𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 5

𝓣𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓶𝓮, 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓳𝓸𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓮𝓭?

Morning arrived at the windows of the Cornelius drawing room. The scent of tea leaves, buttered toast, and pressed linen mingled gently with the faint perfume of fresh peonies arranged beautifully by the windowsill.

Caity was perched gracefully on the tufted settee in her periwinkle morning gown, her embroidery hoop resting in her lap, though her needle had long been idle. Across from her, Albert sat behind the newspaper, sipping tea with the calm detachment of a man who had already endured decades of domestic chatter and seen it all.

Isabelle lounged near the chaise, sketchbook open but forgotten beside her, legs tucked beneath her as she absently nibbled on a slice of orange. Caspian, sprawled inelegantly on an armchair by the fireplace, had one boot off, his stockinged foot twitching in distraction. Fordyce, in crisp riding clothes despite no indication he’d actually gone riding, was quietly reviewing a letter over a cup of black coffee.

“Well, it seems the Prince has developed quite the fondness for our Daphne,” she said, glancing up at her family. “He scarcely left her side during the entirety of last night’s ball. Every time I turned, there he was—hovering.”

Albert gave a faint snort from behind his paper. “Hovering? A royal favor is never entirely uncalculated. The Prince might only one her because she is the Incomparable this season”

Isabelle gave a dreamy sigh, ignoring her father. “But can you imagine? A crown prince. Daphne would become a princess. She would have her own court, her own title, her own crest—”

“Her own target on her back,” Fordyce muttered without looking up. “The royal court is not a romantic garden. It’s a battlefield in brocade.”

Caspian raised a brow. “Sounds like someone’s been reading Lady Whistledown’s serialized adventures again, Belle.”

Isabelle threw a pillow at him, which he caught with a smirk.

“But really,” Caspian continued with a yawn, “do you not think Daphne’s grown weary of waiting for the Duke to make up his mind? I would wager she’s finally come to her senses.”

Caity tilted her head knowingly. “There is no use pining after a man who does not court you properly.”

“Exactly,” Caspian said, raising his teacup. “The Duke's charm only stretches so far. A woman of Daphne’s grace deserves more than quiet smolders and vanishing acts.”

Albert turned a page, mumbling, “Do any of these gentlemen actually propose anymore?”

Isabelle giggled. “Maybe the Duke simply enjoys the drama. You know what Eloise said about men like him—.’”

At the name “Eloise,” Caspian visibly grimaced.

“Speaking of Eloise,” Isabelle added sweetly, trying not to smirk, “I do wonder how she will manage next season. She's entirely uninterested in suitors, and even more uninterested in their existence.”

Caity looked up from her embroidery with a casual, deliberate air. “That is precisely why, Caspian, you must be by her side when the time comes.”

Caspian, mid-sip, nearly choked. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Caity replied, dabbing her napkin. “You two are of an age, and you’ve known each other since you were in pinafores. Your presence will offer familiarity. Comfort. Even the most rebellious girls need a safe escort.”

“I would hardly call Eloise comforting,” Caspian muttered.

“Nor would she call you so,” Isabelle teased.

“But why me?” Caspian protested, sitting up properly now. “Fordyce is the heir—surely his duties extend beyond reading estate reports and keeping his cravat straight.”

Fordyce didn’t even look up. “Ah, but maybe it’s love.”

Caspian stared at him. “Are you insane? Eloise Bridgerton maddens me. She is insufferable. She argues for sport, belittles every thought I have, and once told me I resembled a particularly arrogant goose.”

Isabelle burst out laughing. “You do puff up when flustered.”

“She does it on purpose,” Caspian continued with a huff. “It’s like breathing, to her. I could sneeze and acts as if i carry a plague.”

Caity only smiled. “Ah, then you understand her perfectly. That’s precisely why you’re best suited to be at her side.”

“I’d rather be at the bottom of the Thames,” Caspian muttered, slumping back into his seat.

“Now, now,” Albert finally said, folding the paper. “Your mother and I survived our courtship, and it was not without quarrels.”

“You called me sharp-tongued,” Caity added pointedly.

“And you called me stiff,” Albert replied, sipping his tea. “We married anyway.”

“Because you loved each other,” Caspian said, looking between them. “And I want that too. I believe in that. And I assure you, Eloise Bridgerton is not the path to such a life. I would rather grow old alone in the attic with nothing but my journals.”

