Snippets

Please note your character can overhear things happening in snippets, unless it's specifically stated that no one else is around. I’d also love to add that despite how well you might be hidden, you face the consequences of being discovered. But, you might also be inclined to overhear something without being sure if you know who said it.

However, I do encourage occasional risk, as long as we know that things might happen.

The point, I guess, is to have some fun with it.

December 24th, early morning, the Old Stone Folly, Robin & Miles (finally)

A couple of winters past, earlier in the month than this, when the air still held promise rather than mourning, and Thomas yet lived, hale and untroubled, Robin Monteil had last made his way through the snow toward the old stone house, his purpose then far lighter than the one which carried him there now. Snow fell again today, soft and relentless, muffling the world until it appeared all but erased, swallowed by a vast and reverent white. And yet, through the stillness, he heard it: the unmistakable neigh of another horse somewhere behind the house.

The scene before him was precisely what he had anticipated, and yet, in some indefinable way, not at all.

Miles Seymour stood beside his mount, gloved hand resting at the reins. When he turned, there was a smile upon his face, somewhat practised, perhaps, or born of habit, appearing almost without his consent as Robin drew to a halt and dismounted.

“I wish our meeting could have been arranged somewhere warmer,” he began, the smile lingering still. “But alas, warmth generally implies—”

“Ears. Eyes,” Robin finished with a nod. There followed a brief, delicate pause. “I wish we might have done this sooner.”

“I had fully intended to arrive a day earlier,” Miles said, “but my mother—”

“It is quite all right,” Robin replied gently. “Everything occurs precisely when it ought to.” The words rang true enough until their implications settled heavily between them.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Miles continued, a curious sensation passing through him. Relief, certainly, but also something more unsettling, a quiet overwhelm he could not quite name.

“I believe it was long overdue,” Robin said, his tone steady, reassuring. Something within it eased Miles at once, and he found himself smiling in return. “Shall we continue on? Walking, perhaps.”

“Further into the forest?”

“It is still early,” Robin replied, “and I suspect we have rather a great deal to discuss.”

Indeed, they were not the only ones engaged in conversation that morning.

An hour later, as they returned their horses to the stables side by side, passing a party of young gentlemen riding out into the snowy dawn, their shared presence became the season’s first murmur, an almost imperceptible hint of what might yet ripen into scandal.

Those fortunate enough (or indiscreet enough) to glimpse Mr Monteil and Lord Seymour from the drawing-room windows overlooking the stables might have remarked upon the exchanged smiles, fleeting but unmistakably bright. Others, lingering within the Grand Entrance Hall, may have attempted, quite unsuccessfully, to overhear a word of their discourse. Whatever the subject, it appeared most agreeable, for both men wore the unmistakable countenance of those thoroughly enjoying themselves.

And in the end, those counted among the friends of either gentleman would later hear it said that matters concluded most satisfactorily on Christmas Eve, though, as any astute observer might suspect, they were only just beginning.

December 25th, morning, heading from Church, Alaric x Leone

From his earliest boyhood, Alaric had found religion an exercise in polite bewilderment. Long before his inclination toward science declared itself, indeed, before he was old enough to articulate the thought, he could not reconcile the notion of a singular man seated comfortably upon a cloud, somewhere above the heavens, who found both the time and the inclination to monitor the conduct of every soul upon the earth, much less tally their merits as though life were a ledger to be balanced.

As he grew older and permitted himself the luxury of reflection, the matter did not improve. On the contrary, it grew increasingly illogical until his private contemplations hardened into opinions that, if spoken aloud, might be labelled, without exaggeration, heresy.

Heresy, Alaric knew, was not an ornament one wished affixed to one’s name.

Thus, even now, he made appearances at church whenever social obligation demanded it, attributing his otherwise conspicuous absence to the tireless claims of work. It was a convenient excuse, and one few felt inclined to challenge.

“Did you find the service agreeable, Mr Jaxley?”

Alaric inclined his head, arranging his most convincing smile upon his features. “Quite,” he replied smoothly. “Remarkably lively, in fact, so many unfamiliar faces in attendance.” He paused, turning the question with practised courtesy. “And yourself? I imagine this must be your first service since arriving in England?”

“Indeed it is,” Leone answered. “Though devotion is hardly lacking in my homeland, our clergy occasionally leaves one… wanting.”

Alaric permitted himself a small, knowing smile. “You need not trouble yourself to catalogue Rome’s failings to an Englishman,” he said lightly. “Even during my studies, we examined at length the admirable deeds of the Roman Church, though, regrettably, the missteps proved far more numerous.”

“And those missteps,” Leone ventured, “were they not the seeds of division?”

“They may well have been,” Alaric replied. “Yet the law, my lord, is a matter of reason and order. Religion, I fear, is seldom governed by either.”

“Perhaps that is its nature,” Leone mused. “Do you believe so?”

“I do,” Alaric said without hesitation. “And though I would never deny that the Church has accomplished good—”

“On a grand scale?”

“—I was not fashioned to observe the world only from such heights,” Alaric interrupted gently. “What place I occupy has been earned through my own efforts. Still, it would be dishonest to pretend there were no moments when our parish eased the path.”

As they reached the Rosewood doors, Leone smiled. “What I hear,” he said mildly, “is that you place greater faith in men than in heaven.”

“One might say that,” Alaric agreed. “Yet one might also observe that the Church is made of people, and people, in turn, are the Church.” He shrugged faintly. “Who, then, is to insist upon the distinction?”

December 26th, afternoon, Morning Room, Margot & Julian

Please note that you cannot be present for this snippet.

A year ago, perhaps a year and a season, for time had a way of rearranging itself when one was miserable, Julian would have flourished in a house where doors were never shut, and one could not cross a corridor without being intercepted by conversation. He had worn society like an easy coat, shrugged it on and off at will, and laughed at those who found it heavy.

Now he welcomed solitude as though it were a penance he had earned.

He had always fancied himself above the ton’s pressure, above the petty cruelties and grander injustices it dealt with such pretty gloves. He believed he could slip free of its shackles, as a man of sense and will ought to do. And yet his mind, a traitorous thing, returned, again and again, to Sophie. To what he might have seen sooner, what he might have said louder, what he might have done.

His brother lay in the ground as well, though the circumstances were simpler in their brutality. War had taken him, as war so often did: with noise, with drums, with the world’s permission to call it honour. Sophie, however, had been taken by a slower violence. A lifetime of quiet. A lifetime of being told to swallow the truth until it choked her.

It made no sense at all that he could find reason in the one death, and none in the other.

“Your thoughts are dragging clouds above us,” Margot said, stepping into the room with the air of a woman who meant to accuse him of precisely what she herself was doing.

Julian did not look up at once. “Are they clashing with yours?”

“I keep mine bottled,” she replied, as though this were a virtue. She opened the door wider; a maid slipped in behind her and placed a tray between them. Tea for two, as if the world could be steadied by porcelain and habit.

Margot did not sit until the maid had gone and the door had been closed again, firmly, like a decision. “Make a note,” she added, voice crisp, “that no one is to disturb me while I work.”

Julian turned only as she settled opposite him.

“Are they even aware of what you—”

“Why would they be?” Margot’s question landed like a curse, sharp, tired, and edged with disbelief, as though he had proposed parading grief through the streets for inspection.

She poured the tea with careful hands. The scent of it warmed the air; a drop of milk fell into each cup like a small surrender. Margot closed her eyes, an indulgence she had not allowed herself in more than a fortnight, and for the first time since Sophie’s passing, she let memory take her willingly.

Vienna returned in a rush of cold mornings and familiar rituals. The morning Sophie died, Margot had been downstairs making tea for the second time, because Sophie liked it that way in winter, liked the comfort of repetition. Tea, biscuits, jam spread thickly over sliced toast: a little English stubbornness that no one in Vienna quite understood, and that made them both laugh. It had been theirs.

Sophie had missed home. She had missed her brothers, her mother, and on the darkest days even her father - the same father, the one who had banished her the moment he found the letters and understood what they meant.

“You are blessed,” Sophie used to tell Margot, half in jest, half in envy. “You never knew a family close enough to haunt you.” She spoke as though nostalgia were a gentle thing. Margot, especially toward the end, had never had the heart to say that love was not love when it arrived with conditions, nor that Sophie’s “good days” had been good only because Sophie had hidden herself away to earn them.

“Perhaps,” Julian said now, pulling her back to Rosewood, “it is because you once spoke so highly of being true to yourself.”

Margot’s eyes opened. “Weren’t we all, in Vienna?”

He nodded. He had been, long before she and Sophie had come to him, long before the scandal, long before the exile, long before Sophie’s name became something the family spoke only in lowered voices.

“Rosewood is not Vienna,” he said quietly. “Despite Evelina. Despite Thomas.”

That much was true. Evelina and Thomas had built themselves a partnership when the world expected a cage: married on paper, free in every way that mattered, turning Rosewood into a sanctuary disguised as respectability. An illegitimate daughter raised under the mistress’s roof; a mistress who did not produce an heir; a household that welcomed travellers, thinkers, and those who refused to live by the ton’s narrow script. A married woman who went where she pleased and returned as she pleased, always with her husband’s name as a shield, and her own will as a sword.

When Sophie first fled, Evelina and Thomas had opened their London home without question. Later, they sent what was needed to Vienna, money, arrangements, protection, because who Sophie was mattered more to them than who she loved.

“There are rumours,” Margot said at last, as if tossing a pebble into still water to see what it disturbed.

Julian’s mouth tightened. “About what?”

“Your departure.”

“I have made no plans,” he admitted. “Fabrications.”

“Shame,” Margot said, and there - there was the smallest crack in her composure. “I would have loved to come with.”

Julian’s gaze lifted sharply. The room, for a moment, felt too small for the truth in it.

“Then perhaps,” he said, and his voice softened into something dangerous in its gentleness, “my plans can change.”

He reached for her hand and drew it into his. To any passer-by, any footman with an errand, any gossip hungry for a shape to hang a story upon, it might have looked like romance.

But Julian and Margot knew better.

There were bonds closer than flirtation, closer even than desire: the fierce connection of two people who had loved the same person, profoundly, and had been left behind when she was taken too soon.

December 29th, Orchard, Sebastian & Arabella

They meet at the orchard, where he politely explains the tradition that is to come, singing to the fruit trees, and the comparison is rather on the nose - how all living things thrive with love.

January 1st, Winter Garden, Ginny & Countess

Evelina knows Ginny is up to something, and warns her that the path she is to take is not the safest one, but she does not discourage her. At all.

January 5th, Lake, Ellie & Constantine

Flirting, uncertainty, how dependent she is on this season, while he can go along and do whatever he wishes after it.

I promise to try to finish these, but I am swamped by endless tasks and while ideas are here, the execution keeps coming out flat. I added the description for the last three, but I will do my best to make them in the end.

Last edited by Zaralee (17/12/2025 at 22:26)

Grace is my weapon, ambition my victory.

Name: Lady Bianca Cattaneo

FC: Deva Cassel (as Angelica Sedara)

Age: 24; 12th September

Traits:

Vain and unapologetically arrogant, convinced she deserves admiration. Spoiled by comfort and used to getting her way. Fiercely ambitious, always reaching for more. Takes freely, but rarely gives anything in return. Boldly confident, with sharp intelligence to back it up. Subtle in her manipulation, preferring whispered influence over open force. Proud to a fault, too stubborn to admit weakness or wrongdoing. Charismatic and captivating, able to charm anyone she chooses. Seduction delivered as art: poised glances, velvet laughter, promises unsaid. Social and energetic, though she periodically craves solitude. Chooses her circle carefully; only the exceptional earn a place near her. Possessive, easily jealous, and reluctant to share what she claims as "hers". Impulsive in pursuit of what she wants, driven by passion and instinct. Cunning and strategic, always looking for an advantage.

Personality:

Bianca is a striking mix of elegance, confidence, and calculated ambition. She carries herself with an air of effortless superiority, fully convinced that admiration is her due. Raised in comfort and accustomed to indulgence, she moves through the world expecting doors to open... and they usually do.

Driven by fierce ambition, Bianca is always reaching for the next height, rarely satisfied with what she already holds. Her intelligence is razor-sharp, and she wields it with subtlety... manipulation delivered through soft words, suggestive silences, and well-placed influence rather than open conflict.

Charismatic and captivating, she knows how to turn attention into a weapon. Seduction is something Bianca practices like an art form... measured glances, velvet laughter, promises she never needs to speak aloud.

Despite her social energy, she protects her inner world. She selects her circle with care, allowing only the exceptional to stand close. And once Bianca claims something - or someone - she becomes deeply possessive, quick to jealousy and reluctant to share.

While outwardly poised, Bianca is ruled by impulses when her desires ignite. Her passions drive her into bold, sometimes reckless pursuits. Yet beneath every action lies a mind that is strategic and cunning, constantly scanning for advantage.

Pride anchors her, for better or worse. She refuses to show weakness, apologise, or bend once she has taken a stance. But that same pride fuels a magnetic presence... one that can enthral, intimidate, or inspire, depending on how she chooses to wield it.

History:

Born as the youngest child of Ercole and Laura Cattaneo, her childhood was a warm, sun-lit chapter spent in the family’s estate in the Lombardy, far from the harsher intrigues of court life. With a spirited temperament and wide, curious eyes, she quickly attached herself to her older brother, Leone, trailing after him through gardens, corridors, and lessons alike. In those early years, before Leone grew occupied with the responsibilities of becoming the next Duke of Mantua, the siblings were nearly inseparable... Bianca his shadow, and he her first great hero.

Her tutors discovered early that Bianca possessed a talent for languages... she mastered English, French and even the delicate complexities of Greek. But unlike many young noblewomen, she excelled in none of the musical accomplishments expected of her. Singing, instruments, even simple melodies... none suited her ear or her temperament. Her teachers eventually learned that no amount of patience or guidance could make music take root in her; it was the only art that refused her entirely.

Instead, she found her devotion elsewhere..  poetry and art, in which she felt truly alive and where her imagination flourished without constraint. She spent hours at her desk or in the gardens with charcoal in hand, far happier with a quill or brush than she ever was before a pianoforte. Sketchbooks and ink-stained fingers became her constant companions throughout childhood, and as she blossomed into a young lady, she would lose herself for hours—sometimes entire nights—in her small studio, refusing to step away until she had coaxed her imagination onto the canvas.

Bianca’s world remained largely centered around the Cattaneo family home, a place of familiar rhythms and quiet privileges. Unlike other noble young ladies, who were whisked through courts and salons, she grew up mostly sheltered from the wider world. Only on rare occasions did she travel, accompanying her mother on visits to distant relatives or brief stays in Italian society. These journeys were enchanting to her... fleeting glimpses of a broader stage she longed to step onto, yet never fully reached.

As she grew into young womanhood, Bianca retained the blend of refinement, curiosity, and restless ambition that had defined her since childhood. Though her upbringing had been comfortable and carefully curated, she carried within her a spark... an eagerness for admiration, achievement, and the freedom to shape her own destiny. And beneath the polished manners expected of a noble daughter, there remained the girl who once ran after her brother through sun-drenched halls, dreaming of something more.

Bianca had long been promised to Alessandro Gonzaga, heir to the Duchy of Monferrat... a match arranged when she was still a girl, more political than personal. Yet since her twenty-first birthday, the agreement has lingered in silence. No formal negotiations, no official letters, no mention of a wedding date. The promise still exists in name, but its future grows increasingly uncertain… and Bianca is left to wonder whether she has been forgotten, dismissed, or intentionally kept waiting.

When an unexpected invitation arrived from her distant cousin, Evelina Adair, asking her to spend Yuletide at Rosewood Hall in England, Bianca accepted without a moment's hesitation. The prospect of travelling beyond Italy thrilled her: England's winter festivities, its manners, its courtly intrigues... everything promised novelty and delight. Though the visit was meant to last only through the holidays, Bianca quietly hoped for more. She longed to linger, to observe English society, and to experience for herself the world she had only encountered in books and whispered conversations. The journey felt like the beginning of something... an opening chapter rather than a simple holiday.

Relationships:

Brother — Leone Cattaneo:
Leone’s protectiveness can be both comforting and exasperating, yet Bianca treasures him all the same. Their bond is undeniably strong, though she keeps certain parts of her life veiled from him, knowing he would fret - or interfere - more than she prefers.

Cousin, twice removed — Evelina Adair:
Bianca has only met Evelina a handful of times, yet she has always found her irresistibly intriguing. So when an invitation to spend Yuletide at Rosewood Hall arrived, Bianca accepted at once, eager for the change of scenery... and the promise of Evelina’s company.

Parents — Ercole and Laura Cattaneo:
Her relationship with her parents is a complex one. She loves them deeply, but she has grown weary of the weight of their expectations and the demands they place upon her. Their affection is unquestionable...  yet often stifling.

Reason for being at Rosewood Hall: Visiting for Yuletide with the idea of staying a bit longer. Bianca is quite curious to learn more about England, and the thought of staying for the season is tempting.

Trivia:
While she speaks English fluently, she tends to slip into Italian during conversations. Loves art and poetry but has no musical talent. Loves to wear dark colours. She never finishes a sketchbook. Bianca sketches people when they aren't looking... keeping the sketchbook hidden between volumes of Italian poetry.

Interests: Robin (romantic), Constantine (flirty & playful), Miles (playful friends)
Activities:
❄︎ December 24 - Christmas Eve
❄︎ Tree trimming - Ballroom tree
❄︎ Yule Feast

❄︎ December 25 - Christmas Dinner
❄︎ Gift giving to Leone (leather-bound notebook) , Robin (a pair of leather gloves with a small flourish embroidery), Miles (a deck of fine playing cards), Constantine (a pair of cufflinks) and Countess Adair (a delicate hand-painted fan)


❄︎ December 31 - New Years Eve Masque Ball

❄︎ January 1st - Small token exchange
❄︎ Leone (a leather bookmark), Robin (a pressed flower in a book), Miles (a token “for a future wager”), Constantine (a ribbon tied to a playful remark) and Countess Adair (a small posy tied with silk ribbon)

❄︎ January 5th - Ice Skating


Cred to Nina

The Yule Festivities

Christmas morning, soft with quiet joy

The late-morning air carried the crisp bite of deep winter, but Bianca welcomed it. After the warmth and hum of the hall, stepping outside felt like letting her thoughts stretch. Frost glittered across the grounds, catching the sinking sun in quiet flashes as she wandered along the path toward the little rise overlooking the paddocks.

A distant rhythm broke the stillness... hooves drumming over packed snow.

She slowed, shading her eyes just as a dark bay horse swept into view, its breath clouding like smoke. And there he was... Robin, leaned slightly forward in the saddle, entirely at ease, the picture of controlled speed and something dangerously free beneath it.

The grin that crossed his face was immediate, bright, unmistakably pleased.

With a pull on the reins, he guided the horse into a slowed trot, then an easy walk, drawing nearer until he was just a few steps away. "Lady Cattaneo." His tone carried amusement, as though he’d found something delightful without even trying. "I hadn’t realized Rosewood employed such enchanting landmarks along its paths."

She raised a brow, unable to keep the smile from tugging at her lips. "If you start calling me part of the scenery, I may take offense."

"Oh?" His gaze dipped, warm and too knowing. "Then allow me to clarify... I meant you are the sort of sight that makes a man slow his horse without thinking."

Bianca felt the faintest flush rise to her cheeks, though she disguised it with a light scoff. "Flattery so soon after nearly riding me down? Bold."

"My aim was excellent," he countered, laughing softly. "I stopped precisely where I meant to."

"Convenient," Bianca murmured. "Had you missed by even a foot, my brother would have had your head."

"Then I’m fortunate I was highly motivated to stay on course."

She folded her arms, teasing. "Motivated?"

Robin leaned slightly in the saddle, lowering his voice just enough. "Well… you were here."

Her breath caught... just for a heartbeat—before she forced an airy tone. "You’re in an awfully good mood today."

"Fresh air. A fast horse." He tilted his head, eyes lingering on her with that slow, deliberate ease of his. "And unexpected company."

Bianca looked up at him, amused and helplessly charmed despite herself. "You do realize you’re insufferable when you’re this pleased with yourself?"

"Entirely," he replied. "But I’m happy to suffer your company if you’ll walk with me a moment."

She nodded toward the path ahead. "At your horse’s pace, or yours?"

"Whichever keeps you beside me longer."

Bianca shook her head, smiling as she began walking, Robin nudging his horse forward so he moved along with her... close enough that she felt the warmth of his presence even from the saddle. The fading sunlight cast everything in gold, and the quiet between them felt… comfortable.

She glanced up. "You were riding quite fast before. Practicing anything in particular?"

Robin flashed another grin... quick, rakish. "Trying to outrun a thought."

"Oh?" Bianca asked lightly. "Did it catch you?"

Robin’s gaze flicked to hers, softening for a moment. "I think it just did."

Her heart skipped... far too noticeable for her liking.

She looked ahead again, breath curling in the cold air. "Well… I hope it wasn’t a terrible one."

"No," Robin said, voice low and sincere. "Not terrible at all."

They continued along the frosted path, his horse’s slow, steady steps crunching softly beside hers.

After a few moments, he exhaled as if making a decision. "Hold a moment," he said, drawing the reins in gently.

Bianca paused as he brought the horse to a stop. Without a word, he swung one leg over and slipped down from the saddle with easy grace, boots landing in the snow. He ran a hand along the horse’s neck before guiding it to follow behind them on foot.

Bianca arched a brow, amused. "Decided riding wasn’t efficient enough a way to bother me?"

Robin shot her an indignant look... or tried to. The amusement tugging at his mouth ruined it. "I thought I’d spare the poor creature from trying to keep up with my charm."

"Your charm?" She laughed softly. "Your confidence truly knows no bounds."

He stepped closer... not too close, but close enough that she felt his presence like a warmth against the cold. "Confidence is simply truth spoken plainly," he said.

Bianca fixed him with a look. "Oh, I see. And what great truth are you speaking now?"

"That you…" He hesitated, only a fraction, but enough to prove he did not choose the next words lightly. "Have a way of making winter feel less… empty."

Her breath caught, subtle but undeniable. She looked away toward the frost-covered hedges as they resumed walking, partly to hide her smile, partly to steady herself. "You say things no one else does."

"I’ve noticed," he said with a hum of amusement. "Most people prefer safer words."

"And you don’t?"

Robin shook his head, glancing at her. "Not with you."

The air between them shifted... just slightly, just enough for her pulse to pick up. She tucked her hands into her muff, gathering herself.

"Is that why you dismounted?" Bianca asked lightly, trying to tip the balance back toward teasing. "So you could deliver more… unsafely honest statements?"

"Partly." His tone dipped, teasing yet threaded with truth. "And partly because it felt wrong to be above you."

Bianca blinked at him, taken aback in the most inconvenient, fluttering way. "Above me?"

Robin gestured vaguely to the saddle. "Looking down at you while you looked up. It didn’t feel like…" He paused, searching for the right word. "A conversation."

Slowly, she nodded... surprised at how thoughtful, how earnest the explanation was. "You’re full of unexpected notions today."

"I have more," Robin warned.

"Should I be concerned?"

A grin curved across his face. "Possibly. I am, after all, a man walking beside a woman... very tempted to keep being distracted."

She shot him a sidelong look. "Distracted from what?"

"Everything else."

Warmth pooled in her chest... dangerous, dizzying. She inhaled quietly, the cold air sharp in her lungs. "You’re in quite the mood," she managed.

Robin met her gaze, eyes bright with something playful and something deeper beneath it. "Maybe it’s the company."

Bianca looked away, unable to fight the shy, almost disbelieving smile that tugged at her lips. "Careful," she murmured. "If you speak like this too often, I might begin to expect it."

"Then I will simply have to exceed expectations," he said, as though that were the easiest promise in the world.

They walked slowly, as though neither wished to reach the end of the path too soon. Frosted branches arched overhead, catching the last threads of sunlight, turning everything around them faintly golden.

Robin nudged a small stone aside with the tip of his boot. "You’re quiet," he observed, though not accusingly... more like he was studying her with that attentive curiosity he rarely let people notice.

Bianca glanced up. "Am I?"

"Mm." His mouth tilted. "Not unhappily quiet. Thoughtfully quiet."

"Is that something you can read so easily?" she teased.

"Yes," he said simply. "At least when it comes to you."

Her pulse fluttered... because he said it without charm, without theatrics, and somehow that made it far more dangerous.

Bianca cleared her throat lightly. "I was only thinking… it’s unusual to find you out here alone. You’re often surrounded by someone."

"Someone or many someones," he admitted with a dramatic sigh. "Imagine my shock... a moment of solitude. Utterly dreadful."

She laughed beneath her breath. "You jest, but I suspect you enjoy it more than you admit."

He paused, then gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach mischief. "Perhaps. It depends who I end up finding in that solitude."

Heat warmed her cheeks again... she hoped the cold would mask it.

Before she could answer, he added softly, "I like you better like this."

Bianca blinked. "Like what?"

"In the quiet." He kicked another stray pebble. "When you’re not surrounded. When you aren’t performing for anyone... not even yourself."

She swallowed. "I don’t perform."

He gave her a very gentle, very knowing look. "Everyone does. Including me."

Bianca looked down at the snow beneath her boots. "And what am I performing?"

"A woman who has everything neatly in hand," he said. Not critical... almost fond. "When in truth, you feel far more than you pretend to."

Her breath hitched, surprised he could see her so clearly. She stopped walking, just for a moment, turning toward him. Robin stopped too, the horse behind him letting out a soft huff.

"And what about you?" she asked softly. "What do you pretend?"

A flicker passed through his eyes... something honest, unguarded, startling in its vulnerability.

"That I don’t mind when things matter," he said.

The words landed between them... heavy, delicate, dangerous.

He looked down at the snow beneath his boots, then back at her, earnest now, the playfulness of earlier replaced by a rare sincerity. "Do you ever wonder," he asked softly, "what we might have been if we’d taken different paths? If we’d… spoken sooner, acted differently?"

Bianca’s fingers tightened around her muff. "Often," she admitted. "I think about the chances I didn’t take. The words I didn’t say. Moments I let slip by."

Robin’s gaze softened. "I do too. And yet… I find myself here. Walking with you. And somehow, that makes me feel like some things… were meant to be found in their own time."

Her heart skipped, the warmth of his words curling around her in a way that no teasing could. "I’ve never… I mean, I don’t usually talk like this with anyone," she confessed, her voice quiet, almost hesitant.

"I know," Robin said, voice low. "That’s why I value it. Why I wanted this moment." He hesitated, letting the silence stretch comfortably, as if giving her space to absorb what was being said.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The winter air suddenly felt warmer, thinner, too full of something she didn’t dare name.

Bianca looked away first, gathering herself. "We should head back," she murmured.

"Yes," Robin said... though his tone carried the faintest resistance, a reluctance to break the connection they had just shared.

They resumed walking, slower than before, as though both were aware the moment was slipping from them.

When the path curved and the roofs of Rosewood Hall came into view, Robin exhaled quietly. "Lady Cattaneo."

She looked up.

He hesitated... not long, but long enough that she felt the weight of whatever he wasn’t saying. His gaze held hers, warm and unreadable all at once.

"When we walk like this…" He searched for the rest of the sentence, then abandoned it with a faint huff of laughter. "Never mind."

Bianca stepped a little closer, her voice gentler. "Mr Monteil."

He met her eyes again... for a moment too brief and too charged.

"…Another time," he said softly. But his tone made it clear there would be another time, or he would find one.

She felt it... the pull, the ache of something just out of reach.

"Good morning, then," Bianca murmured.

"Not nearly as good as it was a moment ago, he replied under his breath... almost playful, but not entirely.

They exchanged a final lingering look... the kind that held far more than words before she turned toward the hall and he toward the stables.


Bianca closed the door to her room and leaned against it for a moment, the warmth of the fire doing little to chase away the chill that had settled into her bones. Yet it wasn’t the cold that made her shiver. It was him.

Robin’s grin. His quiet, searching questions. The way he had looked at her, truly looked at her, in a way no one else seemed to bother with. And then the words — the ones that had slipped past the teasing, that had landed softly, almost dangerously, between them.

She paced a little, her gloves still in hand, and let herself replay their conversation. The flirty banter, the playful back-and-forth… and then the sudden shift, the honest talk about dreams, wishes, regrets. That rare, unguarded side of him had caught her entirely off-guard.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her muff. Does everyone see this side of him? she wondered. Or am I the only one who gets these moments?

She sank into the chair by the window, watching the snow glint in the lamplight outside, and thought of how he had looked when he admitted the things he might have done differently, how he had spoken of her as if he could see through all the layers she usually kept carefully in place.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. Dangerous, she thought, utterly dangerous. And yet… thrilling.

Her mind lingered on the moment at the path’s curve, when they had parted... the hesitation in his voice, the way his eyes had held hers. The tension had been almost unbearable, a quiet promise that he would not let things stay so… paused.

She exhaled, a little sigh escaping her lips. "Why does he have to be so infuriating?" she whispered to the empty room, though it was more a question of herself than of him.

Pulling a shawl around her shoulders, she leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling that curious ache that came with desire unspoken, with words left hanging, with hearts slightly, tantalizingly exposed.

And beneath it all, an undeniable certainty settled in her chest... she would see him again.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The ballroom smelled faintly of pine and beeswax, the towering fir standing proud at its centre, its branches still bare and waiting. Crates of ornaments lay open around it... ribbons, gilded apples, glass baubles catching the candlelight. The trees, Bianca had heard, were a gift from Queen Charlotte herself, sent ahead of the festivities.

Bianca was fastening a strand of ribbon when a shadow fell beside her.

"I should warn you," Robin murmured, appearing at her shoulder with a small wooden box of ornaments, "I have very strong opinions on the correct placement of garlands."

She glanced up, amused. "How fortunate for the tree. It would hate to disappoint you."

He smiled, setting the box down. "It would be unkind of me not to intervene."

Bianca laughed softly and reached for a glass bauble he handed her. Their fingers brushed - brief, almost nothing - yet his hand lingered just long enough for her to notice before he stepped back.

Across the room, servants moved quietly, and a small group nearby debated whether silver or gold suited the branches better.

"You’ve done most of this already," Robin observed, studying the tree. "I feel as though I’m joining in far too late."

"I wanted to help," Bianca replied. "It seemed wrong to stand aside when something meant to be shared was taking shape."

He regarded her thoughtfully. "You like to be part of things. Not merely present."

She smiled at the accuracy. "I suppose I do."

She reached higher, stretching slightly to secure a ribbon near the middle branches. The step stool was just out of reach, and she wavered for a moment.

Without a word, Robin stepped in behind her and steadied the branch - and her elbow - with a careful hand. It was nothing improper, barely a touch, but the warmth of it travelled straight through her.

"Thank you," she murmured, not turning.

"Any time," he replied quietly, then added, lighter, "I would hate for the tree to claim its first casualty."

She laughed under her breath and tied the ribbon neatly before stepping aside. When she turned, she found him closer than before... not too close, but nearer than strictly necessary.

Robin handed her another ornament, a small gilded apple. "Do you think this one should be higher?"

"I think," Bianca said, considering, "it suits the middle. Something too precious shouldn’t be placed out of reach."

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than the ornament required. "A sensible philosophy."

They moved around the tree slowly, adding decorations as they went. The quiet bustle around them continued - footsteps, soft laughter, the faint scrape of a chair being moved - a comforting hum of life.

Robin broke the silence. "Do you always enjoy things like this?"

"Moments where everyone is busy together?" Bianca asked. 'Yes. They feel… honest. No expectations, no performances."

He nodded slowly. "I understand that. It’s easier to speak plainly when your hands are occupied."

She glanced at him. "Is that why you’re here?"

"Perhaps," he admitted. "I find myself more candid than usual today."

She hesitated, then said softly, "I didn’t mind it. Earlier. When you were."

His smile softened... not playful now, but sincere. "Nor did I."

A voice nearby called for more ribbon, and Bianca turned briefly to answer, returning with another length of silk. As she passed it up to him, their hands met again... this time a little firmer, a little longer. Neither commented on it.

"You have good taste," Robin said as he looped the ribbon carefully. "The tree feels… balanced."

"So do our conversations," she replied, surprising herself.

He looked at her then, openly, warmly. "I was thinking the same."

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Bianca reached for another ornament - a small glass star - simply to give her hands something to do.

"Well,' she said lightly, "it’s reassuring to know we agree on something."

Robin’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. "More than one thing, I suspect."

Bianca lifted the star toward a higher branch and hesitated. "Would you…?"

He stepped in without comment, holding the branch steady again. This time, she was very aware of how close he stood... close enough that her shoulder brushed his sleeve when she leaned forward. Not enough to draw notice, but enough that she felt it all the same.

"Careful," he murmured, just for her. "That one’s delicate."

"So am I," Bianca replied, a quiet tease, before glancing sideways at him.

His eyes met hers, amused... and something softer beneath it.

They moved on, circling the tree once more. Bianca handed him a ribbon, and as he took it, his fingers brushed the inside of her wrist. It was accidental, surely... and yet neither of them spoke.

"Do you think," he said after a moment, his tone casual but thoughtful, "that we’d talk like this if there weren’t something else to focus on?"

She considered that as she adjusted an ornament. "Perhaps not. Silence can be rather exposing."

"And yet," he said, casting her a brief sideways glance, "I find I don’t mind it in your company."

Her breath caught, just slightly. She answered without looking at him. "Neither do I."

A burst of laughter nearby broke the moment, and Bianca smiled to herself as she stepped back to assess their progress.

"The tree is nearly finished," she said.

"So it is," Robin agreed... though his gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer than necessary before returning to the branches. "A pity."

She looked at him again, curious. "You don’t care for finished things?"

"I prefer them… ongoing." He smiled faintly. "They leave room for return."

Her lips curved in response, restrained but unmistakable. "I suppose some things are better left with a little room."

They stood side by side now, not quite touching, yet close enough that she could feel the warmth of him even through the layers of winter fabric. When she shifted her weight, their sleeves brushed... this time undeniably. Neither stepped away.

A servant approached to collect the empty box, and they both moved aside at once, exchanging a quick glance... shared, knowing.

Robin cleared his throat softly. "It seems we’ve done our part."

'Yes," Bianca said. "Though I rather enjoyed it."

"As did I," he replied. Then, lower, meant only for her, "More than I expected."

She met his eyes - just briefly - before someone called her name from across the room.

"I should go," Bianca said.

"Of course," Robin replied, polite again, composed.

As Bianca turned to join the others, Robin spoke again... low enough that only she could hear.

"Some things," he said gently, "are worth taking time over."

She glanced back once, just over her shoulder. Their eyes met.

Nothing more passed between them - no words, no gestures - but it was enough.
She paused for half a heartbeat, then continued on, the warmth of his words following her long after the lights of the ballroom faded... settling not in her ears, but somewhere deeper, where she knew she would return to it again and again.

Christmas Eve, hushed and glowing with promise

The long table glowed with candlelight, beeswax tapers casting a soft shimmer over silver and evergreen garlands. Voices rose and fell around them, laughter braided with the clink of cutlery, but Bianca and Leone had settled into their familiar pocket of quiet mischief at one end.

Leone leaned back in his chair, studying her plate. "You’ve rearranged that pheasant three times," he observed lightly. "If you’re hoping it will flee, I fear it’s already met its fate."

Bianca smiled despite herself. "I’m considering mercy," she replied. "It’s the season for it, after all."

"The season for pretending," Leone countered, reaching for the bread. "You’ve always preferred honesty. Which is why"—his tone softened—"you’ve gone rather quiet."

She paused, fingers stilling around her glass. For a heartbeat she considered deflecting, offering him something bright and effortless. Instead, Bianca exhaled. “m"It’s nothing new," she said, quietly. "The engagement. It sits there, Leone. Like a door I cannot open or close. I hate… not knowing. I hate feeling as though my life is being decided somewhere else."

Leone’s expression shifted, the teasing edge giving way to something steadier. "You are allowed to be tired of it," he said. “?"Even at a Yule feast."

Her gaze drifted then - only briefly - past the candles and faces, catching on Robin across the table, his profile half-lit, half-lost to shadow as he laughed at something said beside him. The sight tugged at something unnamed. Bianca looked back to her brother, schooling her expression.

"I know," she murmured. "I just wish wanting more did not feel like asking for too much."

Leone reached over, nudging her shoulder with his own. "You’ve never asked for too much," he said, with quiet certainty. "You’ve merely been patient longer than most."

Bianca tilted her head, offering him a small, grateful smile. "Careful," she said. "Say things like that and I might start believing you."

"Please do," Leone replied, lifting his glass. "Otherwise I’ll have to start delivering speeches, and no one wants that during supper."

Bianca laughed then - soft, genuine - and the candles seemed to burn a little warmer for it.

Bianca’s laughter faded into a quieter smile as she reached for her glass. "If you begin delivering speeches, I’ll claim it’s the wine and have you escorted out," she said lightly.

Leone scoffed. "Cruel. I defend your honour and this is my reward?"

"You defend your own peace," she corrected. "You simply prefer to pretend it’s about me."

Leone placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Untrue. Entirely untrue. I suffer greatly on your behalf."

She arched a brow. "Do you? Because you look remarkably comfortable for a man in distress."

Leone leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Years of practice. Besides, someone must remain composed while you brood dramatically beneath candlelight."

"Brood?" Bianca echoed. "I do not brood."

"You absolutely brood," Leone said, smiling. "You go quiet, your eyes wander, and suddenly the pheasant becomes your greatest adversary."

She huffed a laugh. "You make it sound terribly romantic."

"Everything looks romantic by candlelight," Leone replied. "Including existential dread."

That earned him a soft, genuine smile. Bianca toyed with the stem of her glass. “I suppose I’m afraid that if I stop being patient - if I push too hard - I’ll be punished for it."

Leone studied her then, more serious once again. "You are not difficult for wanting clarity," he said. "And you are certainly not wrong for wanting… choice."

Bianca’s gaze flicked briefly, almost unconsciously, back toward Robin - just long enough to notice the way he was listening rather than speaking now - before she returned to Leone. "Choice," she repeated. "It sounds indulgent when you say it like that."

"It sounds human," Leone countered. "And last I checked, you are still allowed to be that."

She smiled, softer this time. "You should stop being reasonable. It makes it harder to argue with you."

Leone grinned. "I’ll take that as my greatest triumph of the evening."

Bianca reached out, nudging his arm beneath the table. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"For what?"

"For reminding me I’m not invisible," she replied.

He nudged her back. "Never,” he said. “Not even if you try."

Leone watched her for a moment longer, the playful glint in his eyes dimming just enough to suggest he was no longer teasing. He turned his goblet slowly between his fingers. "And is that truly all?" he asked. "Or is the engagement merely the most convenient culprit?"

Bianca inhaled, then let the breath out in a quiet laugh. "You always do that," she said. "Circle until I trip over the truth myself."

"I prefer to think of it as giving you room to speak," Leons replied mildly.

She considered her words, gaze drifting once more across the table... not lingering, not searching, merely acknowledging. When she looked back at Leone, her expression was thoughtful, almost vulnerable. "There have been… conversations," she admitted. "Moments that made me realize how narrow my world has become. How much I’ve accepted simply because it was expected of me."

Leone nodded, encouraging but silent.

"It’s unsettling," she continued. "To suddenly see that things could be different. That I might want them to be." Her mouth curved wryly. "Perspective is a dangerous thing."

"It is," Leone agreed. "Once acquired, it has the unfortunate habit of staying."

She smiled at that. "I don’t regret it," she said quickly, as if surprised by her own certainty. "But it has made pretending harder. Smiling, agreeing, waiting. I feel as though I’ve been handed a glimpse of something… honest. And now I don’t know what to do with it."

Leone studied her face, then chuckled softly. "Well, that explains the melancholy," he said. "Nothing ruins complacency like sincerity."

Bianca laughed under her breath. "You make it sound terribly inconvenient."

'Oh, it is," he said cheerfully. "For everyone else."

She reached for another bite at last, shaking her head. "I haven’t done anything," she added, more quietly. "I only… listened. And felt seen."

Leone’s expression softened. "That can be enough," he said. "Enough to change the weather entirely."

Bianca met his gaze, warmth and uncertainty mingling in her eyes. "I suppose I’m afraid of what that says about me."

"That you are awake?" Leone offered. "Tragic indeed."

She smiled, nudging him again beneath the table. "You are impossible."

"And yet," Leone said, lifting his glass once more, "remarkably good company at a Yule feast."

Bianca lifted her own glass to meet his. "That," she said, "I will gladly accept."

❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The drawing room was alive with low conversation and movement, the afterglow of the Yule feast lingering in the warmth of firelight and mulled wine. Bianca drifted along the edge of it all, unhurried, letting the hum of voices pass over her as she traced the familiar patterns of the room.

That was when she noticed him.

Robin stood at a small table near the windows, sleeves loosened, posture relaxed but intent, surrounded by a loose circle of onlookers. Cards were laid out before him, coins and counters scattered in casual disorder. He was smiling—not broadly, not for show—but with that focused, private satisfaction she recognised now.

I love a good challenge, he had told her once. And I love winning.

She paused without quite meaning to.

He played with an easy confidence, fingers quick and precise, eyes sharp as he tracked every shift at the table. There was no hesitation in him, no false modesty... only attention, calculation, and the quiet pleasure of the game itself. When someone across from him attempted a bold move, Robin’s brow lifted just a fraction, as though amused rather than threatened.

Bianca felt warmth bloom low and unexpected, spreading through her chest.

He was exactly as he’d said he was.

A final card was turned. A brief silence followed... then groans, laughter, reluctant admiration. Robin leaned back slightly, victory settling around him as naturally as breath. He accepted it with a grin and a shrug, as though winning were simply the logical conclusion of having paid proper attention.

Bianca smiled to herself.

There was something deeply grounding in watching him like this... unapologetic, alive, utterly present. No performance, no careful restraint. Just him, enjoying the moment he’d earned.

As the small crowd shifted and reset for another round, Robin glanced up... and for a fleeting second, his gaze found hers across the room. The smile he gave then was slower, warmer, unmistakably shared.

The small crowd began to disperse, laughter trailing off as coins were gathered and the table cleared for the next hopeful challenger. Bianca lingered just long enough for the moment to settle - long enough to enjoy the easy confidence still radiating from him - before she stepped forward.

"Well," she said lightly, her voice cutting through the last murmurs, "I see you weren’t exaggerating."

Robin looked up, surprise flickering into recognition..  and then into something distinctly pleased. His smile curved, slow and unmistakably smug. "About which part?" he asked. "The winning, or the warning?"

Bianca glanced at the table, then back at him. "You told me not to challenge you unless I enjoyed losing," she said, folding her hands behind her back. "I’ve come to determine whether that was confidence… or fiction."

He laughed softly, pushing his chair back just enough to give her his full attention. "And?" he asked. "What’s your verdict so far?"

Bianca tilted her head, studying him with open curiosity. "You spoke the truth," she admitted. "Rather annoyingly so."

Robin’s eyes brightened. "Careful," he said. "That almost sounds like admiration."

"Don’t flatter yourself," Bianca replied, though her smile betrayed her. "I merely appreciate honesty. Especially when it’s earned."

He rose then, easy and unhurried, stepping closer in a way that felt deliberate without being presumptuous. "I did warn you," he said, lowering his voice just a touch. "I don’t lose often. And when I do, it’s usually because I chose the wrong opponent."

Her gaze held his. "And would I be the wrong one?"

Robin considered her for a beat, eyes warm, intrigued. "No," he said finally. "You’d be… interesting."

Bianca laughed softly. "That doesn’t sound reassuring."

"It’s meant to be tempting," Robin replied. "But you don’t strike me as someone who backs away once curiosity takes hold."

She glanced once more at the table, then back at him, eyes alight. "Perhaps," she said. "But I like knowing the odds before I sit down."

His grin widened. "Then stay,: he offered. "Watch a little longer. Or—" his gaze dipped briefly to her hand "—test your luck. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you."

Bianca met his smile, the warmth from earlier settling comfortably in her chest. "We’ll see," she said. "I may enjoy losing more than you think."

Robin pulled out a chair for her with an exaggerated flourish. "Very well," he said. "Since you insist on proving me right... or wrong."

Bianca arched a brow as she took her seat. "Do try not to look so relieved. I might yet surprise you."

"I hope you do," Robin replied easily, settling opposite her. "There’s nothing duller than a predictable victory."

She accepted the cards, glancing at them only briefly before meeting his gaze again. "You say that now," she said. "Men who enjoy winning rarely mean it."

He laughed, low and warm. "Fair. But I enjoy the game first. Winning is merely a pleasant side effect."

The first round passed quickly, Bianca playing cautiously, testing the rhythm rather than the rules. Robin watched her with open interest, as though the cards mattered less than the way she considered each move.

"You’re holding back," Robin observed.

"Am I?" she asked lightly, placing her card with care. "Or are you simply unused to someone not panicking under your stare?"

His lips curved. "Touché."

By the second round, the small audience had returned... drawn by curiosity, not volume. Bianca leaned back in her chair, confidence settling in as she claimed a modest win. She glanced up at him, eyes bright. "I believe that was mine."

Robin studied the table, then inclined his head. "It was," he admitted. "I see now. You lull your opponents into complacency."

"Hardly," she replied. "I merely listen."

He smiled at that, genuinely impressed.

The game tightened after that... each move sharper, each loss met with a grin rather than frustration. When Bianca lost a round, Robin leaned closer. "Still enjoying losing?" he murmured.

She smiled sweetly. "I haven’t decided yet."

The final round came down to a single, decisive moment. Bianca played her card without hesitation, heart steady, eyes never leaving his. Robin’s expression shifted - surprise, then admiration - before he laughed and leaned back.

"Well," he said, hands raised in surrender, "it appears I’ve been challenged properly."

Bianca exhaled, then laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. "You spoke the truth," she said. "Just not the whole of it."

Robin rose, offering her a small bow. "I’ll concede this one gladly," he said. "But only on the condition that you allow me a rematch."

She placed her hand in his briefly as she stood. "Perhaps," she said. "If I’m in the mood to lose next time."

Robin remained standing close as the table was cleared, the murmur of the room swelling again around them. "You’ve just upended my reputation for the evening,",he said lightly. "I believe that entitles me to a restorative drink."

Bianca smiled, still warm from the game. "To recover your pride?"

"To celebrate my discernment," he corrected. "I chose a worthy opponent."

Bianca laughed and inclined her head. "In that case, it would be rude to refuse."

They fell into step together, moving away from the gaming table and into the broader sweep of the drawing room. Candlelight followed them in soft halos, catching in the glassware and gilded frames along the walls. Robin offered his arm - not formally, not insistently - just enough of an invitation to be declined or accepted.

Bianca took it.

His hand settled lightly over hers, warm through the fabric of her glove, and for a moment neither of them spoke. It was an easy silence, unhurried, the sort that didn’t ask to be filled.

"You play more boldly than you let on," Robin said at last, glancing at her. "I noticed it partway through."

Bianca met his gaze. "And you watch more closely than you pretend."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "It would be a shame not to."

They slowed near the sideboard where decanters stood ready, the air scented faintly with spice and citrus. As he reached for two glasses, his fingers brushed hers... unavoidable, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Bianca felt the contact all the same.

"Thank you," she said quietly, as he handed her a glass.

"For the game?" he asked.

"For not making it about winning," she replied.

He studied her then, expression softer, more open than it had been at the table. "Some moments deserve to be met," he said. "Not conquered."

Their shoulders nearly touched as they turned back toward the room, glasses in hand. Around them, the feast continued... laughter, music, movement but the space between them felt carefully held, intimate without being hidden.

Bianca lifted her glass slightly. "To honesty," she said.

Robin echoed the gesture, his gaze steady on hers. "And to choosing when to be brave."

They had slowed without quite realizing it - conversation tapering, steps faltering - until they came to a gentle stop near the center of the room. The light above them shifted, softened.

Robin was the first to notice.

His gaze lifted, just slightly, and then he huffed a quiet, almost incredulous laugh. "Well," he murmured.

Bianca followed his eyes.

Hung from one arm of the chandelier above them was a kissing bough... evergreen woven with ribbon, dried oranges, and a small cluster of mistletoe, swaying faintly with the warmth of the room. Festive. Deliberate. Entirely unforgiving.

"Oh," she said softly, amusement threading through the word.

They stood there a moment longer than necessary, neither stepping away. Around them, the drawing room carried on - voices rising, a burst of laughter near the fire, the faint scrape of chairs - but the space beneath the bough felt oddly set apart.

"How unfortunate," Robin said lightly. "We seem to have been… trapped."

Bianca smiled, eyes flicking back to his. "You don’t sound particularly distressed."

"I’m assessing the risk," he replied. "You’ve already proven yourself dangerous this evening."

She laughed under her breath. "And you warned me not to challenge you."

"True," he said. "But I didn’t say I wouldn’t enjoy it."

His hand shifted on his glass, knuckles brushing hers again... this time not accidental, not hurried. The contact was gentle, grounding, as though asking rather than claiming.

Bianca felt her pulse quicken, though her tone remained light. "There will be witnesses," she said, glancing vaguely toward the room.

"Eventually," Robin agreed. "But not just now."

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The bough swayed faintly above them, evergreen scent sharp and clean. His expression held that familiar blend of playfulness and sincerity... no bravado, no push. Just attention.

"If you’d rather step away," Robin said quietly, “I will.”

Bianca searched his face, then smiled... soft, certain. "I didn’t say that."

For a heartbeat longer they remained still, the world narrowing to candlelight and evergreen and the quiet awareness of one another. Then - almost at the same moment - they moved.

It was not rushed. Not claimed.

Robin’s hand lifted first, settling lightly at her waist as if to steady her rather than draw her closer. Bianca’s fingers found the front of his coat, curling there with a hurry that surprised even her. When their lips met, it was soft... unassuming, chaste in every visible sense.

And yet.

The kiss lingered just long enough to register... the warmth of him, the careful restraint, the way he did not deepen it though he could have. His lips brushed hers once, twice, unhurried, as though committing the feeling to memory rather than seeking more.

Bianca felt it immediately... the ache blooming low and insistent, a quiet wanting sparked precisely because he stopped when he did.

When they parted, neither stepped back at once. Their foreheads hovered close, breath shared, the bough above them swaying faintly as if conspiring.

Robin’s thumb moved once at her waist, a barely-there pressure. "I suspect," he said softly, a smile threading his voice, "that was unfair of us."

Bianca laughed under her breath, though her pulse had not yet slowed. "I was thinking the same," she replied. "Dangerous, even."

His gaze held hers... warm, steady, unmistakably awake. "We seem to share a talent for that."

Around them, the drawing room continued as if nothing had happened at all. But as they finally stepped apart, Bianca carried the kiss with her... not as something finished, but as something deliberately unfinished.

And that, perhaps, was the most unsettling part of all.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The larger drawing room glowed with warmth and motion... laughter rising and falling, silk skirts whispering over polished floors, candles reflected in the tall mirrors. Bianca paused just inside the doorway, her gaze drifting idly until it caught.

