped straighter. Heat bloomed low and dark in his chest, curling outward through his limbs—thick and treacherous as spilled ink.
He dropped his gaze—too quickly. Reached for his wine glass—too clumsily.
"Are you all right?" Miss Bennett asked, a thread of concern winding gently through her voice.
"I—yes," he managed, hoarse. "Just… swallowed wrong."
Across the table, Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled. Not broadly. Not kindly. It was the sort of smile a man wore when he'd won a hand without ever playing a card. It said: I saw what you felt. I wanted you to feel it.
And Mr. Blyth, flushed and wordless, could do nothing but sip his wine and pray for the soup course to end.
Mr. Blyth glanced away, willing the warmth in his cheeks to recede as he took another, less suggestive sip of his soup. The conversation around him carried on in gentle waves, half-heard and half-felt, until Miss Fitzwilliam, seated charmingly between the two family clusters, let out a bright peal of laughter.
"I still maintain," she said, "that poetry should never be read on an empty stomach. It ruins both the verses and the appetite."
"An intriguing theory," Mr. Blyth replied, setting down his spoon with a faint smile. "Though I'd argue that poor poetry could ruin even the finest meal."
A few soft chuckles rippled through the table. Mr. Fitzwilliam, still maddeningly composed, dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin and said, "Then I must wonder how you've managed to keep your figure with all those dreadful legal briefs you read over supper."
The table tittered. Eleanor snorted.
Mr. Blyth arched a brow, catching the bait. "I assure you, I skip the ones that are too melodramatic. Anything with too many commas goes straight to the wastebasket."
"And here I thought commas were your favorite kind of drama," Mr. Fitzwilliam murmured, raising his glass. "You do strike me as a man of very… measured appetites."
That drew a livelier round of laughter—Miss Bennett raised her napkin to cover a smile, Mrs. Blyth gave her son a long, speculative look, and Miss Louisa whispered something to Eleanor that had both girls biting their lips to keep from giggling aloud.
Mr. Blyth smiled, though it tightened slightly at the corners. "Well. I suppose I find too many indulgences at once… distracting."
"I don't believe that for a second," Mr. Fitzwilliam murmured, mostly into his wine—but the words were unmistakably for him. "Not when the distractions are this charming."
He lifted his glass, just a touch, and gestured—smoothly, convincingly—toward the ladies at the table. It was enough to draw a flutter of delighted laughter. Mrs. Bennett waved him off with mock exasperation, and Miss Louisa lit up as though the compliment had been hers alone.
But Mr. Blyth knew. They both knew. The words had never truly left the space between them.
He coughed, quickly, and reached for his water glass—misjudging the distance by half an inch and barely catching it in time.
Miss Fitzwilliam, ever the master of social rescue, stepped in with seamless grace.
"Speaking of charming things," she said with a breezy smile, "the gladiolus have started blooming along the southern border. You should see them, Miss Bennett—tall stalks of violet and coral, like a bouquet that decided to take root."
The conversation pivoted, obligingly light and floral. But Mr. Blyth could still feel the weight of that comment. Of that look. And so could everyone else.
As the meal continued and platters were passed with murmured thanks and nods of approval, conversation unfolded like a summer fan—light, decorative, and deceptively pointed. Mrs. Blyth and Mrs. Bennett, seated across from one another, had found a mutual rhythm in their observations, often speaking in tandem about garden pests, fabric prices, and the dreadful wait times for dress fittings now that so many girls in town were suddenly intent on white muslin.
"It must be something in the air," Mrs. Bennett said with a smile, delicately dabbing the corner of her mouth. "The young men are either returning home or finally shaping up. Why, I've heard of three proposals this week alone. And at least one of those was quite unexpected."
Miss Fitzwilliam, seated not far between them, set down her fork and leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Do tell. I adore a good surprise engagement."
"Well," Mrs. Bennett replied, lowering her voice just slightly, "I wouldn't dare name names, of course. But I wouldn't be at all surprised if another occurs before week's end."
Eleanor, sipping from her cordial, tried to suppress a smile. Miss Louisa cast her a knowing look, which Eleanor ignored in favor of adjusting her napkin with great concentration.
"Wouldn't that be lovely?" Miss Fitzwilliam added. "There's nothing quite like a spring wedding. So much symbolism—new growth, fresh starts, happy endings. Or beginnings, I suppose."
"Indeed," Mrs. Blyth agreed, her gaze flicking—pointedly—between her son and Miss Bennett. "And of course, the best marriages begin with strong friendships."
Miss Bennett, ever composed, gave a gracious nod and murmured something about the value of companionship. Mr. Blyth, on the other hand, nearly dropped his fork.