“Oh, dramatic,” Isabelle said fondly.

“Poetic,” Caity corrected, smiling at her youngest. “But we shall see, Caspian. The season has yet to come.”

“Let it come,” Caspian declared, throwing his arm over his eyes. “But may the heavens spare me Eloise Bridgerton.”

“You know,” Fordyce said idly, eyes back on his letter, “the more you protest, the more convinced I am that you're halfway in love already.”

Caspian let out an exaggerated groan. “I despise all of you.”

Isabelle grinned, pulling her sketchbook onto her lap again. “We despise you fondly.”

The pungent scent of sweat, leather, and sawdust clung to the surroundings as the Cornelius brothers followed the Bridgerton men through the crowded boxing club. The place thrummed with excitement—gentlemen gathered around the ring, shouting and exchanging coins.

The ring stood in the center like a gladiatorial stage, surrounded by noise and heat and eager eyes. Will Mondrich, tall and formidable, stood in one corner, bouncing on the balls of his feet. In the other was Mr. Gillespie, a sharp-faced brute in the service of the Prince of Prussia.

“I must admit,” Fordyce said, surveying the ring with an analytical eye, “the Prince’s man has an impressive build. I wager a hundred shillings on him.”

Caspian’s head turned sharply. “What?”

Fordyce shrugged. “He’s heavier, more technical. Mondrich might be good, but let us be practical. The odds are in Gillespie’s favor.”

“No, no, no,” Caspian said, cutting in front of him. “You’re betting against Will Mondrich? The Duke of Hastings’ man?”

“So what?”

Caspian clapped his brother’s shoulder firmly. “You’re not thinking, Fordyce. The Duke has trained under Mondrich. That man has fists like stones and pride stronger than the crown. You saw how he handled that Frenchman last month.”

“I also saw him nearly dislocate his shoulder,” Fordyce replied blandly.

“Trust me,” Caspian insisted, voice lowering conspiratorially, “bet on Will. If you lose, I’ll match it. But if you win, you owe me one favor. Anything I ask.”

Fordyce glanced at him, skeptical.

“Anything?”

“Anything,” Caspian echoed.

With a heavy sigh, Fordyce rolled his eyes. “Very well. Let’s hope this Duke’s man does not disappoint me.”

Behind them, Isabelle was pulling her gloves off with a scowl. “I cannot believe I let you both drag me here. If Mama ever finds out—”

“She will have a fit,” Colin interjected cheerfully, adjusting his waistcoat. “And blame you all for corrupting a lady.”

“Caspian,” Isabelle said sharply, “I am going to be the ruin of the Cornelius name if anyone sees me here.”

“Oh no,” Caspian said, motioning toward the Bridgerton beside her. “That honor goes to him. It was Benedict who insisted you come.”

Isabelle turned, and sure enough, Benedict stood there, cheeks flushed—not from embarrassment, but from the thrill of the environment.

“I merely said you might enjoy the… artistic violence,” Benedict offered with a half-smile. “There’s something beautifully human in it.”

Fordyce snorted. “Your knight in shining armor, sister.”

Isabelle flushed, quickly looking down to hide the twitch of her lips.

“I do not need a knight,” she said. “I only need peace. Which I will not find among fists and shouting men.”

“Well,” Anthony said, clapping his hands, “you’ll find no peace here today. Gillespie’s a mean one. But if anyone can bring him to heel, it’s Will.”

As the bell rang for the first round, the crowd roared and the men in the ring stepped forward with the kind of brutal grace that only comes from years of surviving pain.

Isabelle, despite herself, looked up at Benedict again—then to the ring—and, very quietly, opened her sketchbook behind her shawl.

Cheers shook the old walls of the boxing club like a thunderclap. Men in coats and stained gloves shouted with fervor as Will Mondrich dodged a vicious hook and countered with a blow that nearly sent Gillespie off his feet. Sawdust stirred with each tremor from the ring, the smell of sweat and iron thick in the air.

“Come on, Will!” Anthony bellowed fists clenched.

Colin nearly lost his balance. “He’s got him! Look at that footwork!”

Caspian whistled and slammed the railing. “Come on, Stonefist, take him down!”