Constantine stood near the hearth, one arm resting easily along the mantel, his attention fixed on a young debutante at his side. She was pretty in the effortless way of first seasons, cheeks flushed with excitement, her smile quick and unguarded. He was listening to her with that familiar ease, head inclined, eyes bright, the corner of his mouth curved in quiet amusement.

Something in Bianca’s chest tightened.

It was nothing improper. They weren’t touching. Yet the intimacy of the scene... the way he seemed entirely present, the way the girl leaned in as though the rest of the room had ceased to exist set her nerves alight. She told herself she was imagining it. That Constantine always looked like that. That it meant nothing.

And yet—

The Orangerie rose unbidden in her mind... moonlight through glass, the hush of leaves, the warmth of his hands, the kiss she had not allowed herself to forget. Soft, yes... but charged. Promising. Dangerous.

She watched as Constantine laughed quietly at something the debutante said, a sound Bianca knew too well. Jealousy surprised her with its sharpness, pricking beneath her ribs, followed swiftly by unease. She felt suddenly exposed, as though that kiss had marked her in some invisible way while he moved on untouched.

As if sensing her gaze, Constantine looked up.

For a fleeting moment their eyes met across the room. His expression shifted - subtle, unreadable - before he inclined his head in polite acknowledgment and returned his attention to his companion.

Bianca looked away at once, forcing herself to breathe, to smile when someone spoke to her. But the warmth of the room had dulled, and no amount of candlelight could chase away the quiet, unwelcome truth settling in her chest... she was jealous.

Bianca told herself not to look again.

She failed almost immediately.

Her attention kept drifting back to them, unbidden, as though drawn by some quiet, inexorable pull. Constantine had shifted closer to the debutante now, not in any way that could be remarked upon, but enough that Bianca noticed. He listened with that familiar intensity, the world narrowing until it seemed to hold only the person before him. It was a talent of his - one she had felt keenly herself - and seeing it turned elsewhere stirred something restless and sharp inside her.

You have no claim, she reminded herself.
The thought did little to soothe her.

Each time the girl laughed, Bianca felt it like a small affront. Each time Constantine smiled, a treacherous part of her wondered whether he had smiled the same way in the Orangerie..  or whether that moment, held so carefully between them, had already been folded away and forgotten.

She searched his face for signs - distance, disinterest, anything that might reassure her - but found only ease. And that, somehow, unsettled her most of all.

Then, without ceremony, Constantine straightened. He murmured something to his companion, polite and low, before stepping back. The debutante lingered, watching him go with an expression Bianca recognised too easily.

He moved toward the terrace doors, glass panes misted faintly by the cold beyond. The moment he slipped outside, swallowed by darkness and winter air, Bianca’s breath caught.

She hesitated - only a second, perhaps two - long enough to convince herself she was being foolish. Then she set her glass aside and followed.

The corridor leading to the terrace was quieter, the music muffled, the warmth of the house falling away with every step. She pushed open the door and stepped into the cold, the night sharp against her skin.

Constantine stood a short distance away, back turned, breath faintly visible in the air as he looked out over the gardens.

Bianca stopped just behind him, heart unsteady, the echoes of candlelight and laughter far behind her... aware, suddenly, that whatever she was about to do might be impossible to undo.

Bianca smoothed her expression before she closed the last few steps between them, drawing on charm the way she might a familiar shawl... easy, practiced, and just daring enough.

"Escaping already?" she asked lightly. "I was beginning to think the drawing room had swallowed you whole."

Constantine turned, surprise flickering only briefly before his smile slid into place... lazy, amused, unmistakably pleased to see her. "I prefer my air cold and honest," he replied. "Far less suffocating than polite conversation." His gaze swept her with open appreciation, unhidden. "Though I might have stayed longer had I known I’d be followed."

Bianca laughed softly, stepping closer, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. "Followed is such a dramatic word," she said. "I thought you looked lonely."

"Ah," he murmured. "Your charity is legendary."

For a moment the exchange flowed easily... quick glances, shared warmth against the winter chill, the familiar rhythm of wit meeting wit. But beneath it all, something tight pressed at Bianca’s chest, refusing to be ignored.

"So," she said, a little too casually, "your young admirer inside seems quite taken with you."

Constantine’s brow lifted. "Does she?"

"She certainly laughed as though you’d invented wit itself," Bianca replied, her smile sharp around the edges. "You do have a way of encouraging such devotion."

He chuckled, unbothered. "If listening politely is flirting, then I fear I’m guilty of crimes far more often than I’d realised."

You make it sound so innocent," Bianca said, eyes narrowing just slightly. "And yet—"

"And yet?" he prompted, stepping nearer, voice dropping.

'And yet you looked entirely at ease," she finished. "As though you rather enjoyed it."

Constantine’s smile faded... not into irritation, but into something firmer. "Enjoyed the conversation, perhaps. Nothing more." He met her gaze squarely. "If you mean to suggest I was courting her, you’re mistaken."

Bianca tilted her head, searching his face, her boldness faltering just enough to reveal the truth beneath. "You deny it so readily."

"Because there is nothing to deny,",he said, evenly. "I don’t flirt without intention."

The words landed heavier than she expected. The cold seemed sharper now, the space between them suddenly charged. Constantine studied her then, eyes keen, a hint of challenge threading through his tone.

"But," he added softly, "I do wonder why it matters to you."

Bianca’s breath caught, her charm wavering as jealousy and something far more dangerous pressed close... standing with him in the cold, suddenly uncertain which of them had truly stepped too far.

Bianca laughed... quick, light, and entirely unconvincing.

"Why it matters?" she echoed. "How very dramatic of you. I was merely observing. One is allowed to notice things at a house party."

"Of course," Constantine said smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You do notice quite well." He shifted closer, not crowding her, but close enough that she felt the heat of him cut through the cold. "I should be careful, then. Wouldn’t want to give you cause to take notes."

She rolled her eyes, though her pulse betrayed her. "You flatter yourself. I hardly catalogue every charming smile you bestow upon unsuspecting debutantes."

"Hardly," he repeated, amused. "And yet here you are, having followed me into the night."

Bianca’s chin lifted. "Someone had to ensure you didn’t freeze to death. It would be terribly inconvenient for the season."

“A selfless act,” he murmured. "Though I’d have thought you’d prefer me indoors—where I’m apparently so… distracting."

She shot him a look. "You enjoy provoking people."

"I enjoy honesty," he countered lightly. "And reactions."

He leaned in just enough to lower his voice, playful but pointed. "Tell me... did my innocent conversation truly trouble you so? Or was it something else entirely?"

Bianca opened her mouth with a ready retort, then closed it again. The easy deflection hovered on her tongue, but it felt thin, inadequate. His nearness, his certainty, the memory of the Orangerie pressing insistently at the edges of her thoughts—it all made maintaining composure suddenly exhausting.

She exhaled, slower this time. "You have a way of making it seem," she said carefully, 'as though everyone is replaceable."

Constantine’s smile softened, but his eyes sharpened. "Do I?"

"Yes," she said, meeting his gaze at last. "And I dislike discovering how little I enjoy being reminded of it."

The admission slipped out before she could stop it... not quite jealousy, not quite confession, but close enough that her breath hitched afterward. Constantine didn’t interrupt. He simply watched her, the silence stretching, inviting more.

She shook her head faintly, almost to herself. "It’s absurd," she added, quieter. "I know that."

"Absurd things are often the most interesting," he replied gently.

Bianca swallowed, the last of her defences thinning under his steady attention. "You shouldn’t look at people like that," she said at last. "Not when you don’t mean anything by it."

"And if I do mean something?"

Her heart thudded. She didn’t look away this time. "Then you shouldn’t pretend it was nothing," she said softly.

Bianca didn’t step away, and that, more than anything, made the air between them thicken with something she couldn’t quite explain. Her heart beat faster, an unsteady rhythm that matched the sharpness of his gaze.

He was too close. And still, he didn’t move away.

She tilted her head slightly, not quite studying him, but feeling the magnetic pull of him like a physical thing. "You really have a way of making people feel like they’re the only one in the room, don’t you?" Her voice was low, a little softer, laced with something unspoken. "And I don’t think you’ve even noticed."

Constantine’s smile deepened, a glint of amusement in his eyes, but there was something more behind it... something that suggested he knew exactly what was happening, exactly what she was hinting at.

"I notice," he said softly. "I always notice when someone seems… compelled."

Bianca’s breath caught, and the temptation to close the distance between them was suddenly unbearable. Her hand twitched at her side, almost instinctively, and before she could stop herself, her fingers brushed the edge of his coat sleeve, her touch lingering for just a heartbeat too long.

He stiffened, just slightly, his jaw tightening as he turned his full attention to her, no longer amused. His eyes locked onto hers, a steady fire burning beneath their surface.

"You shouldn’t touch me like that," he said quietly, his voice like velvet, low and dangerous. But his words didn’t feel like a warning. They felt like an invitation.

Bianca’s pulse surged at the warmth of him, her fingertips still lingering against the fabric of his coat. She took a step closer, her breath shaky. The moment was ripe, too close to ignore, too magnetic to break.

And then, with a sudden clarity, Constantine stepped back. His hand reached out, a soft but firm touch against her wrist, gently pulling her away.

"It’s not the best place," he said, his tone steady, though there was something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted to appear. "Not when we’re standing on the edge of being caught."

Bianca blinked, momentarily lost in the space between them. She hadn’t realized how much she had been leaning into the moment until he pulled back. She wanted to push forward again, to close the gap he’d just created, but the sensible part of her caught up with the situation. There were eyes in the house.

"Always so cautious," she murmured, her voice a little breathless, trying to regain her composure. "And here I thought you were the one who preferred a good risk."

Constantine’s mouth twitched with a fleeting smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes in the way it usually did. "Some risks," he said, almost absently. "But not when I’m about to ruin a perfectly good evening with you."

Bianca’s heart fluttered at the sharpness of his words, the vulnerability disguised beneath them. "You are impossible," she said with a soft laugh, though the words didn’t carry the same weight they had before. She was acutely aware of the space he had just put between them.

"Only to those who can’t seem to stay away." His voice was teasing again, but there was something behind it... something in the way he looked at her.

Christmas Day, gifts shared and smiles unwrapped

Morning light filtered softly through the tall windows of Bianca’s bedchamber, pale and wintry, glancing off gilt frames and the pale silk laid out for the day. She stood before her dressing table, hair only half-pinned, allowing herself the quiet luxury of routine after the excesses of the Yule Feast.

A knock came at the door.

"See to it, please," Bianca said lightly, not turning as her maid moved to answer. She continued her toilette, selecting a ribbon, smoothing lotion into her hands... mundane motions anchoring her thoughts, which still wandered far too easily to candlelight, laughter, and stolen glances from the night before.

The maid returned moments later, holding a modestly wrapped parcel.

"This was brought for you, my lady," she said. "From Lord Rochford’s footman."

Bianca stilled.

'For me?" She turned then, carefully schooling her expression. "How… thoughtful."

The parcel was set upon the table. Bianca did not touch it at once.

'Tell him I am most obliged," she said calmly. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she opened a small drawer and withdrew a few coins. "And see that he is thanked properly."

The maid curtsied, took the coins, and hurried away.

Only then did Bianca allow herself a breath.

She drew the parcel closer and unwrapped it slowly, as though the deliberation might dull the sudden quickening of her pulse. Inside lay a book... bound neatly, unassuming at first glance.

The Caledonian Bandit, by Mrs. Smith.

Her brows lifted. Curious now, she opened it... and almost immediately felt warmth creep up her neck. The prose was lush, unapologetically dramatic, shadows and storms and longing woven together with a boldness that was… unmistakable. A few pages in, it became very clear that this was not a novel meant for polite morning reading.

Bianca closed the book for a moment, pressing it lightly to her chest as she exhaled a breathless laugh.

"Constantine," she murmured, equal parts scandalized and delighted.

She opened it again, flipping through with growing fascination. Dark glances. Dangerous proximity. A heroine who felt far too much and did far worse. Bianca’s cheeks warmed, her pulse betraying her as vividly as the text itself.

It was daring. Imprudent. Entirely intentional.

She shut the book once more, this time smiling to herself... flushed, exhilarated, and very much aware that her morning had taken a decidedly improper turn. The day stretched ahead of her now, full of possibility… and the faint, thrilling knowledge that Constantine Rochford knew exactly what he was doing.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The drawing room at Rosewood Hall was still buzzing long after dinner, the air warm with candle smoke and low conversation. Someone had begun dealing cards near the fire, while others lingered in clusters, reluctant to let Christmas Day end just yet.

Bianca and Leone had drifted toward a quiet corner near one of the tall windows, close enough to observe, distant enough to remain unnoticed.

Bianca rested her shoulder lightly against the wall, her gaze moving lazily across the room. "This is the moment when everyone pretends they aren’t tired."

Leone took a sip of his drink. "Nonsense. This is when people convince themselves they could happily endure another course."

She smiled. "You’re speaking from personal experience."

"I am always speaking from personal experience."

Her eyes flicked toward the card table. "Place your bets. Who loses first?"

"Lord Hampton," Leone said immediately. "Confidence like that never survives Christmas."

Bianca laughed quietly. "You say that every time, and yet he somehow always escapes unscathed."

"Infuriating," Leone agreed. "It should be illegal."

They fell into a comfortable pause, the sounds of Rosewood Hall filling the space between them... laughter, footsteps, the crackle of the fire.

"It’s rather nice," Bianca murmured. "Everyone staying put for once."

Leone glanced at her. "You seem… lighter tonight."

She tilted her head, considering. "I suppose I am. Christmas at Rosewood has a way of softening things."

"Then let us enjoy it while it lasts," he said lightly. "Before someone drags us into a game we didn’t agree to."

Bianca nudged his arm. "If that happens, I expect you to sacrifice yourself."

"Gladly," Leone replied. "I’ll distract them. You escape."

She smiled, turning her attention back to the room, content to stand there beside him... two quiet observers tucked into the warmth and gentle chaos of Christmas Day at Rosewood Hall.

Bianca shifted her weight, then glanced at Leone with a look that was far too innocent to be trusted. "Before we’re ambushed by card games or interpretive humiliation, I believe there’s something I owe you."

Leone raised a brow. "That sounds ominous."

She slipped her hand behind her back and produced a slim, leather-bound notebook, the cover dark and soft, edges faintly gilt. Holding it out to him, she said lightly, "For all your profound thoughts. Or your complaints. I imagine there’s little difference."

He took it, turning it over once, thumb brushing the leather. "You’re suggesting I write?"

"I’m suggesting you should," Bianca replied. "For the sake of posterity. Or at least to prevent you from repeating the same observations aloud."

Leone laughed, genuinely, then opened it to the first blank page. "This is dangerous. Give a man empty pages and he begins to believe his thoughts are worth keeping."

"They are," she said, with a soft smile. "Most of the time."

He glanced up at her, something warm flickering across his expression before he recovered his usual ease. "Thank you," he said simply, tucking it under his arm.

Then he straightened, reaching into his coat. "Since we’re exchanging evidence of poor judgment."

He handed her a new sketchbook, clean and untouched, the paper thick and promising. "I considered not getting you one," he said. "Given the alarming number of empty pages you already possess."

Bianca gasped theatrically. "How dare you. Those are intentional pauses."

"Of course," Leone said gravely. "Moments of artistic contemplation."

She opened the sketchbook, running her fingers over the first page. "I’ll have you know I fully intend to fill this one."

"I eagerly await page two," he replied.

She laughed, closing it and holding it to her chest. "Thank you."

Their eyes met briefly - the noise of Rosewood Hall carrying on around them - before Bianca tipped her head toward the room again.

"Well," she said, "we’ve survived dinner and sentiment."

Leone lifted his glass. "A Christmas miracle."

Bianca had just slipped the sketchbook under her arm when she noticed Leone’s attention drift... subtle, but unmistakable. His posture shifted, gaze caught on something across the room a fraction too long.

She followed it easily.

Frances Cavell stood near the fire, laughing at something said by one of the ladies, her expression open and bright in the candlelight.

Bianca hummed. "Ah."

Leone blinked. "What?"

"That," Bianca said mildly, not looking at him. "The way you just forgot I existed."

"I did not," he protested. "I simply… assessed the room."

"Of course," she replied. "Very thorough assessment. Focused entirely in one direction."

He glanced at her, suspicious. "You’re imagining things."

She turned to him now, smiling sweetly. "Am I? Because I could swear you’ve been doing a great deal of imagining where Miss Cavell is concerned."

Leone scoffed. "We’ve had a few conversations."

"Mm," Bianca said. "Several walks. Tea. That little moment in the gallery yesterday where you forgot how to speak."

“I did not forget how to speak.”

"You said ‘indeed’ three times in a row."

He winced. "It was a perfectly serviceable word."

Bianca laughed quietly. "You’re fond of her."

Leone hesitated just long enough to give himself away. "She’s… pleasant."

"High praise," Bianca teased. "Truly glowing."

He sighed. "Must you interrogate me on Christmas Day?"

"I’m not interrogating," she said lightly. "I’m observing. You taught me that."

His gaze returned to Frances... softer now, unguarded. "She’s kind," he said. "And she listens. Properly."

Bianca’s teasing eased, just a touch. "That’s dangerous," she murmured. "You like being heard."

Leone smiled despite himself. "Don’t tell anyone."

She nudged his arm. "I won’t. But I will say this... if you don’t go speak to her soon, someone else will."

As if summoned, Frances glanced their way, catching Leone’s eye. She smiled.

Leone straightened immediately. "You see? Now I must."

Bianca grinned. "Go on, then. Before you start writing her name in that notebook."

He shot her a look. "You’re impossible."

"And you," she replied warmly, "are entirely transparent."

Leone paused, then leaned in slightly. "Thank you. For not teasing too much."

Bianca squeezed his hand once. "That’s what siblings are for."


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎


Bianca hadn’t moved from her corner long, still watching the room reshuffle itself around Leone’s departure, when a familiar presence slipped into her line of sight.

"Abandoned already?"

She turned to find Lord Seymour beside her, a faint, knowing smile playing at his lips, glass in hand as though he had always intended to end up there.

"Not abandoned," Bianca replied lightly. "Reallocated."

Miles laughed under his breath. "Ah. A seasonal tradition."

He leaned against the wall near her, close enough to be companionable without demanding attention. "You always choose the best vantage points," he added. "I’ve been meaning to steal this corner all evening."

"You may share it," Bianca said graciously. "I don’t own it. Yet."

"Pity," Miles replied. "You’d suit ownership."

She arched a brow. "Careful. That sounds dangerously like flattery."

"I would never," Miles said, placing a hand over his heart. "Merely observation."

They stood for a moment, watching the room... the cards, the laughter, the soft glow of Rosewood Hall.

"You seem content," he said, glancing at her.

"I am," Bianca answered honestly. "Christmas suits this place. And the company helps."

He smiled at that, unguarded. "I’m glad to be counted among it."

She glanced at him, warmth flickering in her eyes. "As you should be."

Miles tilted his glass toward her. "Then I’ll consider my evening a success."

A beat passed... comfortable, easy.

Miles had only just settled beside her when he gave a small, amused huff of laughter. "Before we go anywhere," he said, "I believe we’ve reached the gift portion of the evening."

Bianca glanced at him. "Already? How efficient of you."

"I try," he replied. "It’s a skill born of many Christmases."

He reached into his coat and produced a neatly wrapped parcel, handing it to her with a flourish. "For you. I debated several options and then decided this would amuse me the most."

She accepted it, curious, and unwrapped it to reveal a deck of cards... beautifully illustrated, distinctly British in theme.

Bianca laughed. "You’re incorrigible."

"Tell me you don’t approve," Miles said, watching her face closely.

"I approve entirely," she replied. "In fact—"

She paused, eyes brightening with sudden mischief, and slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt. A moment later, she held out a small box of her own.

"For you," she said sweetly.

Miles raised a brow. "Now I’m intrigued."

He opened it... and then burst out laughing. "Cards."

"Cards," Bianca echoed, grinning.

They stared at each other for a beat before Miles shook his head. "Of all the possibilities…"

"Clearly," she said, "we understand one another far too well."

"Or we’re dangerously predictable," he countered.

"Speak for yourself," Bianca replied. "Mine are impeccable."

He examined the deck she’d given him, clearly pleased. "I’ll have you know this is an excellent choice."

"As is yours," she said, slipping hers back into its box. "Though I do wonder what this says about us."

Miles smiled at her... warm, genuine. "That we enjoy good company. And a little competition."

She met his gaze easily. "I can live with that."

"Well then," he said lightly, tucking the cards away, "we’ll have to play a round later. For honor."

Bianca laughed softly. "Naturally."

Miles lingered beside her, the laughter easing into something quieter but no less warm. He rolled the deck she’d given him between his palms, thoughtful.

"You know," he said casually, eyes still on the room, "you have a talent."

Bianca glanced at him. "Do I?"

"For being present without being obvious," he continued. "People talk more freely when they think no one’s truly listening."

She smiled faintly. "And you think I’m guilty of this?"

"I suspect," Miles corrected, "that you see and hear far more than you ever admit."

Bianca tilted her head, considering him. "That sounds dangerously like an accusation."

"Curiosity," he said easily. "The sort reserved for people I enjoy speaking with."

She looked back out at the room... Rosewood Hall alive with soft movement and half-finished conversations. "This hasn’t been a typical season," she said. "People behave differently when they’re snowed in together."

Miles nodded. "True. Masks slip. Or get rearranged."

"And you’ve noticed?" she asked.

"Enough to know I’d like your version," he replied. "What have you learned?"

Bianca hesitated only a moment. "That everyone is kinder when they think no one is watching. And braver when they forget they’re being measured."

Miles smiled, genuinely impressed. "That’s rather astute."

She shrugged lightly. "I’ve had time."

He studied her now, more openly. "You don’t rush to conclusions," he said. "Most people do."

"I prefer to let things reveal themselves," Bianca replied. "It’s more honest that way."

Miles let out a soft laugh. "I thought as much."

A comfortable pause settled between them... the crackle of the fire, the distant shuffle of cards filling the space.

"I value your company, Lady Cattaneo," he said simply. "Conversations like this… they’re rarer than one might think."

She met his gaze, sincere. "The feeling is mutual, Lord Seymour."

He lifted his glass slightly in quiet acknowledgment. "Then I hope this won’t be our last stolen corner of the season."

Bianca smiled. "I’d be disappointed if it were." She shifted her weight, the thoughtful quiet giving way to a familiar spark in her eyes. "Careful," she said lightly. "If you continue speaking like that, people might assume you’re far more serious than your reputation allows."

He laughed. "Heaven forbid. I work very hard to maintain my image."

"And yet," she added, nodding toward the deck of cards he’d tucked away, "here you are, enjoying quiet corners and earnest conversation."

"A grievous oversight," Miles said. "I trust you’ll protect me from scandal."

"Always," Bianca replied. "Provided you don’t flee the next time you’re losing at cards."

"I resent the implication," he said with mock dignity.

He was just about to continue when his gaze drifted across the room... not sharply, not urgently, but with a faint crease forming between his brows.

Bianca followed it.

Lucy Fitzthomas sat in a corner by herself, occupied with her thoughts, the glow of the fire catching in her hair.

Miles exhaled softly. "I’ve just realized something."

Bianca hummed. “Ah.”

Miles exhaled, amused. "I was hoping you wouldn’t notice."

"I always notice," she said lightly. "And you’ve hardly been subtle."

He chuckled. "Fair enough."

She tilted her head. "Go on, then. I won’t keep you from your audience."

"Teasing already?" Miles asked, smiling.

"Merely observant," Bianca replied.

Miles straightened, regretful but amused. "I hate to abandon a perfectly good conversation."

"You’re not abandoning it," Bianca replied. "You’re postponing it."

He studied her for a moment, warmth in his eyes. "Then I’ll hold you to that."

She tilted her head. "Do."

He offered a small bow. "Behave yourself until then."

"I never do," Bianca said with a smile.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

Bianca had only just stepped onto the terrace, drawing in a breath of crisp night air, when she heard footsteps behind her.

"Escaping," Robin said pleasantly, as though it were a shared secret.

She turned, smiling. "Recovering."

He joined her at the balustrade, close enough to share the view but not so close as to invite comment from the windows behind them. Snow lay undisturbed across the grounds, the last lights of Rosewood Hall glowing warmly at their backs.

"I wondered where you’d gone," Robin continued. "The room felt… louder without you."

"That sounds suspiciously like flattery."

"Observation," he corrected lightly. "I’ve had a great deal of practice this season."

She glanced at him sideways. "Watching or listening?"

"Both," Robin replied. "You move through a room rather elegantly. People tend to rearrange themselves around you."

Bianca laughed softly. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

He leaned his elbows against the stone, mirroring her posture. "You seem in good spirits."

"It is Christmas," she said. "And I’ve survived it without incident."

Robin smiled. "An achievement."

A quiet moment passed, snow reflecting the moonlight, the sounds of the house muffled behind them.

"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" he asked.

"I did," Bianca answered honestly. "The company helped."

His gaze lingered. "I’m glad."

She met his eyes, warmth flickering there. "And you?"

Robin’s smile turned just a touch more personal. "I found myself wishing for a few more stolen moments."

Bianca tilted her head. "Careful, Mr Monteil. That almost sounded like an invitation."

"Almost," he agreed.

The silence between them stretched, comfortable rather than awkward, the cold air sharpening the closeness instead of diminishing it. Bianca shifted slightly, drawing her arms closer around her shoulders.

Robin noticed at once.

"Cold?" he asked.

"A little," she admitted. "Though I suspect I chose fresh air knowing perfectly well it wouldn’t be warm."

He smiled at that. "A calculated risk."

"Something like that."

Without quite looking at her, he adjusted his stance, his arm brushing hers... light, brief, and entirely deniable. Except neither of them moved away.

Bianca glanced down at the point of contact, then up at him, brows lifting. "You’re standing very close."

"Am I?" Robin said mildly. "I hadn’t noticed."

She shifted again, this time letting her fingers brush against the back of his hand resting on the stone balustrade. "How very inattentive of you."

Robin laughed softly, turning his hand just enough that their fingers aligned... not quite entwined, but close enough to feel the warmth through gloves and winter air.

"I could move," he offered.

Bianca tilted her head, eyes bright. "You could."

Neither of them did.

Instead, he leaned a fraction closer, voice lowered. "You’ve been enjoying yourself tonight."

"I have," Bianca said. "Though I suspect you’re fishing for confirmation."

"Perhaps," he admitted. "I like knowing when I’ve contributed."

Her smile softened. "You have."

That did it... his fingers curled slightly, just enough to brush against hers again, deliberate now. Bianca didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into the contact, shoulder grazing his sleeve.

"Well," she murmured, "if we linger much longer, someone might assume we planned this."

Robin’s smile was unmistakably pleased. "And would that be so terrible?"

She met his gaze, steady and playful. "It depends entirely on who’s watching."

They lingered a moment longer, the quiet punctuated only by distant laughter from inside. Then Bianca seemed to remember herself, her fingers slipping free just enough to reach for the small parcel tucked beneath her shawl.

"Before we freeze entirely," she said lightly, "there’s something I meant to give you."

Robin’s brows lifted with open curiosity. "I was beginning to think Christmas would pass me by."

She handed him the package. "Unlikely."

He accepted it, unwrapping it carefully. Inside lay a pair of leather gloves... beautifully made, supple, with a subtle embroidered flourish along the cuff.

Robin’s expression softened at once. "These are… exceptional."

"I thought they suited you," Bianca said. "Practical, but not without character."

He slipped one glove on immediately, flexing his fingers as though testing how it fit. "They’re perfect," he said quietly. "Thank you."

Before she could respond, he reached into his coat in turn. "Then I’m glad I didn’t lose my nerve."

He placed a small, elegant object into her palm... a pocket mirror, cool against her skin, its back adorned with a delicately engraved Spanish rose.

Bianca’s breath caught, just slightly. She turned it over, thumb tracing the flower. "Oh," she murmured. "It’s beautiful."

"I hoped you’d like it," Robin said. "It felt… fitting."

She looked up at him, touched in a way that showed plainly in her eyes. "Why a rose?"

He hesitated, then smiled... softer now, more personal. "My mother came from Spain. I’ve spent a fair amount of time there over the years. The rose reminded me of her… and of places that feel warm even in winter."

Bianca’s expression gentled. "That’s rather lovely."

"I thought so," he said. "And I liked the idea of giving you something you might carry with you."

Bianca closed the mirror and slipped it carefully back into her reticule, still smiling. "You realize," she said lightly, "that you’ve just set an impossible standard for future gifts."

Robin laughed. "I’ll take that risk."

She glanced at the glove still on his hand. "And you’ve wasted no time wearing yours."

"I thought I’d make certain they pass inspection," he replied. "So far, they’ve earned my approval."

"High praise," Bianca said. "Though I imagine they’ll grow quite attached to you."

'Much like their giver," he countered smoothly.

She met his gaze - playful, bright - and then didn’t look away. The space between them seemed to narrow, the cold forgotten entirely. For a heartbeat too long, neither of them moved, the quiet humming with something unspoken.

Robin’s voice dropped. "You know… moments like this are rare."

Bianca’s smile softened. "All the more reason not to rush them."

His eyes searched hers, lingering... an unguarded look that lasted just a second beyond propriety.

Then—

The terrace door opened behind them.

Laughter spilled out, followed by a couple stepping onto the balcony, their presence sudden and undeniable. The air shifted at once.

Bianca straightened instinctively, stepping half a pace back, composure sliding neatly into place.

Robin cleared his throat, his easy charm returning as though summoned. "Ah. We’ve been discovered."

She smiled, light and perfectly polite. "It appears so."

Their eyes met once more - quick now, knowing - a silent acknowledgment of the spell that had just been broken.

"Goodnight, Mr Monteil," Bianca said softly.

"Goodnight, Lady Cattaneo."

A rare hour of unguarded words

At first, it felt almost ordinary.

Bianca dreamed she was walking beside Robin, their steps unhurried, the world around them softly blurred as though it had decided not to intrude. The place itself hardly mattered... there was warm light, the suggestion of evening, a quiet that belonged only to the two of them.

"You have that look again," Robin said, glancing at her sideways, amusement dancing in his eyes.

She smiled, unrepentant. "Which one?"

"The one that says you’re about to pretend you weren’t listening." His shoulder brushed hers as they walked, casual and easy. "And that I should be mildly offended."

She laughed, light and genuine. "You’ll survive."

"I usually do," Robin replied, mock-sighing. "Though not without effort."

Their banter flowed effortlessly, the kind that required no thought, only attention. She teased him about his choice of words; he countered by pointing out her selective innocence. Every now and then their hands brushed... brief, incidental touches that lingered just a fraction longer than necessary before parting again.

At one point, he reached out to steady her as she stepped aside, his fingers resting at her elbow. "Careful," he said lightly.

"I am," Bianca answered, though her gaze lingered on his hand.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Something shifted then... not sharply, but undeniably. The space between words grew quieter, weighted. His hand fell away, but the warmth of it remained, echoing through her awareness.

"You know," Robin said more softly, slowing to a stop, "you’re very distracting when you look at me like that."

She raised her brows, feigning innocence even as her pulse quickened. "Like what?"

"Like you’re deciding something."

Bianca held his gaze, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Close enough that she could see the faint smile at the corner of his mouth, close enough that the air between them felt charged, expectant.

"Maybe I am," she admitted.

Robin’s expression changed... not darker, but deeper. His tone gentled, his confidence quiet rather than playful. He lifted his hand again, slower this time, giving her every chance to move away before his fingers brushed her wrist.

The contact was light.

Intentional.

Bianca felt warmth bloom where he touched her, spreading outward, settling low and steady. She didn’t pull back. Instead, her fingers curled slightly, catching his as if by accident.

Robin stepped closer - not rushing, not claiming - his voice barely above a murmur. "If this becomes more," he said, eyes searching hers, "you should know I won’t pretend it doesn’t matter."

Her breath caught, the innocence of the moment slipping quietly away. The warmth inside her deepened, turned heavy, insistent, as she realized the truth of it... not just the dream, but the feeling.

This was no longer playful.

Robin didn’t withdraw his hand this time.

Instead, his fingers lingered at her wrist, thumb brushing lightly over her pulse as if he had felt it quicken and was quietly pleased by the confirmation.

Bianca’s breath hitched - not enough to give her away, she hoped - but enough that his gaze sharpened, amusement flickering back into his eyes.

"You’re very still," he remarked lightly. "Have I startled you?"

She tilted her head, letting her free hand rest against his forearm, the contact deliberate now. "Hardly. I was simply wondering how long you intended to keep holding me like that."

Robin’s smile turned unmistakably flirtatious. "I was hoping you wouldn’t mind."

"I don’t," she said at once, then added, softer, "But if you continue, I may begin to suspect you’re doing it on purpose."

"Oh, I absolutely am." His tone was gentle, teasing, as though confessing to the smallest mischief. His hand slid a little higher, from her wrist to the inside of her forearm, the touch still light but undeniably intimate. "You make it rather difficult not to."

Bianca laughed quietly, warmth spreading through her as she stepped closer... so close their bodies nearly brushed. "You say that as if I’ve done something terribly provocative."

"You’re standing here," Robin replied simply. "That’s quite enough."

The banter softened then, settling into something quieter, heavier. Her hand remained on his arm, fingers idly tracing the seam of his sleeve, while his other hand rose as though on instinct, hovering near her waist before settling there with careful restraint.

The world seemed to dim around them, the dream narrowing until it held only the two of them and the charged silence between words.

Robin leaned in, not all at once... just enough that she could feel his breath, just enough to make the space between them feel impossibly small. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, eyes searching hers, still playful but threaded now with something sincere.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she tipped her chin up, closing the distance herself.

Their lips met gently at first... barely a kiss at all, more a promise of one. It lingered, soft and tentative, before deepening as her hand slid to his shoulder and his grip at her waist tightened just slightly. The warmth of it spread through her, steady and intoxicating, until the innocence of the moment slipped away entirely.

The kiss grew surer, slower, filled with unspoken intent... enough to leave Bianca breathless, fully aware that whatever this dream was becoming, it was no longer pretending to be harmless.

He didn’t pull away this time.

If anything, Robin moved closer, the last trace of restraint giving way as his hand slid more firmly to her waist, drawing her into him. The second kiss was deeper, fuller... no longer tentative, no longer careful. It carried want in it, unmistakable and warm, as though he had finally stopped pretending it wasn’t there.

Bianca responded without hesitation.

She leaned into him, fingers tightening at his shoulder as the kiss lingered, slow and unhurried. Her lips parted just enough to deepen it, to savour the closeness, the heat, the way the dream seemed to sharpen around them with every shared breath. She felt wonderfully, achingly aware of him... of the steady press of his hand, the warmth of his body, the quiet intensity with which he kissed her.

It was not rushed. That was what undid her most.

The kiss unfolded gradually, growing richer, heavier, filled with the kind of desire that settled low and stayed there. Bianca sighed softly against his mouth, completely unguarded now, enjoying every second... the tenderness, the pull, the sense that she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Robin’s thumb brushed along her side in a small, absent motion, as if grounding himself, as if resisting the urge to ask for more even as the kiss deepened further. When he finally drew back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested briefly against hers, his breath uneven.

Bianca’s cheeks were warm, her pulse unsteady, her lips still tingling from the kiss. She didn’t look away. She didn’t want to.

In the quiet that followed, she knew - dream or not - that this was no longer playful curiosity.

This was desire, shared and unmistakable, and she welcomed it fully.

Their lips met again, slow and deep, the kiss unhurried and full of quiet want. Bianca barely realised she had spoken until his name slipped from her mouth, breathed rather than said.

"Robin…"

It was soft, instinctive, carried on her exhale as their foreheads brushed.

He stilled for the briefest moment - just enough to acknowledge it - before answering in kind, his voice low and warm as it wrapped itself around her name.

"Bianca."

The way he said it made her breath falter.

There was no teasing in it, no playfulness left... only certainty, intimacy, as though he were grounding himself in the sound of her. She felt the warmth of it settle deep in her chest, felt herself smile faintly even as she leaned back into him.

She kissed him again, encouraged now, wanting more of that quiet reverence, more of the way he said her name like it meant something.

She woke in the middle of the kiss.

Or rather... she woke because of it.

Bianca’s breath caught as her eyes fluttered open, the warmth of the dream dissolving into the stillness of her bedchamber. Morning light crept softly through the curtains, pale and unassuming, utterly at odds with the way her body still hummed as though Robin’s lips had only just left hers.

Her cheeks burned. Her skin felt warm beneath the covers, far too aware, far too alive.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. She lay there with her eyes fixed on nothing, heart beating faster than it ought to, the echo of the dream clinging stubbornly to her... his closeness, the depth of the kiss, the want that had pooled low and steady rather than flaring and fading.

She exhaled slowly, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as if she might still feel him there.

Robin.

The name alone sent a fresh wave of heat through her, and she turned onto her side, drawing the covers closer as though that might help her collect herself. It didn’t. The dream replayed itself anyway... the gentleness giving way to something deeper, the way he had kissed her as though it mattered, as though he intended to stop and yet hadn’t wanted to.

Bianca squeezed her eyes shut, flushed and undeniably awake now.

This was not the careless thrill of imagination. This was not idle curiosity. The want lingered too clearly, too insistently, settling into her thoughts with quiet determination.

She swallowed, staring once more at the light on the wall, a dawning understanding taking shape beneath the warmth and the want.

If even her dreams were reaching for Robin like this - if waking had not dimmed the feeling but sharpened it - then she was, without question, in trouble.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The grounds lay hushed beneath a thin crust of frost, the winter sun pale and unambitious as it hovered low in the sky. Bianca walked beside Robin, their footsteps crunching softly over frozen grass, breath misting faintly with every word.

"You’re very brave," Robin remarked lightly, hands tucked into his coat pockets as he glanced at her. "Most sensible people are hiding indoors by now."

"And miss this?" she replied, gesturing vaguely at the frozen expanse. "I refuse to be outdone by the weather."

He smiled at that, warm and familiar. "Stubbornness suits you."

"So I’ve been told." She shot him a quick look, playful as ever. "Usually by people who dislike losing arguments."

They fell into easy banter as they walked... small teasing remarks, amused glances, the kind of conversation that flowed without effort. It should have felt normal.

And yet—

Bianca’s thoughts kept drifting, uninvited, back to the warmth of the dream. To the way his name had sounded on her lips. To the way it had felt to hear her own name spoken back, low and deliberate.

She slowed without quite meaning to, her steps faltering just enough to create a small silence.

Robin noticed immediately.

"You’ve gone quiet," he said gently, tilting his head toward her. "That’s unusual. I was just beginning to enjoy my winning streak."

She smiled, quick and practiced, masking the heat that rose to her cheeks. "I was merely allowing you to appreciate the moment. It doesn’t happen often."

"Ah," he said solemnly. "A gift, then."

They resumed walking, but Bianca’s attention wavered. She watched the frost cling to bare branches, the way sunlight caught on ice, anything to keep from thinking about how close he was... how easily the dream’s warmth bled into reality.

Robin spoke again, quieter now. "You seem… elsewhere."

She laughed softly, a fraction too quick. "Do I? I promise I’m here."

He studied her for a moment, not pressing, but not entirely convinced either. "If you say so."

She did. And she meant it... at least partly. What she didn’t say was how the memory of his imagined touch still lingered, how every casual brush of sleeves now felt charged with something it hadn’t carried yesterday.

As they reached the edge of the path, Robin slowed, turning slightly toward her. "Well," he said lightly, the familiar warmth returning to his tone, "if I’ve lost you to your thoughts, I hope they’re at least pleasant ones."

Bianca met his gaze, her smile softer now, almost too sincere. "They are," she said.

That much, at least, was true.

And as they continued their walk across the frozen grounds, she kept her secret to herself... aware, with a quiet, steady certainty, that whatever had stirred in her dreams had not remained there.

They walked on a little farther, the path curving gently toward a line of frost-dusted trees. Robin nudged a small patch of ice with the toe of his boot, watching it crack.

"You know," he said lightly, "if either of us falls, I reserve the right to pretend it was intentional."

Bianca smiled, the familiar ease returning. "Naturally. I expect nothing less than a dramatic recovery."

"I do drama very well," he replied. "It’s subtlety I struggle with."

She glanced at him then, amused. "That’s not true. You’re remarkably subtle... when you choose to be."

He met her gaze, brow lifting. "Am I?"

"Yes," she said, letting the word linger. "You simply prefer not to be."

That earned her a quiet laugh. Their shoulders brushed as they walked, casual, unremarked upon... and yet Bianca felt it all the same, the awareness humming beneath the banter.

After a moment, Robin’s smile softened. His pace slowed, just slightly.

"Speaking of subtlety," he said, tone shifting... not heavy, but thoughtful, "
"there’s something I meant to tell you."

She turned toward him fully now, curiosity flickering. "That sounds ominous."

"Only mildly," he assured her. Then, after a brief pause, "I’ve spoken with Lord Seymour."

Bianca blinked, surprised. "You have?"

"Yes." He exhaled, a hint of self-awareness in his expression. "A few days ago. I finally stopped avoiding him like he might bite."

Her smile turned knowing. "And did he?"

"No," Robin said dryly. "Though I think he enjoyed my discomfort far too much."

She laughed softly. "I can imagine."

Robin looked ahead as he continued, hands once more tucked into his pockets. 'It wasn’t… unpleasant, actually. Long overdue, perhaps. We talked things through. Cleared the air.c"

"That’s good," Bianca said gently. "I know you’ve been circling each other for a while."

He nodded. "I realised my reluctance had less to do with him than with my own stubborn pride. And I’m tired of letting that dictate things."

He glanced at her then, expression open, sincere. "It felt like the right time."

Bianca felt something settle at that... warm and complicated all at once. She kept her tone light, though her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than before. "I’m glad you did. For what it’s worth, I think that took courage."

Robin’s smile returned, softer now, touched with something quieter than flirtation. "Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise."

They walked on in companionable silence for a few steps, the path narrowing as it dipped slightly between two bare hedges. Robin’s gaze remained fixed ahead, but his expression had grown more thoughtful, as though he were weighing something.

"There’s more," he said at last, quieter now.

Bianca slowed instinctively to match him, her attention fully on him without making a show of it. "I thought there might be."

He hesitated - just a breath, just long enough to matter - before continuing. "Miles is… my half brother."

She stopped.

Not abruptly, but enough that the crunch of frost beneath her boots fell silent. Bianca turned to him, genuine surprise written openly across her face. "I had no idea."

"Few people do," Robin replied evenly, though there was an undercurrent there, something long-held and carefully managed. "It isn’t precisely a secret. More… an omission."

She searched his face, curiosity flickering, yes... but tempered by something gentler. She didn’t ask how. She didn’t ask why. Instead, she let the moment breathe.

"That explains rather a lot," she said finally, softly.

His mouth curved faintly. "So I’ve been told."

Bianca took a step closer, not touching him this time, but near enough that her presence felt intentional. "You don’t owe me an explanation," she added, her tone light but sincere. "Still… if you ever feel like speaking about it—"

She lifted one shoulder in a small, elegant shrug, her smile warm and unpressing. "—I would listen."

Robin looked at her then, truly looked, and something in his expression eased, as though he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying the weight quite so tightly until that moment.

"Thank you," he said simply.

They walked on, the path widening again as the grounds opened before them, frost catching the light like scattered glass. The earlier gravity lingered, but it no longer pressed so heavily; it wove itself gently through their conversation instead.

"You know,”?" Robin said after a moment, the hint of a smile returning, "for someone who claims not to pry, you ask remarkably good questions without ever asking them."

Bianca laughed softly. "It’s a talent. Very useful at gatherings."

"I’ll remember to be cautious, then." He glanced at her, playful again. "Wouldn’t want to reveal all my secrets in one walk."

Bianca met his look, amused. "That would be terribly inconsiderate of you."

Their shoulders brushed as they navigated a narrower stretch of path, the contact casual... until it wasn’t. Robin’s hand lifted instinctively, hovering near her back as though to guide her over a slick patch of ice. His fingers brushed her coat, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary before falling away.

"Careful, Lady Cattaneo," he said lightly.

The name landed differently than he intended.

Bianca slowed, turning her head toward him, brows lifting... not offended, but intent. “Don’t.”

He stilled, surprised. "Don’t?"

"Not that," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Not now."

Robin hesitated, clearly weighing the propriety of it, the habit of formality ingrained deep. "Bianca—"

She smiled then, small and conspiratorial, stepping just a little closer so her gloved fingers brushed his sleeve. "At least while it’s just the two of us."

The air between them seemed to warm despite the cold.

He studied her for a moment, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes. "Very well," he said at last, quieter now. "But only on one condition."

She tilted her head. "Of course."

"You call me Robin."

Her breath caught - just slightly - but she didn’t look away. "That hardly seems a hardship."

"Still," he said, amused, "I like things to be fair."

She said it then, softly, deliberately. "Robin."

The sound of it felt different - closer, warmer - and his response was immediate, instinctive.

"Bianca."

The way he said her name - low, unhurried, as though he were tasting it - sent a rush of warmth through her that had nothing to do with the cold air. It spread quickly, settling beneath her skin, more intense than the dream had ever been because this was real. She felt it in the faint flush rising to her cheeks, in the way her pulse quickened beneath his gaze.

His hand lifted again, this time settling lightly at her elbow as they resumed walking, the touch steady and grounding. "It suits you," he added, almost absently.

She smiled, a little breathless now. "You say that as though you’ve just noticed."

"Perhaps I have," Robin replied, eyes warm with something quieter than flirtation, but no less charged.

They continued walking, their pace unhurried, the path stretching ahead of them in a quiet ribbon of frost and pale winter light. Conversation ebbed and flowed - small observations, easy remarks - but beneath it all ran a current Bianca could not quite still.

She found herself glancing at him without meaning to.

Once, to catch the curve of his smile as he spoke. Another time, to note the way his breath misted in the cold, the line of his jaw when he grew thoughtful. Each look lingered a heartbeat too long, her attention drifting treacherously back to the memory of his mouth beneath the kissing bough, to how natural it had felt to lean in then, to close the distance without words.

Her fingers curled inside her gloves.

It would be so easy, a traitorous part of her thought..  to reach out, to catch his sleeve, to turn toward him just enough. The urge hummed beneath her skin, warm and insistent, making the restraint feel deliberate rather than passive.

Robin glanced at her mid-thought.

Not sharply. Casually. And yet his gaze lingered, as though he had felt the pull of her attention even before he’d seen it. His brow lifted slightly, amusement flickering there... but something else, too. Awareness.

"You’re awfully quiet again," he said lightly. "Should I be concerned?"

She smiled, a touch too quick. "Must I account for every silence?"

"Not at all," he replied, tone easy. "I was merely wondering whether I’d said something to earn that look."

She hesitated. "What look?"

"The one that suggests you’re considering something… imprudent."

Heat rose instantly to her cheeks, betraying her before she could stop it. She looked ahead, composing herself. "You flatter yourself."

Robin chuckled softly, but he didn’t press. Instead, his hand brushed hers as they walked... barely there, the lightest of contacts, yet intentional enough to send a shiver through her. He didn’t draw away immediately, letting the touch exist for just long enough to feel unmistakable before his hand fell back to his side.

Bianca’s breath caught despite herself.

He noticed that, too.

Their eyes met again, the moment stretching - not quite daring, not quite innocent - charged with everything neither of them was saying. The cold air seemed suddenly irrelevant, the world narrowed once more to the space between them and the knowledge of how easily it could be crossed.

They slowed without quite deciding to.

The path narrowed again, the hedges rising closer on either side, muffling the sounds of the grounds beyond. Bianca felt the warmth of him beside her more keenly now, the memory of his hand brushing hers still lingering like an invitation left unanswered.

She glanced at him again... longer this time, no longer pretending it was accidental.

Robin was already looking at her.

The air between them tightened, the playful ease of earlier slipping quietly away. Bianca’s steps faltered, and before she could think better of it, she turned slightly toward him, closing the distance by a single, dangerous inch. Her hand lifted - almost without permission - hovering near his coat as though remembering how it had felt beneath her fingers before.

She could feel it then... the warmth, the pull, the unmistakable want blooming low and steady. It wrapped around her resolve, coaxing, urging. Just one step closer. Just one touch.

Robin’s breath changed. His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to her eyes, darker now, more intent. He didn’t move away.

"Bianca—" he began, softly.

She stepped closer.

Not enough to touch. Enough to make it inevitable.

And then—

“Lady Cattaneo? Mr Monteil?”

The voice cut cleanly through the moment.

Bianca froze, her hand falling back to her side as though burned. She turned toward the interruption just as one of the house guests appeared at the edge of the path, bundled against the cold, blissfully unaware of what they had nearly stumbled into.

Robin straightened at once, composure returning with practiced ease, though the tension lingered unmistakably beneath it. "Good afternoon," he replied smoothly.

Bianca managed a polite smile, pulse still racing, warmth still humming through her veins. She took a careful step back, the space between her and Robin restored... but only just.

As they resumed walking, the interruption faded behind them, yet the moment refused to dissolve entirely. The want lingered, sharper now for having been denied, and Bianca knew with a quiet, breathless certainty that she had come perilously close to crossing a line she would not easily step back from.

New Year’s Eve, a masque of glittering secrets and midnight promises

Bianca stood very still as her maid fastened the final hooks of her gown, the rich green fabric settling against her like a secret she had chosen to keep. The dress caught the light even in the quiet of her chamber... deep emerald velvet and silk, embroidered with gold that traced elegant lines down the front, each small ribbon and tassel placed with deliberate charm. It felt decadent. Bold.

Her gloves lay folded nearby, pristine white against the dark dressing table, waiting. She flexed her fingers once, unable to contain the restless energy humming beneath her skin.

Tonight was different.

The mirror reflected a woman she barely recognised at first glance. Her dark curls were pinned up and allowed to fall artfully loose, framing her face in soft defiance of perfect order. The necklace at her throat gleamed faintly, resting just above the delicate neckline of her gown. And then... there was the mask.

Bianca reached for it herself.

Gold and intricate, it covered just enough of her face to feel daring. As she lifted it, she felt a thrill course through her chest. The anonymity of it - however fleeting - made her breath catch. For one night, she could be watched without being weighed. Desired without being measured against expectations, engagements, or futures already written by others.

She tied the ribbon carefully behind her head, fingers steady despite her racing pulse.

The woman in the mirror smiled then... slow, knowing, almost mischievous.

Who she was tonight could be fluid. Unnamed. Unclaimed.

She slipped on her gloves, smoothing them over her arms, the contrast stark against the deep green of her gown. Every movement felt charged, as though the night itself waited just beyond the door, humming in anticipation. Music, candlelight, glances held a second too long... possibilities unfurling like silk.

Bianca drew in a breath, heart fluttering with excitement.

Just for tonight, she would let herself be swept up in the illusion. Just for tonight, she would dance as though no one truly knew her.