"Some friendships are very strong indeed," Mrs. Bennett added, her smile gentle but unmistakably sly. "Why, take Mr. Blyth and my dearest Adelaide. One can hardly see one without the other these days."
There was a flutter of polite laughter around the table, a few exchanged glances, and somewhere beneath the tablecloth, someone kicked someone else's ankle in warning.
"Come now, mamma," Miss Bennett said, cheeks faintly pink. "You'll have Mr. Blyth too embarrassed to eat."
"On the contrary," he said quickly, trying to recover his composure, "I'm merely startled to be part of such popular conversation."
"That's because you're not usually so easy to tease," Miss Fitzwilliam said sweetly.
Everyone laughed again—except Mr. Fitzwilliam, whose smile had gone just a shade too taut. But the moment passed like a ripple in a pond—noticed, but not pursued—and the conversation soon drifted toward safer shores: the week's weather, a new book Mrs. Bennett had acquired in town, and whether Lady Abernathy's peacocks had truly gone feral.
Still, beneath the ease, Mr. Blyth sensed something shifting—an undercurrent he couldn't quite name. Glances that lingered a breath too long. Laughter that curled at the edges, a little too knowing.
And across the table, Mr. Fitzwilliam raised his glass in a toast to Miss Fitzwilliam's hospitality, but his eyes never left Mr. Blyth.
The remainder of the dinner passed in a haze of sugared almonds and syllabub, laughter rippling easily over the table as silverware chimed like distant bells. Dessert arrived in splendid form—fruit tarts glazed to a jeweled sheen, lemon syllabub so airy it seemed to vanish at the faintest sigh, and a rich plum cake served with cream. The ladies praised every offering with delight, and even Mr. Blyth—who'd barely tasted anything all evening—murmured polite approval between sips of wine and quick, flickering glances.
Eventually, as tradition and propriety required, the ladies excused themselves, rising from the table like swans lifting from a still pond. Miss Fitzwilliam led the retreat with effortless grace, drawing the others toward the drawing room with a flick of her fan and a final, knowing smile.
Mr. Blyth stood as they departed, the soft scrape of his chair a polite echo. He gave a shallow bow, caught the quick flash of Eleanor's amused grin, and watched the rustle of skirts vanish down the corridor.
The room stilled.
And then—far too casually—Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, reached for the decanter, and poured himself another measure of port.
"I wonder," Mr. Fitzwilliam said, swirling the port in his glass, "if you might join me in the study. There's a matter I'd hoped to discuss—if you've the time, of course."
Mr. Blyth's throat went dry.
"Of course," he managed.
He followed Mr. Fitzwilliam through the hall, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets and the hush of a house settling into evening. The chandelier above them scattered dappled shadows across the floor, and the flicker of wall sconces felt—somehow—too bright. Too knowing.
It's just conversation, he told himself. Business, perhaps. A legal matter, an estate detail, a will to be updated. Perfectly normal.
And yet—his palms were damp. His collar, suddenly stifling. The closer they drew to the study, the more his nerves stirred, fluttering like moths behind his ribs.
He tried not to notice how slowly Mr. Fitzwilliam walked. How deliberately he reached for the brass handle. How he glanced back—once—to be sure Mr. Blyth was still behind him.
He was. Steady in step, unsteady in everything else.
The door opened. The study at Langmere was, in a word, grand. Not ostentatious—never that—but marked by the quiet, inherited elegance of generations. The walls were paneled in dark walnut, polished to a soft gleam that caught the firelight and held it like a secret. Tall shelves lined one side, filled with leather-bound volumes in worn, earthy hues. Beneath their feet, a Persian rug stretched wall to wall, its pattern intricate, symmetrical—something to trace with a fingertip to calm the mind.
At the far end of the room stood a great oak desk, its surface cleared but for a single lamp and a stack of parchment. Behind it, a high-backed leather chair; in front of it, another, placed at a respectful distance.
Mr. Blyth's gaze lingered there—almost longingly. That desk, with its wide expanse of polished wood and the clean division between two seats, held the promise of formality. Of structure. Of safety.
But Mr. Fitzwilliam did not guide them toward the desk. Instead, he turned left—toward the low table by the hearth. A modest fire crackled there, lit less for warmth than for atmosphere, its glow casting soft amber across the walnut walls and pooling like spilled honey at their feet. On a small table between two winged chairs, a silver tray awaited, bearing a decanter of port and two crystal glasses. One had already been poured.
Mr. Fitzwilliam gestured smoothly. "Please," he said, voice calm and even, "join me here. Far more comfortable, I think."
Mr. Blyth hesitated. Only for a second—but in that second, he registered everything: the lack of distance, the absence of wood and formality and the safe divide of a desk. No partitions. No ledgers or parchment. Just two chairs, two glasses, and the kind of quiet that asked something without speaking.