Even Fordyce, usually composed and aloof, had his sleeves rolled to the forearms, shouting, “He’s open on the left—hit him there!”

Amidst the chaos, slightly behind the front row, sat Benedict and Isabelle. The two were tucked to the side—far enough not to be elbowed by their brothers, close enough to see the sweat glisten off Mondrich’s brow.

“I cannot decide which is louder,” Isabelle said, watching Anthony and Caspian howl like animals. “The crowd or our family.”

Benedict grinned, not taking his eyes off the ring. “You ought to see them during fencing practice. Or at a wedding.”

“God forbid those two combine,” she said, trying to sound sarcastic, but she couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips.

Benedict glanced at her sidelong. “You don’t approve of this, do you?”

“The violence?” she shrugged, “I admit… it unsettles me. But I suppose it’s not unlike the way society dresses up its own brutality in gossip.”

He turned his head to look at her directly, the thrum of the match dimming between them. “That’s a rather poetic way to put it.”

“I am in the company of a Bridgerton,” Isabelle said with faux politeness. “One must be eloquent.”

Benedict chuckled. “We are not all charming rakes and painters.”

She raised a brow. “Oh? So what are you then?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but a scream from Caspian broke the moment.

“YES! MONDRICH!” Caspian shouted, nearly jumping into Fordyce’s arms. “He’s done it!”

In the ring, Gillespie lay slumped in the corner, the match over. The referee raised Will Mondrich’s arm high, and the entire crowd erupted.

Caspian turned to Fordyce, victorious. “You owe me half your winnings.”

Fordyce groaned but nodded, flicking a coin into Caspian’s waiting hand. “I ought to tattoo it on my arm: always count on Caspian when gambling.”

“Indeed you should,” Caspian said with a smirk, slipping the coin into his waistcoat pocket.

Fordyce clapped his brother on the back. “You must come with me to the gentlemen’s club next time. It’s rare to find a Cornelius there who isn’t reciting Horace or buried in a blasted book.”

“I am not reciting Horace,” Caspian said defensively.

“No? Then what are you writing all the time?” Isabelle chimed in, tilting her head curiously. “That little journal of yours—Mother said you take it to meals, even.”

Caspian blinked, hesitating for a brief second too long. “It’s a book… on medicine.”

Fordyce scoffed. “A likely excuse. You’re barely at St. George’s lately.”

Caspian cleared his throat. “I still study. Just—on my own terms.”

Benedict glanced at him, sensing the shift. “What sort of medicine?”

The youngest Cornelius looked down at his gloves. “Public health. Legal reform. Working class access. Medical malpractice laws.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “That sounds less like medicine and more like…”

“…Politics,” Benedict finished.

“Are you trying to become a barrister?” Isabelle asked softly.

Caspian’s expression twitched. “I’ve not told Father yet.”

Fordyce went quiet.

“You believe in the law that much?” Isabelle said.

“I believe in justice more,” Caspian replied, the noise around him momentarily distant. “And if it’s not found in the hospitals, it must be found in the courts.”

There was a silence between them, but it wasn’t awkward.

“Well,” Fordyce said after a pause, reaching to muss his brother’s hair, “if you end up in court, let it not be because I’ve strangled you in the ring.”

“Unlikely,” Caspian grinned. “You can’t throw a punch.”

The group laughed, even Isabelle, as the cheers around them rang on and Will Mondrich raised his arms in triumph once more.

The Bridgerton estate’s drawing room in the afternoons are quite… intresting as some might say. The smell of orange blossom tea lingered in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of almond macaroons resting on a silver tray.

Daphne sat gracefully at the pianoforte, her fingers dancing over the keys with ease, playing something soft and lilting that filled the room with melody. Beside her on the settee sat Isabelle, her  white skirt fanned neatly, hands clasped in her lap—though her expression was far less composed than her posture.

Across the room, Eloise and Caspian were engaged in what could only be described as a battle of sarcasm. Eloise scribbled furiously in her notebook while Caspian, legs slung lazily over the arm of a chair, popped another macaron into his mouth.

“I still cannot believe you dragged me into that pit of sweat and hollering men,” Isabelle murmured to Daphne under her breath, though there was no real malice in her tone—only disbelief, and perhaps a touch of amusement.

“You loved it,” Daphne whispered back, eyes twinkling.