A knock sounded at her door... measured, familiar.

"Bianca," Leone’s voice called softly through the wood, already carrying a note of amusement. "If you intend to make an entrance, now would be the moment."

She smiled to herself before turning the handle.

Leone stood waiting in the corridor, tall and effortlessly composed in dark blue evening attire that caught the candlelight with every subtle movement. The cut of his coat was immaculate, the colour deep enough to rival midnight. A black mask traced with silver filigree concealed the upper half of his face, lending him a dramatic air that was only slightly undermined by the warmth in his posture.

"Well," he said, eyes sweeping over her in open appreciation, "this explains why the house feels unbalanced tonight."

"Does it?" Bianca asked lightly, stepping into the hall. "I thought it was simply the promise of music and poor decisions."

His laugh was immediate and genuine. "Then the masque has already succeeded."

He offered his arm, and she took it without hesitation. The moment her gloved hand rested against his sleeve, excitement bubbled over, impossible to contain. Together they began down the long corridor, their steps echoing softly against polished floors.

"You look…" Leone searched for the word, then shook his head. "Dangerous. In the best possible way."

Bianca tilted her head toward him. "You approve?"

"I do," he said warmly. "And I’m relieved. For one night, at least, you get to be exactly as bold as you like."

They passed tall windows draped in winter darkness, candle sconces flickering as if leaning in to watch them go by.

Somewhere below, music drifted upward... laughter, the tuning of instruments, the hum of anticipation swelling with every step closer to the ballroom.

Leone’s mood was unmistakably splendid... light, buoyant, unburdened. He walked with easy confidence, glancing at her now and then as though delighted to share this moment with her.

"Promise me one thing," he said as the doors to the main staircase came into view.

Bianca arched a brow. "Only one?"

"For tonight," he added, smiling beneath the mask. "Dance. Enjoy yourself. Let the world be kind for once."

She squeezed his arm gently. "I intend to."

As they descended toward the glow and sound below, Bianca felt it again... that thrilling sense of possibility, sharpened by silk, velvet, and anonymity.

The ballroom was already in motion when they entered... silk and velvet swirling beneath chandeliers, candlelight catching on gilt masks and jeweled feathers. Music threaded through the air, light and inviting, while laughter rose and fell in ripples as guests tested the limits of their anonymity.

Bianca felt it immediately... the pulse of the room, bright and intoxicating.

Leone leaned closer as they moved among the crowd. "All right," he murmured, nodding toward a couple passing them. "That has to be Lord Kensington. No one else stands that stiff."

Bianca glanced, then shook her head. "Wrong. That’s Sir Harold. Kensington never resists a dramatic bow."

Leone groaned softly. "I was confident."

"You always are," she teased. "It’s rarely justified."

They laughed, weaving past a cluster of guests engaged in animated speculation. A woman in a crimson mask curtsied far too deeply; a gentleman in gold gestured with exaggerated flourish.

"That one," Leone said, pointing subtly, "is either Lord Somerset or someone who desperately wishes to be."

Bianca studied the man for a heartbeat. "Lord Somerset never matches his gloves that carefully. I’d say an admirer."

"Tragic," Leone sighed.

They reached the edge of the room where footmen circulated with silver trays. Bianca accepted a glass, the crystal cool against her glove, and took a small sip while Leone did the same.

"This," she said quietly, eyes alight, "is precisely why I adore masquerades."

"Because everyone is lying?" Leone asked.

"Because everyone is pretending," Bianca corrected. "There’s a difference."

Her gaze drifted across the room then... and caught.

She stilled, just slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting.

Leone noticed the pause. "What is it?"

Instead of answering, Bianca tipped her head and raised her glass, pointing with delicate precision toward a figure near the far side of the ballroom. The woman stood in pale ivory, her mask adorned with subtle pearls, posture elegant and unmistakably composed even amidst the chaos.

Leone followed her gesture... and froze.

"Oh," he said faintly.

Bianca turned to him, eyes sparkling behind her own mask. "I was wondering how long it would take."

"I hadn’t—" He cleared his throat, straightening instinctively. "Are you certain?"

"Leone," she said indulgently, "no one else in this room holds their glass as though it were an extension of their will."

He watched Frances Cavell for another moment, visibly torn between disbelief and recognition. "I thought she might wear something more… understated."

Bianca laughed softly. "You forget. Masks invite bravery."

His lips curved despite himself. "You noticed her immediately."

"Of course I did," Bianca replied sweetly. "You didn’t."

She leaned in, lowering her voice. "Would you like me to introduce you... or would you prefer to keep pretending you haven’t seen her yet?"

Leone exhaled, half amused, half resigned. "You are enjoying this far too much."

"I am," she agreed, lifting her glass again. "Immensely."

Bianca lifted her glass again, still amused by Leone’s barely concealed attention toward the ivory-clad figure across the room. She took another sip, letting her gaze wander... only to pause once more.

This time, she didn’t point.

Leone noticed anyway.

"Oh?" he said mildly, turning his head just enough to follow the direction of her eyes. "Do enlighten me. Who has caught your attention so thoroughly?"

Bianca realised too late that she had gone still.

Across the ballroom, partially obscured by a turning couple, stood a man in dark evening attire, his mask understated but elegant. There was something unmistakable in the way he held himself... relaxed, confident, as though the masquerade were a game he knew well. He laughed at something said to him, head tipping back just enough for the candlelight to catch the line of his jaw.

Bianca looked away a fraction too quickly.

"No one," she said lightly. "You’re imagining things."

Leone hummed. "Interesting. You say that, yet your shoulders have betrayed you."

She shot him a look. "Have they?"

"They always do," he replied cheerfully. "Now... let me see."

Before she could stop him, Leone leaned just enough to peer past her, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the figure she had been watching.

"Well," he said after a beat, unmistakable satisfaction entering his voice, "this is a development."

Bianca felt warmth bloom beneath her mask. "Don’t start."

"Oh, I absolutely will." He turned to her, delighted. "That’s him, isn’t it."

She raised her chin. "You could be referring to half the room."

"Mm. No." Leone took a thoughtful sip of his drink. "That’s Robin. I’d recognise that infuriating ease anywhere."

Bianca scoffed. "You’re guessing."

"And yet," he continued, eyes dancing, "you haven’t denied it."

She sighed, conceding with a small smile. "I didn’t realise you were paying attention."

"I wasn’t," he admitted. "Until just now. You looked… caught."

Her lips curved despite herself. "Hardly."

"Bianca," he said gently, teasing softened by affection, "you are terrible at masquerades. Your curiosity always gives you away."

She glanced back toward the crowd, just briefly this time. Robin had shifted, now closer to the dance floor, the mask lending him an air of intrigue that felt entirely intentional.

"He wears it well," Leone added casually. "The anonymity, I mean."

"So do you," Bianca countered.

"Yes, but I’m not the one pretending indifference." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Shall I be worried?"

She met his gaze steadily. "No."

The answer came easily. Honestly.

Leone studied her for a moment, then smiled... warm, approving, just a little knowing. "Good. Then enjoy the night."

Bianca lifted her glass once more, heart light, pulse quickened.

Leone shifted closer as the music swelled again, his tone light but his attention keen. "Before we disperse into poor decisions and strategic disappearances," he said, "I should make one thing clear."

Bianca glanced at him, amused. "I was unaware there would be terms."

"There always are," he replied mildly. "You simply prefer not to read them."

She laughed under her breath. "Go on, then."

He followed her gaze once more - briefly, deliberately - toward the edge of the dance floor where Robin now stood in conversation. Then he looked back at her, expression unreadable beneath the mask but voice warm.

"I trust your judgement," Leone said. "I always have. And I won’t pretend I haven’t noticed how… interesting your conversations have become lately."

Bianca’s smile softened. "Leone—"

He raised a hand, stopping her gently. "This is not a warning. Merely a reminder." His tone turned teasing again, though something protective lingered beneath it. "You owe no one anything tonight. Not explanations, not promises, and certainly not clarity."

Her fingers tightened briefly around her glass. "Even to you?"

"Especially not to me," he said with a grin. "I know you. You’ll speak when you wish to... and not a moment sooner."

Bianca reached out, squeezing his arm in quiet gratitude. "You’re a very inconvenient brother."

"I do try." He squeezed back, then straightened. "Enjoy yourself. Dance. Be dazzling. And if anyone forgets their manners—"

"I’ll handle it."

Leone’s smile turned fond. "I know you will. Still," he added lightly, "I’ll be nearby. Just in case."

They shared a look... familiar, steady, unspoken understanding passing easily between them.

Then Leone stepped back, offering her a small bow. "Go on, then. The night is waiting."

Bianca watched him disappear into the crowd before turning once more toward the ballroom... toward music, candlelight, and the inevitability of conversation yet to come.

Her pulse quickened.

The masquerade, it seemed, was only just beginning.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

Bianca had just set her empty glass aside when a shadow fell comfortably into her periphery... not abrupt, not hesitant. Deliberate.

"Well," a voice drawled beside her, smooth and unmistakably amused, "either this room has grown more enchanting in the last few moments… or I have been tragically inattentive."

She did not turn at once.

"That," Bianca replied lightly, "sounds like a fault you should take up with yourself, sir."

A soft laugh followed. "Ah. Witty and evasive. Dangerous combination."

She faced him then.

His mask was darker than she remembered... sleek, understated, lending him an air of practiced mystery. It concealed just enough to make the familiar feel tantalisingly new. His posture was relaxed, confident, as though he belonged precisely where he stood beside her.

"Forgive me," he continued, inclining his head. "I don’t believe we’ve met."

Bianca’s lips curved beneath her own mask. "How unfortunate."

"Indeed," he said. "I pride myself on remembering striking faces. Yours would have lingered."

"Careful," she warned pleasantly. "Flattery tends to unravel masquerades."

"Then I shall be subtle," he replied, stepping just a fraction closer. "You appear to be enjoying the evening."

"I am," she said. "It’s rather freeing... don’t you think? To be unrecognised."

"Mm," he murmured. "To be seen without consequence."

Her gaze flicked briefly to his. "You sound as though you’ve given this some thought."

"Perhaps," he said. "Or perhaps I’m simply intrigued by a lady in green who watches the room as though she’s deciding which secret to keep next."

Bianca laughed softly. "And you, sir, sound like someone who enjoys pretending not to know exactly what he’s doing."

“Only tonight,” he replied easily. “The mask demands it.”

She tilted her head. "And what does it demand of me?"

"That you indulge the illusion," he said. "At least for a dance. No names. No past. Just possibility."

The orchestra shifted then, the melody changing into something slower, more inviting.

Bianca hesitated just long enough to make it interesting. "Very well," she said at last, placing her gloved hand lightly into his offered one. "But if we are strangers, you may find me difficult to impress."

His fingers closed around hers, warm even through the glove. "I wouldn’t dream of trying."

As he guided her toward the dance floor, his voice dropped, playful and intimate. "Tell me, mystery lady... do you always accept invitations from men you don’t know?"

"Only when they ask so convincingly," she replied, meeting his gaze. "And only when I suspect they are enjoying the game as much as I am."

His smile - half hidden, wholly felt - widened. "Then," he said softly as the music carried them forward, "I believe we are perfectly matched for the evening."

The music drew them fully into its rhythm, a slow, elegant waltz that seemed designed for close proximity. Robin’s hand settled at her waist - proper, assured - and yet the pressure lingered just a fraction longer than etiquette required, as though testing the boundary the masks had granted them.

Bianca felt it immediately.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, fingers resting lightly against the fabric of his coat. When they began to move, it felt seamless, their steps aligning with effortless familiarity... something unspoken passing between them as they turned with the room.

"You dance well for a stranger," she murmured.

He inclined his head slightly. "So do you. Either we’re fortunate… or we’ve met in another life."

"Careful," she said softly. "You’re venturing dangerously close to recognition."

"And would that be such a tragedy?"

She glanced up at him then, her eyes catching his through the narrow opening of the mask. The look lingered - measured, curious, daring - before she allowed a small smile to curve her lips.

"Perhaps," she said. "But tonight, I prefer mystery."

"As do I," he replied, guiding her into a slow turn. His fingers loosened only to reclaim her hand again, the touch deliberate, lingering just long enough to feel intentional. When she returned to his arms, they were closer now... close enough that she could sense the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

The room blurred at the edges as they moved, other dancers fading into soft motion and candlelight. His thumb brushed lightly against her glove, tracing a subtle arc at her wrist... an absent gesture, almost unconscious.

Almost.

"You’re watching me," she observed.

"Because you invite it," he said quietly. "You dance as though you know you’re being seen."

Her breath caught, only slightly. "And you lead as though you enjoy being followed."

His smile - felt more than seen - deepened. "Only when my partner trusts me."

Another turn, another moment where their hands met again, fingers aligning too perfectly to be accidental. When she looked up this time, the glance held longer... an exchange that felt like a question neither of them voiced.

The music swelled, then softened.

As the final notes faded, he did not release her at once. His hand remained at her waist, steady, grounding, just long enough to make the pause noticeable.

"Thank you for the dance," he said at last, voice low and warm. "You’ve made the evening far more interesting than I anticipated."

Bianca smiled, stepping back just enough to reclaim a breath of distance. "Then the masquerade is doing its job."

The applause faded around them, replaced by the hum of conversation and the swell of anticipation for the next dance. Yet Robin did not step away.

Instead, his hand shifted - still proper, still restrained - resting lightly at the small of her back as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The touch was subtle, guiding rather than claiming, but Bianca felt it all the same. It lingered just long enough to send a quiet thrill through her.

"Come," he said softly. "You look as though you might need rescuing from thirst."

She arched a brow beneath her mask. "From thirst? Or from the crowd?"

He leaned in just enough for the words to feel private. "I wouldn’t presume to rescue you from anything you’ve chosen."

Her smile was slow as she allowed him to guide her away from the dance floor. They moved together through the room, his hand never quite leaving her back... sometimes firm as they passed between couples, sometimes barely there, a whisper of contact that felt entirely intentional.

Bianca caught him watching her reflection in a mirrored pillar as they passed. When she turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze, he didn’t look away.

"Do you always stare so openly?" she asked lightly.

"Only when I’m confident I won’t be reprimanded," he replied. "Masks are remarkably forgiving."

"And dangerous," she added.

His fingers pressed just a touch more firmly for a heartbeat before easing again. "I’m beginning to think that’s their appeal."

They reached the edge of the room where the drinks were being served. As a footman offered a tray, Robin stepped closer to her side, his shoulder nearly brushing hers. He handed her a glass before taking one himself, their fingers grazing... an accident only in name.

Bianca turned slightly toward him, their proximity inviting, charged. Around them, the masquerade carried on - laughter, music, silk - but between them, the world felt narrowed to glances and half-smiles.

"You keep looking at me," she observed again, softer now.

"And you keep noticing," he replied, eyes dark with amusement. "I’d say we’re equally at fault."

She lifted her glass, eyes flicking up to his through the mask. "To anonymity, then."

He raised his own in return. "To the trouble it invites."

They drank, neither quite stepping away. His hand brushed her back once more - brief, almost absent-minded - as though reassuring himself she was still there.

Bianca took another sip, then let the rim of the glass linger at her lips just a moment longer than necessary before lowering it. Her gaze stayed on him as she did, unhurried, deliberate.

"You haven’t told me," she said lightly, "whether you’re enjoying yourself."

Robin’s brow lifted beneath the mask. "I thought that was obvious."

"Humour me," she replied. "Strangers are allowed questions."

His mouth curved. "Very well. I am enjoying myself immensely." He paused, eyes flicking briefly to her lips, then back up. "Though I suspect that has less to do with the ball and more to do with the company."

The mask made her bold.

"Careful," Bianca said softly, stepping just a fraction closer so that the space between them felt intentional. "That almost sounds like preference."

"Tonight?" he countered, lowering his voice. "Tonight I’m allowed preferences."

She laughed under her breath, pleased... and daring enough now to let her gloved fingers brush the edge of his sleeve as she shifted beside him. The contact was light, almost absent-minded, yet her eyes never left his face.

"And what," she asked, "do you prefer about me, sir... considering you know nothing at all?"

His gaze dropped to where her fingers rested, then slowly returned to her eyes. "I know how you look at me," he said. "As though you’re deciding whether to behave."

Her pulse fluttered.

She tilted her head. "And what conclusion have you reached?"

"That you won’t."

The answer came without hesitation... and made her smile widen.

"Well," she said, letting her hand fall only to trail briefly along his wrist as she withdrew it, "it would be terribly dull to behave on a night like this."

He stepped closer now, close enough that the heat of him felt unmistakable, his hand finding her back again... firmer this time, undeniably possessive for the briefest heartbeat.

"I was hoping you’d say that," he murmured.

They stood like that for a moment, suspended... close, smiling, aware of every stolen glance thrown their way and yet entirely unconcerned. The orchestra began another piece somewhere behind them, the opening notes slow and suggestive.

Robin glanced toward the dance floor, then back to her. "Shall we tempt fate again?"

Bianca didn’t answer at once.

Instead, she leaned in just enough for her words to be felt rather than heard. "Only if you promise not to remember me tomorrow."

His breath hitched... just slightly.

"Then," he said, voice low and warm, "I give you my word."

She placed her hand in his once more, this time without hesitation, eyes bright behind her mask.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

Bianca lingered at the edge of the ballroom, half-shadowed by a pillar draped in dark velvet and evergreen, a glass cradled loosely in her gloved hand. The masque moved like a living thing around her... silks brushing past, laughter rising and falling, the music threading through it all with a practiced elegance. From here, she could watch without being watched.

Or so she liked to think.

Her gaze wandered idly at first, tracing masks and colors, noting gestures more than faces... until it caught on something that made her still.

Constantine.

He stood a little apart from the densest press of dancers, one shoulder angled toward a young lady whose mask shimmered pale gold. Too close to be accidental. Too familiar to be merely polite. His head dipped as he spoke to her, his mouth curving in that easy, dangerous way of his, and she laughed - lightly, indulgently - one hand resting on his arm as though it belonged there.

Bianca felt the familiar flicker ignite in her chest. That sharp, instinctive irritation. A tightening, a warmth that had nothing to do with the wine.

But this time, it did not burn.

She took a measured sip, letting the cool glass ground her, her eyes never quite leaving the pair. He was charming her... of course he was. That was no revelation. Constantine had always moved through rooms as though they owed him something, as though attention were both his right and his amusement. She had seen it before. Had felt its pull herself.

Still, her fingers curled slightly around the stem of her glass.

The young lady leaned closer now, clearly encouraged, and Constantine responded in kind... just enough to suggest intimacy without committing to it. Bianca exhaled softly through her nose, something like a wry smile ghosting her lips.

So this is how it feels now, she thought.

Not the sharp ache of Christmas Eve. Not that raw, infuriating sense of being dismissed without explanation. This was… dulled. Tempered. Still present, yes but manageable. Like pressure beneath silk instead of a blade.

She studied him more carefully, detached enough to notice the details she had missed before... the way his attention already wandered even as he smiled at the girl; the subtle shift of his weight, as though he were already half-bored. The flirtation was practiced. Polished. Almost habitual.

And somehow, that helped.

Bianca lifted her glass again, turning slightly so that she was no longer facing them directly. She did not look away entirely but she refused to let the sight command her. Whatever passed between Constantine and his masked companion belonged to him. And for once, she did not feel the need to claim it, challenge it, or outshine it.

The irritation remained - a faint, persistent ember - but it no longer ruled her pulse.

Bianca did not turn away.

She watched Constantine still... watched the way he laughed now, the tilt of his head as the young lady said something meant to amuse him, the easy confidence with which he occupied her attention. There was no denying it: the boldness, the charm, the unmistakable thrill of proximity he carried with him. Bianca had never pretended otherwise. Part of her still enjoyed the sight, still felt that faint spark of interest hum beneath her ribs.

Yet the longer she observed, the clearer something else became.

The flirtation, though polished, stayed on the surface. It glittered, yes but it did not deepen. His smile never quite lingered. His body angled away as often as it leaned in, already half-turned toward the room, as if seeking the next distraction. Whatever pleasure he took from the exchange was immediate, fleeting. A spark struck and spent.

Bianca found herself oddly calm as she noted it.

Her fingers relaxed around her glass, and her thoughts - unbidden - drifted elsewhere.
Robin’s laughter surfaced in her memory first. Unrestrained. Warm. The way his eyes searched for hers across a room, not to impress, but to find. The way their conversations slipped, unexpectedly, from teasing into something quieter, more sincere... moments where the masks between them felt thinner than the ones they wore tonight.

She frowned slightly, surprised by the comparison.

With Constantine, there was heat. Daring. A challenge she knew how to meet. With Robin… it had been different. Slower. Unanticipated. A pleasant unfolding she had not planned for and had therefore not guarded against. The kind that crept in sideways, softening her without asking permission.

Bianca’s gaze returned to Constantine just as the young lady leaned closer again, emboldened. He obliged her with another smile, another low word meant only for her... and Bianca felt it then, unmistakably.

Not jealousy.

Distance.

A gentle one, but real all the same.
She did not begrudge the scene before her. Nor did she feel the urge to interrupt it, to reclaim his attention as she once might have. Instead, she let the realization settle, quiet and undeniable... whatever spark she shared with Constantine was still there, still bright but it no longer felt singular.

Something else had taken root elsewhere.
Something warmer. Steadier. Unexpected in the best way.

Bianca remained where she was, her attention still loosely anchored to the room, though her thoughts had drifted far from it. The music seemed softer now, the chatter blurring into something indistinct as her mind circled the same quiet truth again and again.

Robin.

The way his name settled in her thoughts surprised her. It did not demand anything of her... did not rush, did not dazzle. It simply was. Present. Comforting in its steadiness, thrilling in its promise. She recalled the stolen looks, the moments that had stretched just a heartbeat too long, the ease with which their teasing had turned honest without either of them quite acknowledging the shift.

Her lips parted slightly as she exhaled, warmth blooming low in her chest. It was unexpected. And perhaps because of that, all the more dangerous.

So absorbed was she in this realization that she failed to notice the change in the room around her.

Constantine had disengaged from his companion.

The young lady lingered a moment, clearly reluctant, before being drawn back into the current of the crowd. Constantine, however, did not follow. Instead, he cut a deliberate path through the ballroom, movements unhurried, confident, his attention already fixed elsewhere.

On her.

Bianca sensed him only when his presence altered the space beside her... an instinctive awareness, too late to be useful. She had just begun to turn when his voice reached her, low and familiar even through the press of music.

"Bianca."

Her name - unmasked, unmistakable - slid through her thoughts like a blade through silk.

She looked up sharply.

He stood close, closer than propriety required, his dark mask catching the candlelight as his gaze searched her face with open intent. There was amusement there, yes... but also something sharper. Curious. Assessing. As though he had felt her watching him long before she realized she had been caught.

"You look as though you’ve been miles away," he continued lightly, one brow lifting. "I was beginning to think I’d imagined you."

Bianca steadied herself, schooling her expression even as her pulse answered his nearness out of habit. She tilted her head, meeting his gaze with practiced composure, glass still poised in her hand.

"Hardly,” she replied smoothly. "The room offers plenty to observe tonight."

His mouth curved, slow and knowing. "So it does."

For a brief moment, the noise of the masque seemed to fall away again... yet this time, the quiet did not pull her toward him as it once might have. Instead, she felt anchored elsewhere, her earlier realization still warm and present beneath the surface.
Constantine had her attention now.

But not all of it.

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, as though weighing something unspoken, before his hand extended toward her with unmistakable intent.

"Dance with me," Constantine said, voice smooth, confident... less a question than an expectation. "Before the night steals you away again."

Bianca hesitated only a fraction of a second. Long enough to matter. Then she placed her glass aside and set her gloved hand in his.

"If you insist," she replied lightly, lifting her chin in a way that would once have invited mischief.

The music carried them into motion almost at once. Constantine drew her close, his hand firm at her back, guiding her with an ease born of long familiarity. She followed instinctively, steps precise, posture flawless. To anyone watching, they were well-matched... elegant, magnetic, a pair that knew how to command a room.

And yet.

Bianca felt it immediately.

She matched his flirtation in tone if not in depth. Smiled when he teased her. Met his gaze when it sought hers. But where once her pulse had raced to meet his boldness, now it answered more calmly, like a practiced courtesy rather than a challenge accepted.

"You’re distracted again," Constantine murmured as they turned, his thumb pressing just a little more deliberately against her back. "Am I losing my touch?"

She laughed softly, just enough to keep the moment light. "You flatter yourself if you think you ever owned it."

His smile sharpened at that... but there was curiosity there now, too. He tested her with a glance, a closer step, a murmur meant to unsettle.

Bianca did not retreat.

But neither did she lean in.

The dance carried on, graceful and unhurried, until the music finally slowed and resolved. As applause rose around them, Constantine released her hand but not entirely. His fingers lingered, thoughtful rather than possessive.

"Well," he said at last, head tilting as he studied her with open amusement, "that was… different."

She arched a brow. "Different how?"

He chuckled quietly, stepping back just enough to give her space. "You used to meet me halfway... and then dare me to follow." His eyes flicked briefly over her shoulder, toward the room beyond. "Tonight, it feels as though your feet are already pointed elsewhere."

Bianca held his gaze, composed, unflustered. A small smile touched her lips... honest, not teasing.

"Perhaps," she said simply. "Even masquerades allow for surprises."

For a moment, Constantine looked as though he might press her for more. Then, just as easily, he laughed it off, bowing his head slightly.

"Well," he said, warmth returning to his tone, "whoever has captured your attention should consider themselves fortunate."


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The doors to the Rose Terrace stood open, spilling warmth and light into the cold night. Bianca stepped outside with the others, breath ghosting pale in the air as she drew her cloak closer around her shoulders. Midnight hovered just ahead... close enough to feel, not yet claimed.

The first firework split the sky in gold.

She moved instinctively toward the balustrade, finding a quieter corner where the crowd thinned but did not disappear entirely. From here, she could still hear the laughter behind her, the music muffled through glass, the collective intake of breath as color bloomed overhead.

She did not hear footsteps approach.

"Running away again?"

Robin’s voice came softly, close enough to startle her only because it felt familiar rather than sudden.

Bianca turned, already smiling.

He stood beside her, mask still in place, dark against the candlelight spilling from inside. There was no pretense between them now... no false introductions, no games of anonymity. Just the two of them, half-shadowed, the night opening above.

"Observing," she corrected lightly. "It seems a fitting way to greet the end of the year."

Robin followed her gaze upward as another burst of silver unfurled across the sky. "You always choose the best vantage points," he said. "I’ve noticed."

Bianca arched a brow. "Have you?"

His smile curved beneath the mask... she could hear it in his voice. "More than once."

They stood shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, yet close enough that Bianca was keenly aware of the warmth at his side. The fireworks continued, each one reflected briefly in the polished stone of the terrace, in the glass doors behind them, in the quiet between their words.

"You’ve been very difficult to keep track of tonight," Robin said after a moment, tone playful but observant.

"So have you," she replied easily. "Perhaps masquerades encourage bad habits."

"Or honesty," Robin countered, glancing at her now instead of the sky.

That made her look at him.

For a heartbeat, the playfulness softened. The mask between them suddenly felt more symbolic than necessary.

"I think," Bianca said slowly, choosing her words with care, "that I enjoy not having to wonder what someone means."

His gaze held hers, steady. "So do I."

Another firework thundered overhead, louder than the rest, scattering red and gold across the dark. The crowd reacted behind them - cheers, applause - but neither of them turned.

"I don’t mind the games," Robin went on quietly. "But with you… I find I don’t miss them when they’re gone."

Bianca felt warmth bloom... not sharp, not dizzying, but deep and sure. She let out a soft breath, smiling up at the sky once more.

"That," she said, "might be the most dangerous thing you’ve said all evening."

He laughed under his breath, close now, his shoulder finally brushing hers as they leaned against the stone balustrade.

"Midnight tends to encourage such risks," Robin murmured.

The final firework bloomed slowly, lingering longer than the rest, its gold fading into embers as the bells inside the house began to ring... soft at first, then certain. Midnight.

The terrace stirred behind them, voices lifting in celebration, but Bianca barely heard them. She was acutely aware of how close Robin stood, of the way his presence felt steady at her side, of the impulse rising in her that she did not dare indulge.

For a heartbeat, she thought she might turn and close the distance between them.
Instead, she lowered her gaze.
Her hand moved almost of its own accord, fingers brushing his glove... hesitant, searching. A silent question. When she felt him still, not pulling away, she let her fingers curl more fully around his hand.

It was a simple thing.

And somehow, far more intimate than a kiss.

Robin’s breath caught softly. He looked down at their joined hands, then back at her, something unguarded flickering behind his mask. His thumb shifted, settling over her knuckles... not claiming, not pressing, simply there.

Bianca met his gaze, pulse steady but warm. "Happy New Year, Robin."

"Happy New Year, Bianca."

Small tokens exchanged, carrying quiet meaning

The house had not yet quite shaken off the remnants of celebration.

Rosewood Hall breathed more softly this morning, as though even the walls required rest after the splendour of the Masque. The corridors were calmer, footsteps fewer, the servants moving with deliberate quiet rather than festive haste. Bianca welcomed the stillness. It allowed her thoughts to settle... or at least to slow.

She had already done what had been expected of her.

Robin had received his token with that familiar, unreadable smile... light, warm, and lingering in a way that stayed with her longer than she liked to admit. Leone, predictably, had teased her mercilessly before tucking his gift away with exaggerated care. Constantine had taken his with unmistakable delight, charm sharpened by the private look he had given her in return... one that suggested he saw far more than propriety allowed. Evelina, sweet and sincere, had been last... Bianca had felt only ease there, uncomplicated and fond.

And yet one name remained... Miles.

She adjusted her shawl and wandered deeper into the house, letting instinct guide her rather than intention. She checked the morning room first - abandoned save for cooling tea - then passed the library, where a footman quietly reshelved books disturbed the night before. The music room lay empty, its instruments resting in dignified silence.

It was only when she reached the smaller blue salon - one of the more secluded rooms overlooking the winter gardens - that she slowed.

The door stood ajar.

Inside, Miles occupied one of the chairs near the window, long legs stretched out with careless elegance, a book resting open in his hand though his attention seemed only half committed to the page. The pale winter light framed him neatly, catching the edge of his hair and the relaxed line of his posture. He looked entirely at ease...as though the revels of the night before had been merely an interlude rather than an indulgence.

Bianca paused, watching him for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Then she stepped inside, the soft sound of her skirts enough to announce her presence without formality.

"Lord Seymour," she said lightly, a smile already curving her lips. "There you are. I was beginning to think you had slipped away before I could find you."

He looked up at once, expression warming as his eyes met hers... amusement flickering there, quick and unmistakable.

"Ah," he replied, closing the book with unhurried grace. "And here I was congratulating myself on having successfully evaded half the household."

His gaze flicked, briefly, to her hands... as though already guessing her purpose.

"Tell me," he added, rising to his feet, charm settling into place as naturally as breathing, "have I done something to earn such determined pursuit?"

Bianca laughed softly as she came closer, slipping one hand into the small reticule she carried with her.

"Nothing so dramatic," she said, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Merely unfinished business."

She stopped in front of him and opened her palm.

Resting there was a coin... not ostentatious, but clearly chosen with care, its surface worn smooth by other hands, other wagers. She tilted it slightly so the light caught its edge.

"For you," she said. "A coin for a future wager. I thought it only fitting, given your fondness for games of chance... and your confidence in winning them."

Miles’s brows lifted, delight sparking instantly. He took the coin from her hand, his fingers brushing hers in a way that felt neither accidental nor lingering enough to be improper...but just noticeable enough to register.

"A dangerous gift," he remarked, turning it over thoughtfully. "You’re essentially encouraging bad habits."

"I prefer to think of it as investing in them," Bianca replied lightly. "Besides, I trust you’ll choose your wagers wisely."

"Oh, I always do," he said with a grin. "The trick is choosing the right opponent."

He slipped the coin into his pocket with deliberate care, then gestured toward the armchair opposite his own. Bianca took the seat, settling back comfortably, smoothing her skirts as she did. The distance between them was easy, companionable... the kind that invited conversation rather than demanded it.

Miles resumed his place, lounging rather than sitting properly, his attention now fully on her.

"So," he said, folding his hands loosely. "Does this coin come with conditions? Or am I free to squander it at the next card table without consequence?"

She tilted her head, pretending to consider it.

"Only one condition," she decided. "If you lose it, you must allow me the satisfaction of saying I warned you."

His smile widened. "Cruel. Absolutely cruel."

"And yet," Bianca said pleasantly, "you seem willing to risk it."

He studied her for a moment... not searching, not probing, just openly amused.

"Well," he said at last, "I suppose that makes it a fair wager already."

Bianca smiled at him over the small distance between their chairs, the ease between them settling comfortably once more.

"Well," she said, folding her hands in her lap with deliberate neatness, "I do hope you won’t be too reckless with it. I would hate for my carefully chosen token to vanish in the first careless round of cards."

Miles placed a hand over his chest in mock offence.

"My reputation suffers already. I assure you, that coin will be treated with the utmost respect."

"I’m relieved," she replied. "I would hate to be remembered as the lady who bankrolled your downfall."

He laughed - a warm, unguarded sound - and leaned back again, one ankle resting over his knee.

"On the contrary," he said lightly, "you would be remembered as the woman who had excellent taste in risks."

Their smiles lingered, the playfulness stretching just a moment longer than necessary, until something in Miles’s expression subtly shifted. Not a full seriousness... merely a sharpening of attention, the kind that suggested a change of direction rather than a change of mood.

"Speaking of risks," he continued, tone still mild but more considered now, "may I ask you something?"

Bianca inclined her head, unperturbed.
"You may. Whether I answer is another matter entirely."

"That would be unfair," he said, though the corner of his mouth still curved. "I’ve just accepted a wager from you."

He paused, then went on, gaze steady.
"With London approaching… I was wondering whether you - or Leone, for that matter - have any intention of utilising the season. The gatherings, the introductions." A beat. "Perhaps even striking a match, as people like to phrase it."

Bianca did not answer at once.

The playful ease between them softened, thinning into something more fragile as she looked down at her hands. Her fingers traced the seam of her glove absently, the movement small but telling.

"I can’t really speak for Leone," she said at last, voice gentler than before. "Though…” Her lips curved faintly. “I have noticed how closely he has been keeping Frances Cavell of late. I would not be surprised if that story were already beginning to write itself."

Miles hummed thoughtfully, neither surprised nor dismissive.

"As for myself," Bianca continued, lifting her gaze again... steadier now, though something restrained lingered beneath it. "It is rather difficult to find a match when things have already been arranged for you."

The words were simple, but the weight behind them was unmistakable.

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling softly. "One cannot very well pretend to be available when one’s future has been decided in absentia."

Miles watched her closely now, the levity fully replaced by quiet understanding.

"I had wondered," he admitted, more carefully this time.

Bianca gave a small, rueful smile.
"It is… unresolved. And increasingly frustrating." A pause. "London makes it harder, not easier. It has a way of reminding one of all the possibilities that are not permitted."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Miles nodded once, slow and measured. "Arrangements have a way of feeling far more binding when they are invisible."

Her smile returned, softer but sincere.
"That is exactly it."

Miles shifted slightly in his chair, the movement unhurried, careful not to crowd the moment. When he spoke again, his tone had softened... curiosity tempered by consideration.

"If you don’t mind me asking," he said, "was it… a recent arrangement? Or something older that has simply been left to linger?"

Bianca’s gaze drifted toward the window, to the pale winter light resting on the gardens beyond. For a moment, she seemed to be measuring her words against something far heavier than the question itself.

"It was arranged when I was barely eighteen," she replied quietly. "Old enough, apparently, to be promised... but not old enough to have much say in it."

Her fingers folded together, then tightened, just slightly.

"I turned twenty-one three years ago," she went on. "And since then… nothing. No letters, no plans, no dates spoken aloud. Just silence." She let out a small, humourless breath. "I find the waiting far more exhausting than the idea of marriage itself."

Miles listened without interruption, his attention unwavering.

"It is the not knowing," Bianca continued, more firmly now. "Whether my life is meant to begin soon... or whether I am expected to remain suspended indefinitely. One prepares oneself for change, only for it never to arrive."

He nodded once, slowly. "That sort of uncertainty has a way of stealing time."

"Yes," Bianca said. "And patience. I have grown rather tired of being told that things will become clear eventually."

She glanced back at him then, a faint smile touching her lips... not playful this time, but grateful.

"There used to be a time in which I didn’t resent the agreement but now I think differently," she added. "And I resent being left without answers. Without direction. It feels as though my life is paused, while everyone else continues on quite comfortably."

Miles leaned back slightly, expression thoughtful rather than pitying.

"That is a cruel sort of limbo," he said quietly. "Especially when the decision was never fully yours to begin with."

Her shoulders eased at that... not because the problem was solved, but because it had been understood.

"Exactly," Bianca replied.

Bianca fell quiet again after that, her gaze lingering on the winter gardens beyond the glass. The pale branches, stripped bare of ornament, seemed an apt reflection of how exposed the truth felt once spoken aloud.

“It makes one cautious,” she added after a moment, almost as if thinking out loud. “Even when opportunities present themselves. Even when one feels something stirring that might otherwise be worth exploring.”

Miles watched her closely, picking up on the slight shift in her tone.

“Because it would feel unfair,” he ventured gently, “to step forward when you do not know whether you are permitted to do so?”

She nodded. “Precisely.”

Her fingers traced the arm of the chair now, slower, distracted. And before she quite meant to, her thoughts drifted - unbidden - to Robin. To the knowledge she carried quietly, that he and Miles shared blood as well as history. That whatever distance had once existed between them had begun, only recently, to soften.

“You and Robin spoke,” she said at last, her voice carefully even. “Not long ago.”

Miles’s brows lifted a fraction... not in surprise, but recognition. “We did.”

“There is something different in the air between you. Subtle, but noticeable.”

He gave a small, wry smile. “Perceptive as ever.”

She returned the smile faintly, then looked down again.

“It made me realise,” she continued, more quietly, “how many things can remain unresolved for years — simply because no one dares to address them directly. Until suddenly… they do.”

Miles considered her for a beat before replying.

“Some conversations take time to be possible,” he said. “Others only happen once circumstances force them into the open.”

“And some,” Bianca added softly, “come too late to change what has already been felt.”

The words surprised even her as they left her mouth. She did not elaborate — did not need to. The implication hovered between them, delicate but unmistakable.

Miles did not press. Instead, he leaned back, expression thoughtful rather than probing.

“For what it is worth,” he said after a moment, “you deserve clarity. In all things. No one should be asked to wait indefinitely for a life that may never quite begin.”

Bianca looked at him then, truly looked — gratitude flickering briefly in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “It helps, being able to say it aloud. Even just once.”

The silence that followed was gentler than before - not empty, but companionable - as though something heavy had been set down between them, if only for a little while.

Twelfth Night, the season’s last sparkle of joy

Ice The fifth of January dawned bright and brittle, the kind of cold that turned breath into silver and made the world feel newly polished.

The lake lay frozen and flawless, its surface a pale sheet of glass framed by frost-laden reeds and bare trees dusted in white. Laughter carried across it already - the scrape of blades, the occasional triumphant whoop - but Bianca remained at the edge, firmly planted on solid ground.

She stood wrapped in a thick woollen coat, scarf tucked high beneath her chin, skates strapped to her boots with more determination than confidence. One gloved hand rested against a nearby post, the other clenched her skirt as she eyed the ice with open suspicion.

“It looks perfectly content to wait until I step on it,” she muttered, half to herself. “And then make a spectacle of me.”

She tested the ice with the tip of her skate - an experimental nudge - and immediately drew back again, lips pressing into a thin line.

That was when a familiar presence slipped effortlessly into her periphery.

“Ah,” came a voice warm with amusement, “the famous hesitation.”

Bianca did not need to turn to know who it was.

Robin approached with enviable ease, skates already on his feet, coat unbuttoned despite the cold, as though winter itself had made some unspoken exception for him. He glided to a stop beside her with careless grace, not a hint of tension in his posture, dark eyes bright with mischief.

“You’re judging the ice,” he went on lightly. “I can tell. It’s very aware of your scrutiny.”

She shot him a look. “I am assessing risk,” she corrected. “Sensibly.”

“Of course you are.” His smile widened. “And what is the verdict?”

“That it is entirely too pleased with itself.”

He laughed softly and leaned closer, peering out over the frozen lake as though it were an old friend rather than a potential menace.

“I assure you, it’s quite harmless. Slippery, yes. Unforgiving of pride, certainly. But mostly harmless.”

“That is not reassuring,” Bianca said, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

Robin shifted so he stood just beside her now, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him even through layers of wool.

“Tell you what,” he offered, tone easy and conspiratorial. “I’ll make you a deal.”

She glanced at him warily. “You always do.”

“I’ll stay with you,” he said. “No sudden abandonments. No dramatic escapes across the ice. And if you decide after two steps that this was a terrible idea, I’ll escort you back to solid ground without a single word of mockery.”

“Not even one?” she asked.

He placed a hand over his heart in solemn promise. “Not even one.”

Bianca studied his face... the confidence, the warmth, the unmistakable invitation in his gaze. Then she looked back at the ice.

“Well,” she said at last, drawing a careful breath, “if I fall…”

His grin turned unmistakably wicked. “I’ll be right there to catch you.”

She huffed a laugh, equal parts doubtful and tempted.

“Very well,” Bianca said, lifting her chin. “But if this lake betrays me, I shall hold you personally responsible.”

Robin extended his hand, palm open, eyes never leaving hers. “A risk I’m more than willing to take.”

After a heartbeat’s hesitation, she placed her gloved hand in his... and stepped onto the ice.

The moment her skates touched the ice, Bianca knew - with absolute certainty - that she had been right to mistrust it.

Her foot slid forward far more eagerly than she intended, balance vanishing in a heartbeat. A sharp breath left her as she lurched, instinctively reaching for something...someone.

Robin was already there.

His hand tightened around hers, sure and steady, while his other arm came up without hesitation, resting firmly at her side, just beneath her elbow. The movement was so natural, so assured, that it barely felt like a rescue at all... more like an unspoken understanding.

“Easy,” he murmured, close enough that she felt the word as much as she heard it.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, not entirely from the near fall. She stilled, acutely aware of the warmth of his hand through her glove, the solid presence of his arm against her coat. The cold seemed to retreat suddenly, chased away by the nearness of him, by the way he anchored her without making her feel foolish.

“I—” she began, then stopped, breath catching as colour bloomed warm and traitorous beneath her scarf. “I was not prepared for it to move.”

His lips curved, amusement soft but unmistakable. “The ice rarely waits for permission.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, his hand remained clasped with hers, his other arm still lightly but decisively holding her steady, thumb resting in a way that suggested familiarity rather than formality.

“You’re doing well,” he added, voice low now. “You found your balance.”

She swallowed, nodding faintly, though she was suddenly far more aware of him than of her feet. “I nearly fell,” she said.

“But you didn’t,” Robin replied. “That’s the important part.”

He guided her forward with the gentlest pressure, encouraging rather than leading, and to her surprise her skates obeyed this time. The ice no longer felt quite so treacherous... or perhaps she had simply stopped noticing it.

Her gaze flicked to him, then quickly away again, pulse racing.

“I believe,” Bianca said, attempting composure and failing just slightly, “that you are proving to be a most effective distraction.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm despite the cold air.

“High praise,” he said. “Though I would argue that forgetting the ice is precisely the point.”

They moved another careful step together, then another, his hold never wavering. The laughter and movement of others around them faded into something distant and indistinct.

Bianca realised, with a small rush of something dangerously close to delight, that she was no longer afraid of falling.

Not while he was holding her.

Bianca did not loosen her grip.

If anything, her fingers curled more securely around Robin’s hand as he guided her another measured step forward. The ice whispered beneath their skates, a sound that sent a shiver straight up her spine... and she edged just a little closer to him in response, as though proximity alone might keep gravity at bay.

“I see,” she said lightly, lifting her chin despite the tension in her shoulders, “you have neglected to mention that ice skating is, in fact, an exercise in trust.”

Robin glanced at her, amusement warming his gaze. “Is that a complaint?”

“An observation,” Bianca replied. “One must place an alarming amount of faith in one’s companion.”

“And how am I doing so far?” he asked, tone playful, though his grip remained unwavering.

She pretended to consider it, even as her steps followed his without argument. “Competently,” she allowed. “Though I reserve the right to revise my opinion should I end up unceremoniously sprawled on the lake.”

His thumb shifted slightly against her glove... a subtle, grounding pressure. “I’ve no intention of letting that happen.”

She laughed softly, the sound breathy despite her best efforts. “You say that now. But I suspect you would find the spectacle at least somewhat entertaining.”

“Only if you laugh first,” he countered. “Otherwise I’d be far too concerned.”

They moved again, slow and deliberate, Robin clearly setting the pace... an unspoken understanding that she was content to let him lead. Bianca told herself it was practical. Sensible. Entirely about not falling.

And yet.

She was acutely aware of the way his arm remained at her side, steady and warm, how each shift of weight seemed to happen in tandem. The world beyond him blurred: the cold air, the pale sky, the figures gliding past them.

“You realise,” she said, attempting nonchalance and failing just slightly, “that if I survive this without incident, I shall claim full credit.”

“As you should,” Robin said easily. “And if you don’t?”

She shot him a look. “Then I shall claim you.”

His smile widened... slow, unmistakably pleased. “A risk I’m still willing to take.”

They glided another few feet across the ice, Bianca trusting him just enough to let her other hand drop from his sleeve... though she did not, notably, release his hand.

“Don’t let go yet,” she added quickly, too quickly. “I’m… enjoying the view.”

Robin’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Of course you are.”

Bianca found herself laughing then... a soft, surprised sound that escaped before she could stop it.

“I believe,” she said, adjusting her grip on Robin’s hand without loosening it in the slightest, “that the ice has decided not to kill me after all.”

Robin’s brows lifted, pleased. “A promising development.”

“Do not sound so smug,” she replied. “It may yet change its mind.”

He leaned a fraction closer as they moved, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “If it does, I’ll distract it.”

She snorted, the sound inelegant but genuine. “With what? Charming conversation?”

“Works on most things,” he said smoothly. “Including you.”

Bianca shook her head, though her smile betrayed her. “Bold of you to assume I’m distracted.”

“And yet,” he replied, guiding her around a shallow curve in the ice, “you haven’t mentioned falling in at least a minute.”

She opened her mouth to retort... then realised he was right.

Her steps were steadier now, less tentative. She trusted the glide enough to let herself lean into it, to allow her weight to shift more naturally. The fear lingered, but it no longer ruled her.

“How strange,” she said thoughtfully. “I almost forgot I was afraid.”

Robin glanced at her, eyes bright. “I do have that effect.”

“Modest, too,” Bianca teased.

They passed a pair of laughing skaters who swept by with far too much confidence for Bianca’s liking. Instinctively, she moved closer to Robin, her arm brushing his sleeve.

“Show-offs,” she muttered.

He laughed. “Give it time. You’ll be overtaking them soon.”

“That seems wildly optimistic.”

“Or prophetic.”

She shot him a sideways look. “You do enjoy encouraging reckless behaviour.”

“Only in people I trust,” he replied easily.

The words landed more softly than she expected.

Bianca felt warmth bloom again... not just from his touch, but from the ease of the moment. The lake no longer felt hostile. It felt… shared.

“You know,” she said, voice lighter now, “I suspect I am enjoying this.”

“I knew you would.”

“No,” she corrected, smiling up at him. “I suspect I am enjoying you.”

His step faltered just slightly... not enough to disrupt them, but enough that she noticed. His grip on her hand tightened, not in restraint, but in acknowledgment.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Say things like that and I might start to believe I’m indispensable.”

She laughed again, freer this time, letting herself glide just a little more boldly beside him.

“Oh,” Bianca said lightly, eyes glinting. “For the moment, you absolutely are.”

Robin slowed their pace just a touch, glancing down at their joined hands before looking back at her with that familiar, infuriatingly confident ease. “You know,” he said lightly, “I think you’re ready to try something daring.”

Bianca narrowed her eyes at once. “I dislike the sound of that.”

He smiled. “Letting go.”

Her fingers tightened instinctively around his. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re doing wonderfully,” he insisted, still playful, still warm. “Your balance is steady. And I’ll be right here... I’m not disappearing into the horizon, I promise.”

“That is precisely what someone about to disappear would say,” she countered, though there was laughter in her voice.

Robin chuckled, skating just a fraction ahead of her before matching her pace again.

“Trust me,” he murmured. “You don’t need my hand anymore.”

She hesitated, eyeing the ice as though it might hear them conspiring. “I reserve the right to blame you entirely,” Bianca said, finally.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Reluctantly - very reluctantly - she loosened her grip and let go.

For a few seconds, everything was… fine.
She moved slowly, carefully, her arms held just slightly away from her sides for balance. Each step was measured, deliberate, but steady. Relief flickered across her expression, quickly masked by a pleased little smile.

“See?” she said, glancing at him. “Perfectly capable.”

Robin skated alongside her, hands clasped behind his back now, watching her with open admiration. “I never doubted it.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Only a little.”

They exchanged a grin, the air between them light and teasing as Bianca grew bolder, her confidence inching forward with each careful glide.

And then... the ice betrayed her.

Her skate caught at a shallow ridge, her balance tipping sharply to one side. A gasp escaped her as the world lurched, arms flailing in a futile attempt to correct herself.

She never hit the ice.

Robin reacted instantly. His arm wrapped firmly around her waist, pulling her back against him in one smooth motion... closer than strictly necessary, close enough that she felt the solid warmth of him through layers of wool and winter air.

“Easy,” he said again, breath warm near her ear.

Her heart hammered violently, not just from the near fall. One of her hands instinctively caught at his coat, fingers curling into the fabric as she steadied herself against him.

For a suspended moment, neither of them moved.

“I told you,” she breathed, half laughing, half breathless, “this lake is treacherous.”

“And I told you,” Robin replied softly, arm still secure around her, not yet loosening, “that I wouldn’t let it have you.”

She became acutely aware then of how close they were... of how easily his hold could be mistaken for something intentional rather than necessary. Her cheeks burned, warmth flooding her despite the cold.

“You may,” Bianca said, attempting lightness and only partially succeeding, “have overcompensated.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted, a smile evident in his voice even before she saw it. “But I find it safer to err on the side of caution.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he eased his grip... though he did not quite step away, his hand lingering at her side as if unwilling to test fate again just yet.

Bianca met his gaze, pulse still racing, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose this proves your point.”

“And which one was that?” he asked.

“That I should never be allowed to skate alone.”

Robin did not give her much opportunity to retreat into embarrassment.

“If you’ll permit me,” he said lightly, fingers closing around hers again with unmistakable assurance, “I think we’ve learned that the ice behaves better when I’m holding on to you.”

Bianca arched a brow. “How very scientific of you.”