Still, he moved, because to retreat would be worse. Because his legs were already betraying him. Because something in Mr. Fitzwilliam's voice made the offer feel less like hospitality and more like a test he already knew he'd fail—gladly.
Mr. Blyth took the offered seat, spine rigid, heart loud in his chest.
Mr. Fitzwilliam reached for the decanter with that same effortless elegance—smooth, precise, almost reverent. The port caught the firelight in slow glints as it poured, rich and dark, settling into the crystal with a soft swirl. He extended the glass with practiced ease, but the space between them felt thinner than ever.
"To good company," he said quietly, "and capable minds."
Mr. Blyth accepted it. Their fingers brushed—just for a moment—and the touch lit something in him, sharp and immediate. He swallowed. Then swallowed again. And gave the smallest of nods.
Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing the other, his port glass swirling with quiet intent.
"Did you, by chance," he said, as if discussing weather or wine, "have a moment to look over the estate papers I left with you last week?"
Mr. Blyth exhaled—just slightly—grateful, however briefly, for the return to something solid.
"Yes," he said, setting his glass down with quiet care. "I spent some time with them earlier in the week. There are a few points that struck me as… worth a second glance. Some inconsistencies in the valuation, a few oddities in the tax history. I've written out the details."
He paused, met Mr. Fitzwilliam's eyes.
"You're welcome to come by the office whenever you'd like. We can review them together."
Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled—not broadly, but with the quiet certainty of a man who had expected nothing less.
"I knew I'd entrusted it to the right hands," he said, raising his glass in a small, deliberate salute.
He took a sip—unhurried, indulgent, almost ceremonial. Firelight caught on the rim of the glass, played across the curve of his mouth. Then:
"I have a proposition for you."
The word landed like a plucked string—sharp, resonant, and trembling just beneath the surface. Mr. Blyth's posture shifted. Not dramatically. But enough. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass, and though his throat moved in a swallow, he said nothing. The room waited with him.
Mr. Fitzwilliam caught the shift in posture, and one corner of his mouth lifted—just slightly.
"Have I ever told you what I do for work?"
Mr. Blyth blinked, then shook his head. "No… I don't believe you have."
Mr. Fitzwilliam's gaze drifted momentarily to the decanter between them before returning with a steadier focus.
"When my father died," he began, his tone smoother now—measured, almost businesslike, "I inherited several properties. Some in good condition. Others… less so. With what money I had, I began to invest. Restore what could be restored. Sell what couldn't. And over time, I acquired more."
He set his glass down with a soft clink, the gesture so practiced it almost seemed choreographed.
"At present," he continued, "I manage no fewer than twenty estates across England. If this Scottish property proves sound, it will make twenty-one."
Mr. Blyth let out a low breath, the sheer scale of it settling around him like fog.
Twenty-one.
"But," Mr. Fitzwilliam continued, "it's grown beyond what I can manage alone. Even with a steward. My previous man was excellent—sharp, loyal, discreet—but he passed on recently, and his son…" He gave a small shake of his head. "...Lacks the necessary instinct."
He looked back at Mr. Blyth, his tone warming faintly. "And instinct, I think, is something you're not short on."
Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned back slightly, fingers hovering near the decanter with the ease of casual conversation—though his words were anything but careless.
"I've heard a great many things about you, Mr. Blyth. All good, I promise," he added with a soft smile. "Everyone I've spoken to—clients, clerks, even your competitors—has praised your discretion, your thoroughness. Your integrity."
He paused, letting that final word rest between them like the last drop of port in his glass.
"No one," he said quietly, "has ever spoken of you with anything less than complete confidence."
Mr. Blyth felt a slow heat rising beneath his collar. Praise was not unfamiliar—but this... this was too direct. Too generous. His ears tingled with the flush of it, and he dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment, unsure what to say.
Then, Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned forward. Not abruptly, but deliberately. Just enough to thin the air between them. Just enough for Mr. Blyth to feel it.
"I was hoping," he said, his voice low and even, "that you might consider becoming my business partner."
The word landed heavier than expected. Partner. Not clerk. Not steward. Not assistant. Partner.
Mr. Fitzwilliam's tone held steady, but something in his gaze deepened—more direct, more revealing. "I'd like you to help manage my properties. Keep them in order. I need someone I can trust—and someone others already do."
He paused. Then, with a faint smile—as if offering sugar after the tonic—he added, "You'd have your own title, of course. Principal Commissioner of Estates, should you accept it. A mouthful, perhaps, but the sort that commands attention in the right rooms."
Mr. Blyth blinked.
Principal Commissioner.
The phrase settled in his chest like a stone dropped in still water—heavy, thrilling, and quietly seismic.