“Only the parts where Will Mondrich was winning,” Isabelle retorted primly, lifting her chin. “Which, I might remind you, I predicted. Unlike certain Cornelius brothers who insisted on a ‘gut feeling.’”

Their whispered conversation was cut short as a stern voice pierced the air.

“Your brothers took you where?” Violet Bridgerton asked, her tone sharp enough to cut through Daphne’s music.

“They kept close watch the entire time, Mama,” Daphne replied, her voice placating though her fingers never faltered over the keys.

“It does not matter. A boxing exhibition is no place for any young lady,” Caity Cornelius added, her own voice tinged with maternal disapproval as she glanced at Isabelle, who tried to appear innocent but failed miserably under her mother’s stare.

“I had no idea a match could cause this much scandal,” Isabelle muttered softly, leaning toward Daphne again. “You’d think we’d run off to the docks.”

Before any of the mothers could retort, Hyacinth came bursting into the room with all the subtlety of a thunderclap. She made a beeline for Daphne, eyes alight with curiosity.

“Is it a place for a prince? Was he at today’s match, Sister?”

“He certainly was,” Daphne answered smoothly.

“It is a loathsome and barbarous form of entertainment,” Violet said with a sniff, folding her hands with finality.

Isabelle tilted her head. “Loathsome? I thought it rather… invigorating. Besides, if the Prince can endure a little blood, I hardly see the harm in it.”

Caity gave her daughter a sideways glance, but said nothing. The girl had always been sharp-tongued.

“What about the duke?” Hyacinth asked, drawing the attention of everyone in the room—including Eloise and Caspian, who both lifted their heads in synchrony.

“What about the duke?” came the chorus of Daphne, Isabelle, Violet, and Caity.

“Was he also present?” Hyacinth pressed, though her voice turned sheepish under the sudden weight of everyone's gaze.

“I do not know. If the duke was there, I did not see him,” Daphne said airily, fingers resuming their waltz on the keys.

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Convenient,” she said under her breath, just loud enough for Caspian to hear.

Meanwhile, Hyacinth had wandered toward Eloise, peering nosily over her shoulder. “What are you writing?”

“Nothing,” Eloise snapped without looking up.

“You sit about, writing nothing all day long,” Hyacinth said with a scoff.

“Perhaps she is writing how much she could fold you in half, dear,” Caspian offered with a lazy grin, helping himself to another macaron from the tin on his lap.

Isabelle gave a soft snort, one hand covering her mouth. “One day she will do it, and I shall weep for joy.”

“I am telling Francesca about what an officious little busybody you are,” Eloise grumbled.

Hyacinth, unfazed, snatched a chocolate macaron from Caspian’s tin.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, halfway rising, just as the door opened and in strode Anthony.

“Mother. Daph,” he greeted, walking toward the cluster of women.

“Did you truly take your sister to a boxing match?” Violet demanded, rising with a frown.

“Your admonishment will have to wait. I have news. Prince Friedrich has asked for my permission to propose.”

Isabelle blinked. The music stopped. Every pair of eyes turned toward Anthony.

“So soon?” Daphne asked, voice quavering.

“Well, what did you tell him?” Violet said, stepping forward.

“That I know better than to answer for my sister. I have no objections to the man. People speak well of him. Whatever you decide, Daph, you shall have my support.”

From her place on the settee, Isabelle leaned forward, catching the expression on Caspian’s face—his jaw had dropped as if struck by lightning.

“Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.”

He scowled at her. “Can you believe this? Anthony, being agreeable?”

“I do not know what to be more shocked by,” Isabelle said, smiling faintly. “That the prince asked permission… or that your brother gave it without a duel.”

“I… uh… I…” Daphne stammered, her hands trembling ever so slightly over the keys.

“You need not decide now,” Violet said quickly.

“You have not known him long, dear,” Caity added gently.

“Let me know when you have an answer, and I shall convey it,” Anthony finished.

As the moment hung in the air, Isabelle’s gaze slid once more to Daphne—pale and flustered—and then to Eloise, who looked utterly uninterested, her pen resuming its scratching, and finally to Caspian, who still looked personally offended by the idea of being a part of royalty.

“I daresay,” Isabelle whispered, half to herself, “this season may yet be the death of all of us.”

