The estate was alive with spring-sunlight dappled the hedgerows, birdsong warbled gently through open windows, and the scent of wisteria clung to the breeze. Colonel Christopher Brandon stood near the hearth of his drawing room, one hand resting lightly on the carved mantelpiece, the other cradling a brandy he had yet to sip. His eyes, calm yet quietly vigilant, watched the figure seated across the room: Marianne Willoughby-alone, though married. The irony had not escaped him.

She was more restless than he remembered. Her laughter, once musical, now struck with a note of desperation; her glances lingered too long, especially when they found him. And when they did, he could not meet them-not for long.

His own spouse, her sibling-Y/N-had only just returned from the garden, cheeks flushed from the brisk air and conversation with the vicar's wife. You had settled beside him with such effortless warmth that for a moment, the disquiet in the room had seemed to fade. He placed his hand gently over yours, a simple act of affection that did not go unnoticed.

Marianne stiffened, and her smile froze. "You look well," she said, her voice tight. "Both of you. Married life suits you..."

Christopher offered a nod, measured and polite. "It does. I am fortunate beyond words."

"And yet," she went on, her eyes flickering between the two of you, "one wonders what such quiet happiness amounts to when-when it is not felt with fire. Surely there must be passion, or all else is... mimicry."

It was a familiar refrain—spoken once in admiration, now in contempt.

There was a silence, broken only by the clink of porcelain as tea was poured. And then, your hand drifted instinctively to your stomach-a small, hopeful gesture.

Marianne's gaze followed it like a hawk. "Is there—" she began too quickly, too sharply. "Is there news of a baby?"