“My most beloved piece,” Benedict began, his voice carrying over the elegantly assembled crowd, “is a poem titled Frances.”

He stood at the heart of Aubrey Hall’s courtyard, surrounded by the glittering members of the Ton, gathered for an evening ball held in his honour. Lady Violet Bridgerton, ever the proud mother, had orchestrated the entire affair to celebrate the publication of her son’s first book of poems—words once scribbled in the solitude of his journal, now immortalised in print and shared with society’s most discerning ears.

As Benedict’s gaze swept across the gathering, it faltered—landing, unbidden, upon you. The one who had once held his heart entirely. His muse. His salvation. The source of every verse, every brushstroke, every secret longing committed to page.

Yet no one could have guessed. You were hidden behind a name—Frances, a careful fiction. Your affair, though known to his family, had been kept from the judgemental gaze of the Ton. For you were no debutante, no heiress, no lady of standing. You belonged to the kitchens, the cellars—the domain of caterers. Even now, you moved discreetly through the crowd, a silver tray of champagne glasses balanced in your hands.

When whispers began to stir and suspicion crept too near, you had made the impossible choice. You ended it—fearing not for yourself, but for him. For the name he bore, the family he came from. For a future he deserved that society would never allow with someone like you.

Benedict turned to face the guests once more, though his eyes flickered back to you with quiet ache.

“Frances, she loved the pine trees,” he began, his voice steady, though softer now—more intimate. “Would swing from the branches on days like this. Dances under the moonlight, I’d make advances when midnight hit.”

“But at the end of the day, what’s my mother gonna say” he continued, “When I come home crying? At the end of the day, I’m just happy I could say she was mine.” he finishes as she stares over at you, tears blurring his gaze.