"And," Mr. Fitzwilliam added, softer now, "we'd naturally need to work closely. Very closely. Which means, should you ever find it necessary..." A pause, not hesitant but careful. "There will always be a room here at Langmere. Ready for you."
Mr. Blyth didn't answer. He couldn't.
The air between them had thickened—not just with silence, but with something more volatile. Expectation. Awareness. The kind that wrapped around the ribs and squeezed. His glass was suddenly too heavy, his skin too warm, every breath caught between instinct and restraint.
Across from him, Mr. Fitzwilliam remained still—watching with those steady, ruinous eyes, the ones that never gave away more than they intended but always knew exactly what they were doing.
Then, without a word, he set his glass down with a soft clink and stepped forward—slowly, deliberately. Not stalking, not circling. Just closing the distance like a man who knew it would matter.
The study, with all its grandeur and polish, seemed to shrink around them. The walls receded. The ceiling lifted. The world, for one suspended heartbeat, became nothing but the muffled press of footsteps and the pulse roaring in Mr. Blyth's ears.
And then Mr. Fitzwilliam bent—a controlled descent, as if the very air obeyed him—one hand bracing lightly on the back of Mr. Blyth's chair, the other lifting… just beside his cheek. Not touching. Just there. A breath away. A promise held in abeyance.
His voice, when it came, was low enough to tremble against the skin rather than strike the ear—a whisper dragged through heat.
"Tell me to stop."
It wasn't a dare. It wasn't even a plea. It was an invitation—offered with exquisite restraint, as though he already knew the answer but would wait for it anyway.
Mr. Blyth didn't speak. Couldn't. Not because he lacked the words—he had plenty—but because none of them mattered. There was no defense left. No more pretense. Only the wildfire thrum in his chest and the thunderous truth he could no longer hold back.
The silence between them vibrated. And in that silence, he gave in.
He looked up.
And the space between them—shuddered.
Tense. Breathless. One heartbeat from breaking
And then, slowly, Mr. Blyth rose. He stood—so close now that the fronts of their coats met like breath and body, the soft friction of wool a quiet gasp between them.
Mr. Fitzwilliam exhaled, and the warmth of it ghosted across Mr. Blyth's lips—a brush of heat that made him dizzy with the nearness.
Then—finally, blessedly—Mr. Fitzwilliam closed the last inch and kissed him.
It was soft, but certain. Measured, but not hesitant. Mr. Blyth's hands gripped the edges of his own coat like a man resisting gravity. As if something might give way if he let go.
And perhaps it already had.
Not downward.
But into someone.
Into this.
The kiss deepened—not hungrily, but with an urgency that bloomed slow and sweet. Mr. Fitzwilliam's hand found Mr. Blyth's waist, anchoring him as though afraid he might float off, while Mr. Blyth's fingers, unsure of themselves, curled in the fabric of Mr. Fitzwilliam's coat. His eyes fluttered closed, and for one suspended moment, the world narrowed to warmth, breath, and the dizzying wonder of being wanted.
And then—
Mr. Blyth pulled back.
Only slightly. Just enough.
His chest rose and fell once, then again. The spell wasn't broken, but it had thinned—like fog parting in the early morning light. And yet the heat of it lingered, coiled between them.
"I'll do it," he murmured, eyes lowered—not with hesitation, but reverence. "I'll… be your partner."
A pause.
Then, so quietly it was almost a sigh, Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned in again—closer this time, until there was no distance left to measure, no breath unshared. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Mr. Blyth's mouth—not demanding, but claiming. His lips lingered, warm and unhurried, before drifting just beside his ear, the space between breath and skin charged enough to spark.
"Excellent," he whispered—low, velvet, and utterly certain. Like a promise sealed not with ink, but with want.
And Mr. Blyth's knees very nearly gave out.
The word wrapped itself around his spine, threaded through his ribs, and bloomed somewhere behind his eyes. He was adrift—untethered—a dazed whirl of did that happen and it's happening and don't fall over.
Mr. Fitzwilliam stepped back—not smug, not gloating, but pleased in a way that made it almost unbearable to meet his gaze.
"I'll stop by your office the day after tomorrow," he said, adjusting his waistcoat with maddening ease. "We'll finalize the details of our… partnership."
Mr. Blyth nodded, mute. He wasn't sure if he blinked.
Then Mr. Fitzwilliam reached for his hand—not merely to shake it, but to hold it, to draw him forward with that same quiet confidence that had undone him entirely.
Mr. Blyth followed—lightheaded, legs moving as though the carpet had turned to air beneath him.
And just before they reached the threshold, Mr. Fitzwilliam let go. The touch vanished. The feeling didn't. Together—but not together—they walked down the corridor to rejoin the others.