The drawing room of the Bridgerton estate was a study in contrasts. Lady Bridgerton sat poised and composed, her sharp eye scanning the room with practiced ease, while Lady Featherington fanned herself with exaggerated movements, the feathers of her hat quivering as she muttered anxiously under her breath. Benedict stood by the mantel, his fingers drumming against the carved wood, his gaze shifting between his fiancée and the increasingly tense exchange between their mothers.

“This arrangement,” Lady Featherington began,“must proceed without delay. The ton thrives on whispers, and I will not have my child—my family—become the center of yet another scandal.”

Lady Bridgerton raised an elegant brow, her tone measured but firm. “Lady Featherington, you must know that the Bridgerton name is far from susceptible to mere gossip. However, I do agree that expediency is in everyone’s best interest.”

Benedict’s fiancée sat quietly near the window, their hands folded in their lap as they stared out at the rolling gardens. The soft afternoon light highlighted the faint flush on their cheeks, a telltale sign of their worry.

“You’re too quiet,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only they could hear. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

They turned to meet his gaze, their eyes betraying a mix of fear and gratitude. “I don’t want this to feel like a duty,” they whispered. “I don’t want our love overshadowed by... circumstances.”

Benedict’s hand closed over theirs, his touch steady and grounding. “This is not a duty,” he said firmly, his tone rich with sincerity. “This is our life, our choice. Let them call it a rushed affair if they wish. It makes no difference to me, as long as you’ll have me.”

Their lips parted to reply, but Lady Featherington interrupted sharply, “Are we agreed then? A wedding within the fortnight?”

Lady Bridgerton, ever unflappable, inclined her head. “Agreed. And rest assured, it will be a ceremony befitting both families.”