Later that afternoon, the garden behind the Bridgerton estate was awash in dappled sunlight. The roses had bloomed early that year, their scent thick in the warm air, and the birdsong mingled with the rustle of leaves as the breeze stirred through the hedges.

Isabelle walked slowly beneath the vine-covered trellis, gloved fingers trailing lightly along the petals of a blooming white rose. The drawing room had become too stifling, too crowded with decisions and mothers and marriage proposals. Here, at least, the silence was gentler.

“You always run off to the gardens,” came a voice behind her—familiar, amused.

She turned her head, not startled in the slightest. “And you always follow.”

Benedict stood a few paces behind, hands in his pockets, his expression alight with something between mischief and fondness.

“Well,” he said, stepping closer, “it is either follow you or listen to Caspian argue with Eloise until one of them throws a scone.”

Isabelle gave a small smile and turned away again, continuing her slow walk down the stone path. “A tempting spectacle, but I prefer peace. I am still recovering from the boxing match.”

Benedict joined her side, walking in rhythm. “You did enjoy it.”

“I did not say I did not enjoy it,” she replied archly. “I said I am recovering.”

There was a pause, and then his voice dropped slightly, more sincere. “I wanted to find you because… Someone offered me something this morning. From Mr. Granville.”

Isabelle stopped, turning toward him with interest. “The painter?”

“Yes. He invited me to his studio,” Benedict said, watching her reaction carefully. “And he extended the invitation to you as well.”

Isabelle’s brows lifted. “Me?”

He nodded. “He said he was quite taken by your commentary at Somerset House. Something about your eye for composition and color.”

“I believe one of the paintings looked like a melted onion,” she replied dryly.

Benedict laughed. “He rather liked that, actually. Said it was the first honest critique he’d heard in weeks.”

She glanced away, biting her lip to stifle her smile. “And you think we should go?”

“I do,” he said. “He’s not like the usual society types.”

Isabelle looked back at him, her expression unreadable. “And you want to show me this world of yours?”

“I think you’d like it,” he said softly. “You have a mind that doesn’t fit in drawing rooms and parlors, Isabelle. It deserves more space.”

Her heart gave an uncomfortable flutter, but she masked it with a casual shrug. “I must warn you, I’ve never posed for a painting.”

“Then it’s a good thing he’s not asking you to pose,” Benedict grinned. “Only to observe.”

They stood there in the middle of the garden, the world briefly suspended around them, petals falling like snow in slow motion.

“I’ll consider it,” Isabelle said finally, but there was a smile tugging at her lips.

Benedict chuckled. “That’s the closest thing to a yes I’ll ever get from you, isn’t it?”

She tilted her head. “You’re lucky I didn’t say no just to be contrary.”

“Believe me,” he said, walking backward with a grin, “I would still follow you into that no.”

Isabelle turned away, but her smile lingered long after he’d gone.

Midnight cloaked the streets of London the world seemed asleep—except for two figures walking swiftly, their breath visible in the cool air. Isabelle and Benedict clutched sketchbooks to their chests as they darted through the alley behind a stately townhome.

As they reached the modest door of Mr. Granville’s studio, Benedict raised a hand and knocked twice. The sound echoed faintly into the night before the door creaked open.

“Mr. Bridgerton. Miss Cornelius,” Granville greeted them warmly, his coat paint-stained, his hair disheveled from hours of work. “Come in, come in.”

“Thank you,” both said in unison, exchanging a glance of shared excitement as they stepped inside.

The studio was unlike any place Isabelle had seen before.

“I do not know what I was expecting,” Benedict murmured, his voice low with awe. “But it surely was not this.”

“It’s beautiful, Mr. Granville,” Isabelle said, her eyes wide, heart fluttering. “Like something out of a dream.” Her gaze lingered on the two models—not with embarrassment, but admiration. There was a boldness here, an honesty rarely permitted in polite society.

Granville beamed. “Oh, simply a gathering of like-minded souls. Here, let me show you what I’ve been working on.”

He guided them through a small maze of easels, past murmured debates and brushstrokes in motion.

“They speak of war abroad as if it will distract from inequities at home,” one painter said to another.

“They do not need a war to be distracted,” came the reply.

“Why, this Whistledown’s enough to turn their eyes from the needs of ordinary people,” a third added, drawing a small huff from Granville.