“Years of careful observation,” he replied, already guiding her forward once more.
This time, she did not resist.

His hand was firm, warm even through the gloves, and she found herself leaning into the rhythm of their movement without quite meaning to. They skated slowly, deliberately, his pace perfectly attuned to hers... never pulling, never rushing. The fear that had once tightened her chest was gone now, replaced by something lighter… and something else she was less inclined to name.

“I could,” she said, attempting nonchalance, “be doing this perfectly well on my own.”

“I’m sure you could,” Robin answered easily. “But you’re not.”

She glanced up at him, lips curving. “No.”

His thumb shifted against her knuckles, a subtle pressure that made her breath hitch before she could stop it.

“I hope you don’t find that too disappointing,” he added, eyes glinting.

“On the contrary,” Bianca said, voice a shade softer than before, “I find myself growing rather accustomed to it.”

They passed another group of skaters, laughter echoing briefly as someone stumbled and recovered. Bianca was keenly aware of the others around them... of eyes that might glance their way, of the unspoken boundaries that still existed no matter how private the moment felt.

And yet.

Robin’s presence was steady, grounding, his hand an anchor she did not wish to test. With every glide, she felt herself relax further, confidence blooming... not just in her balance, but in the ease between them.

“You realise,” she said after a moment, teasing warmth returning to her tone, “that if you continue holding my hand like this, people may draw conclusions.”

He tilted his head, skating just a fraction closer. “And would those conclusions be incorrect?”

Her pulse quickened.

“They would be… inconvenient.”

His smile softened rather than sharpened. “Then I suppose we’ll simply have to behave.”

The word behave felt like a challenge rather than a promise.

Bianca laughed quietly, though her grip on his hand tightened again... not from fear this time. A familiar warmth stirred low in her chest, the same reckless want she had learned to recognise all too well. The urge to lean closer. To forget where they were. To forget who might be watching.

She did none of those things.

Instead, she met his gaze, eyes bright, and said lightly, “You are a terrible influence.”

Robin’s answering look was all charm and quiet intent. “I’ve been called worse.”

By the time they reached the edge of the lake again, Bianca’s legs ached just enough to remind her that the ice had not been an illusion after all.

She allowed Robin to guide her the final few careful steps, relief blooming the moment her skates touched solid ground. She exhaled, a soft laugh escaping her as she steadied herself... this time without incident.

“Oh, thank heavens,” she said, pressing a gloved hand briefly to her chest. “It appears I have survived.”

Robin released her slowly, as though reluctant to be the first to let go.

“Not merely survived,” he corrected. “You were admirable. I’d even say graceful.”

“That is a very generous interpretation of events.”

“And an entirely sincere one.”

She shifted her weight, testing the reassuring immobility beneath her feet. The safety of firm ground was undeniable ... and yet, as his hand finally slipped from hers, Bianca felt the absence of it keenly. The cold crept back in where his warmth had been.

She glanced up at him, smile softening.
“Thank you,” she said lightly, though the sentiment beneath it was genuine. “For keeping me safe. And upright.”

“It was my great honour,” Robin replied with a half bow, eyes dancing. “I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

“I noticed,” she teased. “You were rather… thorough.”

His grin turned knowing. “One can’t be too careful where precious things are concerned.”

Her breath caught for the briefest moment... then she laughed, masking it with ease.

“Well,” Bianca said, drawing her coat closer as she turned slightly away, “should I ever be persuaded onto the ice again, I know precisely whom to blame.”

“And whom to seek out,” he added smoothly.

She met his gaze once more, warmth lingering despite the chill. “I suspect,” she said, “that I would not object.”

With one last shared smile - playful, lingering, and just shy of improper - they stepped away from the frozen lake together, Bianca grateful for solid ground beneath her feet… and quietly missing the steady hand she had already grown far too fond of holding.

At Rosewood Hall, comfort and charm lingered

The morning of the sixth dawned with a quiet sense of departure.

Trunks were being carried down the stairs, voices echoed faintly through the corridors, and the great house seemed to exhale with every carriage that rolled away toward London. By the time Bianca reached the breakfast room, much of the bustle had already thinned, leaving behind a softer, almost contemplative hush.

Leone was already there, seated comfortably with a cup of coffee and a plate that suggested he had every intention of lingering. He looked up as she entered, a familiar grin spreading across his face.

“Ah,” he said. “I was beginning to fear you’d fled with the others in the night.”

Bianca took the chair opposite him, smoothing her skirts as she sat. “Hardly. Someone has to ensure you don’t eat all the preserves before noon.”

He scoffed. “An unfair accusation. I leave at least a respectable portion.”

She smiled, reaching for her own cup, but her gaze drifted briefly to the window... to the distant sound of wheels crunching over frost.

“So,” Leone continued lightly, buttering a roll, “London calls. Half the household has answered. And yet here we are.”

“Yes,” Bianca said. “Here we are.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. She stirred her tea absently.

“It feels… strange,” she admitted at last. “Watching everyone leave while we remain. As though the story is meant to continue elsewhere, and yet we’ve chosen to stay behind.”

Leone studied her over the rim of his cup. “Chosen is a generous word. I’d say postponed.”

She laughed softly. “You make it sound terribly unromantic.”

“I’m your brother. It’s my duty.”

Her smile lingered, but something quieter sat beneath it.

“I don’t know whether to feel relieved or restless,” Bianca went on. “Part of me envies the certainty of it... the movement, the next chapter. And another part…” She trailed off, then shrugged. “Another part is oddly glad to stay.”

Leone leaned back in his chair. “Rosewood has a way of making one reflective,” he said. “Or sentimental. Or dangerously comfortable.”

“Dangerously?” she echoed.

He smirked. “One forgets the world exists beyond its gates.”

Bianca met his gaze, amusement flickering... then softening. “And yet the world will still be there when we return.”

“Exactly,” Leone said. “No harm in letting it wait a little.”

She nodded, fingers curling around her cup, warmth seeping into her palms.

“Well,” Leone said briskly, breaking the spell, “if we’re to be left behind, we may as well enjoy it.”

Bianca let her spoon rest against the rim of her cup, the soft clink sounding louder than it ought to in the thinning breakfast room.

“Plays,” she said thoughtfully, eyes still fixed on the window. “New ones, too. All the talk, the reviews whispered between courses. I imagine half of London will insist they saw them first.”

Leone smiled. “And half of that half will be lying.”

“Undoubtedly,” she agreed. “Still… there will be balls. Assemblies where one is expected to appear effortlessly dazzling. New gowns unveiled, alliances made before the first dance has ended.”

She sighed softly, not quite regretful, not quite relieved either.

“And concerts,” she continued. “Late evenings with too many candles and not enough air. People leaning in far too close under the pretence of hearing the music better.”

Leone raised a brow. “That does sound taxing.”

“It is,” Bianca said with a small smile. “But it is also… movement. Proof that time is passing.”

He watched her for a moment, then said gently, “You make it sound as though staying here means standing still.”

She considered that.

“Perhaps not standing still,” she said slowly. “But quieter. London forces one forward whether one is ready or not. Here…” She glanced around the room. “Here one has space to think. To feel.”

“And that troubles you?”

She shook her head. “No. It only confuses me.”

Leone chuckled softly. “You’ve always been more dangerous when left alone with your thoughts.”

“I resent that.”

“You absolutely shouldn’t.”

She laughed, then fell silent again, fingers tightening slightly around her napkin.

“I wonder what will happen without us,” she admitted. “Who will meet whom. What conversations we will not overhear. What moments will occur that we were never meant to witness.”

Leone shrugged. “Life is remarkably inconsiderate like that.”

“Yes,” Bianca said. “It carries on regardless.”

Another carriage rolled away in the distance.

“And yet,” she added, quieter now, “I cannot help thinking that missing some things might be… merciful.”

Leone tilted his head. “From what?”

She hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Expectations. Decisions. Questions I am not yet ready to answer.”

He nodded, understanding flickering across his features. “Well,” he said, reaching for another roll, “London will still be there when we arrive. And I suspect it will have saved us plenty of drama.”

“Or accumulated it,” Bianca countered.
“Even better.”

She laughed again, warmth returning, though the reflective edge remained.

“Perhaps,” Bianca said, lifting her cup once more, “there is value in arriving late.”

Leone raised his own in agreement. “To missing things.”

“And to finding others,” she added softly.

They sat there a while longer, the noise of departure fading into memory... and the quiet of Rosewood Hall settling around them, not empty, but full of unasked questions and possibilities waiting patiently to be explored.

Sorry for typos and if it feels rushed...

Last edited by schoggettchen (25/12/2025 at 22:01)

NAME
Mɪss Lᴜᴄɪɴᴅᴀ Fɪᴛᴢᴛʜᴏᴍᴀs, "Lᴜᴄʏ"

THEME SONG TBD; TBD


INTERESTS
Julien | Miles | Sebastian | Ginny



ACTIVITIES
December 24th, Christmas Eve
Tree Trimming - Winter Garden Tree Trimming
Yule Feast Dancing/Games/Kissing Bough

December 25th Christmas Day/Dinner
⭐Evelina — A hand-woven cream shawl, embroidered with dark florals and two Dalmatian silhouettes (made by Lucy in the last year)
⭐Robin - A fine leather knife sheath with a hand-stitched raven motif (stitched by Lucy in the last year)
⭐Margot - A curated memoir book (it includes pressed flowers & Margot quotes/wisdoms Lucy has collected in the last year)
⭐Ginny - A personal writing set: scented paper with monogram & sealing wax
Julian - A compact painter’s travel kit
Miles - A small tortoiseshell pocket mirror
Sebastian - A wooden boar-bristle horse brush
Ellie - A decorative seed box with selected garden seeds
Arabella - A hand-colored satirical print of fashionable ladies (London caricature)


December 31st New Years Eve
Masque Ball

January 1st New Years Day
Small Token gifts - most likely ribbons and pressed flowers for everyone lmao im gifted out from xmas - RL & @Rosewood...

January 5th Twelfth Night
Ice Skating

ROUND 3 - "The Yule Festivities" - DONE

CHAPTER 13 - "Words of Good Cheer" - DONE

I always felt the shift in the house before it fully announced itself.

Not the kind that came with weather, though the snow had been falling since before dawn, soft and persistent enough to make the grounds look newly made. This was different. It was the sense of gathering — of doors opening earlier than usual, of footsteps multiplying, of voices carrying just a little too clearly through stone halls. Christmas Eve had a way of doing that to Rosewood. It turned anticipation into noise before the day had properly begun.

I knew what was coming. The bustle. The cheer. The carefully orchestrated warmth that would arrive when the house was full and determined to celebrate itself.

I needed a moment beyond it before it took hold.

By the time the eastern windows paled from black to pewter, I had already laced my boots, drawn on gloves, and shrugged into my riding habit that smelled faintly of cold wool and stable leather. Hannah would have tried to convince me to eat something first if she had been there to witness the escape. Mother would not have stopped me. Margot would have given me that look, the one that warned but never chastised, before she’d turn away. When I moved like this… when I needed air, they all gave me the space I sought.

I did not ask for permission… I had never been taught to.

Rascal stamped impatiently when I came into the stables, his breath blooming in pale clouds, his ears pricked as if he had been waiting for me and was insulted that I had made him do so. The lantern hung by the tack hooks cast a warm circle over his shoulder, gilding the sheen of his coat and the small scar at the edge of his knee.

“You’re in a mood,” I murmured, reaching for his halter.

Rascal snorted, as if the accusation were beneath him.

I moved through the familiar steps without thinking. Buckle, strap, check the cinch twice. Fingers cold enough to sting when I tightened the leather. The quiet, comforting sound of my own competence. Thomas was not yet about, and neither were most of the grooms. I was slightly surprised that Robin was missing, but for a handful of minutes, the stables belonged to me.

When I swung into the saddle, Rascal surged forward with a contained impatience that always made me smile despite myself. He was difficult with anyone who tried to handle him… he tolerated handlers, endured trainers, but he came alive with motion. And with me, there was never any hesitation. Even at fourteen, the first time I settled into his saddle, we simply understood each other.

I could feel the ache in him to run free as we cut through the orchard lane and onto the wider path skirting Thornmere Lake. Snow whispered down, catching in Rascal’s mane, melting at my collar. The world looked softened, but it did not feel soft. The cold had teeth, and it bit at my cheeks until they tingled.

I welcomed it.

It was easier to feel clean in the cold. Easier to think. Easier to remember that the Season was a thing happening around me, not a net thrown over my head.

I let Rascal take the hill at his own pace, then slowed him at the crest where the lake lay below like a dark pane of glass. The air smelled of pine and distant smoke. Somewhere behind me, Rosewood Hall sat in its white hush, preparing to become noisy again.

Then we turned away from the lake, and I finally let him choose the line.

The trees closed in quickly, the path narrowing into something less courteous than the drives kept for guests. Snow lay thinner here, broken by old tracks and fallen needles, the ground uneven enough that he had to pay attention. He did. His ears tipped forward, his stride lengthened, and when I loosened my hold just a fraction, he surged into it as if he had been waiting for permission all morning.

We ran with an eager certainty of something finally allowed to stretch. The forest rushed past in dark trunks and pale gaps, branches snapping lightly under his hooves. I leaned with him, trusting the rhythm we had learned years ago, trusting his judgment when the ground dipped or rose without warning.

A fallen log appeared half-buried in snow, more suggestion than obstacle. Rascal gathered himself and took it cleanly, the brief weightlessness landing sharp and bright in my chest. I laughed aloud, the sound torn away by cold air before it could echo. He flicked an ear back at me, indignant, and kept going.

This was what he had been missing. What I had.

The house, the guests, the expectations fell away behind us, shaken loose by speed. My mind tried to reach for other things anyway — impressions it had no business rehearsing now. The remembered closeness of a dance, the careless brush of gloves, the unwelcome clarity of a hand at my back, another at my thigh, steadying me when I had not asked to be steadied. Faces surfaced without invitation, half-formed and irritatingly vivid.

Rascal broke them apart for me. The next bend came too quickly, the ground rising, uneven, demanding judgment instead of indulgence. I leaned into it, reins firm, weight balanced, breath matched to his stride. There was no room for lingering, not at this pace. Whatever tried to follow us was left behind, scattered by motion and cold and the simple necessity of staying upright.

We cut deeper into the trees, weaving where the path all but disappeared, grasses snapping cold against my boots. My fingers burned, my cheeks ached, my breath came fast and clean. It felt good to be this present — to be nothing but balance and motion and the simple agreement between us to keep going.

Eventually, he chose to slow. I let him have it, patting his neck, feeling the heat of him through my gloves. We walked for a while, then, steam rising gently from his shoulders, the forest was quiet around us again. His ears flicked lazily now, breath steady, snow clinging to his mane where it had melted and frozen again.

By the time we turned back toward the stables, Rascal felt like himself, spent enough to be agreeable, pleased enough to forgive the morning confinement. I felt the same. Whatever had been crowding my thoughts before had been scattered somewhere among the trees, trampled into the snow, and left behind.

At least… that’s what I wanted to believe. I needed to believe.

I slid down and led him inside, my own pulse still warm from the ride, my thoughts quieter from having tried to outrun them.

Robin was there already, brushing down one of the bays with unhurried strokes. That, in itself, was not unusual. Robin had always gravitated toward the stables the way other people sought drawing rooms. Not that the others in the house didn’t also love the horses, of course, they did. But there was something more meaningful about belonging to this place. Something that always seemed to prove foundation and acceptance.

Suddenly, he stood, and I noticed then that something was different. The edges of concern seemed less pronounced, and his shoulders sat softer now… the tension I’d noticed recently erased. When his gaze locked with mine, he smiled.

Suspiciously, I walked closer with Rascal and began loosening his tack, letting the familiar motions settle us both.

“What have you done?” I asked with a wry look, my lips halfway tilted up as I peeked over the horse’s back. Robin had followed my lead, the brush in his hand now inching down Rascal’s shoulders to the beast's enthusiastic contentment.

“What makes you think I’ve done anything, sweet sister?”

“Oh, nothing…” I wrinkled my nose, “just that look you have every time you’re about to ask me to cover for some idiotic escapade you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“You say that as if you would ever say no.”

I pulled up a bit straighter, my arm resting against Rascal’s neck, “I’m still standing here listening… I think that counts for something.”

“Can’t a man just be in a fine mood without you suspecting mischief?”

I knew he was joking, but the way he said it… with that playful grin on his face. The resemblance suddenly struck. Unbidden and disconcerting.

“I don’t recall that being your preferred mood this past week.”

He laughed at that, low and quiet, and went back to brushing Rascal’s shoulder while I turned away to work at Rascal’s buckles. For a moment, neither of us said anything, but my stomach flipped trying to push that unwanted face from my mind, hating that he kept creeping into my thoughts.

“I spoke to him.”

I shot my gaze at him and froze. My fingers shook so much I couldn’t even finish the girth… it was like they simply no longer seemed to know what they were meant to be doing. Words tripped over themselves in my mind, confusion… deflection… curiosity…

“Oh.” It was pale in comparison.

Unluckily for me, he waited. Looking quite comfortable, and terribly unhurried.

That his brow inched the tiniest bit made me incredibly conscious of every single thing around us. A shovel scraping the walkway outside, a ticking of a clock above the tack wall on the far side of the stable… Rascal’s sudden huff of impatience as we both stood around him with unfinished grooming. I swallowed a little lump and turned back to my task.

“Lord Seymour, I presume?”

“Yes.”

Seconds ticked by, loud in my ears, and leather creaked softly under my fingers as I worked to unfasten the straps. Nothing else came. I released a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding and peered back at him.

Robin stood now, leaning his shoulder against the stall door, watching me instead of the horse.

“And?” I finally asked.

“It was… better than I expected.” He offered. I would have said unhelpfully, but I didn’t even want to admit the interest to myself. Or hated myself because of it.

I tried. I really did. But as the quiet stretched out, it seemed like the most difficult thing in the absolute world to just let it settle.

“Do go on…” I huffed. “You’re dying to get it off your chest.”

“Mine?”

“Robin…” I said softly, cleared my throat, “better… how?”

His grin was annoying and charming all at once. Very typically Robin… and yet. I shook my head quickly, but thankfully Robin seemed to be in his thoughts, considering my question instead of noticing the flush that crept into my cheeks.

“We talked.” He said, then added. “It was good… uncomplicated. It felt like… well, I don’t think either of us knew how much we  wanted it to be done.”

I considered teasing him about how often I’d suggested they speak, but the words lodged in my throat. I resumed unbuckling Rascal, as my attention drifted. Miles Seymour had never struck me as a man who did anything easily, and hearing otherwise sat strangely against my last memory of him…  moonlit, dismissive, careful to put space where it suited him.

“I’m glad,” I finally said. “I know that’s been weighing on you.”

Robin’s expression softened at that, just for a moment, before he masked it with a shrug, and he sent me another of his arched looks.

“You’re not going to ask for details.”

“Eventually,” I admitted. “But not just yet.”

He laughed, genuinely this time. “A Christmas miracle.”

I glanced at him, but thankfully, he was lifting Rascal’s saddle and moving it towards the nearest rack. Rascal shifted his weight and tossed his head impudently, reluctantly resigned to the end of his freedom for the morning.

I gathered his reins while something faintly unsettling stirred despite myself… not because of what he’d said, but because of what it suggested. That people could be surprising. That maybe some judgments might have been made prematurely. Or that sometimes the things that were thought finished might only have been paused.

I seriously did not like the lane my mind was traveling.

“Well,” I said, with deliberate care, “I’m glad it went as it did.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

I refused to let that be the end of it, because I knew him too well, and perhaps, just a little bit, I wanted to avoid thinking any deeper at that very moment.

“So,” I said briskly, shifting back to familiar ground. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Robin choked on a laugh while passing Rascal off to a groom who had finally appeared, blinking and half-asleep. The stable began filling with early movement now, the quiet hour ending.

“That miracle ran its course quickly.”

“You look like you did,” I pointed out, without acknowledging his comment.

Robin’s eyes gleamed.

“That’s because you weren’t there to ruin it.”

I narrowed my eyes, then felt my mouth betray me with the beginning of a smile.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

Robin looked pleased with himself for earning it.

Then, because he was Robin and he could never leave a moment unprovoked, he said, “You’re very invested.”

I felt my cheeks heat, immediately and infuriatingly

“I was invested in you not acting like a haunted man every time he breathed in the same building,” I snapped.

“Mmm.”

I glared, but where I expected to find a teasing grin, I found a considerate expression that left me incredibly uneasy. But the house bell rang faintly in the distance, the signal that breakfast would begin soon, and whatever he’d been thinking… whatever I’d started to feel was diminished when he plucked Rascal’s halter from me and started toward the stable door.

“You should go wash your face or something… you look like you’ve given the morning a proper chase.”

I smoothed a curl that had escaped my bonnet, a casualty of my reckless dash through the forest, and exhaled. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned, “That’s why you love me.”

~~~~~~⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️~~~~~~~


By the time I returned from the east wing, fresh-faced and properly dressed, Rosewood had fully woken.

Breakfast was loud in the way Rosewood always became noisy when Mother wanted it to. Not disorderly or discomforting, just full, warm, and intentionally busy.

I walked into the room and felt the energy immediately. Ginny was practically vibrating in her chair. Ellie’s eyes were bright. In fact, every face in the room looked entertained, as though they’d been handed an unexpected sweet. Mother sat at the head with her usual composure, and I could tell by the calm set of her mouth that she was enjoying herself.

The surprise was delivered with the practiced ease of someone who knew precisely how to make a household gasp without losing control of it. Three tall pines, supplied at the Queen’s directive, stood like newly appointed sentinels in the hallways, their branches dark and heavy with the promise of decoration. The room filled with voices, delighted and bewildered all at once, as if greenery had transformed into a spectacle simply by being called a new custom.

I watched faces. I watched hands reach out to touch needles. I watched people look at Mother as if she had conjured the trees herself. She received it all with that unreadable grace of hers, amused and calm. I felt my own mouth curve despite myself.

It was absurd… and yet it was also strangely lovely, this idea of bringing a living thing inside and insisting it become celebratory.

We were back to building decorations before the morning was out. Holly, ivy, ribbons, twine. Fingers pricked by needles. Laughter when someone dropped a spool, and it rolled away. The house filled again with the scent of evergreen and sap.

I moved through it with practiced steadiness, but I noticed… in the edges of my awareness… that Robin looked lighter. Less guarded. He spoke more. He laughed once, real and sudden, when Ginny declared the Queen had clearly sent the trees as a personal test of their taste. Ellie's and Arabella's heads were drawn together, giggling over something privately.

In another corner, Julian, Sebastian, and Miles huddled together, discussing the attributes of quality twine good-naturedly. Or so it seemed. The truth was, I tried my very best to avoid that direction of the room. It had been only a few days since I’d seen them, since I’d had my night complicated in such strange, unidentifiable ways… but the sting of that night had yet to fade away.

Seeing everyone so well at ease should have been relaxing to me. It certainly pleased my mother. But it left me restless instead. And exasperated.

I was slightly delayed in relocating when the household divided into groups to trim the trees, having decided to oversee the clean-up of the decoration making. But in the end, I decided to make my way to the conservatory, expecting the more ‘refined’ guests to settle into the interior of the manor.

Most notably, him.

The Winter Garden was already warm when I arrived, the air heavy with pine and damp earth, glass panes fogged faintly where breath had gathered and lingered. The tree stood near the center, tall and proud and freshly set into its stand, its lower branches tied back with ribbon to keep them from sweeping the floor. Sunlight filtered through the frosted roof above, pale and diffused, turning the green deeper and the gold accents brighter.

It was, I had to admit, beautiful.

Mother stood near the trunk, directing with effortless authority, her gloved hand occasionally lifting to indicate where an ornament should go or where a branch needed coaxing. Margot hovered nearby with a ribbon looped over her wrist, overseeing supplies with the quiet competence that made chaos behave. Constantine seemed more interested in the lady to his left than in the array of bulbs that needed to be arranged in front of him.

And Miles… was leaning against a crate of ornaments as if the entire affair were unfolding solely for his amusement.

He had his sleeves rolled to his forearms, gloves abandoned somewhere unseen, a length of ribbon dangling carelessly from his fingers. He was laughing at something Mother had said… genuinely laughing, his head tipped back slightly, posture loose, and at ease in a way that made the space feel smaller around him. It was the sort of presence that rearranged rooms without asking permission.

I felt it the moment I stepped inside. But not just that… I also had that infuriating tightness against my ribs that swelled in those first few moments of furtive observation. It was an awareness that I desperately wished was less… aware.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t surrounded by a swarm of devotees and supporters at that moment… and when he looked around, he certainly caught me staring. Quivers raced along my spine, fast and upsetting, when he tossed a grin at me as if he’d been waiting for some way to be entertained. Pride had me lift my chin; memory made me look away.

I almost got away with an escape.

“Ah, Lucy, darling… perfect timing.”

I directed my gaze to Mother, one arm stretched out and a string of ribbon held out… intent obvious. I attempted no further eye contact with him as I answered the summons, my fingers curling around the offering in quiet compliance.

“Miss Fitzthomas,” he said, straightening just enough to be polite. “How kind of you to join us. I was beginning to suspect you’d abandoned all festive duties in favor of solitude.”

“What nonsense, Lord Seymour… decorating the house is one of my Lucy’s favorite things.”

“Is that right?”

I barely managed to keep my expression even, not only at Miles’ obvious false welcome, but at my mother’s exposure.

“Mother knows I’d do anything for my family… including decorating.”

“I admire your dedication.”

He pushed off the crate and crossed the space between us with easy confidence, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of cold still clinging to his coat, but just enough to maintain proper decorum. Especially around a crowd of spectators, ever ready for any tidbit of potential gossip.

Not that I wanted differently, of course. I barely contained my sigh. Why was I so irritated by his rejection that night?

My spine straightened.

And when had I decided he had rejected me?

I was just upset that he’d been the first to step back, that’s all. And that he’d done it in fear of being caught alone with me… a nobody.

“Do you?”

“I do, family can inspire a variety of different sentiments… in my experience.”

I glanced at him then, confused and shamefully curious.

“Miles,” my mother said lightly, “if you intend to converse, you may do it while holding something. You are loitering.”

Miles bowed his head in mock submission. “Countess, I am holding several things. My dignity. My patience. My profound admiration for your hospitality.”

Margot’s mouth twitched once, betraying amusement before she smothered it. I didn’t like that I almost did the same, even avoiding looking at my mother to see her reaction to his ridiculousness. Instead, I stepped toward the tree with the ribbon and began threading it through the branches with deliberate care.

Miles followed and took the other end of the ribbon without asking, his fingers brushing mine in the process. The touch was brief… accidental by circumstance… and still it sent a small, furious shock through my arm.

I hated that my gaze flicked to him. Loathed that his locked on mine, and worse, that he caught the tell in an instant.

He grinned.

If it wasn’t for the expectation hanging over me, I might have raced from the room immediately. I badly wanted to retreat, let him have this moment… a victory of sorts. After the other night, I was not prepared for… well, this reception.

But wasn’t this exactly who he was? Both mysterious, curious… cautious when no one was looking, and a bright, blinding light when we were.

We.

The word caught, sharp and unwelcome. I did not want to be counted among them.

I tried for a calm I did not feel while slipping my end of the ribbon carefully between branches. That he lifted his end easily, looping it over a branch with careless confidence, as if he had been born understanding exactly how to make something look effortless, only added to my annoyance.

I adjusted his line with more precision because I could not help it.

Miles watched my work with the same unsettling attentiveness he always seemed to wield when he chose to be present.

“You like order,” he said.

“I like things done properly,” I corrected.

Miles smiled.

“And yet you keep finding yourself in situations that are… decidedly improper,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough that it felt like it belonged only to me.

My fingers slipped for a fraction, and the garland sagged.

I recovered instantly, jaw tightening.

“You are mistaken,” I said.

Miles’s smile did not fade.

“Am I?” he asked, yet there was no real question in it.

I twisted sharply, slightly relieved that Mother had her head bent over whatever she and Margot were discussing in her little ledger.

“You are incorrigible!”

Miles smiled, utterly unapologetic… as if I had actually offered him a compliment.

“I am,” he agreed. “But not always. Only when you’re looking at me like that.”

My eyes narrowed further.

“Like what?”

Miles’s gaze dropped briefly to my mouth… not lingering long enough to be scandalous, but long enough to be unmistakable.

“Like you’re deciding whether to throw something at my head,” he said. “Or whether to do something worse.”

My breath caught, quick.

Then Miles straightened as if nothing had happened and lifted another length of garland.

“Well,” he said breezily, louder now, perfectly social, “if we’re to make this look as if the Queen herself approves, we’ll need more ribbon. Lady de Vere, do you have any color preference?”

Margot’s head lifted, eyes narrowing in faint suspicion at Miles’s sudden helpfulness.

My mind scrambled to recalibrate.

Because that… that was the problem. He could pivot so easily. The way he could be private and unsettling and then, in the next breath, become excellent company for everyone in the room. He could make me feel as if I were being singled out and then remind me, with practiced grace, that I was not the center of anything. Just an interruption.

I kept my hands busy. I fixed branches. I adjusted ornaments. I listened to Constantine’s charmed anecdotes with half an ear and Mother’s occasional remarks with more regard. I watched Margot’s eyes flick, always tracking, always measuring.

And I tried, with limited success, not to feel the pull of Miles’s presence whenever he moved near me again, whenever his sleeve brushed mine, whenever he said something that was meant to make me glance up.

He did.

Over and over.

Sometimes I answered with sharpness. Sometimes I pretended not to hear.

Sometimes… infuriatingly… I laughed.

And his eyes gleamed with victory every time that happened.

CHAPTER 14 - "When The Bough Breaks" - DONE

Everything changed at Christmas time. It was inevitable. Usually in small ways, always meaningful.

I stood at my looking glass while Hannah tightened the last ribbon at my shoulder, and I tried to persuade myself that my body was composed simply because I had decided it would be. My hair had been pinned into something tidy enough to satisfy Mother’s eye, and my dress was pale, with a dark ribbon just under my bust that made me look more deliberate than I felt.

Hannah stepped back, surveyed her work, and smiled as if she had dressed a woman who belonged to this evening.

“You’ll be a vision, Miss Lucy,” she said, pleased with herself.

Words stuck in my throat for a moment, but finally they choked out, soft and more uncertain than I was used to.

“Thank you, Hannah.”

Once she left, I lingered at the door a moment, gathering the courage I knew I had before stepping into the corridor. The sound of the feast was already gathering below… the scrape of chairs, the lift of conversation, the clink of glass, the low persuasion of music being tuned.

Then I went down.

The fires were higher, the lamps steadier, the corridors scented with beeswax and clove and whatever sweet had been warming in the kitchens since afternoon. Servants moved with practiced speed. Laughter rose and settled again, as if everyone had agreed to be a little kinder for the night.

Mother stood near the threshold, Margot at her side with the faintest smile on her mouth.

I crossed to them before I could overthink it, and whatever composure I’d been clinging to shifted into something simpler.

“Happy Christmas Eve, Mother,” I said, and kissed her cheek.

Her hand came to my face for a brief moment, thumb brushing my jaw with warmth that made my throat tighten. “And to you, my love.”

I turned to Margot and hugged her before she could make her usual attempt at dodging affection. She stiffened for a heartbeat, then her arms tightened around me with quiet firmness.

“You look…”

“Myself, I hope…” I uttered softly, cutting off whatever she might have been ready to say.

She pulled back, hands gripping my arms as she scanned my face. “Of course.”

The statement was firm… more of a reminder than an agreement. It might have been odd to others how those simple words could strengthen my spine.

Mother’s eyes warmed faintly at us.

Her mouth twitched. “You both are expected to enjoy the evening. That is a command.”

I laughed, as did Margot, just a touch more reserved.

Ginny appeared at my elbow as if she had been waiting for the exact moment to interrupt tenderness.

“Merry Yuletide, Aunt,” she grinned broadly, full of exuberance. She added an equally joyful greeting for Margot before linking her arm in mine and making excuses to drag me away. “I’ve been waiting on you!”

“I dare to wonder why…”

She just grinned before allowing her gaze to slide over my dress, then up to my face, softening in a way she rarely allowed in public. “You look lovely.”

Her dress was a shade of blue that made her look like a winter ornament brought to life, her hair pinned with something that caught the candlelight when she moved.

“Thank you, Ginny… but not as delightful as you.”

Ginny beamed. “Thank you. I intend to cause distress.”

“I’m sure you will manage it,” I said, and she laughed.

Her gaze flicked past my shoulder toward the dining room doors, and her grin turned sly. “I suspect your evening will be eventful.”

I arched my brow. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she replied, unbothered. “Threats are seasonal.”

Before I could demand what that meant, she leaned closer, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “Your dancing is going to be a catastrophe."

“For whom?”

“For you, if you spend it pretending you do not notice anything,” she said. “For everyone else, if you do.”

“Ginny…”

She only smiled. “You have… attention coming at you from several directions. It’s almost impressive.”

My face warmed, partly from the candles, but mostly from her words.

“I’m afraid you overestimate what attention means.”

“Do I?” She hummed softly, guiding me toward the table. “I suppose we will see.”

The Yule Feast had been generous. Too much food, too many toasts, too much laughter building upon itself until it became a kind of noise you could not escape without being rude.

Now the plates had been cleared. Someone had found a fiddle and insisted upon playing it as if we were not in a house full of distinguished guests pretending not to enjoy themselves too much.

I sensed the disruption before I needed to look. The elevated voices… the giggling and loud whispers that seemed to follow him around like a magnetic pull.

I told myself I would not.

I looked anyway.

Miles stood near the hearth with two young ladies, his posture relaxed, his smile bright. He spoke with that effortless charm that made people lean closer, and when one of them laughed again… too loudly and with too much attention, he looked pleased with himself, as if he had earned the sound.

I watched him give attention back in measured doses, each glance offered like a small gift. He touched a lady’s hand briefly as he helped her navigate around a chair, and she flushed as though she had been kissed.

It was ridiculous… and somehow it worked.

Ginny appeared at my side again, elbow nudging mine. “Do not stare,” she murmured.

“I am not staring.”

Ginny’s eyes gleamed. “You are taking inventory.”

I exhaled sharply. “Ginny.”

She only hummed, pleased with herself. “Come. There are games.”

She led me to them, keeping me tethered with her elbow and her commentary.

The adjoining room had been laid out with gaiety and companionship in mind. Chairs were pulled into a loose circle, tables cleared for cards, and little dares that made grown adults behave like children. Someone proposed forfeits. Someone else pretended it to be a scandal and then agreed immediately.

I found myself getting pulled into it by Ginny’s effortless charm. Robin sauntered over, insisting on sitting near enough to offer additional commentary while she kept declaring rules that did not exist. Ellie and Arabella were there as well, laughing with full merriment at the nonsense. Sebastian was quite composed and thoroughly invested… plus skilled enough to mitigate losses against his very respectable winnings. Even Julian lurked near the edge, looking less like he wished to evaporate than he had at other times.

Miles joined at some point, taking a seat across the table like it belonged to him. He accepted a deck of cards with a grin that made several women sigh outright.

He played beautifully. He played like a man who enjoyed winning and enjoyed making others believe they might win first.

When he laughed, the room seemed to answer.

I told myself it was irritating.

My body disagreed.

I had a measure of relief when Ginny finally grew bored with cards and decided dancing was just the thing to relieve that boredom. I would admit only to myself that I noticed the timing seemed to coincide with Lord Cattanoe’s exit from the gaming hall.

Inside, the drawing room was warm with bodies and candlelight. Conversation stacked itself into a pleasant hum. Music drifted from somewhere beyond, the beginning of something that promised rhythm and movement.

A small commotion rose near the chandelier, laughter climbing into something half-shocked, half-thrilled. I heard someone whisper about tradition. I heard someone else reply with delighted disbelief.

Ginny’s eyes flashed. “Oh.”

“What,” I demanded.

Ginny’s smile turned wicked. “We have a bough.”

I followed her gaze upward before I could stop myself.

A sphere of woven branches and greenery hung above the center of the room, heavy with holly and ivy, threaded with mistletoe and ribbon. The berries gleamed pale and bold, as if they had been placed there with full knowledge of the trouble they invited.

A lady was coaxed beneath it by her laughing friends. A gentleman followed, feigning reluctance and then accepting the sport with a grin. The room erupted in applause when he kissed her cheek, then brushed her mouth, quick enough to keep it playful, bold enough to make everyone gasp anyway.

Someone declared that refusing brought bad luck.

Someone else insisted luck mattered on Christmas Eve.

The bough became a magnet.

I stayed at the edge. I found reasons to move away toward safer corners and pretended I had no interest in the entire absurd arrangement.

Sebastian was a relief when he inquired about a dance. He was charming, pleasant company, and his steadiness did something kind to my nerves. His hand at my waist was firm enough to be secure, his gaze level rather than roving.

“You seem settled tonight,” he observed, with a gentleness I appreciated at that moment.

“I wish that were true,” I admitted unwittingly, then blushed. He gave the faintest smile.

“Then you carry it well.”

I released a breath and a soft laugh. “That’s a relief.”

We moved through the set, and Sebastian’s calm felt like a smooth surface beneath the candlelight.

“Your household looks… pleased,” he said after a moment, eyes flicking briefly toward my mother and Margot near the doorway.

“They are,” I replied. “That was the intention.”

Sebastian’s brows lifted slightly. “And yours.”

My intention seemed to fluctuate depending on the moment. “I am learning to tolerate things.”

Sebastian’s expression stayed unreadable, yet something in his eyes softened. “Tolerance is a beginning.”

It was said with such quiet certainty that it made my chest tighten, then ease again.

When the music ended, he bowed, then stepped back without lingering. It left me oddly grateful, as if he had offered me space as a gift.

Robin swept in before I could settle, grinning like a man who had decided the evening belonged to him.

“Dance,” he said, not asking.

“Is that how you speak to ladies?” I replied, though I took his hand.

“It is how I speak to you,” he said, and spun me out with enough exuberance that my skirt flared wider than decorum would have preferred.

Robin danced like he lived… boldly, with too much confidence, with a stubborn refusal to be restrained by anyone’s expectations. He made me laugh, properly, because my body simply gave in to the absurdity of his grin and the joy of his momentum.

“There,” he murmured as he guided me through a turn. “That face. That is the correct one.”

“You are impossible,” I said.

Robin’s eyes gleamed. “And beloved.”

His touch was familiar, the kind of contact that carried no question. It reminded me, fiercely, that love could be simple.

Unguarded, my smile lingered as I watched Robin slip through the crowd to whatever mischief he aimed for at the end of our dance.

Then I froze when I locked eyes with Miles across the room, speaking with a new lady who seemed to be hanging on to his every word. His smile tilted, his gaze brightened. He looked perfectly content, perfectly social, and perfectly at ease.

Shaken, I sought solace at the refreshment table… a cool beverage and perhaps a sweet treat to settle my nerves.

“I am told this night is meant to be joyful.”

The voice was gentle, curious… only slightly startling as it attempted to pull me from my unease.

“You are capable of joy,” I replied, turning toward Julian, who reached for a flute of champagne from the table.

He glanced down at me, amused. “An accusation.”

“A simple observation.”

Julian’s mouth tilted. “You enjoy saying that.”

“I enjoy being accurate.”

He made a soft sound that I was certain was laughter. “How like the Countess you are.”

“Thank you.”

He could give no greater compliment. He actually chuckled.

“You looked as if you were calculating the quickest exit.”

“And you, sir, are being indelicate with your observations,” I muttered. “If someone hears you, I may get blocked in my endeavour.”

“I shall be your greatest defender… none shall delay you under my watch.”

I almost smiled fully. “You are enjoying yourself.”

There was no question. Julian’s gaze slid past my shoulder toward the far side of the room, and something flickered there, a private thought he chose not to voice. When he looked back at me, his tone stayed light. “I am… less miserable than expected.”

Somehow, that felt like enough.

“Good,” I said. “It suits you better… less misery.”

“Miss Fitzthomas… Lockwood…”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled madly at the voice suddenly behind me. My stomach coiled into a taut knot and I hesitated, but reluctantly I turned.

“Seymour.” Julian nodded.

“I had hoped for the lady’s next dance… unless you’ve already claimed the pleasure?”

“By all means,” Julian replied easily.

So much for defending my retreat.

“My lady?”

Miles’ hand stretched out before me in invitation.

I hesitated only long enough to feel Julian’s gaze on the side of my face, steady and unreadable, before I placed my fingers into Miles’s palm.