The conversation fell away as Granville pulled back a drape, revealing his newest painting.

“What do you think?” he asked, standing back.

Isabelle took a moment before answering, her eyes scanning the sketch.

“Hmm. It’s a far cry from Somerset House, I must say.”

“I shall take that as a compliment,” Granville grinned. Benedict chuckled beside her.

“And I must say,” Benedict added, scanning the wild and beautiful space again, “I’m truly jealous. Is this your life?”

“There are advantages to being the second-born,” Granville said with a sly smile. “Heirs have the responsibility. Second sons have the fun.” His voice dipped into a mischievous murmur. “So… why not go have some fun?”

With permission granted, Isabelle and Benedict found their places at two open canvases. They sat side-by-side, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed, the warmth between them a comfort in the cool room.

“I must say,” Benedict said with a crooked smile, “there is no one like you, Cornelius.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Well, you are my best friend, Benedict. Does that mean great minds think alike, then?”

He chuckled, the sound easy and warm. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it means we both have a penchant for breaking rules.”

Their laughter mingled with the hum of the studio. For Isabelle, It wasn’t a rebellion. It was awakening.

And as the night wore on, in that dim-lit haven of artists, politics, and possibility—Isabelle Cornelius knew that something had begun to stir within her.

While music and laughter spilled from the ballroom, the garden lay dark. Anthony, Caspian, and Fordyce strode across the flagstone.

“She is not in the drawing room,” Anthony muttered.

“Nor in the retiring rooms,” Caspian added, his tone edged with annoyance.

“She must be with Isabelle,” Fordyce said grimly, scanning the shadows. “They fled this soirée like children. What on earth were they thinking?”

Then, just past the hedge maze, they saw them.

Daphne. And the Duke.

Too close. Much too close.

Anthony stormed forward, his temper flaring. “Bastard!”

Before either Daphne or Simon could react, fists were already flying. Anthony struck first, his knuckles colliding with Simon’s jaw. Fordyce followed, furious and silent, landing a hard blow to Simon’s ribs, while Caspian delivered the last hit, eyes blazing.

“Anthony! Stop, the three of you!” Daphne cried, her voice trembling with rage and fear.

The men stepped back, breathing heavily, the duke doubled over from the onslaught.

“You will marry her,” Anthony said, voice tight with barely contained fury.

“What?” Daphne gasped.

“Immediately.” Fordyce’s voice was cold, unyielding.

“We can only hope no one saw you take such liberties,” Anthony seethed, stepping closer again. “And that my sister is spared further mortification. You will marry her!”

He raised his fist once more, but Caspian gripped Anthony’s arm, holding him back.

“Anthony—enough! We are not in the ring,” Caspian said, though his tone was no less enraged.

“Brother!” Daphne pleaded, her voice cracking.

“I cannot marry her,” Simon said finally, standing upright, bruised but resolute.

Anthony's expression darkened. “You have defiled her innocence, and now you refuse her hand?” His voice was venom. “I knew you were a rake, Hastings—never thought a villain.” He grabbed Simon by the collar.

“I cannot marry her.” Simon’s voice was steady, but quiet.

“Then you leave me no choice,” Anthony hissed. “I must demand satisfaction.”

“A duel?” Daphne’s voice rose in panic. “Anthony, you cannot—”

“He dishonors you, sister,” Anthony said, breathing hard. “He dishonors you, and me, and the very Bridgerton and Cornelius name. I have misjudged you, Hastings. You have duped us. But I shall not see my sister pay for my own misdeeds. We will settle this—as gentlemen.”

“I understand,” Simon said. “I shall see you at dawn.”

“I do not understand,” Daphne whispered, her eyes wet. “You would rather die than marry me?”

“I am truly sorry,” Simon said softly.

The silence that followed was sharp and painful.

“We need to go, Daph, before anyone should see us,” Caspian said, his voice quieter now, more careful, though his jaw was still tight with fury.

Fordyce lingered, his voice low as he looked Simon square in the eye. “You’ve brought shame to a woman who trusted you. And to her family. If Anthony does not kill you… I might.”

Daphne let out a soft gasp at his words, but Fordyce did not flinch.

Then he turned on his heel and walked with Caspian and Anthony, flanking Daphne protectively as they returned to the house.