His grip closed around mine with warm certainty. He did not tug… he simply turned as if the choice had already been made, guiding me back toward the open space where the music was beginning to gather itself into a proper set.

“You look as if you are about to argue with the very concept of dancing,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough to belong only to me.

“I am perfectly capable of dancing,” I replied.

His mouth tilted. “I said nothing about capability.”

“That is usually what you mean.”

Miles’s eyes gleamed as he drew me into position. His hand settled at my waist with practiced ease, firm enough to steady, light enough to be polite. The first steps came, and my body answered them with instinct, relief rushing through me at having something to do other than stand still and be read.

“You are less sharp when you move,” he observed after a turn, as if it were a compliment.

“You are in fine spirits,” I said instead.

“And you are trying very hard to look unaffected by it,” he replied.

I felt my pulse trip. Miles did nothing dramatic with the moment. He only lifted my hand on the next beat, turned me with effortless control, then caught me again as if it were the simplest thing in the world to take me apart and put me back together without anyone noticing.

When I faced him again, his gaze held mine, bright with amusement that felt almost… pleased.

“You enjoyed the cards,” I accused, because it was safer than admitting anything else.

“I enjoyed watching you pretend you did not enjoy them,” he said.

“Your attention was quite preoccupied.”

Miles’s smile widened. “Ah.”

That sound said entirely too much, but before I could decide on how to respond, the set shifted, bodies moved around us, and the room pressed in with laughter and movement. Miles guided me through it without breaking the rhythm, and somehow he made the crowd feel like a curtain drawn back rather than a wall.

“You look at everyone as if you are counting them,” he said quietly as we stepped through the set.

“It is called paying attention.”

“Mm,” he hummed, and his thumb brushed once, absent-mindedly, at the edge of my waist ribbon as if he were adjusting something that was already perfect. “Then pay attention to this.”

I opened my mouth to demand what he meant, but the music carried us forward, and the room’s current carried us with it.

A ripple of laughter rose ahead of us, sudden and delighted. The crowd shifted, parting and closing again, and Miles angled our steps with the same calm certainty he’d had all evening… until the air changed.

I felt it before I saw it.

The light above us seemed to thicken. The hum of voices sharpened into anticipation.

Miles’ eyes lifted ever so briefly, then his smile turned… slow. I followed his gaze.

My stomach flipped so hard it felt like my body had betrayed me.

The bough hung directly over our heads.

I moved to step away, but his hand at my back was steady. Not demanding but sure. Our gazes locked again. A hush of attention pressed in, sudden and expectant.

“It seems we have wandered into peril.”

“I have no intention of making a spectacle,” I said through my teeth.

Miles’s eyes gleamed. “Then don’t.”

I stared at him, breath tight.

“Though it is obvious that everyone believes in superstition tonight,” he said softly.

“I do not.”

Miles’s eyes gleamed. “That is courageous.”

“That is sensible.”

He laughed under his breath, then leaned closer by a fraction, voice lowering further. “The berries,” he murmured, eyes flicking upward again. “One is removed for proof. When they are gone, the bough loses its privilege.”

Around us, the room waited. I could feel it… the collective hope for entertainment, for scandal softened into tradition, for something that would be talked about tomorrow over breakfast as if it were harmless.

My pulse hammered so loudly I was certain everyone could hear it. In my throat, my ears… everywhere.

The room waited.

“You may refuse,” he said, and his eyes flicked to my mouth. I heard the words land like a challenge.

I could have turned my face away. I could have forced a laugh. I could have offered him my cheek and made it safe. I should have done any of those things.

Instead… I tilted my chin.

It was the smallest choice.

It felt like stepping off a cliff.

Miles’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly, and for the first time all evening I saw something in him that did not seem so certain.

He leaned in. I leaned closer, meeting him instead of awaiting him.

It was delicate and inexperienced. Initially.

I wasn’t sure if the hitch of breath was his or mine. All I knew was that his mouth was warm against mine, and it made my stomach flip, violent and bright.

My eyes drifted shut, and when my lips moved against his… seeking… examining… the room just disappeared. Not because I forgot it existed, but because I could not afford to think of it.

My hand rose without permission and caught at his sleeve, fingers curling at his forearm to anchor myself.

It was too much. It was not enough.

When he finally drew back, the room rushed in again with laughter and applause and delighted scandal dressed as sport.

Someone cheered.

Someone called out something about berries.

Miles reached up, plucked a single berry from the bough with maddening composure, then held it between two fingers as if it were a prize.

He looked at me over it.

“Proof,” he murmured.

I glared because my cheeks were on fire, and my mouth still tingled from him.

Miles smiled, pleased… and then bowed to the room as if he had done them all a favor.

He offered me his hand. I took it, and he guided me out from beneath the bough with perfect politeness. His composure was so intact that it felt like a private cruelty. The air around us had changed… and he wore it like nothing more than good manners.”

As soon as we were a step beyond the chandelier’s reach, he leaned close, voice for me alone.

“You kissed me,” he murmured, and I could hear the satisfaction in it.

“I did,” I hissed.

Miles’s smile widened. “Voluntarily.”

“Don’t.”

He chuckled softly. “You’re rattled.”

“I am not.”

Miles’s gaze flicked to my mouth again, and I wanted to hit him.

“Liar,” he murmured, delighted.

I tightened my grip on his hand, not for affection… for control. “Go flirt with someone else.”

Miles’s eyes sparked. “I did.”

That landed like a slap, stupid and sharp.

Then he leaned in again, his tone quieter, almost serious.

“And then you stood under the bough with me.”

My chest tightened.

I did not have an answer for that.

Miles released my hand with exaggerated courtesy, then stepped back just enough to restore decorum.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Fitzthomas,” he said lightly, as if nothing had happened.

I stared at him.

Miles’s grin returned, bright and cocky as ever, and he vanished into the crowd, leaving me feeling like he had just carved something into me I would be forced to carry.

Ginny appeared at my elbow a moment later, eyes wide with wicked delight.

She took one look at my face and made a sound of pure satisfaction.

“I knew it,” she whispered.

I did not answer.

I could not.

My mouth still felt like his.

And somewhere above us, the bough swayed gently, as if it had been laughing the whole time.

CHAPTER 15 - "Tidings of Comfort & Joy" - DONE

Christmas morning arrived with bitter cold and bells, as it so often did. Voices were softer in the corridors. Footsteps had less hurry. Even the servants seemed to pass one another with a gentler awareness, as if the day itself demanded restraint.

The only difference that year was the number of guests traveling along the eastern side of the estate over shoveled paths and past snow-softened hedges. The air outside had teeth, crisp enough to sting the inside of my nose when I breathed even over that short distance. We walked in wrapped winter coats and silence… a shared solemnness that felt welcoming instead of isolating.

Inside St. Isolde’s Church, the candlelight warmed the stone and wood, while evergreen dressed the arches and the railings in quiet celebration. The service passed with familiar steadiness. Traditional prayers and hymns evoked voices that rose and fell together. The bible readings of the nativity and following sermon had heads bowing and hands folded at just the right moments.

There was comfort in being one small figure among many, all of us briefly subject to the same quiet rhythm.

It felt right to begin that way… not with celebration, but with reverence.

By the time we returned to the main house, the rooms felt warmer… and the expectations less sharp

People lingered after luncheon. Someone read aloud in the smaller parlor until another complained they could not possibly be expected to appreciate literature on a holiday. Robin argued back that it was precisely the day for it, as if he had ever cared for the proper use of anything. Margot disappeared for an hour and returned with her hair slightly less severe than usual, which I chose to take as an act of goodwill.

Others drifted in and out of conversation without the sharp edge of the Season pressing every silence into meaning. It should have calmed me entirely.

It did not.

Last night still sat too close beneath my skin, like a warmth that refused to fade simply because the day had turned sacred. I told myself I was being absurd. I told myself it had been nothing more than tradition and circumstance.

I told myself, firmly, that I would be normal. Reminded myself of the day… of what I should be doing. Not glancing at every doorway expecting to see Miles. Or catch myself touching my mouth now and again as if it had become a traitor.

That I would not replay that bough moment like a wound I kept pressing.

None of this succeeded for long.

By afternoon, the house had settled into smaller clusters: a few by the fire, a few in the music room, a few wandering the galleries with the idle curiosity of people who had nothing pressing to do and too much warmth to leave. I escaped into one of the smaller sitting rooms, grateful for its quiet. The windows looked out toward the snow-bright grounds, and the furniture was arranged close enough to make conversation feel inevitable.

Ginny arrived the way she always did when she meant business… as if the corridor had delivered her on command.

She closed the door behind her, softly and definitively… with enough care that I looked up at once.

“You’re hiding,” she said.

“I’m breathing,” I replied.

Ginny crossed the room and stopped near the window, then turned back toward me as if the glass could not possibly contain what she was about to say. But whatever it was that was on her mind, she placed it on hold after looking over me.

“Do you wish to talk about it?”

I felt the grin tugging down at the corners a tiny bit.

“Thank you, but no.” My voice betrayed me slightly, cracking on the last word. I cleared my throat. “I… I do not know where to begin… or end for that matter.”

“Typically, why talking about matters helps…”

I arched a brow, shoving my troubles aside. “I feel as if this is coming full circle.”

Ginny searched my face momentarily, then began to pace. I sat a bit straighter when she began nibbling on her lower lip.

“Perhaps you should tell me outright, I’d hate for you to earn my mother’s wrath by burning a path into her rug.”

She suddenly stopped, wrung her hands together, then rushed over to perch on the edge of the chair closest to me.

“Lucy… you must promise that you will not tell a soul.”

I reached over, pressing my fingers over hers. “You should know you need not even ask.”

She hesitated. “Yes. I know. But you may caution against silence.”

“Then I likely would have a good reason.”

Ginny huffed, and I could tell that this was no light matter.

“What is it, Ginny?”

Another pause stretched between us before she finally blurted the truth.

“I am going to London.”

I waited, certain there must be more. What sort of revelation was this? And why did it have her so wound into knots?

“There is another innovation fair—”

“Ginny…” I said in a hushed tone.

“Lucy, you promised!” she exclaimed and rushed back to her feet.

“I promised caution if it were warranted.”

“I must go, don’t you see.”

I held my tongue, but I clearly did not see. I frowned slightly as she struggled for her words. She gave a short, humorless laugh, then returned to the chair at last. Her eyes were bright, not with excitement, but with strain.

“I have invested,” she said, and the words came out more sharply than she intended. She exhaled, then tried again, slower. “Most of what I had. Not everything. I am not entirely mad. But enough that I can feel it every time I sit down to write a letter and realize I am counting coins in my head.”

I held my gaze steady.

Ginny’s chin lifted, stubborn and proud, though the skin beneath her eyes looked tired.

“An inventor,” she said. “A man with a mind that moves faster than his manners. He spoke as if the future belonged to him, and for a moment I believed it did. I believed him. I believed in what he promised.”

She paused, swallowed, then continued.

“And now he has not answered me in weeks.”

The room felt warmer than it should have, as if the fire had noticed the confession and leaned closer.

Ginny’s fingers twisted together, then stilled, then twisted again.

“I cannot sit here,” she said quietly. “I cannot spend the rest of the Season pretending this is not happening while my money… my judgment… sits somewhere in London with a man who may have vanished entirely.”

“Do you think he has?” I asked.

Ginny’s mouth tightened. “I do not know what to think, and that is the problem.”

“What do you want from London?” I asked, “certainty… or confrontation.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, then softened at the edges.

“Both,” she admitted. “I want to find him. I want to know whether I have been foolish. I want to know whether he is… afraid, or selfish, or simply distracted by the thousand things he likes more than replying to a letter.”

“And if the answer is unkind,” I said, “what then?”

She blinked, and for a second her composure threatened to crack. It did not. Ginny held herself together by force of will, the way other people held themselves together by faith.

“Then I will have to tell Aunt Evelina,” she said, and the name came out with a tenderness she rarely revealed. “Because she will find out eventually, and I would rather she hear it from me than from the mouth of someone who thinks it makes an amusing story.”

“She may be able to help now… if you enlist her aid.”

“And show what a colossal blunder I have made when it is still possible I may resolve matters on my own.”

She was right to anticipate my caution. This sounded not only risky but too stubborn even for her. What might happen if she headed off to London alone?

“You will have to tell her,” I stated. “But you do not have to do it alone.”

Ginny’s eyes flickered, as if she meant to deflect with wit and found none sharp enough.

“Do not,” she warned.

“I am not pitying you,” I said. “I am offering you the only thing that makes sense.”

Ginny stared at me for a long moment, then exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing by a fraction. She nodded once, sharply, as if she did not trust herself to nod gently.

“I am telling you,” she said, “because I cannot keep it alone anymore. And because if I do have to tell her… I want someone on my side before I do.”

My throat tightened.

“You have me,” I said. “You always will.”

Ginny’s face shifted, something raw flickering beneath her usual brightness.

“Thank you, Lucy,” she added, and I understood what saying that meant to her.

I stood, shaking my head, and held out my hand. “Enough of this… for now. It will have to be revisited soon enough, but for now… I have something I want to give you.”

She frowned, taking my hand. I linked her arm through mine and escorted her up to my room.

“What is happening?”

I smiled, “It is Christmas!”

She looked at me skeptically.

Only once we were alone, behind my closed door, did I pull the parcel from its hiding space. Her brow was lifted still.

“I have something for you,” I said. I waited until she had taken a seat, then held out the packet before she could make a joke of it.

It was neatly wrapped, tied with a narrow yellow ribbon, tied with quiet precision. She untied it quickly, curiosity winning out, and stilled when she saw what lay inside.

The paper inside was thick and fine, monogrammed with her initials. She lifted the top sheet carefully, as if she feared it might tear just by being touched. Then she inhaled, and the faint citrus rose clean and bright.

Her mouth parted, and for once she did not fill the moment with wit.

“I thought,” I said softly, “that if you are going to risk correspondence, you may as well do it with paper worthy of your stubbornness.”

Ginny’s eyes lifted, and they looked suspiciously wet.

“You are ridiculous,” she murmured.

“So are you,” I replied. “It seems we are a matched pair.”

Ginny let out a shaky laugh that tried very hard to sound normal.

She turned the paper over, then found the sealing wax tucked beneath. Two shades. Practical. Deliberate. A choice, rather than an ornament.

“You understand,” she whispered.

“I do,” I said.

Ginny shut the box gently, then set it in her lap and pressed her palm to it, as if anchoring herself.

“Thank you,” she said, and the words were quiet enough that they felt private even in an empty room.

I wrapped her in a hug. Not only for the season but also just for her.

Ginny exhaled again, and the atmosphere in the room shifted. Not lighter exactly… but calmer. As if the confession had been a storm she needed to let out, and now the air could settle.

We sat for a while after that, not talking much. Snow drifted past the window. Ginny’s fingers stopped fidgeting.

And when she finally stood, she looked less like someone preparing for battle and more like someone who remembered she had allies.
Evening came gently.

Dinner was warm, generous, and full without being loud. People ate as if they had decided indulgence was part of worship. Wine was poured. Toasts were offered. Evelina’s eyes softened more than once, and Margot’s mouth twitched as if she kept catching herself on the edge of a smile.

Afterward, we gathered in the drawing room, drawn in by firelight and tradition. The tree glowed softly in one corner, candles nestled among branches, ribbons catching the light when someone moved too quickly past them.

The air felt lighter than it had at any point during the Season. Games waited on side tables. Laughter came more easily. Even the silences were kinder.

Gifts had been arranged and stacked with the careful order of an occasion that mattered.

Ginny, of course, insisted on beginning.

“Before anyone does anything sentimental,” she announced, stepping forward with the bright confidence of someone who refused to be moved. “A practical matter.”

Robin lifted a brow. “God help us.”

“Providence has clearly turned its face from you,” Ginny replied sweetly. “This is my doing.”

She produced a small box first and tossed it to Robin without ceremony. He caught it easily, grinning already as if he enjoyed being targeted.

He opened it and drew out the signet ring, the ruby catching firelight like a secret made visible. For a moment, his expression shifted… quick and unguarded, warmth flickering beneath his usual ease.

Then, as if he remembered he was Robin, he made a show of it.

“A ring,” he declared. “At last. My descent into tyranny is complete.”

Ginny beamed as if she had crowned him.

Robin slid it onto his finger immediately, then held his hand up with exaggerated pride. “Look at that. Marked.”

“You were already marked,” Ginny said. “This is merely proof.”

Laughter moved through the room.

Then she turned, eyes locking on mine with triumph.

“And you,” she said, and held out the second ring.

I accepted it, steadier than I felt.

The ruby was simple and vivid against my skin. A quiet kind of declaration.

Ginny leaned closer, voice lowered just enough to make it feel like ours. “Now we match.”

I looked down at it once, then met her eyes. “Thank you.”

Ginny’s smile softened for a beat, then she stepped back as if she had stayed in sincerity too long.

Evelina watched us with a fondness that made my throat tighten.

Then the exchange began in earnest.

I gave Evelina her shawl.

It was cream and warm, its weight balanced, practical enough for the outdoors. Dark florals ran along the border with patient assurance, and near the clasp, two Dalmatian silhouettes sat stitched in delicate contrast, unmistakable if you knew what you were looking at.

Evelina unfolded it slowly, fingers moving over the weave as if reading the story in the threads.

When she found the silhouettes, her expression changed. Warmth rose behind her eyes, controlled only by effort.

She didn’t speak at first. She simply drew me in, holding me close with a quiet fierceness that made my chest ache.

“My love,” she murmured, voice low. “This is… beautiful.”

I swallowed. “I wanted it to be something you’d actually wear.”

Evelina kissed my temple, brief and deliberate. “Of course you did.”

Then she stepped back, hands still on my shoulders as if unwilling to fully let go.

Her gift for me came next.

A small box, opened with care.

Inside were earrings, delicate by design, not new… these held history. Each of the pair was gold wire featuring a delicate drop design, adorned with small, sparkling diamonds and a single, lustrous pearl at the bottom. They were simple but stunning.

“They are beautiful,” I said softly.

“I wore these on my wedding day.” She said, voice even, as if she weren’t placing something intimate into my hands. “And I want you to have them.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak at all. The weight of it hit harder than anything ornate ever could… not in cost, but in meaning.

“Thank you, Mother,” and I wrapped her in a warmer, tighter hug than before.

When I pulled back, she stroked the drop of moisture from my cheek and smiled, and I could see both pride and love shining in her eyes.

I was relieved that someone else took the moment to do their own exchange vibrantly, drawing attention to someone other than me.

Gifts passed between guests amid vibrant laughter and warm hugs.

Margot received her book next.

She opened it with careful hands, as if suspicious of sentimentality. Then she found the pressed flowers, the tucked lines of poetry, the little collected fragments of her own words written down and kept.

Margot’s eyes moved across the page. Then another.

Her expression shifted so subtly that most people would have missed it.

She looked up.

“Lucy,” she said, and my name sounded like a truth she hadn’t meant to say aloud.

I took her hand. She squeezed once, quiet and fierce.

“That was… thoughtful,” she said, which was the closest Margot came to “beautiful.”

Robin’s gift to me came in a small parcel he pretended to toss carelessly but actually handed over with unusual care.

Inside was a ribbon-tied bundle: a narrow strip of dark fabric, embroidered at one corner with a tiny cornflower… messy compared to mine, clearly done by someone who had fought the needle the entire time.

Robin lifted his chin, daring me to laugh.

“It’s not good,” he said quickly, “but it’s mine. And you’re always making things for everyone else, so I decided it was my turn to be insufferably sincere.”

My throat tightened.

“It’s perfect,” I said, and meant it.

Robin looked momentarily startled by my sincerity, then recovered by becoming dramatic.

“I know,” he said. “Don’t make it a scene.”

I gave him his knife sheath… new leather, the raven motif stitched in dark thread along the outer face. When he turned it over, his thumb traced the stitching with slow attention.

“You stitched this,” he said, quieter than usual.

“I did,” I replied.

Robin didn’t joke. He only nodded once and pulled me into a brief, tight hug.

“I’ll use it,” he murmured near my ear. “Every day.”

Ellie received her seed box with a gasp of delight, immediately prying it open to inspect the packets as if Christmas required immediate inspection.

“You remembered I like the early sprouts,” she said, eyes bright. “Lucy, you remembered.”

Arabella’s satirical print earned the sort of scandalized laughter she cherished. She held it up for the room, reading the caption with relish, and declared that London’s artists were doing the Lord’s work.

Julian accepted his painter’s travel kit with a politeness that looked effortless until you noticed he turned the box over twice, as if appreciating its craftsmanship more than he meant to show.

“This is… exceedingly useful,” he said.

“That was the intention,” I replied.

Julian’s mouth tilted. “A dangerous phrase.”

Sebastian took the horse brush with genuine warmth, fingers testing the bristles with the kind of practical attention that made him himself.

“My mare will forgive me for every poor grooming I’ve ever inflicted,” he said lightly.

“And you?” I asked.

Sebastian’s eyes softened. “I’m grateful.”

Then their gifts to me came—properly, one by one, not as a list, not as a ledger.

Julian’s marchpanes were offered with a quiet, almost shy formality, the fruit-shaped sweets absurdly beautiful. He watched my reaction as if it mattered more than he’d admit.

Sebastian’s painted playing cards delighted the room, but my attention caught on the detail: flowers carefully chosen, each suit distinct, the work patient.

Arabella had also managed to procure Northanger Abbey for Lucy, Ginny, and Ellie alike, the novelty of it causing excited murmurs the moment it appeared. She thrust it into our hands with a triumphant flourish. “Fresh from the press,” she declared. “And you will not pretend you aren’t pleased.”

I had managed to somehow avoid Miles all evening. Though I hadn’t been able to avoid missing him being the center of someone else’s attention. I hadn’t quite managed to decide if I would give the small hesitantly wrapped parcel still tucked in my reticle. It felt silly to do so… especially because I didn’t trust the flush that crept into my cheeks each time I pictured the last time we spoke.

It was he who approached me. I’d found a corner of the room to just watch and be mostly forgotten.

His gift, a copy of Emma, bound neatly, its pages crisp, was given with smooth composure. I was exceedingly careful to avoid his gloved fingers as I accepted his offering.

“For your library,” he said.

“Thank you.” The relief I felt at the steadiness of my voice held no measure.

His gaze flicked to my mouth in a way that made my pulse trip, then moved away again as if it had never happened.

In all honesty, that he thought of me at all was surprising, and it wouldn’t be until much later that I would consider the pointedness of that particular book. It was the fact that I had done the same, considered him at all, that struck me as quite annoying.

And I was displeased with the way my fingers shook as I pulled the small gift from my reticle.

It was small, tortoiseshell, practical. Something that could be carried without comment.

He turned it in his hand once, the firelight catching on the smooth case. He opened it, glanced at his reflection with infuriating calm, then looked at me as if he could see the reason beneath the practicality.

“A mirror,” he drawled. “How considerate.”

“You’re welcome,” I said sweetly, though every inch in my body was vibrating at once. “I imagined you would find it useful,” I added, my expression composed through sheer discipline.

Miles closed it with a soft click.

“I already do,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough to make it mine alone.

Then he stepped back, restoring distance as if he hadn’t just placed something sharp and private beneath my skin.

The evening eased onward after that… games drew closer, chairs shifted, and laughter rose. Conversation drifted. The fire burned lower. The candles softened the edges of everything.

It should have been easy to settle into the warmth of it.

Instead, I sat with the ruby ring on my finger, the earrings heavy with meaning, and the echo of last night still alive in my nerves, quiet and bright.

Someone called for a game.

Someone insisted no one was allowed to be solemn on Christmas.

Ginny clapped as if she had been waiting for permission to cause chaos.

And Rosewood, for a few hours more, held all of us in something gentler than the Season ever promised.

CHAPTER 16 - "For Auld Lang Syne" - DONE

New Year’s Eve arrived quieter than I expected… and I was glad for it.

The past week had been a constant flux of spiraling and recentering. I was thankful to have been extremely busy on the 26th, delivering boxes of gifts to staff and other people living under the patronage of Countess Rosewood. At least for a moment, my mind didn’t seek to analyze and dissect my actions during the prior days to that. But then there had been nothing between then and now to latch onto.

Even riding out on Rascal had not managed to settle my nerves sufficiently.

And any time I’d spot him in a room or on the estate, he’d send one of those infuriating grins my way… or perhaps a casual wave, and my knees would nearly falter again.

He’d been taking up free space in my head for far too long. I shivered slightly, in alarm, realizing he still was. It simply needed to stop.

“Miss, these were absolutely the best choice.” I stared at my reflection in the mirror ahead of me at that moment, Hannah smiling as she adjusted and pinned the blue flowered crown atop my hair that was gathered low and secured only where it needed to be. The loose curls were left to settle as they pleased… strangely brushing against my shoulders and upper back. “It matches your mask perfectly.”

I smiled softly and glanced down at the table beside me. The delicate half-mask lay like an invitation, with a silvery-dusted texture, blue butterfly motifs, and decorative white feathers running along its edge. I reached out, tracing the spine of one of those feathers before brushing the fluff itself.

She helped to secure the mask’s slate colored ribbon so that it would not damage all of her hard work, and then I was left to assess my look for the night.

The costume hadn’t changed me.

Certainly, the pale silver dress rested cool against my skin… with a low neckline and high waist that was cut closer than I was accustomed to before flowing to the floor in a Grecian silhouette. The gown caught candlelight in quiet shifts and responded in a way I noticed without meaning to. I found myself aware of how my body felt in it… in balance, and in motion. A narrow beaded ribbon of blue marked my waistline, and I echoed that color in my gloves, liking the quiet continuity between those and my mask.

My eyes were perfectly visible, but my cheeks and bridge were concealed properly, leaving me feeling a bit hidden. There was a looseness to me that I didn’t usually allow. It settled through my shoulders and spine, a quiet slackening I noticed only because it felt unfamiliar. I was aware of myself in a simple, immediate way… weight, breath, the faint pull of silk as I moved.

I still recognized myself in the mirror… not the Greek figure reflected there. Any other time, I might have lingered, assessing and reconsidering how I would handle whatever the evening demanded of me.

Instead, I turned from the glass, thinking that perhaps a mask was just enough permission to let the night unfold without deciding it first.

The ballroom was more enchanted than I might have expected, and I lived there. I had never seen it feel more… mysterious. Even more wondrous than the Candlelit Concert. I would never say scandalous and Countess Adair in the same breath… not if I wanted to continue to grace God’s given earth… but there was something tauntingly unchaste about the manor that evening.

Similar to the other dance, lanterns had been chosen over the chandeliers, but quite sparingly. Candlelight multiplied itself in mirrors and polished floors. But the drapes that decorated the walls had been drawn, giving shadows the room to grow and pull closer… encouraging corners and quiet spaces where none usually survived.

Masked figures moved through the room like private jokes… flashes of color, of confidence, and of mischief prevailed.

For once, the usual hierarchies felt less rigid. Titles mattered less when no one could see a mouth curve or an eyebrow lift.

I’d managed to get to a quiet corner of the hall before Ginny appeared at my side, radiant in a deep green mask edged in gold.

“Oh, this is perfect,” she said, clasping my hands. “I’d barely found you… you look dangerous.”

I laughed, an actual laugh, unguarded enough to surprise us both. “That seems an overstatement.”

“Danger is always an overstatement until it isn’t,” she replied brightly. “Promise me you’ll enjoy this.”

“I promise not to flee.”

“I forbid it… I would drag Robin away from whichever lady he was currently tormenting to come drag you back down here, kicking and screaming if I must.”

My lips curled, “That is a lot of dragging… are you sure you have the strength?”

“Oh!” She laughed. “I see that you have come prepared with your wit tonight.”

“You act as if I will need it.”

I noticed her eyes shift suddenly, a wicked grin curving her lips when she spotted something past my shoulder, and stupidly, I followed that gaze.

“You just might.” She loudly whispered against my ear. 

“Oh, stop it.” I insisted, turning away quickly.

But the damage was already done. He’d been, per usual, the center of some orbit of guests laughing boisterously about something he’d just said. How I wished I could just see him as some despicable flirt, but those gentlemen with him just now proved it wasn’t just ladies who seemed to revolve around him.

I rolled my eyes when I found Ginny’s broad smile directed at me.

“You presume too much.”

She huffed at me, “You presume too little!”

For a future Duke?

I hated that the thought rushed in with pointless but accurate precision.

“I prefer to center on what is real and manageable.”

Ginny huffed again, “Tonight feels magical… tomorrow can be about the truth.”

“You are a visionary.”

My lips tugged at the corners before a little laugh spilled out. Once again, shocking us both a little.

“Good. Then you are promised to enjoy this night.”

“I certainly shouldn’t like making a spectacle of myself over Robin’s shoulder.”

“Excellent!” She said, before she laughed again, squeezed my fingers, and darted off.

The night continued slowly, both in cadence and temperament. I found myself dancing with a lighter step and smiling more behind my mask than I had without it in the past weeks.

I should have wondered at that, but I just melted into it. Even enjoyed the moment when one gentleman that I’d been introduced to at least three times didn’t seem to recognize who I was.

Nor did I attempt to remedy his confusion.

I enjoyed my set with Sebastian, a lively reel that had me skipping through the hall between linking arms and twirls. His company was pleasant, attentive, and courteous without insistence. We laughed over the antics of both Rascal and Arion in the past days when movement allowed conversation, and made an agreement to go riding together one day soon. The dance passed like clean air through my lungs, and when it came to an end, I thanked him sincerely.

I’d only collected a flute of champagne and settled in a corner near one of the open doors for a bit of cool air when his laugh drifted to me.

Miles stood near the center of the ballroom, his mask dark and sleek, silver threading catching the light. Even disguised, he was unmistakable. Even Ginny had no difficulty spotting him earlier. It was both posture and presence… but it also seemed as though space arranged itself around him without effort.

The woman who had just earned his throaty laugh wore a mask far more elaborate than mine and stood as if she were used to the attention of a man such as him. The grin she sent him proved as much. His attention divided easily… and then, it wasn’t divided at all.

He seemed to scan the room, then, with dizzying speed, his gaze locked on me.

I held it. One heartbeat, then another. Long enough to acknowledge the moment… my glass tipping up as I had seen Julian do so many times before toward me. Then I turned away.

I almost laughed, certain that Julian’s pulse could never have been as interested in the music as mine seemed to be at that moment.

I gladly accepted the offer of a country dance by a masked Adonis despite how ridiculous I found the costume. Then danced three more times, the last set with Robin, who spun me around the dance floor with impudence and affection simply because he could, earning the laughter of anyone watching… and me as well. 

When the music ended, I stepped back, with every intention to let the next dance pass me by.

“Miss Fitzthomas,” he said, his voice low… the mask lending it an unfamiliar texture. “Or would you prefer another name tonight?”

I hadn’t heard his approach. He simply appeared at my side as if the space had always belonged to him. There was a lull while the musicians seemed to do some adjustments, and the low hum of voices filled the space instead.  But it all felt so distant as I turned to face Miles.

“I hadn’t realized names were optional,” I said with a tilt of my head.

“Everything is optional tonight,” he replied. “That’s the appeal.”

“That sounds like a dangerous nuance," I uttered softly, my voice suddenly raspy as I tried desperately not to think about how my name mattered. Or lack of one did. Instead, I asked the next thing that came to mind. “What name would you call me tonight?”

His eyes flashed, something unreadable, but the glance to my lips sent my stomach spinning. I could not fathom why the memory of that moment a week ago hadn’t flattened yet.

The next set was beginning, the tempo slower, more measured.

“Perhaps we can start with a dance,” He said, holding out his hand, “while I consider an appropriate response.”

I glanced at his gloved fingers, then back to his face, to eyes that hadn’t dropped from mine, and I chuckled as I pressed my fingers against his, then laughed when his eyes widened a bit more.

“I’m sorry,” I replied, my lips still turned upward when we stepped into position, “I just… I do not think I have ever known you to not have something clever to say.”

“Ah,” he said, that grin of his shifting into its usual position. “But you do find me clever.”

We were drawn together with practiced inevitability, and when his hand inched around my waist, amusement settled into something far more dynamic that I could not begin to name. I tried to focus on anything other than his nearness.

“I suppose…” I sighed dramatically, allowing my lip to curl at the corner once more, “If I must concede anything, I will allow that.”

“What a lovely surrender…”

He led with the same precision I remembered, but the mask altered everything. His proximity felt different without the full language of his face.

“Do not think it habitual… there is only this one night where my name does not matter…”

It was meant to be a joke, but suddenly every movement between us became amplified. The brush of his fingers on my back. The measured pressure at my waist. The way he adjusted our spacing and brought us closer with minimal effort. His eyes shifted once more in a way that set a blaze along my spine.

“And you mean to take advantage of that?”

I was surprised I didn’t miss a step. Instead, I matched him incrementally, my body responding despite my puzzlement. What sort of advantage was there to being nameless? Surely he was trying to be vexing, but I refused to give in to it. I’d been enjoying the evening up until then… I wasn’t going to change that fact now.

“Oh yes,” I laughed, the whole idea was absurd. “To my surrender and my advantages… let them come what may.”

The music swelled, then softened, and ended in a matter of moments.

Applause rippled outward, polite and distant. He did not release me immediately. I felt his thumb press every so slightly as the moment stretched… suspended while his eyes darted across my face searching...

Then he stepped back and bowed, impeccable and composed.

“Thank you,” he said. “If I don’t see you again before midnight… Happy New Year.”

I nodded, maintaining my smile with supreme effort now. “And to you, Lord Seymour.”

He stepped away, absorbed into the movement of the room with practiced ease.

I stood where he left me, unsettled by the absence.

CHAPTER 17 - "Good Will to All" - DONE

The snow had been packed hard by days of foot traffic, the path narrow where people had learned where it was safest to walk. I kept to it, my skin warmed around my mouth where breath gathered in my scarf. The cold still found my fingers, though I kept them tucked into my sleeves. I walked with the determination of a deer following a path it had taken before, without quite knowing why.

If only my mind were as quiet as that.

“Miss Fitzthomas.”

I stopped mid-step, startled that I hadn’t even heard a disturbance until that moment. Julian's boots crunched loudly, now, as he closed the last few paces between us. His coat was buttoned, collar up, hair slightly disordered in the way that suggested he’d either dressed in a hurry or didn’t care if it looked like he had. He held his gloves in one hand rather than wearing them, and he smiled. I might have stumbled from shock if I’d still been moving.

“Good morning,” he said. “I wondered if I might join you.”

I took a moment to collect myself, thinking I had misunderstood before I finally curtseyed.

“Good morning, Lord Lockwood,” I said. “ Of course, though I cannot promise I had a destination in mind.”

“That’s a relief,” he replied, sliding his gloves on slowly. “I dislike being late to places I never intended to reach.”

Despite myself, I smiled and turned back toward the path. He fell in beside me easily, matching my pace without comment.

“You’re out early,” he said.

“So are you,” I replied.

The faintest curve touched his mouth.

“I followed,” he said, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

“For what purpose?”

“I saw you go,” he said simply, as if that explained anything. “I decided I would rather walk than remain in a room full of people congratulating themselves for being awake.”

“That is almost charming,” I said. “In a bleak sort of way.”

He gave a quiet sound that might have been a laugh if it had ever been allowed to turn into one.

We continued in step, side by side, for a few moments of silence.

“You seem to be in a… well, for lack of a better word, a good mood today.”

“I believe you may be correct.”

That… was definitely different. I cast a glance toward him, but he simply looked forward, where the path narrowed, and the trees crowded closer. He seemed as unhurried as I felt.

“You survived the masque,” he said lightly.

“I danced,” I replied. “I consider that survival.”

That earned a small smile.

“You seemed to enjoy the dancing.”

“That’s twice now you’ve noticed things a little too closely,” I said.

“Which do you count as the first?”

“This walk, of course…” my words fogged the air ahead of me as he made a sound of agreement. “Was there another I should have considered?”

I didn’t look at him, not while the hairs on the back of my neck rose at a new level of confusion, and perhaps nervousness. I didn’t like to be watched. Never had. And this new form of scrutiny… not him per se, but in general, the realization of how much it was happening left me feeling unnerved.

Certainly, Mother paid attention. And Margot, that was to be expected. But members of the Ton… though polite, had never actually noticed whether I came or went. Until now.

“Not particularly,” he said in that casual, indifferent way he had about him. Though today was highly peculiar. “Just that you seem to be getting your footing… with all this madness going on.”

“That sounds… assuring.”

I definitely heard a chuckle. “It is meant to be. Even Margot thinks so, you’d probably do amazing in London.”

The name landed with more weight than the rest of his sentence. The sort of surprise that struck hard and fast.

“Margot?”

He just nodded, once again, like that was perfectly normal. “Have you considered London yet?”

I was still stuck on his intimate revelation and felt snatched into his next strain of thought, like being pulled into a different current altogether

“London?”

“Yes, you must know it is coming… sooner, probably more so than later.”

“I…” the chills racing down my spine had nothing to do with the weather. “I hadn’t considered, no.”

He laughed softly, drawing my skepticism.

“You needn’t look so cross. I’ve little doubt that you will survive that as well.”

“I am not cross.”

His lips twitched at my belligerent tone before he turned thoughtful, his gaze searching ahead as if the snow-capped hedges had some answer he was seeking.

“When my siblings died,” he said, “I thought I would feel something dramatic. A crack. A collapse. A moment that would make sense.”

My stomach tightened.

I followed his gaze; it was easier to listen without looking.

“What happened?” I asked quietly.

His breath caught once. He recovered it.

“Nothing,” he said. “And then… everything. All at once. Later.”

I did not interrupt.

He continued with the same careful control he’d been using for the past weeks. Since returning to Rosewood, and this new life he was expected to lead.

“I do not know how to take pleasure in things the way I used to,” he said. “The music is still music. The lights are still lights. People laugh. They flirt. They behave as if it matters.”

“Some things matter,” I said.

“And some things just… get compressed.”

I bit my bottom lip under my scarf, eyes squinting against the morning sun bouncing off haphazardly banked pearlescent hills.

“I didn’t mind compressed.” I didn’t like how wistful I sounded, so I cleared my throat plainly. “Things feel cleaner when there’s order.”

“And did last night?” he asked.

I was unsettled. Both by the question but also by his astuteness. I considered, picturing the strange look that kept me awake half the night. A face that was pestering my thoughts before Julian arrived to disrupt them.

“It ended,” I said. “I suppose that has to suffice.”

He let that hang between us, undefined but impactful.

“Margot mentioned something else,” he said after a moment, then continued as if he hadn’t noticed the way I had gone still. “She speaks of your bond with Robin.”

That was safer, and yet it was not.

“What of it?” I stopped moving, shoulders squared.

Julian’s tone shifted, becoming warmer, almost. “She speaks of it with fondness.”

I did not know what to do with that. Margot rarely spoke of fondness aloud.

Julian’s gaze flicked toward the trees. The lake was a pale suggestion beyond them.

“I think you know its value,” he said.

I seemed to release a pent-up breath I hadn’t even realized I’d held. I started forward again, one step, then another. He continued moderating his longer stride to stay beside me, and he didn’t interrupt.

“Robin is my brother.”

He waited until we had rounded the bend, until the path opened slightly and the snow started feeling denser beneath our boots.

“Will you marry?” he asked.

It was abrupt enough to be rude from anyone else. From Julian, it felt like someone pulling a splinter out before it could fester.

I kept walking. I did not slow. I did not stop.

“That is the purpose of the Season,” I said.

“That is what everyone says.”

His voice held no accusation. Only curiosity that had sharpened into insistence.

“What do you say?” he asked.

I could have given him a neat answer.

I did not.

“I intend,” I said carefully, “to survive it with my mind intact.”

Julian’s mouth curved, brief and genuine.

“That is not what I asked.”

“I know.”

The snow changed again, softer here, as if the path had not been walked as often. Neither of us changed pace.

“I do not want that path,” he said, before I could decide whether to answer him properly. “Marriage. The whole theatre of it.”

The honesty in it made my pulse tick once, sharp.

“You are a lord,” I said. “Most people will not allow you to avoid the theatre.”

Julian’s gaze stayed forward. “Most people do not live inside my head.”

I felt something in that. Recognition.

I kept my voice level. “And yet you are here.”

He inhaled, then exhaled slowly, as if the cold could carry away whatever he could not admit.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

He did not say why.


~~~~~~⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️~~~~~~~
(small gift exchanges! sorry I forgot to write this part!!)
~~~~~~⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️~~~~~~~


Two days later, the cold continued to bare its teeth; it bit through my gloves as I worked Rascal’s tack, the leather stiff beneath my fingers. He shifted his weight, breath puffing white, impatient in that way he only was when the air was sharp, and the ground promised speed.

“Easy,” I murmured, smoothing a hand along his neck. He flicked an ear back at me, unconvinced. “Your patience is biblical…”

A set of footsteps crossed the packed earth behind me.

“Good morning, Miss Fitzthomas.”

I turned, surprise breaking into a smile before I could stop it.

“Lord Sebastian. I didn’t expect company.”

He was already loosening Arion’s reins, dark coat gleaming despite the thin winter light. “Nor did I,” he said. “But it seemed a waste to let the morning go unused.”

That earned him a look. “You planned this.”

“I hoped,” he corrected lightly.

“I shall not make a fuss; it is too early and too beautiful a day for that.”

“You wound me with the thought that you might otherwise.”

“Luckily, you have yet to give me reason to, Lord Ainsworth,” I said with a grin.

“Then perhaps, Sebastian will do?”

I froze for a moment, glancing at him over my horse’s shoulder. “Very well… Lord… Sebastian.”

I would only go so far, but his smile was genuine. He nodded his head, “Miss Lucinda.”

In the quiet that ensured, we finished readying the horses side by side. Rascal tossed his head, Arion answering with a restless stamp. Whatever mood the air carried, they had caught it.

Once mounted, we set off at an easy trot, hooves crunching across the frost-hardened path. The estate lay quiet, stretched pale beneath the early sun. Rascal lengthened his stride the moment I loosened my hold.

Sebastian glanced over. “They’ve already made their own arrangements.”

“So it seems.” I smiled despite myself. “If we don’t indulge them, they’ll make us regret it.”

He considered that for half a breath. “First to the old oak?”

“No excuses,” I said. “No mercy.”

“Agreed.”

We didn’t count.

The instant I shifted my weight, Rascal surged forward, joy rolling through him like a release. Wind tore at my breath. The world narrowed to rhythm and motion, to the thunder of hooves and the pull of muscle beneath me.

Arion ran hard at our flank, black and relentless, Sebastian low over his neck. We traded the lead once, twice, the oak rising too fast ahead of us. Rascal found another gear and took it.

We pulled up laughing, both horses steaming, my heart hammering as if it meant to escape my ribs.

“Well run,” Sebastian said, breathless, eyes bright. “Both of you.”

Rascal pranced, pleased.

“Arion will demand a rematch,” I said.

“He always does.” Sebastian patted his neck. “He dislikes being reminded he’s mortal.”

We walked them out slowly, letting the energy burn off. My hands still shook when I reached for Rascal’s reins, and I didn’t bother hiding it.

“That helped,” Sebastian said quietly.

“Yes.” I nodded once. “More than I expected.”

The path narrowed as the hedges drew closer, forcing us into a single file for a few moments. Sebastian slowed his horse without remark, letting the distance open naturally before guiding her back alongside mine once the way widened again.

“You hear a great deal here,” he said, conversationally. “More than most.”

I glanced at him. “Do I?”

“You listen,” he replied. “That tends to invite it.”

I considered that, then shrugged slightly. “People speak when they wish to be heard. I don’t suppose it obliges me to repeat them.”

That seemed to interest him. He adjusted his reins, eyes forward.

“And when what they say is not meant for repetition?”

“Then it usually says more about them than it does about me.”

A pause followed, soft but deliberate. The horses picked their way carefully over uneven ground, hooves muffled by damp earth.

“There are some,” he continued lightly, “who mistake access for entitlement.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “And others who mistake silence for ignorance.”

That earned a brief look from him this time, both thoughtful and amused.

“And which do you prefer to be thought?”

I met his gaze steadily. “Whichever is most convenient for the moment.”

His mouth curved higher.

“I thought as much,” he said.

“That may account for our easy accord.”

We rode a little further in silence.

“There’s something I meant to say earlier,” he began, then didn’t finish.

I waited.

“It isn’t urgent,” he added, as if correcting himself. “But it’s been sitting there.”

Rascal shifted beneath me. I adjusted my grip, eyes forward. “Then you may as well let it speak.”

He nodded once, thoughtful.

“I did wonder,” he said, carefully, “if I had mistaken the shape of things between us.”

The words landed gently, but they carried weight.

I drew a breath. “I don’t think you did.”

He glanced over, attention sharpened.

“I do feel a certain connection with you,” I continued. “And I value what we have. I just—” I searched for the right edge of truth. “I’m not standing in a place where I could promise more than that.”

And I knew, with a clarity that surprised me, that accepting anything gentler would not change that fact, only postpone saying it aloud.

Sebastian absorbed this without looking away, his horse stepping on steadily beneath him.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. Not resigned. Simply certain. “I wanted to be sure.”

Something eased between us; I could not say precisely what. Relief perhaps, or a certain alignment. But maybe, just below that surface, I felt a little perplexed. He was a very good man, I did not doubt that. I just wasn’t sure about anything deeper than that.

He reached forward to pat Arion’s neck, fingers lingering in the dark mane. “I’d rather know the ground before I walk it.”

“So would I.”

“We shall continue to enjoy good conversation… and sportsmanship, of course.”

I smiled softly, “Who else would lose so graciously to a lady?”

He laughed, fully. “Or demand reprisal from one?”

There was lightness after that in the next few paces of our mounts.

“There is something else,” he said. “And I’ll stop if you’d rather not hear it.”

I turned to him, still smiling. “You wouldn’t be asking if that were true.”

His gaze stayed on the path.

“It’s about Ellie.”

My attention sharpened at once.

“She’s been… difficult to read lately,” he went on. “Not careless. The opposite. Everything placed just so.” He hesitated. “It makes me uneasy.”

I didn’t answer immediately.

He waited.

“You’re worried,” I said finally.

“Yes.”

“I won’t pretend to understand her better than you do,” I said. “And I won’t guess at what she hasn’t chosen to share.”

He glanced at me then, measuring.

“If she had,” he asked, “would you tell me?”

The question wasn’t sharp. It didn’t push. It hovered between us, asking to be handled with care.

“I wouldn’t,” I said.

Not defiant. Not apologetic. Simply true.

Sebastian studied my face a moment longer than before. The wind tugged at his coat. Arion shifted, stamping once.

“That’s what I needed to know,” he said quietly.

We turned back toward the estate soon after, the horses calmer now, their earlier hunger spent. The stables came into view through the trees, smoke rising thinly from the chimneys beyond.

“I’m glad we rode today,” Sebastian said as we slowed.

“So am I.”

He inclined his head, a gesture that felt earned rather than polite, and guided Arion toward his stall.

CHAPTER 18 - “Laughing All The Way” - DONE

The lake had frozen clear and wide, the kind of ice that invited foolishness. Pale winter light caught along its surface, bright enough to sting the eyes, the cold sharp but clean. I stepped onto it with the faintest hesitation, then pushed off — and the doubt vanished beneath me.

I had forgotten how much I loved it.

The rhythm came back at once. The easy glide. The way the world narrowed to balance and breath and the quiet hiss of steel against ice. I let myself move faster than I had intended, skirts lifting just enough to free my stride, the wind pressing cold color into my cheeks.

“You look entirely too comfortable,” Miles called, already circling ahead of me.

“I’ve had practice,” I replied, though I was smiling when I said it.

He laughed and cut across the ice with deliberate exaggeration, carving a wide arc before slowing just enough to make a point of it.

A challenge, then.

I leaned forward and followed.

We raced across the surface on some unspoken agreement that suddenly existed. The wind burned pleasantly against my cheeks, and my skirts tugged around my legs while the ice stretched wide and smooth around us. Miles was laughing, the sound carried back to me in broken pieces as he cut ahead and then deliberately slowed, daring me to catch him.

I did.

But I came in too fast, skates biting hard as I reached for balance that I didn’t fully have. My shoulder clipped his arm, and for a half-second we both pitched… close enough that I felt the solid warmth of him through wool and cold air.

He caught me.

By pure instinct, one arm slid firmly around my waist, skates carving a shallow arc as he adjusted without breaking stride.

We didn’t stop.

We kept moving, bodies briefly aligned, my breath knocking loose against his shoulder. Laughter burst out of me before I could stop it… real laughter, unguarded and bright.

“That was ambitious,” he said, laughing. “I almost admire it.”

I looked up at him then, flushed, breathless, and smiling without having decided to. Something in his expression shifted.

He looked… bright. Amused. Pleased.

There was a half-second where neither of us moved.

In what felt like an eternity but was really barely a heartbeat, his hand slid from around my waist, and we drifted a pace apart, skates whispering against the ice.

Then he laughed, already turning, already moving on… as if nothing remarkable had occurred at all.

“You’re dangerous,” he said. “I should have known better.”

I snorted before I could stop myself and pushed off too hard in response, skates biting sharply as I shot ahead of him without looking back.

“That was your fault,” I called over my shoulder. “You slowed.”

“Strategy,” he replied, unrepentant. “You fell for it.”

“I didn’t fall.”

“You absolutely did.”

I cut left, then right, deliberately sharp turns that burned pleasantly through my legs, putting distance between us with more urgency than I intended. The wind tore at my breath again, the cold grounding me, steadying the flutter I hadn’t asked for.

I slowed only when I realized he wasn’t chasing me.

When I glanced back, he was gliding easily, unhurried, watching me with an expression that suggested he was enjoying himself far too much.

“Running away?” he asked.

“Resetting,” I said, easing my pace until he drew alongside me again. “You should try it.”

He fell into step without comment, our strides matching now, neither of us pushing for speed. The ice hummed differently beneath my blades.

We skated in parallel for a stretch, close enough that I could feel the faint pull of his movement beside me, the shared rhythm settling into something steadier.

“I’ll grant you this,” he said at last. “You recovered admirably.”

“I always do.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I take it as one anyway.”

“I see what you’re doing,” He laughed again, softer this time, and nudged his skate deliberately closer to mine before veering away with a grin. “And I object on principle.”

I lifted my chin. “You started it.”

“Did I?”

“You slowed.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an invitation.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself, and pushed forward again, letting the glide carry me while he pushed ahead, calling something back to me that I didn’t quite hear.

But I stayed exactly where I was for a moment longer than necessary.

Because my body remembered the catch. And because even as I pushed off again, chasing him with a grin I hadn’t meant to wear, I knew with quiet certainty… that was the kind of moment that didn’t fade. Not because it meant something.

But because it had already gotten under my skin before I could stop it.

We skated… not just Miles and I, but everyone who had ventured onto the ice… for a while longer after that. The pace eased, the reckless edge giving way to something more companionable as I traced long, lazy curves across the lake. Voices carried, laughter rising and falling as people paired off and regrouped.

Miles was soon drawn away, laughing as someone called his name, already folding back into the easy orbit he seemed to command without effort.

I moved easily among the others, skates carrying me where the ballroom never quite could, my smile no longer something I had to remember to wear as the noise and motion gathered around me.

When I finally found the edge of the bank, he was there… skates tucked under one arm, his expression still bright from whatever story he’d just abandoned. He offered a hand with exaggerated gallantry. I took it, then immediately regretted the decision when my foot slipped, and he laughed outright, steadying me with infuriating ease.

“Confidence,” he said. “A dangerous thing.”

“I was perfectly steady until you interfered,” I replied, brushing at my skirts as I stepped free of the ice.

“Hmmm,” he said, delighted. “I’ve been told I can be difficult to ignore.”

“That sounds inconvenient,” I said, brushing snow from my glove.

His smile widened. “For you?”

“For everyone,” I replied.

I bent to adjust my boot, deliberately slow, aware of his gaze without
looking up.

“You are enjoying this,” I said, smiling despite myself.

“Immensely.”

I straightened, trying to hide my grin unsuccessfully. “Then you should be warned,” I said slowly, “I don’t play fair when I’m being watched.”

That earned me a pause. Then a grin.

“Oh,” he said. “I see. You’re growing bold.”

“Hardly,” I replied. “I’m merely adapting.”

We started back toward the path together, skates in hand, the snow crunching beneath our steps. The air felt sharper now that we’d stopped moving, but the warmth lingered under my skin, stubborn and unwelcome in the best way.

“You weren’t always this quick,” he remarked, glancing sideways. “With your replies, I mean.”

“Perhaps I’ve had better provocation.”

“I should be offended.”

“You’re enjoying yourself far too much for that.”

“Careful.” He laughed again, an easy, unguarded sound, and nudged a patch of snow aside with his boot. “At this rate, I’ll begin to think you like being challenged.”

I considered that, just long enough to be irritating. “I tolerate it.”

“That’s not what your face says.”

“Then my face is betraying me.”

“Frequently,” he agreed. “It’s very expressive.”

We reached the rise where the trees thinned, the estate coming back into view beyond the lake. Voices carried faintly from somewhere near the house, ordinary and distant, as though nothing remarkable had happened at all.

Miles slowed, falling half a step behind me. “You know,” he said lightly, “I hadn’t expected you to enjoy that quite so much.”

I hesitated for a moment, glancing back to where the sparse trees edged out the lake, “I used to enjoy it quite a lot,” I admitted.

When I looked back, he was watching, something curious flickering across his expression before he masked it with a shrug. “Well. I suppose everyone is allowed one surprise.”

“One?” I echoed.

He grinned. “Per day.”

The next morning arrived with a flurry of motion, but a bit less snow than usual.

The drive was already awake when I reached it, carriages lined in uneven order, horses stamping and tossing their heads as breath clouded the cold air, and voices overlapped without urgency, the sort of practical cheer that accompanied departures meant to be temporary. Footmen moved briskly, trunks appeared and vanished, and someone laughed at nothing in particular.

It felt less like an ending and more like a rearranging.

Ginny stood near the steps, bundled against the cold, her cheeks flushed as she argued amiably with a maid about the wisdom of one more shawl. Julian hovered nearby, gloved and composed, holding his ground with polite resignation.

“You’ll freeze,” Ginny insisted.

“I will survive,” he replied, dry. “I always do.”

“That is not reassuring.”

I smiled as I approached, and Ginny broke off at once, turning toward me with bright familiarity.

“There you are,” she said. “I was beginning to think you’d escaped entirely.”

“Tempting,” I replied. “But no.”

She laughed and leaned in, quick and warm, pressing her cheek briefly against mine before stepping back. “Write,” she said, firmly.

“I will,” I said. The expression on her face spoke volumes, and I squeezed her hands as firmly as her tone. “If you need me…”

Appreciation and care flashed in her eyes for the briefest moment before she nodded and hurried off.

Julian inclined his head. “Until London.”

“Until then.”

Miles was a little apart.

Unclaimed by conversation, one foot on the step, one hand resting loosely against the rail as he watched a groom secure the last strap. He looked unhurried, faintly amused by the surrounding bustle, as though the entire scene were mildly entertaining rather than pressing.

“Enjoying the spectacle?” I asked, coming to a stop beside him.

“I always do,” he said. “People are very dramatic about leaving places they intend to return to.”

“That sounds like experience speaking.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had practice.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the drive, then back to me. “You look entirely too alert for this hour.”

“I’ve already had a productive morning.”

“Oh?” His smile sharpened. “Should I be concerned?”

“Probably,” I said lightly. “But it’s too late now.”

That earned me a laugh, quick, genuine… and for a moment, it felt absurd that any of this required goodbyes at all.

Ginny was already being helped up, still talking as she went, one hand gesturing animatedly as Julian followed with patient resignation. The carriage door closed with a solid thud.

Miles straightened at last and turned fully toward me.

“Thank you, and your Lady Mother, for all your hospitality.”

Miles reached for my hand in a properly unhurried fashion, his fingers closing around mine in a way that had grown familiar over the past weeks… I was proud to keep any response negligible. Or so I thought.

He bent over my hand, that grin still there… as if the gesture amused him more than it should have.

“I have a feeling,” he said, glancing at me as he straightened, “that Rosewood will be rather more orderly without me here to observe it.”

“And we wouldn't want you to miss all the entertainment?” I remarked dryly, trying to pinch a grin back.

“Undoubtedly,” his grin widened, “I’d expect a full report.”

“I’d have to embellish to entertain the likes of you.”

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He released my hand without ceremony and stepped back as Ginny leaned out the carriage window, waving with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“You’ll come to London soon enough,” she called. “You’ll see.”

“I look forward to it,” I said.

Miles lifted a hand in casual farewell as the carriage jolted forward, already turning away as if the moment had been concluded the instant it began. The wheels crunched against the frost-hardened drive, the sound brisk and unconcerned.

I watched until the carriage rounded the bend and disappeared from sight.

And for the first time that I could ever recall, the silence at Rosewood felt noticeable.

LOOK
TBD



CASTING - DONE | R1 - DONE | R2 - DONE | R3 - DONE

Out of the Shadow...(about) - DONE

AGE
23; Bɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ: Jᴀɴᴜᴀʀʏ 3ʀᴅ

FACE CLAIM
Eᴍᴍʏ Rᴏssᴜᴍ

TRAITS
Pᴏɪsᴇᴅ | Wɪᴛᴛʏ | Sɪɴᴄᴇʀᴇ | Sᴇʟғ-Assᴜʀᴇᴅ | Lᴏʏᴀʟ | Sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ | Pʀᴏᴜᴅ | Uɴғᴏʀɢɪᴠɪɴɢ | Sᴋᴇᴘᴛɪᴄᴀʟ | Sᴀʀᴄᴀsᴛɪᴄ

PERSONALITY
Lucy Fitzthomas carries herself with quiet confidence and deliberate grace. Her composure feels natural rather than practiced, an ease shaped by temperament and a firm understanding of who she is.

She enters a room without hesitation... not out of pride, but out of calm self-assurance. She is warm without being performative, sincere without being naive. Her loyalty is steady once earned, and her boundaries are unmistakably clear. Trust, for Lucy, is a precious thing; if someone breaks it, she is not quick to offer second chances.

Lucy listens before she speaks, observes before she acts, and commits fully once she has chosen a course. She sees through flattery quickly, is wary of shallow charm, and relies on a sharp wit that easily slips into dry humor or accidental bite. She is stubborn, perceptive, thoughtful, and often far more discerning than people initially assume.

Her pride is quiet and grounded in self-respect. She does not shrink to appease others, nor does she posture to impress them. She simply stands as she is... poised, intelligent, and steadfast.

As she steps into the Yuletide Season, Lucy is not seeking permission or approval. She arrives with her own sense of worth and a presence that lingers long after she’s left the room.

FUN FACTS
Quirks
• Plays the pianoforte beautifully — unless in front of others • Straightens objects when uneasy • Gets lost on purpose

Likes
• Horses (and animals in general) • Storms • Dancing

Dislikes
• Small, enclosed spaces • Tea • Lavender (color and scent)

CONNECTIONS
Evelina — the closest thing she’s ever had to a mother, though neither of them needs the word spoken aloud. Evelina taught Lucy how to stand, how to see, and how to hold her own. Their affection runs deep and without ceremony.

Robin — raised as family beside her. They’ve survived each other since childhood and defended each other just as long. He’s impulsive, infuriating, and one of the truest hearts she knows. Lucy trusts him without hesitation... though she’d never let him know it.

Margot — As close as family in all the ways that matter. Margot is among the very few Lucy trusts without ceremony, the one she seeks when she wants honesty rather than flattery. Her quiet strength has steadied Lucy more than she knows... and she remains the only person who can out-stare her. Barely.

Ginny — Lucy enjoys her — genuinely. Ginny brings a spark that never outruns its sincerity, and Lucy finds the balance refreshing. Their dynamic sits somewhere between acquaintance and something more... and Lucy suspects it will strengthen quickly this Season.

Alaric — a familiar presence in Evelina’s household. Polite, composed, and often absorbed in his work. Lucy knows him more by consistency than by conversation.

Miles — their acquaintance is slight, but sufficient. Lucy knows the look of a man accustomed to admiration. She’s never claimed to dislike him... merely that she prefers her conversations with fewer stage lights.

Julian — known to her more by reputation than conversation. His indulgences were everything she avoids. She’s thankful their paths rarely crossed and even more grateful he never wasted his immoderate charms on her.


HISTORY
Lucy’s earliest years linger only in soft impressions; the warmth of a wool shawl, a gentle voice humming half-remembered lullabies, the sense of being loved before she understood loss. She entered the Adair household at four, orphaned but not unwanted, and Countess Evelina claimed her with a quiet, unwavering certainty. Count Thomas never gave Lucy his name, but he ensured her future: tutors, a home, and provisions in his will that spoke volumes.

Rosewood Hall shaped her far more than the circumstances of her birth. Lucy grew up in a house where intelligence was expected, discipline was taught gently, and affection appeared in steady gestures rather than spectacle. Robin, fiery and impulsive, became a brother in all but blood; Margot, highly intelligent and steadfast, became a confidante whose presence drifted with schooling but never faded. Together, the three of them formed an unconventional little constellation under Evelina’s roof.

During a childhood game, Lucy was briefly trapped in a dark storage cupboard for a short time… and from that day on, tight, airless spaces left her chest a little too tight and her palms a little too damp… though she rarely speaks of it. At ten, Thomas gifted her a young dapple-grey gelding, the first thing she ever knew was wholly hers, and it marked the beginning of the freedom she still finds in the saddle.

Though she never had a formal London Season, Lucy has attended enough salons, dinners, and quiet gatherings alongside Evelina to know society well. She knew many people by face, or by reputation, and some stood out amongst the crowd. Over the years she crossed paths with Ginny Green, whose lively sincerity never overran its warmth; with Julian Lockwood, memorable mostly for the reputation that seemed to precede him; and with Miles Seymour, who held a room’s attention almost effortlessly, though Lucy kept her opinion about the latter two to herself. Alaric Jaxley she encountered more quietly… in doorways, hallways, and the edges of Evelina’s study, a steady presence more often seen than spoken to.

Now twenty-three,  Lucy’s life is balanced between what she has been given and what is about to be placed directly in her hands. In a year, her full inheritance will come to her: income, a small household of her own, and the horses that will be a source of independence and stability most women in their society rarely have.
She enters the Yuletide Season not as someone seeking rescue or permission, but as a young woman raised to stand on her own feet… composed, discerning, quietly committed to choose the shape of her own future.

To Whom It May Concern...(interview) - DONE

INTERVIEW

1. “Hᴏᴡ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ? Aɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴛᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴛʀᴜʟʏ?”

"Mm… I believe I am considered a curiosity. Not scandalous, not controversial... simply difficult to place neatly on a shelf. Mother would allow nothing less. No one questions her judgment aloud, and fewer still are bold enough to whisper against her.”

"As for accuracy?" I give a small smile. "I think I’m exactly as mysterious as people expect me to be... and not nearly as simple as they assume."

2. “Wʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴏғᴛᴇɴ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜʏ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ɪᴛ?”

"I’m told I have a calming presence. Which is funny, because I hardly ever feel calm myself. I’m thinking, all the time... cataloguing, assessing, watching the room like it’s a chessboard." I brush the fabric of my dress across my legs delicately, "If I appear serene, it’s only because I’ve learned how to look that way."

3. “Dᴇsᴄʀɪʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ sᴜɪᴛᴏʀ.”

"Someone who speaks plainly, listens sincerely, and doesn’t mistake kindness for weakness. A man who isn’t threatened by a woman who has a mind... or a past... of her own. He doesn’t need to be perfect. In fact, I’d prefer he wasn’t.
But he must be clever, someone who meets me where I am, and capable of surprising me… at least a little."

4. “Wʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ғᴏʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ?”

“Sidesaddle is the proper seat for a lady. I tried it. Once. Countess Adair took one look at my face afterward and said, ‘My dear, propriety is useless if you are concussed.’ I’ve ridden comfortably ever since.”

5. “Wʜᴀᴛ ɪs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏᴠᴇʀsɪᴀʟ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴ… ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴇᴀ, ғᴀsʜɪᴏɴ, ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴇᴛɪϙᴜᴇᴛᴛᴇ—ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟsᴇ?”

"I dislike tea. There. I’ve said it. Weak tea, strong tea, sweetened, unsweetened... it all tastes like disappointment in a cup. If anyone faints hearing this, please revive them with anything but tea."

6. “Wʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʜᴏʀʀɪғɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀʀɴ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ?”

"That half the time I ‘get lost,’ it’s entirely intentional.
I like discovering things I’m not supposed to see... old corridors, gardens no one tends anymore, quiet corners where people forget to pretend. It’s remarkable what one discovers when one decides to wander."

7. “Wʜᴀᴛ’s ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴏᴛᴛᴏ?”

"Respect is my threshold. Cross it well, or not at all."

8. “Wʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ sᴄᴀɴᴅᴀʟᴏᴜs ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴅᴇғɪɴɪᴛᴇʟʏ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏɴᴇ?”

With a perfectly straight face. "I have definitely never slipped out of a crowded gathering by climbing out a window to avoid a suitor I could not endure for another minute. …Definitely. Never."

Last edited by BambiFoxx (20/12/2025 at 02:05)

Holding here as I scramble...

Round 3 is now closed.
Welcome to Round 4: Return to Mayfair

While the ton made some slightly panicked comments about the Queen not attending the Yuletide at the Rosewood Hall, she ended up making her intentions as clear as possible when everyone who’d joined the season had received an invitation for Her Majesty’s Midwinter Ball, meaning that it’s now official and the ton is moving back to Mayfair.

For those who haven’t arrived already, please arrive in London before January 14th(end of the day), so you don't miss any of the activities. The official callers are ready to call on you! Rosewood household will arrive on the date, as they will take place in their London residence, along with Sebastian and Ellie.

January 15th might be an amusing day, as callers will start calling on you.

Things will heat up on January 16th, when a light, sparkling snow covers Hyde Park, making it an especially delicate, magical scene for a winter promenade. As most are bound to walk with their families, some might be only there to explore or experience this very lovely moment. It might, however, appear that the majority of London is there, ready to keep an eye on anyone who might (or might not) be flirting.

On January 17th, we are back with the callers, even more so after the promenade. Also, it’s the perfect time to head to the modiste in preparation for the ball.

January 18th is a special evening at the theatre, as Queen’s favourite play, The Belle's Stratagem, is revived yet another time. You’ll all be invited, of course, and the Queen is set to attend, as well. Queen will take her box with Duchess Evelina, and a few other chosen people, while most of you will be set in boxes with family, or someone who might be trying to impress you.

On January 19th, we are back with callers.

Finally, January 20th is the day of Her Majesty’s Midwinter Ball. The entire thing is set in silver, tarnished gold and white, with an abundance of light-catching decoration, and you will be asked to stand out from the decor, wearing deep shades of green, red, blue, yellow, pink or orange - jewel colours, if you will. This time around, your dancing card will be appointed to you upon entry, but it will have only one space available, as you will dance Her Majesty’s favourite waltz - and your choice of dance partner will be for show, mostly.

The last two days of the round, January 21st and 22nd, things should be official enough to get some offers, or at least some promises that will grant you an audience before the Queen herself.

So, the round takes place between January 14th and January 22nd.

Form
Name & Interests
Story, about the most relevant events
Outfit for the ball, if you chose to done one.

Lucy

As you arrive in London, Evelina will make sure Lucy and her ba e enough time to sit down, talking about the season. It didn't go unnoticed that Lucy seems to be warming up to Miles, albeit in a very non-traditional sense of courting, but she has a feeling Miles would come to call on her now that the official courting has begun. She's quite open-minded to the idea, but she'd like to know what Lucy thinks about it, and she might, very subtly, hint that it would be better to mention this to Robin before it happens.

Miles is very much aware that things really changed, and his intense feelings of annoyance are long gone, replaced by something people could only interpret as an attachment, or the beginning of one. Admittedly, he didn't think he would begin any serious courtship this season, but he is not the person to ignore things as they happen, and Lucy happened. He will not be seen on the 15th, but he is taking the winter promenade, during which he will join Lucy. On the 16th, he will (truly by chance) be around their residence and escort Lucy and Ginny to the pastry shop (his favourite spot), taking the long way there. During the Opera, he would not miss the chance to talk to the entire group, including Robin (statement, for those in doubt). While Evelina will attend the opera in Queen's box, Miles will have invited Lucy and Robin to join his box (again, statement about Robin). On the 19th, Miles will be at the house, officially calling on Lucy, sitting down with her and asking her if she is willing to pretend she is ready to have a proper conversation, or if he is to permanently retreat. Clearly, they will be attending the ball together, and on January 21st, he is to make his official offer with the Duchess and Lucy (Robin knew, since the 15th, btw).

Julian seems to be a recluse when it comes to London, but it would be easy to see him during major events - when he is, surprisingly, around Margot much more than normal. On the 15th, he would visit the house with the largest bouquet, making jokes about the house being full of young ladies and how he is to at least provoke some thoughts with the ton, keep them guessing on his intention. On the 17th, his carriage is seen before the house, but it's only there to fetch Margot, before it heads into an unknown direction - let me know if you want to do something with this, or leave it be. He would attend Opera, but vanish halfway through from his box, and the next few days rumours would swirl about his return to his old ways of "entertainment". He'll attend the ball, alone, but in a good mood and would stop to say hello to the household, not skipping the chance to make some jokes about Lucy and how she might succumb to the marriage before the spring at this pace (clear hint that he and Margot are talking).

Ginny will find more than a few ways to slip away from the house, and it will be good, until she tries to do the same thing during the day Miles takes you to the pastry shop, which is when she'll stumble onto Margot at a very suspicious part of the town. The next morning, she is rather worried, before she is to meet Evelina - she would ask Lucy for advice - and please note this is the most rattled she had ever been (or shown, at least). Their conversation can be heard, at times, and mentions of money, danger, and even Alaric will be shouted. She'll vanish to the room and only return when it's time to go to the opera. Lucy can try to have a chat with her that evening after everyone's gone to bed, but she would only get tiny bits of what happened from her. Finally, she will spill the truth the next day, when she mentions that she ran into Margot, who recognised her, and the person who seemed to have been a more dangerous scammer. She lost most of the money, but somehow managed to be kept away from the public scandal thanks to Alaric pointing his finger at some imaginary foreign duke. She'll ask, at the end of the round, that Lucy pleads her cause with Evelina: she wishes to stay in London for another season, rather than returning to the States. Let me know what she does, and we can move from there.

Sebastian is not blind, and while he rather likes Lucy, he is aware that her affection might be elsewhere. His behaviour will change, not in kindness or his way of talking to her, but any traces of flirtation might be missing, and she would pick up on it. While he is not taking things personally, he is also not interested in holding space for affection that would lead nowhere. However, neither he (nor Ellie, for that matter) is bothered in the slightest. Also, Ellie is getting a lot of callers.

Robin is, surprsingly chirpy, and knows about the whole thing with Miles and Lucy - let me know if she tells him first, or he finds out from Miles. Also, she can pick up on the fact Robin is chirpy about more than one thing - and he is sneaking around more.

Bianca

Robin is sharing her feelings, which is an understatement, but the fact they will be sharing time in London seems to be rather fun for him, and he is happy about the upcoming days, thinking they could have a few more moments alone, since people will be busy with the callers (Ginny, Lucy, and Ellie in the house). Bianca might receive some callers, too, which would fluster him (the idea, not her doing anything about it). He'd be around during the promenade, he'd be around during all of the events, except for the fact that Bianca will be invited to Constantine's box during the Opera (with Leone, clearly). He would still find a way to sneak them a moment during the time. He would invite her to accompany him to the Ball, which is when their behaviour will become suspicious to people around them, and in some moment of anger or panic, or both, during the Ball, Robin will suggest to Bianca that they should just elope and thus skip all the anxiety, the formalities, the waiting. If she decides to say yes, he will invite her to be ready on the night of the 22nd. The carriage will await them and take them to a chapel in another part of the town, where a priest will marry them (not knowing they would need approval) with two witnesses. Now, Robin can arrange both, or she can bring one person. After this, you will return to the London residence and if you want to risk it, spend the night together. If you choose this path, please end the round on the early morning after it, where you'll get downstairs to face Evelina (and Leone) before breakfast.

While the constant push and pull was entertaining to Constantine, the lack of any specific action was boring. Yes, she is beautiful, some would even go as far as to consider her interesting, but in his mind, jealousy is not something he enjoys in anyone, let alone women he does not intend to wed. By the looks of it, bed, too. Which was a shame, but life is a fickle thing, and women had the right to be fickle too. So, his demeanour would change after nothing (I guess) happens during/after their outing at the Opera, progressively less flirty whenever they met, spending less and less time in conversations, and should she ask, he would simply have mentioned that his attention had moved elsewhere. He wouldn't do it out of cruelty, but the need to be honest and avoid delusional thoughts.

Miles didn't expect Bianca to be as open about her situation as she was, but it made him think about how horrible it would have been to be in such a situation. Clearly, he is not blind, and he would have noticed her growing attention to Robin, but there is very little he would do, other than, perhaps, lightly mentioning it in jest. He is also going visit the house officially, to call on Lucy, so it's another chance the two can meet, and Miles would still make sure to stop by and say hello to Bianca.

Leone is occupied with his own thoughts, but not too occupied to notice something's going on with Bianca. Given there are a couple of callers visiting, he would make some time to discuss with her what is happening, and if she's even willing or ready to take any callers. He would admit that he is not sure how to behave, because if this were his decision alone, he would have been very quick to make a match for her - a new one - and rid her of the situation, but given it's not up to him, he can only help persuade their father to resolve her of the obligation.

Last edited by Zaralee (22/12/2025 at 09:50)

Grace is my weapon, ambition my victory.

Name: Lady Bianca Cattaneo

FC: Deva Cassel (as Angelica Sedara)

Age: 24; 12th September

Traits:

Vain and unapologetically arrogant, convinced she deserves admiration. Spoiled by comfort and used to getting her way. Fiercely ambitious, always reaching for more. Takes freely, but rarely gives anything in return. Boldly confident, with sharp intelligence to back it up. Subtle in her manipulation, preferring whispered influence over open force. Proud to a fault, too stubborn to admit weakness or wrongdoing. Charismatic and captivating, able to charm anyone she chooses. Seduction delivered as art: poised glances, velvet laughter, promises unsaid. Social and energetic, though she periodically craves solitude. Chooses her circle carefully; only the exceptional earn a place near her. Possessive, easily jealous, and reluctant to share what she claims as "hers". Impulsive in pursuit of what she wants, driven by passion and instinct. Cunning and strategic, always looking for an advantage.

Personality:

Bianca is a striking mix of elegance, confidence, and calculated ambition. She carries herself with an air of effortless superiority, fully convinced that admiration is her due. Raised in comfort and accustomed to indulgence, she moves through the world expecting doors to open... and they usually do.

Driven by fierce ambition, Bianca is always reaching for the next height, rarely satisfied with what she already holds. Her intelligence is razor-sharp, and she wields it with subtlety... manipulation delivered through soft words, suggestive silences, and well-placed influence rather than open conflict.

Charismatic and captivating, she knows how to turn attention into a weapon. Seduction is something Bianca practices like an art form... measured glances, velvet laughter, promises she never needs to speak aloud.

Despite her social energy, she protects her inner world. She selects her circle with care, allowing only the exceptional to stand close. And once Bianca claims something - or someone - she becomes deeply possessive, quick to jealousy and reluctant to share.

While outwardly poised, Bianca is ruled by impulses when her desires ignite. Her passions drive her into bold, sometimes reckless pursuits. Yet beneath every action lies a mind that is strategic and cunning, constantly scanning for advantage.

Pride anchors her, for better or worse. She refuses to show weakness, apologise, or bend once she has taken a stance. But that same pride fuels a magnetic presence... one that can enthral, intimidate, or inspire, depending on how she chooses to wield it.

History:

Born as the youngest child of Ercole and Laura Cattaneo, her childhood was a warm, sun-lit chapter spent in the family’s estate in the Lombardy, far from the harsher intrigues of court life. With a spirited temperament and wide, curious eyes, she quickly attached herself to her older brother, Leone, trailing after him through gardens, corridors, and lessons alike. In those early years, before Leone grew occupied with the responsibilities of becoming the next Duke of Mantua, the siblings were nearly inseparable... Bianca his shadow, and he her first great hero.

Her tutors discovered early that Bianca possessed a talent for languages... she mastered English, French and even the delicate complexities of Greek. But unlike many young noblewomen, she excelled in none of the musical accomplishments expected of her. Singing, instruments, even simple melodies... none suited her ear or her temperament. Her teachers eventually learned that no amount of patience or guidance could make music take root in her; it was the only art that refused her entirely.

Instead, she found her devotion elsewhere..  poetry and art, in which she felt truly alive and where her imagination flourished without constraint. She spent hours at her desk or in the gardens with charcoal in hand, far happier with a quill or brush than she ever was before a pianoforte. Sketchbooks and ink-stained fingers became her constant companions throughout childhood, and as she blossomed into a young lady, she would lose herself for hours—sometimes entire nights—in her small studio, refusing to step away until she had coaxed her imagination onto the canvas.

Bianca’s world remained largely centered around the Cattaneo family home, a place of familiar rhythms and quiet privileges. Unlike other noble young ladies, who were whisked through courts and salons, she grew up mostly sheltered from the wider world. Only on rare occasions did she travel, accompanying her mother on visits to distant relatives or brief stays in Italian society. These journeys were enchanting to her... fleeting glimpses of a broader stage she longed to step onto, yet never fully reached.

As she grew into young womanhood, Bianca retained the blend of refinement, curiosity, and restless ambition that had defined her since childhood. Though her upbringing had been comfortable and carefully curated, she carried within her a spark... an eagerness for admiration, achievement, and the freedom to shape her own destiny. And beneath the polished manners expected of a noble daughter, there remained the girl who once ran after her brother through sun-drenched halls, dreaming of something more.

Bianca had long been promised to Alessandro Gonzaga, heir to the Duchy of Monferrat... a match arranged when she was still a girl, more political than personal. Yet since her twenty-first birthday, the agreement has lingered in silence. No formal negotiations, no official letters, no mention of a wedding date. The promise still exists in name, but its future grows increasingly uncertain… and Bianca is left to wonder whether she has been forgotten, dismissed, or intentionally kept waiting.

When an unexpected invitation arrived from her distant cousin, Evelina Adair, asking her to spend Yuletide at Rosewood Hall in England, Bianca accepted without a moment's hesitation. The prospect of travelling beyond Italy thrilled her: England's winter festivities, its manners, its courtly intrigues... everything promised novelty and delight. Though the visit was meant to last only through the holidays, Bianca quietly hoped for more. She longed to linger, to observe English society, and to experience for herself the world she had only encountered in books and whispered conversations. The journey felt like the beginning of something... an opening chapter rather than a simple holiday.

Relationships:

Brother — Leone Cattaneo:
Leone’s protectiveness can be both comforting and exasperating, yet Bianca treasures him all the same. Their bond is undeniably strong, though she keeps certain parts of her life veiled from him, knowing he would fret - or interfere - more than she prefers.

Cousin, twice removed — Evelina Adair:
Bianca has only met Evelina a handful of times, yet she has always found her irresistibly intriguing. So when an invitation to spend Yuletide at Rosewood Hall arrived, Bianca accepted at once, eager for the change of scenery... and the promise of Evelina’s company.

Parents — Ercole and Laura Cattaneo:
Her relationship with her parents is a complex one. She loves them deeply, but she has grown weary of the weight of their expectations and the demands they place upon her. Their affection is unquestionable...  yet often stifling.

Reason for being at Rosewood Hall: Visiting for Yuletide with the idea of staying a bit longer. Bianca is quite curious to learn more about England, and the thought of staying for the season is tempting.

Trivia:
While she speaks English fluently, she tends to slip into Italian during conversations. Loves art and poetry but has no musical talent. Loves to wear dark colours. She never finishes a sketchbook. Bianca sketches people when they aren't looking... keeping the sketchbook hidden between volumes of Italian poetry.

Interests: Robin (adorable baby and totally worth the risk of eloping) / Leone & Miles


Cred to Nina

Return to Mayfair

London called—and the season answered

The morning was pale and quiet, the sort of January day that felt held in a breath. Frost still clung to the hedges as Bianca stepped onto the gravel path, her cloak drawn close against the cold. Robin was already waiting, hands tucked into his coat pockets, posture relaxed in a way that suggested he had been there longer than he wished to admit.

“You’re early,” she observed lightly as she joined him.

He glanced at her, a slow smile forming. “I could say the same. I feared you might change your mind.”

“And miss our walks?” Her brows lifted, playful. “Never.”

They set off side by side, their steps falling into an easy rhythm. For a moment, neither spoke, as though they were both aware that the quiet itself was something shared.

“You look well,” Robin said eventually. “Suspiciously so, considering the hour.”

Bianca laughed softly. “You’re implying I’m not usually?”

“I’m implying,” he replied, eyes flicking toward her, “that mornings are not generally your ally.”

She nudged him with her shoulder, just enough to be improper without quite being bold. “Careful. I could decide to be offended.”

“I would enjoy watching you try.”

Her gaze caught on his then, lingering a second too long. The playfulness softened into something warmer, something that sat low and steady in her chest.

They passed beneath bare trees, branches arching overhead like a secret canopy. Robin slowed slightly, and without comment she matched his pace.

“You know,” he said casually, “people are beginning to notice how often we disappear at the same time.”

“Are they?” Bianca asked, though she did not sound concerned.

“They speculate.”

She smiled to herself. “Let them.”

That earned her a sharper look... curious, impressed. “You’re growing reckless.”

“Perhaps I always was,” she replied, glancing at him from beneath her lashes. “I simply had fewer reasons before.”

Robin stopped walking.

She took one more step before realising, turning back to face him. The air between them felt suddenly charged, the cold forgotten.

“Bianca,” he said, her name unguarded now, low and deliberate.

“Yes?”

He studied her as though committing the moment to memory, as though weighing words he ultimately chose not to say. Instead, he stepped closer... not enough to touch, but enough that she felt the warmth of him despite the winter air.

“If we keep this up,” he murmured, almost teasing, “people will stop speculating and start knowing.”

Her breath hitched, but her smile remained. “Then perhaps,” she said softly, “we should enjoy it while it’s still just ours.”

For a heartbeat, it seemed he might reach for her - or she for him - but instead he offered his arm, a gentlemanly gesture that somehow felt more intimate than a touch.
“Come,” he said, eyes bright. “Before I do something truly foolish.”

She slipped her arm through his, pulse quickened, warmth blooming beneath the cold morning light.

The gravel crunched softly beneath their steps as they continued along the path, the winter air crisp enough to colour her cheeks. Bianca did not move away when his arm remained where it was... if anything, she leaned into it just a fraction more, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Robin noticed. Of course he did.

“You seem very comfortable this morning,” he remarked lightly, his tone teasing, though there was something warmer beneath it now. His gaze dipped to her face, lingering in a way it hadn’t before. “Should I be concerned?”

She tilted her head, eyes bright. “Only if you intend to deprive me of your arm,” she replied. “It would be quite cruel, considering I’ve grown accustomed to it in such a short span of time.”

His laugh was low, pleased. “Accustomed already?” he echoed. “That sounds dangerously like encouragement.”

“Perhaps it is,” Bianca said, daring enough now to glance up at him through her lashes. “You’ve never struck me as a man easily discouraged.”

He slowed their pace without comment, as if unwilling to reach the end of the path too quickly. “You observe far too much,” he murmured. “I was rather hoping to keep some mysteries intact.”

She smiled, her fingers tightening subtly around his arm. “I don’t think either of us is trying very hard to keep anything intact anymore.”

The words hung between them... unspoken, undeniable.

Robin’s thumb brushed lightly against her sleeve, a touch so fleeting it might have been accidental, if not for the way his breath changed. “You know,” he said quietly, “there was a time when walks like this were… simpler.”

“And now?” she asked, her voice softer.

“Now,” he replied, eyes fixed ahead though his attention was entirely on her, “I find myself wondering how close is too close... and deciding I don’t much care.”

Her heart fluttered at that, warmth blooming beneath her cloak despite the cold. She did not answer with words. Instead, she let herself drift nearer, shoulder brushing his, steps falling perfectly into his rhythm.

The ground betrayed her without warning.

One careless step, the faintest skid upon the frozen path... and Bianca’s breath caught as her balance tipped away from her.

Robin reacted without thought.

The faint slip of her boot on the frozen path was enough... his hand came to her waist, firm and instinctive, and instead of releasing her once she was steady, he drew her closer. Not roughly. Not hurried. Just enough that the space between them vanished.

Bianca’s breath caught.

She felt the solid warmth of him through her cloak, the quiet certainty of his hold, and without pausing to question it, her own hand came to rest against his arm, fingers curling there as if she belonged. As if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“Careful,” he murmured, though his voice had dropped, softer now... closer.

“I was,” she replied, but the words lacked conviction. Her gaze had lifted to his, eyes searching his face, lingering on his mouth before she could stop herself.

For a suspended moment, the winter air seemed to still around them.

Robin’s thumb shifted almost imperceptibly at her waist, a betraying gesture, and something unspoken passed between them... the same thought, the same pull. The urge to close that final inch was sudden and overwhelming, pressing at her chest until it was all Bianca could do not to lean in.

She knew he felt it too.

They stood there, caught between restraint and want, neither of them willing to name what was already shining clearly in their eyes... and neither of them stepping away.

Robin did not pull away.

If anything, he seemed to forget the world entirely.

What began as a startled closeness - her breath catching, his hand firm at her waist - softened into something tentative and achingly gentle. His forehead rested briefly against hers, as though giving them both one last chance to stop. Bianca’s fingers curled into his coat instead, betraying her answer before her lips ever could.

The first kiss was light, almost reverent. A brush of warmth against cold-reddened skin, careful and slow, as if they were learning one another by instinct alone. Bianca’s heart thudded so loudly she was certain he must hear it... but Robin only exhaled softly, as though relieved, as though this was something he had been holding back far longer than he cared to admit.

The second kiss lingered.

His hand tightened at her waist, pulling her closer without hesitation now, and Bianca rose onto her toes to meet him, emboldened by the way he kissed her back... deeper, surer. The cold, the path, the morning air all faded into insignificance as she pressed closer, her free hand sliding to his chest as if to steady herself, though she was no longer in danger of falling.

They parted only long enough to breathe.

A quiet, shared laugh escaped her - soft, breathless, disbelieving - and Robin’s smile mirrored it before he kissed her again, this time with unmistakable intent. The restraint between them thinned, not broken, but trembling... each kiss drawing them closer, warmer, daring them both to acknowledge what neither had yet spoken aloud.

Robin was the one who drew back first... barely. His forehead rested against hers, breath uneven, lips still close enough that the warmth lingered between them.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmured, the words more habit than conviction, as though repeating something long learned rather than truly believed.

Bianca’s reply was a quiet, breathless laugh. “You already said that,” she whispered... and then she kissed him again.

This time there was no hesitation. His hand tightened at her waist, thumb pressing into the small of her back as if to anchor her there, as if letting go were no longer an option. Bianca’s fingers slid into his coat, clutching the fabric as though the world might tilt again if she didn’t. The cold air, the frozen path, the careful rules of mornings and walks... all of it faded beneath the certainty of his mouth against hers.

When they broke apart again, it was only because they had to breathe.

Robin rested his brow against hers once more, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “This,” he said softly, “is becoming a very dangerous habit.”

Bianca met his gaze, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with something unguarded and bold. “Then,” she replied, just as quietly, “you shouldn’t have caught me.”

He laughed under his breath, low and warm, and kept his arm firmly around her as they resumed their walk..  closer now, steps slower, both acutely aware that something had shifted, even if neither dared to name it aloud.

They resumed their walk at an unhurried pace, boots crunching softly over frost-stiff grass, the path ahead washed pale with winter light. The world felt oddly unchanged after what had just passed between them - trees still bare, breath still misting the air - yet everything between them felt newly alive.

Bianca kept close, her arm still linked with his, as if neither of them quite trusted themselves to put distance back where it belonged. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, a smile playing at her lips that held more warmth than mischief now.

“Well,” she said lightly, as though her heart were not still racing, “London awaits us. Carriages, crowds, promenades… callers.”

His mouth curved, knowing and amused. “You say that as though you’re bracing for battle.”

“I might be,” she replied, mock-solemn. “One never knows what one will be subjected to in town.”

“Ah,” he murmured, leaning a fraction closer, his tone playful but edged with something deeper, “and here I was thinking you rather enjoyed being admired.”

“Only when it’s tolerable company,” Bianca said sweetly, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “And when it doesn’t feel like an obligation.”

He laughed softly at that, the sound low and warm. “London will be louder than this. Faster. Less forgiving.”

“And more exciting,” she added, her eyes bright. “Plays, music, evenings that stretch far too late.”

“Dangerous words,” he said, teasing. “You make it sound tempting.”

She tilted her head, studying him openly now. “Isn’t it?”

For a moment, the playfulness faltered - not vanished, but sharpened - something unspoken flickering between them again. He slowed, just enough that their shoulders brushed.

“I wonder,” he said quietly, “whether the city will change us… or simply give us more room to be ourselves.”

Bianca felt a thrill at that, the thought of London opening before them like a promise rather than a threat. She smiled, softer this time. “Perhaps we’ll find out together.”

His gaze lingered on her face, unreadable and unmistakably intent, before he straightened with an easy grin. “Come. If we’re to face London, we should at least arrive in good spirits.”

They resumed their walk at an unhurried pace, boots crunching softly over frost-stiff grass, the air still sharp enough to keep their breaths visible. Whatever line they had brushed—then wisely stepped back from—had not dimmed the warmth between them. If anything, it lent their steps a buoyancy, a shared secret humming just beneath the surface.

Robin glanced at her sidelong, the hint of a smile playing at his mouth. “I shall miss this,” he said lightly, gesturing with a small tilt of his head to the path ahead. “These mornings. London is rarely so obliging as to give one quiet.”

Bianca laughed, softer now, her arm still snug against his. “It has a habit of demanding attention,” she agreed. “Calling one from breakfast to midnight with little mercy in between.” Her gaze lifted to his, bright with anticipation rather than dread. “Still… I find I am rather curious to see what it has in store.”

“Curious,” he echoed, amused. “That sounds dangerously like excitement.”

“Perhaps a little,” she admitted, unrepentant. “Plays, promenades, the season properly begun.” A pause, then, more gently, “Though I shall miss Rosewood. And this.”

Robin slowed, just enough that she noticed. “You’re certain?” he asked, tone easy but eyes searching. “London has a way of rearranging plans. People, too.”

Bianca met his look without flinching. “I am quite certain,” she said, simple and sure. “No matter how full my days become, I will always find time.” Her fingers brushed his sleeve, an almost careless touch that lingered. “For the things - and people - that matter.”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then his smile softened, something unmistakably tender settling there. “In that case,” he murmured, “I believe London may prove more tolerable than I feared.”

They walked on, shoulders nearly touching, the city ahead and the memory of frost and stolen kisses warming the space between them... unspoken, undeniable, and very much alive.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The carriage felt suddenly too small for the thoughts it carried with it.

Bianca pressed closer to the window, watching the road unwind beneath them, her reflection flickering faintly in the glass. “I still cannot quite believe we are doing this,” she said, half to herself. “London. In the middle of the season.”

Leone smiled, slower this time, as though he were testing the word himself. “We were meant to be home by now. Or at least preparing to leave England altogether.”

“Exactly.” She turned back to him, eyes bright. “Yuletide at Rosewood Hall was meant to be everything. A visit. A memory. And now—” She gestured vaguely, as though the city might already hear her. “Now we are being carried straight into the heart of it.”

Leone exhaled softly. “Our first season,” he said, almost incredulous. “And not a single part of it planned.”

Bianca laughed, warm and a little breathless. “Does that frighten you?”

“A little,” he admitted. “Mostly it feels… unreal. Assemblies, theatres, invitations... things one hears about, but never imagines entering without years of preparation.” He glanced at her. “You’re excited.”

“I am,” she said at once. Then, quieter, “And terrified. But I think that is how it ought to feel.”

He nodded. “Especially now that Her Majesty has taken an interest.”

Bianca’s fingers tightened briefly around her reticule. “That is what makes it feel so… momentous. One appearance, one evening, and suddenly we are no longer simply visitors. We are seen.”

Leone tilted his head. “You always wanted to see London.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling softly. “But I thought it would come later. When we were ready. When everything had been decided already.” She met his gaze. “Instead, it feels as though London might be where things begin.”

He leaned back, studying her with a familiar mixture of pride and protectiveness. “You sound like someone about to step into a story she never meant to enter.”

Bianca’s smile curved, a touch nervous now. “And you?”

“I suppose,” he said lightly, “that if one must be thrown into a season, it is best done with royal attention and very little warning.”

She laughed, reaching out to brush his sleeve. “Promise me something?”

“Within reason.”

“That no matter what awaits us - balls, expectations, or surprises - we remember that this was never meant to happen.”

Leone covered her hand briefly. “Agreed. Which makes it all the more ours.”

For a moment, they rode in companionable silence, the steady rhythm of the carriage filling the space between them. Bianca’s gaze drifted back to the window, though her attention had clearly turned inward.

“Have you thought,” she began casually, “what you wish London to be for you?”

Leone lifted a brow. “That sounds suspiciously like an attempt to interview me.”

“Indulge me,” she said lightly. “It is our first season, after all. One is allowed curiosity.”

He considered it. “I imagine I shall do what I always do... observe more than I speak, attend what I must, and avoid anything that resembles expectation.” A pause. “You?”

She smiled. “I think I wish to see everything. Even the things that disappoint.”

“That is a very Bianca answer.”

She accepted the teasing with grace, then hesitated just enough for him to notice. “London is… larger than Rosewood. One cannot help but wonder whether people will continue to cross one’s path... or drift away entirely.”

Leone glanced at her, perceptive as ever. “You mean acquaintances made during Yuletide?”

“Among others,” she replied smoothly. “It would be a shame to lose every familiar face the moment the city opens itself to us.”

“Hm.” He leaned back, thoughtful. “Some will disappear. Others will surprise us by staying.”

Her fingers traced the seam of her glove. “And you? Do you intend to keep familiar company?”

“If you mean Frances Cavell,” he said without hesitation, “she will certainly be in London.” A hint of amusement touched his mouth. “Whether I do is another matter.”

Bianca tilted her head, feigning mild interest. “She does seem rather… established.”

“Comfortably so,” Leone agreed. “Which can be reassuring—or suffocating, depending on the evening.” He studied her. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” Bianca said easily. “I merely wondered if London would change people. Or confirm what one already suspects.”

He smiled faintly. “You suspect much, sister.”

“Only when given cause.”

The carriage jolted gently over uneven ground. Bianca steadied herself, then spoke again, softer. “I suppose I am curious whether London allows one to choose… or whether it chooses for you.”

Leone watched her for a long moment, then reached out, squeezing her hand once. “Whatever London tries to decide, remember... you are not obliged to answer immediately.”

Her smile was grateful, if a touch distant. “I shall remember.”

The conversation lulled again, but this time the silence felt heavier, as though something unspoken had settled between them. Bianca’s hand slipped into her reticule, fingers brushing against folded paper she did not need to see to remember.

“There was a letter,” she said at last.

Leone’s attention sharpened immediately. “From Father.”

She nodded. “It arrived two days ago. I did not wish to mention it then.” A small breath left her. “He reminded us - kindly, of course - that England is not home. That Mantua will expect us to return once our visit has… run its course.”

Leone exhaled through his nose, unsurprised. “Of course he did.”

“I know he means well,” Bianca continued. “And I know this was never meant to be permanent. But reading it now - on the eve of London - it felt… abrupt.” She paused, then admitted softly, “As though he were already closing a door I have only just stepped through.”

Leone leaned forward slightly. “You are allowed to feel that way.”

She looked at him, grateful. “I keep thinking how strange it is. I never imagined England would matter to me beyond curiosity. And yet—” Her voice faltered for just a moment. “—the thought of leaving it behind already feels like a loss.”

“It isn’t England,” he said gently. “Not really.”

Bianca smiled faintly. “No. It’s the becoming of it. The freedom of being unknown. Of not yet having a future assigned to you.” Her gaze dropped. “In Mantua, everything is already written.”

“And here,” Leone said, “you feel as though you are writing it yourself.”

She nodded. “Or at least holding the pen.”

The carriage swayed, sunlight flickering across the interior. Bianca straightened, composure returning even as her honesty remained. “I will miss this,” she said plainly. “The season. The conversations. The sense that something might change if I allow it to.”

Leone watched her with quiet understanding. “Then do not rush to let it go.”

She met his eyes. “Father will expect us back.”

“He will,” Leone agreed. “But not today. Not tomorrow. And not before we have lived this season fully.” A pause. “We were never meant to have it, Bianca. Which makes it a gift.”

Her throat tightened, and she laughed softly to disguise it. “You are surprisingly wise for someone who pretends not to care.”

“Only when it concerns you.”

She reached for his hand, squeezing it. “Thank you.”

The carriage rolled onward, carrying them not only toward London, but toward a future they knew was temporary..  and all the more precious for it.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The house had settled into its night sounds by the time Bianca slipped away from the corridors meant for company. Footsteps softened by thick carpets, distant murmurs fading behind closed doors, the air cooling as lamps were turned low—London after dinner felt entirely different from London by day.

She followed instinct more than intention.

A door stood ajar at the end of a passage, warm light spilling softly into the hall. Bianca hesitated only a moment before pushing it open and finding herself in the library.

It was smaller than she had expected, but richer for it... walls lined with leather-bound volumes, the faint scent of paper and polished wood lingering in the air. A single lamp burned on a side table, its glow catching dust motes as they drifted lazily through the room. It felt untouched, as though the house itself were holding its breath.

Bianca closed the door behind her quietly.

For the first time since their arrival, there was nothing asked of her. No conversation to sustain, no expression to manage. Just stillness.

She wandered slowly along the shelves, trailing her fingers across the spines without reading their titles. Tomorrow would bring introductions, expectations, first impressions. Soon enough, London would demand her attention in full. But tonight... tonight belonged only to possibility.

Her thoughts turned, inevitably, to the days ahead: crowded drawing rooms, candlelit assemblies, theatres humming with anticipation. A season unfolding before her, uncharted and thrilling. She felt poised at the edge of something—not yet decided, not yet named.

And then, as naturally as breathing, her thoughts found him.

Robin.

The memory arrived unbidden... the warmth of his hand, the way his voice had softened just before it happened, the moment where the world had narrowed until there was only closeness and intent. The kiss itself returned with startling clarity—brief, undeniable, and far too easy to replay. Her pulse quickened despite the quiet of the room.

It had not felt reckless.

That, perhaps, unsettled her most.

She sank into a nearby chair, hands clasped loosely in her lap, staring at the fire-darkened grate across from her. London would place them nearer to one another. Or farther apart. She did not know which frightened her more.

Would the city change what they had begun or reveal it more clearly?

Bianca exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together as if to still the memory. Whatever awaited her in the coming days, she knew one thing with certainty: she would not forget that kiss. Not in the crush of society, not beneath silks and expectation.

The library held her silence without judgment.

She rose again and moved along the shelves, slower now, more deliberate. Her fingers brushed over titles she barely read, pausing occasionally when a familiar author caught her eye. The books here were well loved—some newly bound, others softened by time and many hands. A private library, not meant for display, but for retreat.

It pleased her.

She drew one volume halfway free, leafed through a few pages, then returned it to its place. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tonight was not for reading... it was for being.

The floor creaked faintly behind her.

Bianca barely registered it.

Houses breathed at night... servants moved quietly; doors opened and closed. She assumed nothing more than that and continued down the row, her thoughts drifting once more - unbidden, insistent - toward warmth, toward memory.

Toward him.

“Choosing wisely, I hope.”

The voice came from beside her, low and familiar enough to steal the breath straight from her lungs.

Bianca turned sharply.

Robin stood there as though he had always belonged in the space between shelves and lamplight... coat removed, sleeves loosened, his presence easy and unmistakable. Close enough that she could see the faint smile he wore, the knowing softness in his eyes.

“I—” She stopped herself, a quiet laugh escaping instead as she gathered her composure. “I did not hear you approach.”

“That is rarely my intention,” he said lightly. “You looked… occupied.”

“I was,” she replied, meeting his gaze again. “With the library.”

“A dangerous place to wander alone,” he murmured. “One might find themselves lost.”

Her brow lifted. “Is that a warning?”

“An observation.”

They stood there for a moment, neither of them moving, the air between them settling into something charged yet restrained. The lamplight caught his profile, softened the line of his jaw. Bianca became acutely aware of how near he was... how easily she could have reached for him had the room not felt so hushed, so watchful.

“I did not expect to find anyone here,” she said quietly.

“And yet,” he replied, gaze never leaving hers, “here we are.”

She glanced back toward the shelves, needing a moment to steady herself. “It seemed a shame to retire so early on our first night in London.”

“I thought the same,” he admitted. “The house feels… restless. As though it knows what is coming.”

Bianca smiled at that. “Then perhaps it is fitting that we should both end up here.”

“Perhaps,” he said, softer now.

Her fingers brushed against the spine of a book, grounding herself. “Have you been here before?”

“Once or twice,” he said. “But it looks different tonight.”

She turned back to him. “How so?”

His gaze flicked briefly to her hand, then returned to her face. “Occupied.”

Robin shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached past to pull a book from the shelf. The contact was brief - barely anything at all - but Bianca felt it all the same.

“You look as though you’re searching for something,” he said, glancing down at the page he hadn’t yet read.

“Do I?” she replied lightly, though she did not move away. “I thought I was merely passing time.”

“A noble pursuit,” he said. “Though libraries tend to reveal more than one intends.”

She smiled, turning her head just enough to meet his gaze. “And what have they revealed about you?”

“That I have terrible habits,” he said easily. “I take books down and never quite finish them.”

“Careless,” she teased.

“Selective.”

He closed the book and returned it to its place, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary. When he turned back to her, the space between them had narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“You’ve gone very quiet,” he observed.

“I was enjoying the peace,” Bianca said. “And the company, it seems.”

His smile softened. “I was hoping you would.”

She reached out then, fingertips grazing the cuff of his sleeve as if merely steadying herself. “London suits you,” she said casually, though her touch betrayed her interest. “Or perhaps it is the hour.”

“The hour is more forgiving,” he replied. “It allows one to be… less careful.”

Her breath caught, just slightly.
“And do you intend to be careless tonight?” she asked.

His hand lifted - not boldly, not yet - but enough to brush against hers where it rested against his arm. He did not take her hand outright. Instead, his thumb traced the seam of her glove, slow and deliberate.

“I find,” he murmured, “that I only ever lose my care around you.”

The lamplight flickered, casting shadows across the shelves. Bianca felt suddenly aware of the quiet beyond the door, the intimacy of being alone among stories written and unfinished.

“You should be careful,” she said softly, though she did not pull away. “Libraries remember everything.”

“Then let them,” Robin said, stepping just a fraction closer. His hand slid to her waist... not possessive, but certain enough to send warmth blooming beneath her ribs. “I’ve never minded being remembered.”

Her fingers curled into his sleeve now, no longer pretending coincidence. She tilted her head, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

“Neither have I,” she admitted.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world narrowed again—lamplight, shelves, the quiet hum of London settling for the night. His hand at her waist, hers still holding him there, as though neither quite trusted themselves to step away.

Robin’s gaze dropped to her lips.

He smiled, slow and unmistakably pleased.

“Should I find another book,” he murmured, “or would you prefer I stay exactly where I am?”

Bianca’s answer was not spoken.

She tightened her grip on his sleeve... just enough to make her choice clear.

She did not give herself time to reconsider.

Bianca stepped closer, closing the last fragile space between them, her hand sliding from his sleeve to his chest as she rose just enough to reach him. For a heartbeat, she hesitated... close enough to feel his breath, to see the question flicker in his eyes.

Then she kissed him.

It began softly, almost reverently, as though she were testing the truth of something she had already decided. Her lips brushed his once, then again, lingering this time. Robin stilled in surprise for no more than a breath before his hand came up to cradle her jaw, thumb warm against her cheek as he returned the kiss with equal care.

The library seemed to fade around them.

Bianca felt the quiet unravel... the restraint of the day loosening, the anticipation she had carried since their arrival finally finding its release. She pressed closer, her fingers curling into the fabric at his side as the kiss deepened, no longer tentative, no longer careful.

Robin responded instinctively, his arm sliding fully around her waist, drawing her against him until there was no mistaking the intent in the closeness. The kiss grew warmer, surer, hunger threading through it as he tilted his head and she followed, breath catching softly between them.

He pulled her closer still, as though unwilling to leave even the smallest distance unclaimed. Bianca felt it everywhere... the firmness of his hold, the heat of him, the way the world narrowed once more to touch and breath and the quiet urgency building between them.

When they finally broke apart, it was only by inches, foreheads nearly touching, breaths uneven in the hush of the room.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Robin’s hand remained at her waist, steady and unyielding, as though he were anchoring himself there. Bianca’s fingers still rested against his chest, feeling his heart beneath her palm... beating far too quickly for either of them to pretend this was nothing.

Bianca did not pull away.

Instead, she lifted her hand to his collar, fingers curling there as she drew him back to her. The second kiss was different... less tentative, more certain. It carried the echo of the first but burned warmer, fuller, as though neither of them wished to pretend restraint any longer.

Robin answered it at once, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her closer until the shelves were at her shoulder and his presence was all she could feel. The kiss lingered, deepened, breath mingling as the quiet of the library seemed to fold around them protectively.

For a fleeting moment, Bianca forgot entirely where they were.

It was Robin who broke away first, though only just... his forehead resting against hers, his breath uneven, his grip still firm.

“Bianca,” he murmured, her name softer than he had ever said it. A pause. A reluctant smile she could hear as much as see. “If we stay here much longer…”

She exhaled a quiet, breathless laugh, her hands still fisted in his coat. “Someone will find us.”

“Precisely.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the door, then back to him, a mixture of disappointment and thrill shining there. “That would be… difficult to explain.”

“Tragically so,” he agreed. His thumb brushed once, slow and deliberate, against her back... an unspoken promise rather than a farewell. “Though I would very much like to continue this conversation another time.”

She smiled, soft and unmistakably pleased. “As would I.”

Reluctantly, they stepped apart, the air between them still charged, still warm. Robin offered his arm - not as a formality, but as a quiet gesture of togetherness - and Bianca accepted it without hesitation.

They left the library as they had found it... silent, composed, and unaware of the moment it had just witnessed.

Callers filled the rooms—and unsettled them

“…you are most kind to have received me, Lady Cattaneo.”

The words landed like a final bell toll.

Bianca managed a smile that felt fixed in place, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around the edge of her fan as she inclined her head. “The pleasure was mine.”

It was not.

She rose as etiquette demanded, every movement precise, measured, rehearsed. The caller - pleasant enough, earnest in a way that felt almost cruel - bowed once more before stepping back toward the door. Polite phrases were exchanged, assurances offered, the promise of calling again lingering far too long in the air.

Then the door closed.

The sound echoed louder than it ought to have.

Bianca remained standing for a moment longer, her gaze fixed on the polished wood as though it might reopen of its own accord. Her breath felt shallow, the tightness in her chest unfamiliar and unwelcome. When she finally sat, it was less graceful than before, her composure slipping the instant she was alone.

This was not what she wanted.

Her fan fluttered once, twice - too fast - before she forced herself to still it. Callers. Conversations shaped by expectation rather than curiosity. Careful glances, weighed words, futures implied without being named. It was all unfolding exactly as it was meant to, and the thought made her stomach twist.

Her engagement already felt like a cage she was forced to admire from the inside. This - this parade of polite interest - only tightened its bars.

She closed her eyes briefly.

Robin’s face surfaced without permission. His voice, low and amused. The warmth of his hand at her waist. The way the world had narrowed in the library until nothing else had mattered. No calculation. No obligation. Only want.

And now this.

Bianca pressed her palm against her knee, grounding herself. She was expected to receive them. Expected to smile, to listen, to allow herself to be assessed like a curiosity brought out for inspection. Each visit a reminder that her path was already chosen—no matter how fiercely her heart resisted it.

The footman’s quiet step outside the door made her shoulders tense.

Another caller would be announced soon.
She straightened, smoothing her skirts, lifting her chin as she had been taught to do all her life. The mask slid back into place with practiced ease, though her pulse still raced beneath it.

The knock came softly, but it struck her all the same.

“Lady Cattaneo,” the footman said upon opening the door, voice smooth and rehearsed, “your next caller.”

Bianca rose at once.

By the time the gentleman stepped into the salon, the unease had been carefully folded away... tucked beneath calm posture and a composed expression. Her shoulders were straight, her smile gentle, perfectly measured. No one would have guessed that moments earlier her hands had trembled in her lap.

“My lady,” the caller said, bowing with practiced precision.

“Good afternoon,” Bianca replied warmly, extending her hand just enough to acknowledge him without invitation. “You are very welcome.”

They exchanged the expected pleasantries as he took his seat... the weather, the journey, the comfort of the London residence. Bianca listened attentively, nodding at the appropriate moments, offering quiet laughter where it was due. She asked questions that revealed interest without intimacy, curiosity without encouragement... exactly as she had been taught.

Inside, her thoughts pulled elsewhere.

She was aware of every movement... the way she folded her hands, the angle of her head, the cadence of her voice. She could feel herself performing, each gesture a shield, each polite phrase a careful step taken on familiar ground. This was a language she spoke fluently, even now.

Even unwillingly.

“Yes, London is quite lively this time of year,” she said pleasantly, though her chest tightened at the word. Lively. Demanding. Full of eyes and expectations. “It is our first true season here.”

“How fortunate,” the caller replied, clearly encouraged. “A memorable beginning, no doubt.”

Bianca’s smile held. “Indeed.”

If only he knew.

She wondered, fleetingly, whether Robin was somewhere else in the house - or the city - utterly unaware that she was here, seated beneath polite scrutiny, smiling for reasons she did not feel. The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

The caller continued speaking, earnest and well-mannered, and Bianca continued to respond with grace. She was kindness and composure incarnate. No one could fault her manners. No one could accuse her of impropriety.

Yet beneath it all, her pulse betrayed her.

When the visit finally drew toward its close, she rose once more, offering her hand again, her voice calm and untroubled. “Thank you for calling. I trust you will enjoy the rest of your day.”

He bowed, clearly pleased, and took his leave.

The door closed for the last time with a soft, decisive click.

Bianca did not wait.

She crossed the salon quickly, skirts gathered just enough to hasten her steps, and slipped out into the adjoining corridor before anyone could remark upon her haste. The air felt thick behind her... perfumed, expectant, suffocating. She needed space. Quiet. Breath.

A set of glass doors stood open at the end of the passage.

She pushed them aside and stepped onto the terrace.

Cool air met her at once, brushing against her flushed skin, loosening the tightness she had carried since the first knock of the afternoon. Bianca rested her hands on the stone balustrade, drawing in a slow breath, then another. London hummed faintly beyond the walls... carriages, voices, life continuing, indifferent to her small unrest.

“At this rate,” a familiar voice said lightly behind her, “I shall begin to think London society is actively conspiring against me.”

She turned.

Robin stood a few steps away, coat unbuttoned, expression caught somewhere between amusement and unmistakable unease. His gaze flicked over her - quick, searching - before settling back on her face.

“Were you listening?” she asked, arching a brow.

“I merely survived the aftermath,” he replied. “One does not miss the departure of the last caller. The house practically exhales.”

She laughed despite herself, the sound easing something in her chest. “So do I.”

He came closer, resting his forearms against the balustrade beside her, though not quite touching. “I hear you were in demand.”

Her smile faltered. “I endured.”

“That bad?”

She turned toward him fully now, annoyance slipping through her composure. “They are polite. Perfectly respectable. Entirely wrong.” She exhaled sharply. “Every conversation felt like a reminder of something I am already trapped in.”

Robin’s expression softened... and tightened. “And yet you smiled through it.”

“I was expected to.”

“That,” he said, quietly, “is what unsettles me.”

She studied him for a moment, noting the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped once against the stone. “You are flustered.”

“Am I?” he asked, a touch too casually.

“Yes,” she said with certainty. “Which is curious, considering you were not the one receiving them.”

He met her gaze then, unguarded. “I did not like the idea of it.”

The admission hung between them, fragile and bold all at once.

Bianca’s irritation softened into something warmer, more dangerous. “Nor did I,” she said. “If that is any comfort.”

A smile tugged at his mouth... relieved, pleased, unmistakably fond. “It is.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, the breeze stirring her hair, brushing against his sleeve. Robin shifted closer, just enough that their arms brushed... accidental in appearance only.

“You look,” he said, lowering his voice, “as though you would rather be anywhere else.”

She tilted her head toward him. “I can think of several places.”

His smile deepened. “Careful.”

“I am tired of being careful,” she murmured. Then, lighter, “Especially when what I want is standing directly beside me.”

He laughed softly, warmth returning to his eyes. “Then perhaps,” he said, glancing toward the doors behind them, “fresh air was an inspired choice.”

Bianca smiled, the last of the afternoon’s tension easing from her shoulders as she turned back toward the city... this time with him at her side, and the knowledge that for all London demanded of her, it had already given her something she could not so easily surrender.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The salon had settled into its evening calm... lamps turned low, the remnants of dinner lingering only in the faint warmth of the room. Bianca sat curled into one corner of a chaise, her shoes already discarded, one arm draped along the back as though holding herself upright had required effort she no longer wished to spend.

Leone poured himself a drink before joining her, studying her for a moment longer than politeness required.

“So,” he said lightly, though his gaze remained intent. “The callers.”

She sighed, tilting her head back against the upholstery. “You have a remarkable talent for choosing precisely the wrong moment.”

“I waited until after dinner,” he replied. “That is restraint.”

She smiled faintly. “Then yes. There were callers.”

“Plural.”

“Unfortunately.”

Leone took a seat opposite her, resting one ankle over his knee. “And? Were any of them… promising?”

Bianca let out a short laugh. “Is that truly what you wish to know?”

“It is,” he said evenly. “Because I am less interested in them than I am in whether you were willing to receive them at all.”

That gave her pause.

She straightened slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “Willing is a generous word.”

“But you did it.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “Because it is expected. Because the season has begun, because we are in London, because not doing so would raise more questions than enduring an afternoon of polite discomfort.”

Leone frowned. “That sounds less like choice and more like obligation.”

Bianca looked away. “Is there truly a difference?”

“There should be.”

She studied the pattern in the rug beneath her feet. “I did not enjoy it,” she admitted quietly. “Every conversation felt rehearsed, every smile borrowed. And yet—” She drew in a breath. “—part of me wonders if this is simply what one must accept. If discomfort is the price of doing things correctly.”

Leone leaned forward. “Bianca.”

She met his eyes.

“You are not late,” he said firmly. “You are not unprepared. And you are certainly not required to welcome people into your life simply because society believes it convenient.”

She swallowed. “Tell that to everyone who knocked today.”

“I am telling it to you.”

The words settled between them, steady and grounding.

“I feel,” she said after a moment, “as though I am standing in a room with only one open door, and being told how fortunate I am to walk through it.”

“And do you believe that?”

She hesitated. “I am afraid of what happens if I don’t.”

Leone softened then, his voice quieter. “Fear does not obligate you. And expectation is not law... no matter how loudly it insists otherwise.”

Bianca’s shoulders eased, just a little. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It isn’t,” he conceded. “But it is yours.”

She smiled, tired but grateful. “You always did have a talent for making me feel less trapped.”

“That is because you are not,” he said gently. “Not yet. And not unless you decide to be.”

The fire crackled softly, filling the space they did not.

Bianca shifted on the chaise, drawing one knee up beneath her skirts, her posture looser now that the day’s performances were done. Leone watched her for a moment longer before speaking again, his tone quieter, more deliberate.

“There is another reason I asked about the callers,” he said.

She did not pretend not to understand. “I know.”

“The engagement,” he continued. “It hangs over all of this whether anyone names it or not.”

Bianca’s fingers stilled in her lap. “It does.”

Leone leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I find myself uncertain how I am meant to behave. As your brother, as—” He paused, choosing his words. “—as the person expected to be practical.”

She smiled faintly. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is,” he said with a rueful smile. “Because if it were solely my decision, Bianca, I would have ended it already.”

Her breath caught.

“I would have found you another match,” he went on, honest to the point of discomfort. “A good one. A secure one. And I would have done it quickly, before anyone could argue tradition or propriety.”

She stared at him, stunned. “You would have… replaced it?”

“I would have freed you,” he corrected gently. “Or tried to.”

Emotion rose too quickly for her to contain it. She turned her face away, blinking hard. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It isn’t,” he admitted. “Which is precisely why I hate it. Because this—” He gestured vaguely, encompassing London, the season, the callers. “—feels like theatre while the real decision was made long before you were allowed to speak.”

Bianca pressed a hand to her mouth, steadying herself.

“But I cannot,” Leone continued, quieter now. “Not without Father. Not without his agreement, his willingness to undo what he believes necessary.” His jaw tightened. “All I can do is argue. Persuade. Remind him that your happiness was once part of the arrangement.”

She looked back at him then, eyes bright. “You would do that for me?”

“I already am.”

The words landed softly, and entirely without ceremony.

Bianca rose from the chaise and crossed the room in two steps, dropping onto the arm of his chair without thought or grace. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her forehead briefly against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I did not know how much I needed to hear that.”

Leone hesitated only a moment before returning the embrace, resting his hand against her back. “You should never doubt where I stand.”

She pulled back slightly, wiping at her eyes with a quiet laugh. “I suppose that makes me terribly ungrateful for thinking myself alone in this.”

“You aren’t,” he said firmly. “Not now. Not ever.”

They sat like that for a moment longer, the weight of unspoken truths easing, if only slightly. The firelight warmed the room, steady and reassuring.

Bianca exhaled slowly. “London feels less frightening when you say things like that.”

“Good,” Leone replied. “Because I intend to keep saying them—until someone listens.”

And for the first time that day, Bianca allowed herself to believe that perhaps her future was not quite as immovable as it had once seemed.

The promenade was a stage, and London watched

The path curved gently ahead of them, pale gravel edged by frost-darkened grass, the bare branches of Hyde Park’s trees arching overhead like quiet witnesses. Somewhere beyond the rise of ground, the Serpentine lay half-hidden, its surface dulled to steel beneath the winter sky.

Bianca walked with her arm looped through Leone’s, her steps unhurried, her attention drawn not to the other promenaders but to the sheer openness of the place. It was unlike anything she knew... so much space in the heart of a city, as though London itself had paused to breathe.

“So this is Hyde Park,” she said softly, more to herself than to him, her gaze following the long sweep of lawn toward the distant line of trees. “I think I imagined it smaller.”

Leone huffed a quiet laugh. “I imagined it tamer.”

They smiled at that, continuing on while others passed them in ones and twos - ladies wrapped in shawls, gentlemen deep in conversation - but Bianca scarcely noticed. Her eyes traced the winter scenery instead: the muted colours, the slow movement of clouds, the way the cold sharpened every sound and sensation.

“It feels strange,” she admitted after a moment, “to be somewhere so famous and yet feel as though we’ve stepped slightly aside from the world.”

“That may be the trick of it,” Leone replied. “London introduces herself gently... here, at least.”

Bianca drew a slow breath, letting the crisp air settle her thoughts. No salons, no callers, no watching eyes that mattered. Just the park, the season, and the quiet thrill of standing somewhere entirely new.

Bianca slowed her pace deliberately, lingering just long enough to admire the way the pale winter sun caught on the distant water before glancing sideways at Leone. “You are being unusually quiet,” she observed. “Should I be concerned, or are you simply overwhelmed by the grandeur of Hyde Park?”

He gave her a sidelong look. “I was considering how long it would take you to decide that this walk has been your idea all along.”

She scoffed softly. “It was my idea.”

“Mm. I seem to recall you hesitating at the door.”

“That,” Bianca said primly, “was me allowing you the dignity of thinking you had a choice.”

Leone laughed, the sound easy, carried away slightly by the open air. “How generous of you.”

They continued on, their steps falling into a comfortable rhythm. Bianca nudged him lightly with her arm. “Admit it... you’re enjoying this. No obligations, no introductions, no one asking you what you intend to do in London.”

“I intend,” he replied solemnly, “to walk until my feet protest and then demand something warm to drink.”

She brightened at once. “Hot chocolate?”

“Coffee.”

“Of course,” Bianca said, mock-sighing. “You insist on suffering.”

“And you,” Leone countered, “will insist on something sweet and then steal a sip of mine when you think I’m not looking.”

She smiled, unapologetic. “Sibling privileges.”

For a moment, neither spoke, their banter settling into an easy silence as they passed beneath another stretch of bare trees. Bianca glanced at him again, softer this time. “I’m glad it’s you and me here first,” she said. “London feels… less intimidating that way.”

Leone’s expression gentled, though his tone remained light. “Careful. Say things like that and I’ll begin to think you’re fond of me.”

She bumped him again, laughing. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Leone tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as though he sensed a trap forming. “You are smiling,” he said. “That particular smile never leads anywhere good.”

Bianca’s lips pressed together for half a second... far too brief to be convincing. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

He hummed. “You’re about to meddle.”

“Observe,” she corrected lightly. “I merely observe.”

They walked a few more steps, crunch of gravel steady beneath their boots, before Bianca spoke again... casual, almost careless. “So… have you decided whether you intend to ask Frances Cavell for a stroll as well?”

Leone stopped short. “Ah. There it is.”

She tugged gently at his arm, forcing him to keep moving. “Oh, don’t look so wounded. It’s a perfectly reasonable question. We are in Hyde Park. People stroll. It’s practically expected.”

“Expected by whom?” he asked. “You?”

“Among others,” Bianca said airily. “I happened to notice she looked rather pleased to be in London. One might think she’d enjoy the promenade even more with agreeable company.”

He shot her a look. “You noticed.”

“I have eyes.”

“And opinions,” Leone added.

She smiled sweetly. “Only the helpful kind.”

He exhaled, half a laugh escaping despite himself. “You make it sound as though I’m neglecting a duty.”

“Not a duty,” Bianca said quickly. “An opportunity.”

Leone shook his head, amused. “You realize that if I do ask her, you’ll take full credit.”

“Of course,” Bianca replied without hesitation. “And if you don’t, I shall assume you were simply intimidated by her charm.”

He groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” she said, squeezing his arm, “you adore me.”

He didn’t deny it... only nudged her shoulder lightly as they continued down the promenade, their laughter carrying softly through the winter air while Hyde Park stretched on before them.

Bianca let a few more moments pass - long enough that Leone might think himself safe - before she tilted her head and studied him with open curiosity. “All teasing aside,” she said, gentler now, “I am wondering something.”

Leone gave a wary sigh. “I knew this walk had an ulterior motive.”

“It truly did not,” she protested. “This part simply occurred to me.”

They followed the bend of the path, the park opening wide to their left, winter-bare trees standing like sentinels against the pale sky. Bianca’s voice lowered slightly, no longer playful for playfulness’ sake. “You like her,” she said simply. “Frances, I mean.”

Leone didn’t answer at once. His gaze drifted ahead, unfocused, as though measuring the distance of the path rather than the question. “I do,” he admitted at last. “That much is obvious, even to you.”

“Especially to me,” Bianca replied, bumping his arm. “I’ve been watching you pretend otherwise for weeks.”

He smiled at that, faint but genuine. “Then you also know why I hesitate.”

She shook her head. “I know you hesitate. I don’t know why.”

They slowed near the edge of the Serpentine, its winter surface reflecting the sky in dull silver. Bianca turned slightly toward him now, her expression earnest. “We are not in London for long, Leone. You know that. And so does she.”

He exhaled through his nose. “That is precisely the problem.”

Bianca frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“If I call on her now,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “if I ask her to walk with me, to spend time with me... what happens when we leave? When this becomes a memory rather than a beginning?”

She stopped then, tugging gently on his arm until he did the same. “You think not asking her spares either of you that risk?”

Leone met her gaze, the teasing finally gone. “I think it may spare her disappointment.”

Bianca’s expression softened, something warm and resolute settling in its place. “Or it may spare you from wanting more than you can presently have.”

He said nothing, which was answer enough.

She sighed quietly, then smiled again... tender this time. “You cannot protect someone from feeling something by refusing to feel it yourself,” she said. “And if your time is short, that is all the more reason not to waste it.”

Leone looked at her, surprised by the certainty in her tone.

“You genuinely like her,” Bianca continued. “I see it. So does everyone else. And Frances Cavell strikes me as a woman who would rather know the truth of that - even briefly - than be left wondering why it was never spoken.”

They stood there for a moment, winter air curling between them, Hyde Park hushed around their quiet pause.

Leone finally shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “You are far too perceptive for your own good.”

She brightened instantly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He laughed, soft and resigned. “You would.”

Bianca waited until they had resumed walking, until Leone’s thoughts seemed to be turning inward, before she spoke again... lightly at first, as though the idea had only just occurred to her.

“You know,” she said, eyes fixed on the pale sweep of grass ahead, “leaving London does not necessarily mean leaving Frances.”

Leone glanced at her. “You say that very calmly for someone proposing a complication.”

She smiled. “I prefer to think of it as a possibility.”

He gave a quiet huff of amusement. “Go on, then. I can hear the argument forming.”

“Well,” Bianca continued, warming to it, “if you were to strike a match - as you so dramatically fear - and begin courting her properly, there is no rule that says she must remain in London while we return to Mantua. She could come with us.”

Leone stopped again, incredulous now. “You would invite her to Mantua?”

“Why not?” Bianca countered. “It is not the edge of the world. And Mama would be delighted to host a young lady toward whom you are clearly inclined.”

He stared at her. “You have already imagined Mama’s reaction.”

“I imagine everything,” she said cheerfully. “It is a survival skill.”

They began walking once more, Leone shaking his head. “And if she would rather remain in London?”

“Then,” Bianca said, undeterred, “you might stay here a little longer.”

He laughed outright at that. “Stay in London?”

“Just for a time,” she added quickly. “Long enough to court her without feeling rushed. London is where she is known, where she is comfortable. That matters.”

Leone was quiet again, but this time it was not hesitation so much as consideration. “And what of you?” he asked at last. “You speak very generously of my freedom.”

Bianca shrugged lightly. “I would manage. I always do. Besides,” she added, glancing at him with a knowing look, “I think you deserve at least the chance to see where this leads... without deciding the ending before the story has even begun.”

He slowed, then smiled... soft, genuine, and a little undone. “You make it sound absurd that I ever thought otherwise.”

“That is because,” she said gently, “it is absurd. You like her. She likes you. You are in London. The rest is logistics.”

Leone laughed again, this time shaking his head in surrender. “You are relentless.”

“And very wise,” Bianca said sweetly.

He reached over and tapped her gloved hand. “If I do this - if I ask her for that stroll - you will claim responsibility, won’t you?”

“Oh entirely,” she replied without hesitation. “I expect full credit.”


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The promenade looked much the same as it had earlier that day - wide paths, bare trees, winter light resting softly on the grass - yet everything felt altered with Robin at her side.

Bianca walked a careful half-step away from him, close enough to feel his presence, far enough to make it look unremarkable. Their arms did not brush. Their hands did not linger. To anyone watching, they were merely two figures enjoying Hyde Park on a cold afternoon.

To her, the restraint felt loud.

She kept her gaze forward, taking in the muted silver of the Serpentine, the slow drift of clouds overhead, forcing herself to focus on the scenery rather than the awareness humming beneath her skin. Robin was there - warmth beside her, familiar stride matching hers - and yet she could not lean into it as she wanted to.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, because silence felt more dangerous than polite conversation.

“It is,” Robin replied easily, though his tone was careful, measured in a way she had learned to recognize. He, too, was playing a part.

They passed other promenaders... pairs and small groups, voices low, glances casual but curious. Bianca felt each one like a brush of nerves along her spine. London was vast, yes, but Hyde Park was public in a way Rosewood Hall never had been. Here, there were no familiar faces to soften the scrutiny, no corners truly private.

She folded her gloved hands together, a small, unconscious gesture of restraint. Don’t look at him too long. Don’t smile too freely.

What should have felt light - walking beside him, sharing the city for the first time - settled instead into something tight beneath her ribs.

“You’re quiet,” Robin said after a moment, just softly enough that only she could hear.

Bianca smiled, practiced and polite. “I’m only taking it all in.”

He glanced at her then, brief and careful, his expression warm but guarded. “London does have a way of doing that.”

They continued on, steps aligned but emotions deliberately out of reach. The park stretched wide around them - open, calm, indifferent - while Bianca carried the strange ache of it... the closeness she could not claim, the happiness she could not quite touch.

They walked on for a few moments more, the crunch of gravel filling the space Bianca no longer wished to leave unspoken. At last, she let out a quiet breath and turned her head just enough to look at him... careful, fleeting, as though even that might be noticed.

“I hate this,” she admitted under her breath. “This… carefulness.”

Robin’s stride didn’t falter, but his attention sharpened instantly. “This place?” he asked lightly, giving her the courtesy of an easy tone.

She shook her head. “No. Us.” Her fingers curled into her glove, knuckles whitening slightly. “Everyone else is strolling as they please. Laughing, touching, leaning into one another without a second thought. And we—” She stopped herself, swallowing. “I can’t even reach for you.”

The words trembled despite her effort to keep them steady.

Robin glanced around them, quick and instinctive, before looking back ahead. His jaw tightened, just briefly. “You think I don’t feel that?” he murmured. “Every step.”

Her gaze flicked to him again, surprised... softened. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one chafing at it?”

He smiled then, small and rueful. “Because you’re braver about saying it.”

They passed beneath another line of bare trees, shadows stretching thin and long across the path. Robin kept his hands clasped behind his back, a posture that betrayed more restraint than indifference.

“I won’t pretend it doesn’t frustrate me,” he continued quietly. “That I don’t want to do something as simple as take your hand and let the rest of the world mind itself.” His voice lowered further. “But I’m still glad for this. For you..  here, beside me.”

Bianca’s chest tightened at that, emotion rising too quickly for comfort. “Glad?” she echoed. “Even like this?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Because a walk with you - however careful - is still better than not having it at all.”

She exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. “You make it sound very reasonable.”

He huffed softly. “Don’t mistake it for indifference. If anything, it’s restraint born of wanting more than is permitted.”

Her steps slowed, just a little, until he matched her pace without comment. “I wish,” she said, voice barely above the winter air, “that we could steal this moment the way everyone else does.”

Robin turned his head then, meeting her eyes fully for the briefest instant—warm, intent, unmistakably hers. “We are,” he said quietly. “Just… in our own way.”

They walked a little farther before Bianca spoke again, as though she needed the rhythm of her steps to steady what she was about to say.

“For the longest time,” she began quietly, “I thought my engagement was the worst of it.”

Robin’s attention shifted fully to her now, even if his gaze remained outward. He didn’t interrupt.

“The uncertainty,” she continued. “Not knowing how it would end, or when. Wondering whether I would be made to accept a future that never felt like mine.” She gave a small, breathless laugh that held no humor. “I thought that was what helplessness felt like.”

Her fingers tightened together in front of her. “But this—” She gestured faintly between them, careful even in that. “This is different. Because now I know what I want. I know what it feels like to wish for something fiercely... and still not be able to reach for it.”

Robin slowed just enough that she felt it, his presence angling toward her in quiet attention.

“I want,” Bianca said, voice soft but unyielding, “to walk my own path. To stop being managed and arranged and decided for.” Her chin lifted a fraction. “I want to choose who I stand beside. Who I show myself with. Who I am allowed to care for openly.”

She dared a glance at him then, quick and searching. “And I hate that wanting that now feels more dangerous than ignorance ever was.”

Robin drew a slow breath. When he spoke, his voice was low, steady, but threaded with something unmistakably sincere. “Knowing what you want always carries a cost,” he said. “Especially when the world is built to discourage you from claiming it.”

Her eyes shone, though she blinked it back. “I don’t want to be brave in secret anymore,” she admitted. “I don’t want to smile politely while my life is decided in rooms I’m not in.”

They passed another group of promenaders, laughter drifting past them, careless and unguarded. Bianca watched them go, something aching in her chest.

Robin spoke again, more softly still. “You should never have to apologize for wanting a life that feels true to you.”

She swallowed. “And yet here I am. Afraid of being seen. Afraid of what choosing might cost.”

He turned his head just enough that his voice felt closer, warmer. “Wanting freedom doesn’t make you reckless,” he said. “It makes you honest.”

Bianca let that settle, her steps slowing before matching his once more. “I don’t know how this ends,” she confessed. “But I know I can’t go back to pretending I don’t want more.”

Robin didn’t reach for her - couldn’t - but his presence felt suddenly resolute, anchoring. “Then don’t,” he said simply. “Even if the path is narrow for now… it’s still yours.”

The heaviness lingered only a moment longer before Robin let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, as though he were deliberately shaking it off.

“Well,” he said lightly, “for two people allegedly behaving with great restraint, we do have a talent for making a simple walk feel positively dramatic.”

Bianca huffed despite herself. “You make it sound like a personal failing.”

“An impressive one,” he countered. “Few can turn Hyde Park into a battlefield of principle and longing.”

She glanced at him then, unable to help the smile that curved her lips. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you,” he said warmly, “are overthinking again.”

They walked on, the tension easing, conversation drifting into safer territory... small observations about the city, the winter air, the novelty of London still quietly thrilling beneath everything else. Bianca felt her shoulders loosen, her steps lighten, as though the simple act of laughing had restored something essential.

Ahead, the path narrowed slightly, the trees drawing closer together. For a brief stretch, no one passed them. No glances. No curious eyes. Just the soft hush of winter and the sound of their steps.

Bianca noticed it at the same moment he did.

She hesitated only a heartbeat before shifting her hand just enough that her fingers brushed his... an accidental touch that was anything but. Robin inhaled sharply, then, without looking at her, let his hand turn, his fingers closing gently around hers.

The contact was fleeting, electric.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t look at one another. They simply walked... hands joined for those stolen seconds, warmth seeping through leather and wool, the world narrowed to that small, defiant kindness.

Bianca felt her breath catch, a smile threatening despite her best efforts.

Too soon, footsteps approached from behind. Robin loosened his grip at once, careful, seamless, as though nothing had happened at all.

And yet.

As their hands separated, Bianca felt lighter than she had all afternoon... heart racing, cheeks warm, carrying the quiet certainty that even the briefest moments, when chosen freely, could mean everything.

A moment taken, not given

The afternoon had settled softly over the London residence, winter light slanting through tall windows and casting long, pale shadows along the corridors. Somewhere below, the sound of a carriage drew up... then another. Callers, punctual and persistent, as though expectation alone might bend her will.

Bianca did not ask who they were.

Her maid paused at the door, gloved and ready, awaiting instruction. Bianca only shook her head, calm in a way that surprised even herself. “No callers today.”

The words felt strange - dangerous, almost - but also freeing. Once spoken, they settled into her chest with quiet resolve.

So instead of descending to the drawing room, instead of practiced smiles and polite refusals, Bianca wandered.

The house was awake now, quietly active: servants moving with purpose, doors opening and closing softly, voices carried lazily from distant rooms. She passed familiar salons and paused by tall windows overlooking the street, watching the afternoon traffic below, the rhythm of London carrying on without her for once. Somewhere downstairs, a footman would already be offering apologies on her behalf.

Her steps slowed, not entirely aimless after all.

She let instinct guide her... toward the library first, then the smaller morning room where he had once lingered too long under the pretence of a book. Empty. Only the faint warmth of a dying fire and the scent of old leather remained.

Bianca smiled faintly and continued on.

There was something quietly thrilling about this... this searching without permission, this choosing. Each turn of the corridor carried the hope of finding him just ahead: leaning in a doorway, sleeves undone, that familiar half-smile already forming as though he had been waiting all along.

She told herself she was only curious.
That she merely wished for conversation.

Yet her heart betrayed her with every step, quickening whenever she neared a familiar corner, listening for a voice she would know anywhere.

Somewhere in this house, Robin was moving freely... unaware, perhaps, that she was doing the same.

Bianca drifted on, her steps unhurried, as though the house itself might decide where she was meant to be. The afternoon light followed her faithfully, catching in gilt frames and along polished banisters, turning the familiar corridors almost golden. With every turn she told herself she was merely passing time.

She did not believe it.

Robin had a way of lingering in her thoughts without effort... appearing unbidden, comfortably so. She wondered where he might be at this hour. Whether he had escaped the callers as she had, whether he, too, had chosen the quieter corners of the house over obligation and performance. The thought brought a small, private smile to her lips.

She paused near the gallery, pretending to study a landscape she had seen countless times before. Her gaze skimmed the painted horizon, but her mind was elsewhere—on the sound of his voice when it dropped lower, on the way his attention sharpened when he was amused, on how easily he unsettled her without ever seeming to try.

It was dangerous, she knew. To let her thoughts wander so freely. To imagine what it might be like to find him alone, unguarded, without the careful distance demanded by watchful eyes.

Yet the house encouraged it.

A faint sound reached her then... footsteps, unhurried, familiar in their rhythm. Bianca stilled, breath catching before she could stop it. She told herself not to turn too quickly, not to betray the anticipation that had already taken hold of her.

“Bianca.”

His voice came from just behind her, warm and unmistakable.

She turned at last, and there he was... Robin, exactly as she had imagined and yet somehow more real for it. His coat was undone, as though he had abandoned formality partway through the day, and there was that look in his eyes: curiosity touched with something softer, more dangerous.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

“I was beginning to think this house had swallowed you whole,” he said lightly, though his gaze lingered on her in a way that suggested he had been hoping just as much.

Bianca allowed herself a small, honest smile. “I could say the same of you.”

For a moment longer they remained where they were, neither quite ready to break the stillness. Then Bianca drew a breath, steadying herself, and spoke before doubt could reclaim her courage.

“I was looking for you,” she admitted softly.

Robin’s brows lifted, surprise flickering across his face before giving way to something openly pleased. The corner of his mouth curved, warmth unmistakable. “Looking for me?” he repeated, as though testing the words for truth.

“Yes.” She met his gaze, resolute now. “I have been wandering this house for quite some time.”

That earned her a quiet laugh, low and unguarded. “I shall take that as a compliment.” He paused, studying her more carefully, as though noticing what was not there. “Though I confess, I am surprised. The afternoon is usually… crowded.”

Bianca understood the question even before he finished it.

“There are callers,” she said, unbothered. “Or rather... there were meant to be.” She lifted one shoulder in a small, deliberate shrug. “I sent them away.”

That caught his full attention. “All of them?” His tone was light, but there was something searching beneath it. “That is a bold choice.”

She smiled then, a little wry, a little honest. “I find myself quite out of patience for polite conversations and expectations today.” Her voice softened. “I did not wish to receive anyone.”

His gaze did not leave her. “Anyone?” he echoed.

Bianca hesitated only a moment. “Anyone but you.”

The admission hung between them, unhurried and unhidden.

Robin’s expression shifted... pleasure first, unmistakable, followed by something quieter, more careful. “I am honoured,” he said, gently this time. “Though I should ask whether I am about to be held responsible for a minor scandal.”

She laughed softly, the sound easing something tight in her chest. “I think London will survive a single afternoon without me.” Then, more honestly, “I would rather spend it with you.”

For a beat, he said nothing at all. Instead, he offered her his arm, not quite touching, but close enough to feel intentional.
“In that case,” Robin murmured, eyes bright, “I should make myself worthy of being chosen over a room full of admirers.”

They fell into step together, unspoken agreement guiding them down the corridor. Robin kept an easy pace beside her, close enough that the brush of his sleeve against hers felt inevitable rather than accidental.

“Should I feel flattered,” he asked lightly, “or deeply concerned that you abandoned an entire afternoon of admirers for my company?”

Bianca tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “That depends,” she said. “Are you planning to make yourself entertaining enough to justify it?”

His laugh was soft, quick. “A challenge, then.” He glanced at her sideways. “I do hope you realise I thrive under such circumstances.”

They passed a narrow console table, and as Bianca slowed to avoid a footman turning the corner ahead, Robin’s hand brushed her lower back... brief, guiding, gone almost before she could be certain it had happened at all. Almost.

She did not move away.

“Careful,” she murmured, eyes forward. “Someone might think you are escorting me.”

He leaned a fraction closer, voice pitched just for her. “Would that be such a terrible misunderstanding?”

Her answer came in the form of a glance... quick, warm, daring. “It might encourage you.”

They turned into the long gallery, afternoon light spilling in through tall windows. Their footsteps echoed faintly, the space feeling suddenly too large, too quiet. Robin slowed again, pretending to examine a painting as Bianca did the same.

“This one,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the canvas, “has always struck me as overly dramatic.”

“I think,” Bianca replied, “that you enjoy drama far more than you admit.”

He smiled. “Only when it involves good company.”

As they moved on, her fingers brushed his hand... light, unmistakable. She did not apologise. Instead, she let her hand linger just long enough to test him.

Robin’s breath hitched, just perceptibly. “If you continue like this,” he said, tone playful but eyes intent, “I shall be forced to assume it is no accident.”

“Perhaps,” Bianca said sweetly, “I am simply very poor at navigating corridors.”

“Then allow me,” he replied, offering his arm again... closer this time, their sleeves touching fully now. “I would hate for you to lose your way.”

She took it.

They walked on like that, close, unhurried, laughter traded in low voices, touches growing bolder by degrees—a knuckle against her glove, her shoulder brushing his chest when she turned too quickly, his fingers lingering just a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed when guiding her past an open door.

It felt reckless. Deliciously so.

Their steps slowed without either of them quite deciding to stop.

The conversation drifted... light remarks, half-finished thoughts, glances that lingered longer than courtesy allowed. Bianca caught him watching her more than once, not bothering to hide it, his expression openly amused by the fact that she noticed and did nothing to discourage him.

“You are staring,” she said lightly, though she did not move away.

“Observing,” he corrected. “There is a difference.”

She laughed, soft and breathy, and turned down a smaller corridor she had not meant to choose. Robin followed without comment, as though this, too, had been agreed upon in silence.

The door they reached was already ajar.
The library lay beyond it... quiet, empty, the tall shelves casting long shadows across the carpet. The fire had burned low, embers glowing faintly, the room holding the sort of hush that seemed to close in around them the moment they stepped inside.

Bianca slowed… then stopped altogether.

“Well,” she said, glancing around before turning back to him, one brow lifting in unmistakable amusement. “How fortunate.”

Robin closed the door behind them... not deliberately loud, but not careful enough to pretend it was an accident either. He remained near it, relaxed, hands loosely clasped behind his back, watching her with that familiar, infuriating ease.

“You sound suspicious,” he said.

She took a few steps closer, the distance between them shrinking to something charged and very intentional. “I am merely wondering,” Bianca replied, voice teasing now, “whether ending up alone in an empty room was your intention all along.”

His smile deepened, slow and unapologetic. “And if it were?”

She tilted her head, considering him, the corner of her mouth curving. “Then I might accuse you of being terribly predictable.”

“Ah,” he said, stepping closer at last, just enough that she could feel the warmth of him. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

Bianca’s gaze flicked briefly to the door behind him - closed, undisturbed - before returning to his eyes. “You followed me,” she pointed out.

“True,” he agreed easily. “But you chose the turn.”

Their proximity was unmistakable now, the air between them warm and expectant. For a moment, neither moved, neither spoke.

Then Robin added softly, “I should ask whether you intended this outcome.”

Bianca smiled... slow, daring. “Perhaps,” she said, “I was simply curious to see where you would lead.”

The quiet of the library seemed to press closer around them, as though the house itself had decided to look the other way.

Robin closed the remaining distance between them - not abruptly, not rushed - but with an intention that made Bianca’s breath catch. His hand found hers, this time without pretence, fingers warm and sure as they threaded together. He did not let go quickly. He did not look away.

“You have been very dangerous today,” he murmured.

Bianca smiled, but there was nothing coy about it now. “I warned you,” she said softly. “I am not in the mood for restraint.”

Her free hand lifted, almost hesitating before settling against his coat, fingers curling into the fabric as though testing whether he was real. The contact lingered - longer than it should have, longer than she had ever dared before - and she felt him still beneath her touch, wholly attentive.

Robin’s thumb brushed slow circles against her knuckles, a quiet confession of its own. “If anyone were to walk in—”

“They won’t,” she said, cutting him off gently, her gaze steady, unafraid. “And if they did, I believe I should finally stop caring.”

The honesty of it left the air between them charged.

She stepped closer, close enough now that there was no mistaking the choice, her voice lowering. “I am tired of pretending indifference where there is none. Tired of stolen glances when I wish to look at you openly.”

His breath warmed her cheek as he leaned in, not quite touching, giving her time... always giving her the choice. “And what is it you feel, Bianca?”

She did not look away.

“I feel,” she said, quietly but firmly, “that when I am with you, the world grows smaller in the best possible way. That I seek you without shame. That I want you to know it.”

Her hand slid higher now, resting against his shoulder, her fingers grazing his collarbone. The touch was deliberate, unhidden. Robin exhaled slowly, his forehead dipping toward hers until they hovered just shy of contact.

“That,” he said softly, “is a dangerous thing to admit.”

Her smile was warm, resolute. “I know.”

For a heartbeat longer they hovered there, breath mingling, the space between them charged with everything they were no longer pretending to ignore.

Robin moved first - slowly, deliberately - as though afraid a sudden motion might break the spell. His hand slid from hers to her waist, firm and warm, drawing her just close enough that the restraint he’d been clinging to finally slipped.

Bianca did not hesitate.

She rose onto her toes and closed the distance herself, her lips finding his in a kiss that was neither rushed nor tentative... but hungry in its restraint, as though both of them were holding back even as they gave in.

It was brief.

It did nothing to help.

When they parted, it was only far enough to breathe, foreheads resting together, her fingers still fisted in his coat as if letting go were unthinkable.

“That,” Robin murmured, voice low and uneven, “was unwise.”

Bianca laughed softly, breathless, and kissed him again... this time longer, surer, her hand sliding to the back of his neck, keeping him exactly where she wanted him. He responded instantly, the kiss deepening, his grip tightening at her waist as though anchoring himself.

They broke apart again, barely.
“I find,” she said quietly, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, “that I am past caring.”

His smile was dangerous now, all warmth and want. “You are not alone in that.”

Another kiss followed - slower, lingering - one that spoke of everything they had denied themselves for far too long. Robin’s thumb brushed her cheek, reverent even as his nearness betrayed how thin his control had become.

When they finally separated, it was not because they wished to, but because neither trusted themselves not to take it further.

They remained close, impossibly so, breathing each other in, hands still resting where they should not.

“It appears,” he said softly, “that solitude makes us reckless.”

Bianca met his gaze without apology. “Or honest.”


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

Bianca found Leone in one of the smaller salons just as the afternoon light was beginning to fade, the room washed in soft amber. He stood near the mantel, coat still on, clearly only just returned, absently turning a glass between his fingers.

“Well,” she said lightly, pausing in the doorway, arms folding with mock severity, “look who has decided to reappear.”

Leone glanced up, surprised for only a moment before a smile tugged at his mouth. “I see my absence has been noted.”

“Noted?” Bianca stepped further into the room. “You vanished before breakfast and missed the entire day. I was beginning to think London had swallowed you whole.”

“Tempting as that sounds,” he replied dryly, “I assure you I am still intact.”

She tilted her head, eyes bright with curiosity. “So?” she prompted. “Where have you been?”

Leone hesitated just long enough to make it interesting.

“Calling on Frances,” he said at last.

Bianca’s brows lifted. “Frances?” Then, with a slow smile, “You could have spared me the suspense. Or was that intentional?”

He laughed softly. “Perhaps I wished to see how long it would take you to ask.”

She crossed the room, stopping just short of him. “And?” she pressed. “Was it a pleasant call, or shall I prepare myself for one of your dramatic accounts?”

Leone considered this, expression thoughtful but unguarded. “It was… good,” he said honestly. “Uncomplicated. We talked for quite some time.”

Bianca studied him, the teasing softening into something more perceptive. “You sound rather content for someone who has been gone all day.”

“Don’t read too much into it,” he warned, though his tone lacked conviction. “I simply thought it polite to pay her a visit.”

“Of course,” Bianca replied sweetly. “Entirely out of courtesy.”

He gave her a look. “You are enjoying this far too much.”

“I am merely glad to see you,” she said, smiling. “And relieved you have not been up to anything scandalous without me.”

“Disappointing, I know.”

She laughed, looping her arm through his. “Come,” Bianca said, tugging him gently toward the door. “If you’ve spent the day charming Frances, you may as well join the rest of us for dinner.”

“And here I was hoping for a moment’s peace.”

She glanced back at him, eyes warm. “You’ve been gone long enough.”

Bianca did not release his arm as they slowed near the windows, the sounds of the house shifting subtly as servants prepared for dinner. She glanced at him sideways, the picture of casual curiosity... though he knew her too well to miss the interest beneath it.

“So,” she said lightly, drawing the word out just enough to be unmistakable. “What, pray tell, are your next intentions where Frances is concerned?”

Leone groaned softly. “I knew there would be a second inquiry.”

“Oh, this is hardly an inquiry,” Bianca replied. “Consider it a sisterly obligation.”

He shook his head, but there was a faint smile there as well. “You are incorrigible.”

“And you are evasive,” she countered. “Which suggests there are intentions.”

Leone paused, his expression turning thoughtful, less guarded. “I am considering courting her,” he said at last, simply.

Bianca stopped short.

Her surprise lasted only a moment before it softened into something bright and genuine. “Considering?” she echoed. “Leone, that is practically a declaration coming from you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Let us not exaggerate. I am merely… serious.”

She studied him, searching his face, then nodded once. “I think that suits you,”

Bianca said warmly. “And Frances.”

His gaze flicked back to her. “You do?”

“I do,” she said without hesitation. “She is kind. And she challenges you just enough.”

Leone exhaled, some tension easing from his shoulders. “I intend to write to our parents,” he added. “Soon. Inform them of my interest, see how they receive it.”

Bianca’s smile turned teasing once more. “A letter?” she said. “How very proper of you.”

“I am attempting to be responsible,” he replied dryly.

She squeezed his arm. “I am proud of you,” Bianca said, softer now. “Truly.”

He glanced down at her, surprised. “You need not be.”

“I do,” she insisted gently. “You deserve something uncomplicated. Something that feels… right.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Leone cleared his throat. “I suspect I shall require your discretion.”

She lifted her chin, mock-offended. “I am the very picture of discretion.”

His look suggested otherwise.

Bianca laughed and leaned in closer. “Your secret is safe with me,” she promised. “At least until dinner.”

“Saints preserve me.”

She smiled, warm and fond. “They never stood a chance.”

Bianca’s teasing gave way to something warmer as they resumed their slow walk, her hand still looped through his arm. There was genuine happiness there now, unguarded and bright, and she did not bother to hide it.

“I truly am happy for you, Leone,” she said, glancing up at him. “You know that.”

He nodded, quieter now. “I know.”

Her smile widened as a thought struck her, and she gave a soft, amused laugh. “Do you remember what Evelina said?” she asked. “Just after we have arrived...how England might do what home never quite managed?”

Leone raised a brow. “I recall something to that effect.”

“Well,” Bianca continued, clearly delighted, “it appears England - and a single Yuletide visit, no less - has succeeded where our mother has laboured for years.”

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “She will be insufferable when she hears of it.”

“Oh, intolerably so,” Bianca agreed. “She will take full credit, of course.”

“Naturally.”

Bianca chuckled again, affectionate rather than mocking. “Still,” she said more softly, “I think Evelina would be pleased. She always claimed London changes people.”

“Or reveals them,” Leone countered.

She glanced at him, thoughtful, then smiled. “Perhaps that, too.”

They reached the edge of the salon once more, the glow of lamplight beginning to replace the afternoon sun. Bianca squeezed his arm gently. “I hope Frances knows how fortunate she is,” she added, half-teasing, half-sincere.

Leone scoffed lightly. “You are growing dangerously sentimental.”

“Only when the occasion calls for it,” she replied. “And this does.”

He regarded her for a moment, then inclined his head. “Your approval means more than you know.”

Bianca’s expression softened. “Then I am glad I could give it.”

London evenings were made for the theatre

The theatre glittered with anticipation, every tier alight as though London itself had gathered under one roof. Whispers rippled through the audience at the knowledge that the Queen favoured tonight’s revival of The Belle’s Stratagem, and that she would soon take her place in her box beside Duchess Evelina.

Bianca settled into her seat, smoothing her skirts as she glanced briefly across the theatre - out of habit more than curiosity - before turning to Constantine.

“I wished to thank you,” she said warmly, her tone composed and sincere. “It was most kind of you to invite Leone and me this evening. To see the Queen’s favourite revived is quite the occasion.”

Constantine inclined his head, his manner easy but notably restrained. “I am glad you could attend,” he replied. “It seemed an evening worth sharing... particularly with good company.”

Leone shifted beside them, amused but content to let the exchange remain simple.

“I have heard the wit of this play is sharper than ever,” Bianca added lightly. “And I confess, I am looking forward to seeing how it is received tonight.”

“As am I,” Constantine said. “There is something rather satisfying about a work that endures.” He paused, then added, more neutrally, “I hope you find it enjoyable.”

“I am certain I shall,” Bianca answered.

As the murmur of the audience swelled and the Queen’s arrival was announced, conversation naturally fell away. Bianca turned her attention toward the stage, anticipation stirring anew... not for complication, but for the simple pleasure of the evening about to unfold.

The interval brought a gentle swell of conversation through the theatre, doors opening, voices rising, the soft rustle of movement all around them. In their box, Leone excused himself for a moment - promising refreshments - and disappeared into the corridor beyond.

Bianca remained seated, her expression bright, genuinely pleased.

“I am enjoying this far more than I expected,” she said, turning to Constantine. “There is something rather satisfying about an evening that lives up to its reputation.”

He smiled, courteous and calm. “I thought it might suit you. It rewards attention.”

“It does,” she agreed. “And I am glad to be here.”

There was a pause... not awkward, but noticeable. Bianca studied him for a moment, her tone turning thoughtful rather than teasing.

“May I ask you something?” she said quietly.

“Of course.”

She hesitated only briefly. “Have I done something to offend you? I could be mistaken, but you seem… more distant of late.”

Constantine regarded her steadily, then gave a small shake of his head. “No,” he said simply. “You have done nothing of the sort.”

She waited, unhurried.

“My attention has merely shifted elsewhere,” he continued, his tone even, without reproach or regret. “These things happen.”

Bianca nodded, relief mingling easily with understanding. “I see.”

There was no sting in it... no disappointment. If anything, the honesty felt like a kindness.

“I am glad,” she added softly. “Truly.”

He looked faintly surprised, then inclined his head. “As am I.”

Before either of them could say more, Leone returned, arms laden and spirits high, and the moment passed as naturally as it had arrived. Bianca settled back into her seat, content, her thoughts untroubled... already elsewhere, already certain of where her heart now rested.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The applause still echoed faintly through the theatre when Bianca slipped from the box and stepped onto the balcony. The night air was cool and welcome against her flushed skin, the hum of voices behind her softened by distance. Below, London glittered—lamps and carriages and life continuing as though nothing momentous had happened at all.
She rested her hands lightly on the balustrade, drawing a slow breath, letting the quiet steady her.

“You vanished.”

Robin’s voice came softly from behind her, close enough to startle, familiar enough to ease her at once.

She turned... and barely had time to smile before his hand found her wrist, gentle but certain, guiding her a step back, then another, into a shadowed corner of the balcony where the light from the theatre could not quite reach. Curtains stirred nearby, the darkness kind and deliberate.

“Robin—” she began, though there was no real protest in it.

“I know,” he murmured, lowering his voice as he positioned himself just close enough to shield her from view. “But I saw you leave, and I could not allow you to escape entirely.”

Her heart beat faster... not with alarm, but with that familiar, dangerous warmth. “You were meant to be enjoying the evening,” she said softly. “With Lucy and Miles, no less.”

His mouth curved, a quiet amusement there. “A remarkable arrangement, I admit.” Then, more honestly, “But my attention wandered.”

As it always did... toward her.

Bianca glanced past him once, just to be sure, before lifting her gaze to his again. “I needed air,” she said. “The theatre felt suddenly very full.”

“And the balcony feels… better?” he asked, his tone low, intimate.

“It does now.”

They stood close, the darkness holding them, his presence a steady warmth at her side. His fingers brushed her sleeve - unhurried, unhidden - and lingered as though restraint had once again become optional.

“I was hoping I would find you,” Robin said quietly. “Even if only for a moment.”

Bianca smiled, soft and certain. “Then I am glad I stepped outside.”

The darkness wrapped around them like a secret willingly kept.

Robin’s hand found Bianca’s almost at once, his fingers warm against her glove, curling as though the gesture had been waiting all evening to happen. This time, there was no pretense of accident. No hurried withdrawal. Their hands remained joined, still and certain.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, close enough that she felt it rather than heard it, “this is unwise.”

Bianca smiled, unseen but unmistakable in the softness of her reply. “You have already said that tonight.”

“And yet,” he added, his thumb brushing slowly along her knuckles, “here we are.”

She leaned a fraction closer, her shoulder grazing his chest. The contact lingered, deliberate now, her courage steadied by the darkness and the way he did not step back.

“I am aware of the risk,” she said quietly. “I simply find that I care less than I ought to.”

His breath warmed her temple as he inclined his head toward hers, not quite touching, giving her space even as he closed it. “That makes two of us.”

Her free hand lifted, resting against his coat, fingers splaying there as though anchoring herself. She felt the subtle tension beneath the fabric... the restraint he was holding onto by will alone.

For a moment, they did nothing but stand there, close enough that the world beyond the balcony ceased to matter. The distant sounds of the theatre faded into insignificance, the night air carrying only their shared breaths.

Robin’s hand slid from hers to her waist, gentle, protective, the touch speaking of care rather than possession. Bianca’s pulse quickened, but she did not retreat. Instead, she tipped her head slightly toward him, her forehead brushing his cheek.
“We should not linger,” she said softly, even as she made no move to leave.

“I know,” he answered, just as softly. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly, as though memorising the moment. “But I am very glad you came outside.”

“So am I.”

They did not move from the shelter of the shadows. If anything, the darkness seemed to draw them closer still, as though it, too, wished to keep them.

Robin shifted just enough to look at her properly, though her face remained mostly hidden from the light. His hand stayed at her waist, thumb resting there in a way that felt both grounding and intimate.

“There is something I wished to ask you,” he said quietly.

Bianca tilted her head, a soft smile already forming. “That sounds ominous.”

He huffed a near-silent laugh. “Only a little reckless.” Then, more serious, “The Queen’s Midwinter Ball... two days from now.” A brief pause, as though he were allowing her an easy escape, even if neither of them wanted one. “Would you accompany me?”

There was no calculation. No careful weighing of propriety or consequence.

“Yes,” Bianca said at once.

The word left her lips without hesitation, without doubt, warm and certain in the night air.

Robin exhaled slowly, something unmistakably pleased - almost relieved - softening his features. “You are very sure.”

“I am,” she replied, equally quiet. “About this. About you.”

That was all it took.

She lifted her hand to his collar, drawing him down just enough to close the distance herself. The kiss she gave him was soft, unhurried, full of promise rather than urgency... her lips lingering against his as though sealing the choice she had just made.

Robin responded instantly, gently, his other hand rising to cradle her cheek as he returned the kiss with equal care, equal feeling. It was brief, restrained only by necessity, but no less intimate for it.

When they parted, their foreheads rested together once more.

“Two days,” he murmured. “I shall count them.”

Bianca smiled, heart full, pulse unsteady. “So shall I.”

A harmless exchange, dangerously playful

January 19th arrived much like the day before—with the quiet insistence of callers announced and dismissed just as swiftly.

Bianca had no intention of receiving anyone.

Instead, she wandered through the house at her leisure, unhurried, her thoughts pleasantly occupied elsewhere. She had just reached the entrance hall when a familiar figure caught her eye... Miles, newly arrived, shrugging out of his coat as a footman relieved him of his gloves.

Her smile turned immediately mischievous.
“Well,” she said, approaching him with deliberate ease, “this is a surprise.”

Miles looked up, momentarily caught off guard, before recovering with a grin. “Lady Cattaneo. You make it sound as though I have committed some great offence.”

“On the contrary,” Bianca replied lightly. “I was beginning to wonder when you intended to show your face again. Or more precisely... when you planned to visit Miss Lucy.”

His smile tightened, just a fraction. “Ah. That.”

She clasped her hands behind her back, circling him slowly like a cat already certain of its advantage. “Do not bother pretending ignorance. I have eyes, Lord Seymour.”

“So I have been told,” he said dryly.

“I saw you at the promenade,” Bianca continued cheerfully. “And unless I am very much mistaken, Lucy was seated in your box at the theatre last night.”

He opened his mouth - clearly prepared with a deflection - but she lifted a finger before he could deploy it.

“And before you deny that as well,” she added, “I was close enough to notice.”

Miles laughed then, conceding defeat with theatrical grace. “You are far too observant for your own good.”

“Or perhaps,” she said sweetly, “you are not nearly as discreet as you believe.”

He shook his head, amusement rather than irritation colouring his expression. “I merely enjoy good company.”

“So do I,” Bianca replied. “Which is why I find it curious you have not yet called.”

Miles regarded her for a moment, then shrugged. “Perhaps I wished to avoid interrogation.”

She smiled brightly. “You should know by now... it only encourages me.”

Their shared laughter echoed briefly through the hall, easy and familiar, before Miles inclined his head in mock surrender.

“I suppose,” he said, “that means I shall have to be braver in future.”

Bianca’s smile softened, satisfied. “I look forward to it.”

Miles studied her a moment longer, then sighed in exaggerated resignation. “Very well,” he said. “You win. I am here to call on Lucy.”

Bianca’s expression brightened at once. “I knew it,” she said, pleased rather than triumphant. “It suits you.”

“Does it?” he asked lightly. “I was rather hoping no one would notice just yet.”

She smiled. “You forget... I notice everything.”

“So you keep reminding me.” His tone softened, honest now. Then, inevitably, his gaze shifted... measuring, curious. “Which is why,” he added, “I wondered how long it would take before I was allowed a question in return.”

Bianca lifted a brow. “Oh?”

“Since we are making confessions,” Miles continued, “I feel it only fair to note that I possess eyes as well.”

Bianca tilted her head. “Do you?”

“Remarkably functional ones,” he replied. “And they have been rather overworked of late... what with all the promenading, the theatre, and the curious habit you have both developed of appearing in the same places.”

She laughed softly. “You make it sound deliberate.”

“Oh, entirely,” he said with mock seriousness. “One might almost suspect intent. Or romance. Or some deeply scandalous conspiracy.”

“Careful,” Bianca warned lightly. “You may talk yourself into believing it.”

“I already have,” he said cheerfully. “It is terribly difficult to miss when someone spends quite so much time with my half brother. You have developed a very particular talent for finding him.”

“And you for watching,” she countered.

“Occupational hazard,” Miles replied. “I merely wished to confirm that my observations were not the product of an overactive imagination.”

Bianca met his gaze, untroubled, her smile easy. “You are not imagining it.”

His brows lifted. “Ah,” he said. “Excellent. I do so hate being wrong.”

Then, with a grin that held no judgement, only mischief, he added, “In that case, I hope he behaves himself. Or at least pretends to.”

“I think,” Bianca said fondly, “that is asking rather a lot.”

Miles did not move toward the stairs just yet. Instead, he lingered near the console table, leaning against it with an air of deliberate patience, as though he had all the time in the world.

“Well?” Bianca asked, noticing his lack of haste. “Should you not be announcing yourself?”

“I have,” he replied lightly. “Now we wait to see whether I am deemed worthy of being received.”

She arched a brow. “You sound remarkably calm for a man awaiting judgement.”

“Experience,” he said gravely. “One learns not to rush these things. It suggests desperation.”

“And heaven forbid that,” Bianca teased.

“Precisely.” He glanced toward the staircase, then back to her. “Besides, I find myself enjoying the company in the meantime.”

Bianca smiled. “Careful. Someone might mistake this for loitering.”

“Loitering?” he echoed, scandalised. “I prefer to think of it as strategic patience.”

She laughed, folding her arms. “Do you often employ strategy when calling?”

“Only when the lady in question is perceptive,” he replied. “Which, as you know, can be rather intimidating.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

He gave her a look. “You would say that.”

They shared a brief, easy silence before Miles spoke again, eyes glinting with mischief. “Do you intend to spend the afternoon wandering the halls once more, or shall you grace the drawing room at some point?”

“I have made no promises,” Bianca said lightly. “I find wandering suits me.”

“So I have observed,” he said. “It appears to be quite productive.”

She tilted her head. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” he replied with a grin, “you have not asked me to leave.”

Before she could retort, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Miles straightened at once, smoothing his coat...though the playful smile remained.

“Well,” he said quietly, “let us see whether my patience is rewarded.”

Bianca watched him with open amusement. “I shall be very curious to know the outcome.”

They waited a moment longer, the quiet of the entrance hall broken only by the faint sounds of the house settling around them. Miles shifted his weight, glancing once more toward the stairs before looking back at Bianca with exaggerated composure.

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “this is the most perilous part of the entire endeavour.

“Waiting?” Bianca asked.

“Being observed while waiting,” he corrected. “Particularly by someone who delights in commentary.”

She smiled sweetly. “I would never comment.”

“Your silence is far more alarming,” he replied. “It suggests you are storing observations for later use.”

“Perhaps I am merely enjoying the spectacle,” she said. “It is not every day I see you stand still for more than a minute.”

He scoffed. “I am perfectly capable of patience.”

“Under duress, perhaps.”

He laughed, conceding the point. “You wound me.”

“I aim only to keep you humble.”

“An admirable pursuit,” he said. Then, with a sidelong glance, “Though I do wonder... should this go well, will I find myself the subject of even more scrutiny?”

“Undoubtedly,” Bianca replied. “It comes with the territory.”

“Terrifying,” Miles murmured. “I may require fortification.”

“Do not look at me,” she said lightly. “You chose this path.”

Before he could reply, measured footsteps approached. A footman appeared at the edge of the hall, posture impeccable.

“Lord Seymour,” he announced, “Miss Lucy shall await you in the green salon.”

Miles straightened at once, a pleased smile breaking through his carefully cultivated nonchalance. “Ah,” he said. “It seems patience has its rewards.”

Bianca smiled at him, genuinely warm. “Do try not to frighten her.”

“No promises,” he replied lightly, already turning toward the indicated corridor. Then he paused, glancing back at her with a grin. “Wish me luck.”

“I think,” Bianca said, “you will do just fine.”

The Midwinter Ball shimmered with unspoken promises

The day had passed in a strange blur, every hour measured not by clocks but by the growing weight of what awaited her. By the time dusk settled against the windows, Bianca stood in her chamber as though on the edge of something irrevocable.

Her gown lay ready upon the chaise, deep blue catching the candlelight like a winter sky just before snow. When her maid helped her into it, the fabric settled against her as if it had been made with this very night in mind... cool, elegant, impossibly composed. Bianca barely breathed as the corset was fastened, the gentle pull reminding her to stand straighter, to become once more the version of herself the world expected to see.

Yet her thoughts were anything but composed.

She watched her reflection as her hair was pinned up, dark curls arranged carefully, pearls woven in with deliberate restraint. She looked… beautiful. That much she could not deny. And perhaps that was part of what made her heart race so unsteadily. Beauty tonight felt like both armour and invitation.

Her gloves waited on the dressing table, pristine and pale. She hesitated before slipping them on, fingers hovering for a moment as if she might change her mind... about the gloves, about the evening, about everything. The mirror reflected her pause, the faint crease of worry between her brows.

She would attend the Midwinter Ball in Robin’s company.

The thought sent a warm, treacherous flutter through her chest.

There was excitement there, undeniably so... a brightness she had not felt in far too long. The memory of his smile, the ease of his voice when it was meant for her alone, the way his presence made the world feel suddenly narrower and more vivid all at once. Tonight, they would arrive together. Be seen together. Dance beneath chandeliers and winter garlands, surrounded by eyes that noticed everything and forgave nothing.

And that was where the anxiety crept in.

What would it mean, to be at his side so openly? How much could be read in a glance, in the distance - or lack of it - between them? Bianca smoothed her skirts, grounding herself in the familiar motion. She had survived far worse than whispered speculation. Still, her heart was not so easily convinced.

Her maid stepped back at last, satisfied, and Bianca was left alone with the soft crackle of the fire and her own reflection. She lifted her chin slightly, studying the woman who looked back at her—poised, elegant, carrying a secret storm just beneath the surface.

Tonight would change something. She felt it with a certainty that made her pulse quicken.

As she reached for her wrap and gloves, a small, private smile touched her lips despite herself.

Anxious, yes. But excited too. And perhaps - just a little - hopeful.

The corridor outside her chamber was hushed, lit only by the soft glow of wall sconces and the distant sounds of the house settling for the evening. Bianca gathered her skirts as she descended the stairs, each step measured, practiced... until she spotted Leone waiting near the entrance.

He had already donned his coat, gloves in hand, posture relaxed yet attentive in the way that always suggested he noticed far more than he let on. The carriage lanterns outside cast a faint glow through the windows, catching the blue of her gown as she approached.

Leone turned at the sound of her footsteps.

For a moment, he simply looked at her. Then his mouth curved into an appreciative, familiar smile.

“Well,” he said lightly, “if the Queen herself feels underdressed tonight, I shall know whom to blame.”

Bianca let out a soft laugh, grateful for the ease of his tone. “You exaggerate. As always.”

“Hardly,” he replied, offering his arm as they moved toward the door. “I suspect you may be the reason half the room forgets its manners.”

She took his arm, feeling steadier for it, though her fingers tightened just a fraction more than usual. The cold air met them as the door opened, the night sharp and clear, stars pricked across the sky like scattered ice.

It was only once they were seated inside the carriage, the door closing with a solid finality, that Leone studied her more closely. His gaze softened... not teasing now, but quietly observant.

“You’re fidgeting,” he remarked, not unkindly. “That’s new.”

Bianca stilled her hands at once, folding them neatly in her lap. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

He huffed a small, amused breath. “You always notice.”

She offered him a composed smile, tilting her head just so. “It is only the ball. A grand one, certainly... but nothing I have not faced before.”

Leone arched a brow, unconvinced. “And yet you look as though you’re marching into battle rather than a ballroom.”

She shook her head softly, gaze shifting to the carriage window as the manor began to fade behind them. “It’s the spectacle of it all. The expectations. You know how these things are.”

“That I do,” he said, watching her reflection in the glass. After a pause, he added more gently, “Still… you needn’t pretend with me.”

Bianca met his eyes then, warmth flickering there... but she did not give him the truth. Not tonight. Instead, she reached out and squeezed his gloved hand, a familiar gesture meant to reassure them both.

“I promise,” she said softly, “there is nothing to worry over.”

Leone accepted this..  for now. His smile returned, though there was a trace of something thoughtful beneath it. “Very well. But if you decide halfway through the evening that you’d rather escape to the terrace or disappear entirely, I shall consider it my solemn duty to assist.”

She smiled more genuinely at that. “I would expect nothing less.”

The carriage rolled more slowly now, the rhythm of the wheels softening as the streets grew brighter, livelier. Light spilled from tall windows ahead, lanterns gleaming like captured stars. Music - distant but unmistakable - drifted through the cold night air.

Bianca drew a careful breath.

Leone noticed at once.

“You know,” he said mildly, eyes forward, voice lowered so it stayed between them, “when we were children, you used to look like that before stepping onto the ice.”

She turned to him, startled despite herself. “Like what?”

“Like you were certain you would either glide perfectly… or fall spectacularly.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “You always managed the former.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, tension easing just a little. “I was terrified every time.”

“And yet you never once refused,” he replied. “Not even when you shook afterward.”

Her gaze softened. “You always waited at the edge.”

“Someone had to,” he said simply.

For a moment, the intimacy of the memory settled between them... gentle, grounding. Bianca rested her head briefly against the carriage wall, allowing herself that small comfort.

“I wish,” she said after a pause, carefully, “that things did not always have to feel so… weighted.”

Leone glanced at her then, expression open, unguarded. “So do I. But weight does not mean wrong. Sometimes it just means it matters.”

She absorbed that in silence, fingers curling lightly into her gloves.

The carriage slowed again... then stopped.

Bianca straightened instinctively, pulse quickening. Through the window, she caught sight of the grand façade ahead, illuminated and alive. Figures gathered near the entrance, cloaks dark against the light—

And then she saw him.

Robin stood just beyond the steps, posture relaxed yet unmistakably attentive, as though he had been waiting longer than necessary simply to ensure he would not miss her arrival. The lantern light caught his features, the dark line of his coat, the familiar tilt of his head as he scanned each carriage in turn.

Her breath caught.

Warmth spread through her chest, swift and undeniable, rising to her cheeks as her heart began to race in earnest. For a brief, dizzying moment, the world narrowed to that single sight of him standing there, waiting.

Leone followed her gaze. He said nothing at first... only noted the sudden stillness in her, the way her hand tightened around the edge of the seat.

“Well,” he murmured at last, gently, “there it is.”

She swallowed, nodding once. “Yes.”
The footman opened the door, cold air rushing in. Leone stepped out first, offering his hand to her as he always did. Bianca placed her gloved fingers in his, allowing him to steady her as she descended.

But the moment her feet touched the ground, she felt it again—that warmth, that pull, that unmistakable awareness.
Robin had seen her.

His expression shifted instantly, something open and unmistakably pleased crossing his face as his gaze met hers. The smallest smile touched his lips... meant only for her.

Bianca felt herself flush, heat blooming beneath the elegance she had so carefully assembled. Her heart thundered, loud enough she was certain Leone must hear it.

She lifted her chin, composed once more by sheer will, and stepped forward to meet him... every sense alive, every nerve humming.

Robin did not keep her waiting.

He stepped forward as soon as she was clear of the carriage, movements unhurried, confident, as though the world had arranged itself precisely as he wished it to this evening. The lantern light caught him fully now, and Bianca felt her breath falter despite herself.

“Lady Bianca,” he said, voice warm but carefully measured, a public version of the man she knew all too well. He inclined his head with just the right degree of formality before his gaze lifted to hers. “You look… extraordinary.”

The word settled between them, heavier than a dozen more florid compliments ever could have been. Bianca felt the warmth deepen in her cheeks, though she managed a composed smile in return.

“You are very kind, sir,” she replied, matching his tone, even as her heart raced.

Robin’s eyes lingered for the briefest moment - long enough for her to feel seen, properly seen - before he turned to Leone with easy familiarity.

“Lord Cattaneo,” he greeted him, offering a polite nod. “I trust the journey was a pleasant one.”

“Smooth enough,” Leone replied, already half-amused by the scene before him. His gaze flicked between the two of them, sharp but not unkind. “I see my sister has been delivered safely into capable hands.”

“So I hope,” Robin said lightly.

Bianca shot Leone a look - half warning, half plea - not to read too much into it. He only smiled, that knowing, infuriatingly gentle smile she had known her entire life.

“I shall leave you to the evening,” Leone said, stepping back. “Frances will have me declared lost if I do not find her before the first set.”

Bianca reached for him briefly, fingers brushing his sleeve. “Enjoy yourself.”

“I intend to,” he replied, lowering his voice just for her. “And you... do not forget to breathe.”

She huffed a quiet laugh as he pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to her gloved hand before turning away, already scanning the crowd for Frances Cavell.

And then... she and Robin were alone.

Well. Alone enough.

The music swelled as the doors opened wider, warm light spilling out onto the steps. Robin offered his arm, the gesture formal, proper..  yet his eyes told a different story entirely.

“Shall we?” he asked softly.

Bianca placed her hand upon his arm, the contact sending a small, unmistakable thrill through her. “Yes.”

Together, they crossed the threshold.
The warmth of the ballroom wrapped around Bianca at once... light, music, the soft hum of voices blending into something almost dreamlike. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, reflecting off polished floors and winter garlands woven with silver and deep green. For a fleeting moment, the scale of it all threatened to overwhelm her.

Then she felt Robin’s arm beneath her hand.

The steady, reassuring presence of him at her side anchored her, easing the tightness in her chest. She drew a quiet breath, allowing herself to lean into the moment. It was easier now. Not effortless... but manageable. Her heart still raced when their steps aligned too perfectly, when his shoulder brushed close enough to remind her how much she wanted to reach for him properly. But for now, this was enough.

He guided her forward with practiced ease, acknowledging greetings, exchanging polite words with those who addressed them. To anyone watching, they appeared perfectly composed... gracious, elegant, unremarkable in the best possible way.

Only Bianca knew how keenly aware she was of him.

A servant approached them just inside the ballroom, bearing two dance cards tied with delicate ribbon. With a respectful incline of the head, he presented one to Bianca and one to Robin.

“Your dance cards, my lady, my lord.”
Bianca accepted hers, fingers brushing the parchment as she glanced down... then frowned slightly.

There was only one space on the dance card
.
She looked again, certain she must have missed something, but no... the dance card had only one space available. Not like the other dance cards she had seen before.

Robin noticed her pause at once. “Something amiss?”

Before she could answer, the servant spoke again, lowering his voice just enough to remain discreet. “Her Majesty has requested that you shall dance her her favorite waltz tonight, my lady.”

Bianca’s breath caught. “Requested?”

“Yes, my lady,” he confirmed with a small, reverent smile. “You and your partner are to dance Her Majesty’s favourite waltz. It is… customary that the space remain unfilled until the proper moment.”

Robin lifted a brow slightly, surprise flickering across his features before something brighter followed...amusement, perhaps, or intrigue.

“I see,” he said smoothly.

The servant inclined his head once more. “You will be summoned when the time comes.” And with that, he withdrew, leaving them standing amid the music and motion of the ballroom.

Bianca stared down at the card for a heartbeat longer, pulse quickening all over again.

“Her favourite waltz,” she murmured. “I hadn’t expected—”

“Neither had I,” Robin admitted, glancing at his own card before meeting her gaze. His smile was subtle, but there was warmth in it. “Though I cannot say I am displeased.”

She laughed softly, nerves mingling with something far more dangerous—excitement. “It appears we are to be… preserved.”

“For a moment that matters,” he said quietly.

Their eyes met, the world around them blurring just enough for the look to linger. Bianca felt that familiar ache - the urge to touch him, to close the distance properly - but she resisted, fingers tightening lightly around her card instead.

Robin kept his arm firmly linked with hers as they moved deeper into the ballroom, guiding her with an ease that felt almost instinctive. Bianca was keenly aware of the contact... not bold, not improper, yet constant enough to steady her. Each step carried them past clusters of guests, flashes of silk and velvet, murmured greetings and polite inclinations of heads.

She felt lighter now. Still flushed, still breathless but no longer anxious in the same way.

At a small side table, a servant offered them crystal glasses. Robin accepted one first, then another, handing it to her with a brief brush of his fingers against her glove that sent a quiet spark through her. Their eyes met for a fraction longer than was necessary.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, lips barely moving as he turned them slightly away from the flow of the room.

“Yes,” she whispered back. “I am… better than I expected.”

“That,” he murmured, “is a relief.”

They stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her side, though propriety demanded the careful space between them. The music swelled again, couples drifting toward the centre of the floor, and for a moment they were left on the edge of motion... observers rather than participants.

Robin leaned just a touch closer, his voice low, meant only for her. “I am very glad,” he said quietly, “that we have this night.”

Her heart gave a small, traitorous leap. “So am I.”

“I know it is not…” He hesitated, searching her face before continuing, softer still. “—not as open as either of us might wish.”

She smiled faintly, eyes flicking to the dancers before returning to him. “But it is still something.”

“Yes,” he agreed, his gaze warm, intent. “And I will take something over nothing, every time.”

A gentle pause followed, filled with unspoken things. Bianca shifted her glass from one hand to the other, resisting the urge to turn into him, to rest her hand more fully on his arm, to claim the comfort she so badly wanted.

Instead, she allowed herself small liberties... a glance that lingered, the quiet curve of her smile, the way she leaned just enough that only he would notice.

Robin noticed all of it.

His thumb flexed once against his sleeve, restrained, before he straightened slightly and offered her a teasing glimmer of a smile. “Shall we circulate? If we linger too long, someone may begin to wonder.”

“Let them,” she replied softly... then caught herself, lowering her gaze with a hint of a laugh. “Or perhaps… not just yet.”

They lingered longer than propriety strictly allowed.

At first it was only a heartbeat too long after a sentence ended, a glance held just beyond what politeness required. Then it became the way their steps slowed together, how neither quite suggested moving on. Their voices remained low, threaded with amusement and something warmer beneath it, each word shaped carefully so it would not carry.

Robin angled them toward a quieter corner near one of the tall pillars, half-shadowed and just removed enough from the main floor to feel almost private. From there, the ballroom unfolded before them in a sweep of light and motion... skirts turning, chandeliers shimmering, laughter rising and falling like music beneath the music.

Bianca rested her glass on the ledge beside her, fingers lingering there as though she needed the cool marble to ground herself. She was acutely aware of how close he stood... close enough that she could sense his presence without looking, feel the subtle heat of him through layers of fabric and restraint.

“You are watching the room as though it might surprise you,” Robin murmured.

She smiled faintly. “It is difficult not to. Everything feels… heightened.”

“Mm,” he said. “I find my attention keeps straying elsewhere.”

Her gaze lifted to his, and there it was again... that pull, immediate and undeniable. She had to look away first, the corner of her mouth curving despite herself.

“We should not stare,” she whispered.

“And yet,” he replied softly, eyes still on her, “you keep doing it.”

“So do you.”

His smile deepened, slow and unmistakably pleased. “I am finding it remarkably difficult to stop.”

They stood like that for a moment, the world moving around them while they remained almost still... sharing small smiles, half-finished thoughts, the occasional brush of sleeves when one of them shifted just slightly too close.

“I am happy,” he said at last, voice quiet but certain. “Even like this.”

Bianca felt the words settle in her chest, warm and steady. “So am I,” she admitted. “Perhaps more than I ought to be.”

“Then we are evenly matched,” he said lightly. His gaze softened, lowering just enough that she felt it like a touch. “Tonight feels… borrowed. Precious because of it.”

She nodded, unable to trust herself to speak for a moment. The ache to reach for him - to rest her hand properly against his arm, to turn toward him without thinking - pressed insistently at her resolve.

Instead, she allowed herself a small rebellion... her fingers shifted closer to his sleeve, close enough that the fabric brushed her glove when he moved.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Robin inhaled quietly, eyes flicking down for the briefest second before returning to hers. His voice, when he spoke again, was barely more than breath. “If we stay here much longer, I may forget myself.”

Her heart raced, warmth blooming all over again. “Then perhaps,” she said, just as softly, “we should move... before one of us does.”

Reluctantly, they straightened, composure reassembled piece by careful piece. Yet even as they turned back toward the light and motion of the ballroom, their glances kept finding one another... quick, charged, full of promise.

For now, whispers and stolen looks would have to suffice.

They drifted back into the gentle current of the evening, never quite separating.

If anything, the time only made them bolder in small, careful ways. Robin’s hand lingered a second longer when he guided her past a cluster of guests. Bianca allowed her fingers to rest more firmly at the crook of his arm than strict decorum required. Each touch was fleeting, innocent to any observer...and yet charged enough to leave her pulse skittering.

“You are enjoying yourself,” he murmured at one point, amusement softening his voice.

She tilted her head, feigning composure. “Is it so obvious?”

“To me,” he replied, eyes warm, “always.”

She laughed quietly, lowering her gaze before daring to look up at him again. “Then you must be enjoying yourself as well.”

“Immensely,” he said without hesitation. “Though I suspect my restraint deserves some recognition.”

Her smile turned mischievous. “Does it?”

His brow arched, playful challenge flickering there. “You are making it difficult.”

“Good,” she whispered before she could stop herself... then caught his reaction, the quick flash of surprise followed by something darker, more intent.

They paused again near the edge of the room, pretending to admire the musicians as the set drew to a close. Bianca’s shoulder brushed his sleeve; neither moved away. Instead, Robin leaned just enough that only she could hear him.

“If this were any other place,” he said quietly, “I would have already stolen you away.”

Her breath caught. “And if this were any other night,” she replied softly, “I might have let you.”

For a moment, the world seemed to narrow dangerously again... until a sudden hush rippled through the ballroom.

Conversation faltered. Music stilled.

A herald’s voice rang clear and formal above the gathering: “Her Majesty, the Queen.”

The room shifted at once, guests turning as one toward the entrance. Bianca felt Robin straighten beside her, his arm firm and steady, anchoring her as the doors were thrown open and Queen Charlotte made her entrance, regal and unmistakable.

Bianca’s heart thundered... not with nerves now, but with anticipation.

As the Queen took her place, the herald lifted his staff.

“By Her Majesty’s wish,” he announced, voice carrying clearly across the ballroom, “the assembled couples shall now present Her Majesty’s favourite waltz.”

A collective stir followed... anticipation, excitement, the rustle of skirts and coats as couples stepped forward together. The orchestra prepared, bows poised, musicians exchanging brief, knowing glances.

Robin turned to Bianca then, the shift in him subtle but unmistakable. His expression softened, focus narrowing entirely to her.

“May I?” he asked quietly, already offering his hand.

Her heart raced, warmth flooding her chest as she placed her gloved fingers into his. “Yes.”

Together, they moved toward the floor, joining the other couples as the first notes began to rise... no longer observers at the edge, but part of the moment itself.

Bianca felt the world steady as Robin’s hand settled at her back, proper and restrained, yet impossibly grounding. She could not touch him as she wished, not here, not now but as they took their place among the dancers, moving in time with the music and one another, she knew it was enough.

The waltz carried them forward almost at once.

Robin’s hand settled at her back exactly where it should... no lower, no firmer than propriety allowed. Bianca placed her hand upon his shoulder, light as breath, acutely aware of every measured distance between them. They moved easily, as though they had always known how to find one another in motion, their steps aligning without effort.

Around them, the ballroom turned in soft circles... skirts brushing, shoes gliding, the music drawing everyone into the same elegant rhythm. Yet Bianca felt curiously insulated within it all, as though the space between her and Robin existed apart from the rest of the room.

“You dance beautifully,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for her.

She smiled faintly. “You make it difficult not to.”

His lips curved, just slightly. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

They turned again, passing beneath the chandeliers’ light. Their hands met, parted, met again... each touch brief, correct, restrained. Still, her pulse answered every one of them. She resisted the urge to tighten her fingers when he guided her through a turn, reminding herself where they were, who might be watching.

“You seem calmer now,” he said quietly as they drew close again.

“I am,” she admitted. “Dancing with you helps.”

His gaze lingered on her a fraction longer than the step required. “I am glad.”

As the waltz progressed, Bianca sensed a change... not abrupt, but subtle. Robin grew quieter. His expression remained composed, attentive, yet something thoughtful settled beneath it, as though his mind had drifted somewhere just beyond the dance.

She noticed it in the way his answers shortened, in the way his eyes briefly scanned the room before returning to her.

When the final notes began to soften, drawing the dance toward its close, Robin guided her through the last turns with the same care as before. When the music ended, they inclined their heads, applause rising gently around them as couples slowed and separated.

Robin released her hand at once... proper, unhurried.

“Well danced,” he said, voice even.

“Thank you,” she replied, studying him, concern flickering despite her smile. “Are you—”

“I will find you shortly,” he said quietly, stepping just a little closer so only she could hear. “Wait for me on the balcony.”
It was not a request.

His tone was calm, controlled but there was an undercurrent there that made her heart give a small, uncertain beat.

She nodded. “Of course.”

Robin inclined his head once more, already turning away to merge briefly with the dispersing dancers. Bianca watched him go for a moment, then gathered her composure and made her way toward the balcony doors... carrying with her the lingering music, the echo of his touch, and the unspoken sense that something had shifted.

The balcony was colder than Bianca had expected.

She stood near the balustrade, gloved hands clasped together as she tried—unsuccessfully—to still them. Below her, the muffled sound of music and laughter drifted through the open doors, but out here the night pressed close, sharp and quiet. Each passing moment stretched longer than the last.

She watched the doors. Then watched them again.

Her heart raced, mind filling the silence with imagined reasons for his delay. Had she misread his tone? Had something truly gone wrong? She drew a steadying breath, the chill air doing little to cool the warmth - or the worry - fluttering beneath her ribs.

At last, footsteps.

Bianca turned just as Robin appeared, his expression composed but intent. Relief washed through her so swiftly she almost swayed. He crossed the balcony without hesitation, then subtly angled them farther along, toward a shadowed corner where ivy climbed the stone and the sounds from inside fell to a distant murmur.

Only when he was satisfied they were alone did he stop.

“You frightened me,” she said softly, unable to keep it from her voice. “What is it?”

He held her gaze for a long moment, as though weighing something carefully. “People were watching us,” he said at last. “Not idly. Not politely.”

Her breath caught. “Watching?”

“Yes,” he replied quietly. “The sort of looks that come when people begin to think they have discovered something. Or are about to.”

Bianca felt a small, uneasy twist in her chest but she lifted her chin. “We did nothing wrong.”

“I know,” he said at once. “But suspicion does not require wrongdoing. Only interest.” His mouth curved faintly, though there was no humour in it. “And we were… interesting tonight.”

She let out a breath she had not realised she was holding. “So what are we to do?”

Robin stepped closer... not touching her, but close enough that the space between them felt charged. His voice lowered further.

“We could endure it,” he said. “The waiting. The glances. The endless carefulness.” A pause. “Or we could end it.”

Her pulse jumped. “End it?”
.
He met her eyes squarely now, something daring and utterly sincere in his expression. “We could elope. Skip the anxiety, the formalities, the permissions that will take months... perhaps longer. We could be done with all of it.”

The words landed between them, startling in their simplicity.

Bianca stared at him for a heartbeat... then felt the truth of it settle, clear and unmistakable. No fear followed. No doubt. Only relief so profound it stole her breath.

“Yes,” she said.

The word left her lips before she had time to think better of it before she could weigh consequences or propriety or tomorrow. She did not hesitate. She did not qualify it.

“Yes.”

Robin blinked, just once. Then something broke open in his expression... astonishment, joy, something fierce and unguarded.

“You are certain?” he asked softly.

She nodded, stepping closer now, eyes bright, voice steady. “I have never been more certain of anything.”

For the first time that night, he truly smiled... wide and radiant and utterly undone.

“Then,” he said quietly, the intensity in his voice softening into something deliberate, “be ready on the night of the 22nd.”

Bianca blinked, the shift surprising her. “The 22nd?”

“I need time,” Robin continued, just as softly. “To arrange everything properly. A carriage, papers, a chapel... things that must not fail.” His gaze searched hers, earnest and unwavering. “But when we go, we go together.”

Relief washed through her, warm and steady. She nodded at once. “I will be ready.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Then the restraint between them finally gave way... just a little.

Robin lifted a hand, hesitating only a moment before brushing her cheek with the lightest touch, as if seeking permission. When she did not pull away, he leaned in and kissed her... brief, careful, and utterly certain. It was not the kind of kiss either of them wanted, but it was enough to seal what they had chosen.

When they parted, both a touch breathless, his forehead rested briefly against hers.

“On the 22nd,” he repeated.

“The 22nd,” she echoed.

Footsteps sounded somewhere along the balcony, and reality returned at once. Robin straightened, composure slipping back into place, though the warmth in his eyes remained. He offered her his arm once more, proper and restrained.

As they re-entered the ballroom together, their touches were more cautious now, their glances shorter but beneath it all lay something new and undeniable... relief, joy, and the quiet certainty that they had chosen one another.

And that was enough... for tonight.

A whispered plan, a stolen dawn

The night of the twenty-second lay heavy and still, the sort of winter quiet that made every sound feel treacherously loud.

Bianca moved through the darkened corridors with careful precision, a wool cloak drawn close around her shoulders, its hood shadowing her face. Beneath it, her heart beat far too quickly for someone attempting calm resolve. Each step felt like a decision renewed. She did not rush—fear would make her careless—but neither did she linger. The house slept, unaware that one of its daughters was slipping away from everything it expected of her.

Cold air kissed her cheeks the moment she eased the side door open. The night swallowed her whole.

Outside, the grounds were dusted with frost, moonlight glazing the paths silver. She hesitated only a second before stepping forward, boots quiet against the gravel. Then she saw him.

Robin stood beside a waiting carriage at the edge of the drive, dark coat buttoned high, gloved hands resting against the door as if he had been there far longer than necessary. The horses shifted softly, breath clouding the air. Lantern light caught the sharp line of his profile when he turned—alert instantly, as though he had felt her before he saw her.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then he straightened, relief breaking through the tension he had been holding too tightly. “Bianca,” he murmured, her name low and reverent, careful not to let it carry.

She reached him in a few hurried steps, the cloak falling back just enough for moonlight to find her face. Up close, she looked pale but determined, eyes bright with something dangerously close to fear... and something far stronger beneath it.

“You came,” he said, unnecessarily. His gaze searched her, not for doubt, but for confirmation.

“I said I would.” Her voice was quiet, steady despite everything it carried. “I wasn’t sure I’d breathe properly until I saw you.”

A faint, crooked smile touched his lips. “Then we are even.”

He gestured toward the carriage, but did not open the door just yet. Instead, his hand found hers... bare, cold, trembling only slightly. He wrapped it between both of his gloves, grounding her.

“This is the last moment,” he said softly, seriousness settling over him like armor. “If you wish to turn back, I will take you to that door myself and never speak of this night again.”

Bianca looked past him... to the carriage, the road beyond, the unseen future waiting to claim them. Then she looked back at him, fingers tightening around his.

“No,” she said. “If I turn back now, I will never forgive myself.”

Something fierce and tender crossed his expression. He lifted her hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles... not a flourish, not a seduction, but a promise.

“Then come with me.”

He opened the carriage door, helping her inside with quiet care, as though she were already precious beyond measure. When he followed and the door closed behind them, the outside world vanished... Rosewood Hall, expectations, engagements, everything left standing in the cold.

The carriage jolted gently as the driver urged the horses forward.

Bianca drew a breath she had been holding for far too long.

And beside her, Robin did not let go of her hand.

The carriage rolled forward, wheels crunching softly over frozen gravel before the sound dulled into the steady rhythm of the road. Inside, the small space felt warmer than the night outside, heavy with shared breath and unspoken thoughts.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Bianca sat with her cloak still wrapped tightly around her, fingers laced together in her lap... until Robin gently took one hand again, as though sensing the way her thoughts were beginning to spiral. His thumb brushed slow, grounding circles over her knuckles.

“We will cross the river before dawn,” he said quietly at last. “The chapel is small. Old. It does not ask questions.”

Her breath hitched... not in fear, exactly, but in the weight of what that meant. “And the priest?”

“Trustworthy,” he replied without hesitation. “Discreet. He has married couples with far stranger beginnings than ours.”

That earned a soft, nervous laugh from her... quickly stifled, as though even sound itself might betray them. “And the witnesses?”

Robin’s mouth curved faintly. “Two men who know when silence is worth more than gold. You won’t know them.”

She glanced up at him then, searching his face in the dim lantern light. There was confidence there, yes but also tension, tightly leashed. He was just as aware as she was that once the vows were spoken, there would be no polite retreat, no carefully managed explanations.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he added gently. “I thought it kinder not to involve anyone from your world. Or mine.”

“I don’t mind,” Bianca said after a moment. “In fact… I think I prefer it this way.”

The carriage jolted slightly as they turned onto a broader road, the distant murmur of London beginning to hum around them... faint voices, a barking dog, the echo of hooves somewhere ahead. Civilization closing in, even as they slipped toward something irrevocable.

Her grip tightened on his hand.

“I am afraid,” she admitted softly, the words pressed between them like a confession. “Not of you. Not of this. But of everything we are leaving behind.”

Robin did not pretend otherwise. “So am I.”

He shifted closer, shoulder brushing hers, his presence solid and unmistakably real. “But I am more afraid of waking up ten years from now and knowing I let you walk away because it was easier to obey than to choose.”

Her eyes burned at that... not with tears, but with fierce resolve. “Then don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” he said simply.

As the carriage carried them deeper into the sleeping city, Bianca leaned closer, her head finding his shoulder without ceremony. He rested his cheek lightly against her hair, breathing her in as though memorizing this moment... the last stretch of uncertainty before vows and names and permanence.

The ride was shorter than Bianca had expected.

The carriage slowed, then came to a gentle halt, the familiar rhythm of wheels and hooves fading into stillness. For a moment, neither of them moved... caught in the quiet after motion, as though the world itself were holding its breath.

Robin was the first to stir. He straightened, eyes flicking briefly to the small curtained window before returning to her. “We’re here.”

Her heart gave a sharp, breathless leap.
He descended first, boots meeting the cobblestones with soft finality, then turned back to her, offering his hand. Bianca placed hers in it without hesitation. The night air was colder here, sharper somehow, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and old incense.

The chapel stood modest and unassuming, tucked between taller buildings, its weathered stone walls barely catching the moonlight. A single lantern burned near the entrance, casting a warm glow that felt almost impossibly gentle for a place about to change her life forever.

Two men waited nearby... both plainly dressed, faces calm, eyes respectfully averted. Strangers, just as Robin had promised. Their presence felt oddly reassuring: no curiosity, no judgment, only quiet understanding.

The priest stood apart from them, hands folded, his expression kind and unremarkable in the way Bianca suspected was entirely intentional. He inclined his head as they approached.

“Good evening,” he said softly. “You are expected.”

Bianca’s fingers tightened around Robin’s, grounding herself in the reality of his warmth, his steady presence beside her. She nodded in return, her voice momentarily lost to the enormity of the moment.

Robin spoke for them both. “Thank you for meeting us at this hour.”

The priest gave a small smile. “Some vows are meant for the night.”

There was no ceremony yet, no solemn pronouncement... only a quiet understanding that this was the threshold. Robin glanced down at Bianca, his expression searching one last time, not for doubt, but for certainty.

She met his gaze and answered it without words.

Together, still holding hands, they stepped past the waiting witnesses and toward the chapel door. As it opened, warm light spilled out onto the stone, wrapping around them like an invitation.

The chapel was small and hushed, candlelight trembling softly against old stone walls. The door closed behind them with a muted sound that felt far louder than it was... sealing them inside a moment that belonged to no one else.

Bianca barely noticed the witnesses taking their places. Her world had narrowed to the warmth of Robin’s hand in hers, the steady rise and fall of his breath beside her. When he turned toward her fully, the gravity of it settled at last... not as fear, but as certainty.

The priest spoke quietly, without flourish, his words measured and reverent. There was no audience to impress, no expectation to satisfy... only truth.

When Bianca was asked to speak, her voice wavered at first. She swallowed, then lifted her chin, eyes never leaving Robin’s.

“I choose you,” she said simply, the words carrying everything she had ever been too careful to say. “Not because it is easy. Not because it is expected. But because loving you feels like the truest thing I have ever known.”

Emotion flickered across his face... unguarded, bare.

When it was his turn, Robin did not hesitate. “I have lived my life refusing to be bound,” he said softly. “Until you. With you, this is not a surrender—it is a home.” His thumb brushed over her hand, a quiet promise. “I choose you. Always.”

The priest pronounced the words that made it real, irrevocable, theirs.

When he nodded for them to seal it, Robin did not rush. He lifted Bianca’s hand, pressing his lips to her fingers first - reverent, grateful - before his other hand came to her waist. The kiss they shared was gentle, unhurried, carrying all the longing they had restrained for far too long.

When they parted, Bianca felt breathless... not from the kiss, but from the relief of no longer hiding.

Married.

The word settled warmly in her chest.

As they stepped back into the night, hands still entwined, the weight of secrecy lifted, replaced by something steadier, stronger.
Whatever waited beyond this narrow street - shock, scandal, consequence - it no longer frightened her.

She glanced up at him, a soft, disbelieving smile curving her lips. “We did it.”

Robin squeezed her hand, joy and awe mingling in his expression. “We did what was right.”

The return journey felt entirely different.

The carriage rolled away from the chapel with the same quiet rhythm as before, yet the air inside it had changed... lighter, warmer, as though the night itself had loosened its hold on them. Bianca laughed softly when the carriage lurched into motion, the sound surprising even herself.

Robin turned toward her at once, smiling fully now, openly, without restraint. “That,” he said, “is the first laugh I’ve heard from you tonight.”

She shook her head, still smiling, cheeks flushed. “I think I forgot how to breathe properly before.”

He reached for her again, but this time there was no hesitation, no careful distance. She went willingly into his arms, the cloak slipping back as he drew her close. Resting her head against his shoulder felt natural... right in a way that needed no thought.

“My wife,” he murmured, testing the word as though it were something precious.

Her heart gave a delighted, disbelieving flutter. “My husband,” she returned just as softly.

They stayed like that for a while, simply holding each other, listening to the distant city pass by beyond the carriage walls. Bianca traced the seam of his glove with her fingers, grounding herself in the reality of it all.

“I should be terrified,” she admitted lightly. “Of tomorrow. Of explanations. Of everything.”

“And yet?” he prompted.

“And yet I feel… steady,” she said after a moment. “As though no matter what comes, I will not face it alone.”

Robin tilted her chin gently so she had to meet his gaze. “You never will.”

He kissed her then... slower than before, deeper, all the restraint finally giving way to affection freely claimed. When they parted, his forehead rested against hers, breath mingling with hers in the quiet.

By the time the familiar outline of the London residence came into view, dawn was beginning to soften the edge of the night. The house stood silent, unaware of what had changed within its walls.

Robin helped her down once more, his hand lingering at her waist as though reluctant to let go even for a second. Together, they slipped inside, careful but no longer tense, sharing glances that brimmed with shared secrets and joy.

Inside the quiet hallway, Bianca paused, looking up at him with a smile that was entirely unguarded now. “Whatever happens next,” she said, “I am glad it is with you.”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek, eyes warm and certain. “So am I.”

The house was silent around them, the sort of deep, sleeping quiet that made even the softest sound feel intimate.

They moved through the hallways slowly now, no longer hurrying, no longer listening for footsteps. Robin guided her by the hand, fingers interlaced, the familiarity of the gesture already settled between them. Candle stubs burned low in their sconces, casting long shadows that followed them like secrets.

Bianca laughed under her breath when he drew her into a darker alcove near the stairs, her back brushing cool paneling as his hand came to her waist. The kiss he gave her then was unhurried, warm, full... nothing stolen about it anymore. She answered it easily, rising onto her toes, one hand slipping up to rest against his chest as if it belonged there.

“Careful,” she whispered when they parted, smiling. “We are still meant to be discreet.”

“And yet,” he murmured, brushing his lips along her temple, “we are no longer doing anything wrong.”

That thought seemed to delight her. She kissed him again, brief and playful this time, before allowing him to lead her onward. Another turn, another stretch of corridor... and another pause, another kiss, softer now, more tender, as though they were both savoring the novelty of not having to hold back.

At last, they slowed near the quieter wing of the house. Robin stopped, his thumb tracing idle circles against the back of her hand. His expression had softened, joy still there, but something gentler beneath it.

“Bianca,” he said quietly, her name fitting easily now. “You do not have to—”

She cut him off with a small shake of her head, stepping closer. “I know.”

He studied her for a moment, searching not for permission, but for comfort. Then, softly, almost shyly, he asked, “Do you wish to spend the night together? Now that we are… now that we are married.”

Her breath caught... not with surprise, but with warmth. She smiled, eyes shining in the low light.
“I was hoping you would ask,” she admitted.

Relief and affection crossed his face in equal measure. He drew her closer, resting his forehead against hers, their laughter quiet and shared, meant only for the darkened halls that bore witness.

Robin’s room lay at the end of the corridor, tucked away from the main household, quiet and shadowed. When he opened the door and ushered her inside, the space felt suddenly smaller - closer - lit only by the faint glow of embers in the hearth and a single candle left burning low.

The door closed softly behind them.

For the first time that night, Bianca became acutely aware that it was just the two of them. No carriage wheels, no priest, no witnesses. Only silence, warmth, and the reality of what they had chosen.

Her breath caught.

She did not step away... quite the opposite. As if to outrun the nervous flutter in her chest, she reached for him, fingers finding his lapels, drawing him down into a kiss that was deeper, more insistent than any before. Her confidence felt almost deliberate, her hands warm against him as she pressed closer, as though daring herself not to hesitate.

Robin responded instinctively at first, arms coming around her, the kiss answering hers with equal hunger... until he felt the faint tension beneath her boldness. He slowed, just slightly, resting his forehead against hers.

“Bianca,” he murmured, voice low and careful. “We don’t have to do this. Not tonight. Not ever, unless you are certain.”

Her hands stilled only for a moment.

Then she lifted her head, eyes bright, unguarded, and stepped closer still, leaving no space between them. One hand rose to his cheek, thumb brushing along his jaw with tender familiarity.

“I am certain,” she said quietly. “I have wanted you for far too long to pretend otherwise.” A soft, breathless smile curved her lips. “And now you are finally mine.”

Something in his expression shifted... wonder, devotion, a fierce gentleness all at once. He cupped her face, holding it as though it were something precious, something earned.

“And I am yours,” he said simply.

The kiss that followed was slower, deeper, full of promise rather than urgency. Bianca relaxed into him then, the last of her nerves dissolving beneath the certainty of his touch, his patience, his presence.

The room seemed to close gently around them, the quiet thick with warmth and possibility. Bianca stayed close, as though stepping back might break the spell entirely. Her hands slid from his lapels to his shoulders, fingers curling there as she kissed him again... slower now, exploratory, learning him without restraint.

Robin answered her with the same care, one hand settling at her waist, the other brushing along her back beneath the cloak. The simple intimacy of it made her breath catch. Every touch felt newly permitted, no longer stolen or paused mid-thought.

She laughed softly against his mouth, a nervous sound she didn’t quite recognize as her own. “I am trying very hard not to overthink this.”

He smiled against her lips. “Then let me help.”

He drew her closer, and she felt the warmth of him fully then, the steady certainty in his arms. Her nerves lingered, fluttering beneath her ribs... but they were softened by the way he held her, unhurried, attentive. She let herself lean into it, into him, her fingers tracing the line of his collar, the warmth of his skin beneath her touch.

When he kissed her neck, gentle at first, she tilted her head without thinking, encouraging him, emboldened by the way her name left his lips like a vow repeated. Her hands grew braver in turn, palms pressing against his chest, feeling his breath deepen beneath them.

They moved together instinctively, guided by want rather than urgency... pausing often, kissing again, touching as though memorizing one another in the low light. Each brush of skin, each whispered breath, felt like a quiet affirmation of everything they had chosen.

Bianca rested her forehead against his, eyes closed, smiling faintly. “I don’t feel afraid anymore.”

Robin brushed a thumb along her cheek. “Good,” he said softly. “Because this—whatever pace we take—it’s ours.”

She kissed him once more, unhurried and certain, and let herself stay there in his arms, the night unfolding gently around them, boldness blooming not from haste, but from trust.

He guided her backward until the edge of the bed brushed against her knees, but he did not press her down. Not yet. Tonight was not about haste.

Their kisses softened, deepened... slower now, more deliberate. Bianca’s fingers slipped beneath his coat, pushing it back from his shoulders, feeling the warmth beneath the layers. When it fell away, she smiled faintly, a quiet thrill running through her at the intimacy of such a simple act. Robin answered in kind, loosening her cloak, letting it slide down her arms and pool at her feet as though it had never belonged to her at all.

Each movement was unhurried, punctuated by kisses - at her mouth, her jaw, the curve of her shoulder - small pauses that felt like questions silently asked and answered. Bianca’s confidence returned in gentle waves, her hands exploring with growing certainty, tracing familiar lines now freed from propriety.

Robin’s touch remained reverent even as it grew bolder, palms warm and steady, reminding her with every brush of skin that she was safe, wanted, chosen. When she caught her breath, he smiled against her temple, murmuring her name like something precious.

They undressed one another not as strangers discovering novelty, but as lovers finally allowed to linger... layers removed slowly, carefully, as though each was a promise being kept. Bianca laughed softly once more, nerves dissolving entirely now, replaced by warmth and trust.

When at last he drew her down with him, her hands resting against his chest, the world beyond that room ceased to exist. There were only whispered breaths, shared warmth, and the quiet certainty that this - this closeness, this tenderness - was exactly where they were meant to be.

Together, they let the night close around them, unafraid, unhidden, finally giving in to everything they had held back for far too long.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

Morning came softly.

Bianca woke to warmth first... the steady heat of another body beside her, the weight of an arm wrapped securely around her waist. For a few precious seconds, she did not move. She simply breathed, listening to the slow rhythm of Robin’s breath behind her, feeling the quiet rise and fall of his chest against her back.

Contentment settled over her like a blanket.

Sunlight slipped through the curtains in pale bands, touching the room gently, as though even the day itself was reluctant to intrude. Bianca smiled faintly, pressing back into him just enough to reassure herself that the night before had been real. That he was real.

Robin stirred at the movement, his hold tightening instinctively. His face nuzzled briefly into her hair, half-asleep, before he murmured her name... soft, unguarded, meant only for her.

She turned slowly in his arms, careful not to break the spell, until she could see him properly. His eyes were still heavy with sleep when they opened, but the moment he focused on her, warmth spread across his expression.

“Good morning,” he said quietly.

Her smile deepened. “I was hoping you’d still be here.”

He laughed softly and brushed his thumb along her cheek. “I intend to be. Though I suspect the household may eventually notice our absence.”

She sighed - not in annoyance, but in reluctant acceptance - and rested her forehead against his. “I wish we could stay like this. Just a little longer. As though the world hasn’t caught up with us yet.”

“So do I,” he admitted. “But even when we leave this bed… you don’t leave me. Not anymore.”

That thought filled her chest with warmth all over again. She kissed him - slow, lingering, unhurried - before settling back against him once more, savoring the moment while it still belonged entirely to them.
They lay there a while longer, wrapped in quiet and shared smiles, knowing that soon enough they would have to rise, to face explanations and consequences and the life waiting beyond these walls.

He kissed her again before either of them could think better of it... slow, lingering, the sort of kiss that made leaving the bed feel like an unreasonable demand. Bianca laughed softly against his mouth, her hand sliding to his shoulder as if to anchor herself.

“We really must,” she murmured, though she made no effort to move just yet.

“Must we?” he asked, brushing his nose against hers, clearly hoping for a delay.

Eventually, reality won out... barely. They disentangled themselves with reluctance, exchanging glances that lingered far too long as they rose. The room felt different in daylight: gentler, familiar, undeniably theirs for the night it had held them.

Getting dressed proved… distracting.
Bianca gathered her things, only to catch Robin watching her openly, unapologetically, a smile tugging at his mouth whenever she looked his way. She returned the look without embarrassment, warmth blooming in her chest at the ease of it.

“Stop that,” she said lightly, though her smile betrayed her.

“Impossible,” he replied. “I’m married to you now. I believe that grants me the right.”

She shook her head, laughing, but when she reached behind her back to fasten her dress, her fingers faltered. “I can’t... would you…?”

He stepped closer at once, hands gentle as he took the fabric, fingers brushing her skin as he worked the closures with deliberate care. The intimacy of it made her breath catch more than she expected.

Before she could comment, he leaned in and stole a kiss at the nape of her neck..  brief, warm, unmistakably affectionate.

“Robin,” she said softly, half a protest, half a smile.

“I know,” he murmured. “But I couldn’t resist.”

He finished fastening her dress, palms lingering just a moment too long at her waist before he stepped back. They regarded one another then... fully dressed, composed, and yet still glowing with the quiet knowledge of what they shared.

They did not walk quite as close to one another once they stepped into the hallway.

Instinctively, Bianca slowed her pace just enough to put a careful distance between them, her hand brushing Robin’s only once before she drew it back. The gesture made them both smile... quick, private smiles that carried more nerves than mirth.

“Well,” he murmured under his breath, straightening his coat as though that alone might make them appear less… newly altered. “Back to pretending we are perfectly sensible people.”

She glanced at him sideways, amusement flickering despite the tightness in her chest. “You have never once been convincing in that role.”

“Cruel,” he whispered, though his eyes were warm.

Their steps echoed softly as they descended, the house fully awake now in a way it had not been hours before. With every turn of the corridor, the light grew brighter... and so did the quiet awareness that this could no longer be contained between the two of them.

Bianca’s confidence wavered just slightly then. She drew a steadying breath, smoothing her skirts, her expression composed though her heart beat faster. Robin noticed at once. He did not reach for her - not here - but he slowed just enough to walk in step with her again.

“We face this together,” he said quietly. “Whatever comes.”

She nodded, grateful beyond words.

The downstairs hall came into view... and with it, Evelina and Leone.

They stood near the hearth, side by side, as though they had been waiting for some time. Evelina’s posture was rigidly composed, hands folded before her, her expression calm in the way that signaled anything but ease. Leone’s jaw was set, his arms crossed, gaze sharp as it lifted to meet Bianca’s the moment she appeared at the foot of the stairs.

No one spoke.

The silence stretched... heavy, unmistakable.
Evelina’s eyes moved from Bianca to Robin and back again, taking in every detail... the shared ease, the barely concealed closeness, the way Bianca’s composure carried something new... settled, resolved.

Leone exhaled slowly through his nose, displeasure written plainly across his features, though concern lingered beneath it.

Bianca stopped, standing tall despite the knot in her stomach. Robin halted beside her, not quite touching, but unmistakably aligned with her all the same.

Nothing had been said.

And yet, everything had already been understood.

Sorry for typos and if it feels rushed...

Last edited by schoggettchen (25/12/2025 at 21:58)