✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 ˚｡⋆ ༘˚✧
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𝐱𝐢.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 was no doubt in Benedict's mind as to whom he wished Athena should marry; yet, he recognized the selfishness of expressing it openly. He yearned for her himself, tormented by the thought of seeing her in Lord Beaumont's arms. The image of another man kissing her soft, red lips and receiving her smiles—always given to him—haunted Benedict, an unrelenting ache in his heart.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words that escaped were not those he wished to convey. "Marry him," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Athena's expression faltered; the frustration in her smile dimmed, replaced by a glimmer of disappointment. Her eyes, once bright with hope, now carried a shadow of sorrow as she looked at him, trying to reconcile his words with the emotions they had stirred.

She stood up straight, her resolve evident in the way she held herself. "I shall then," she said quietly, her voice steady but laced with a hint of sadness. She turned to leave the room, her movements deliberate and composed.

Just as she reached the door, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. "I shall see you at the Somerset Gallery, I presume?"

Benedict nodded, his expression a mixture of resignation and sorrow. "Last I knew, I would be there."

A faint, melancholic smile touched her lips. "Good. It is there that I am to announce my engagement." With that, she stepped through the door and closed it gently behind her, leaving Benedict alone in the quiet room, grappling with the weight of his unspoken words and the poignant finality of her departure.

"Benedict! I had not expected your return," Violet exclaimed, her surprise evident as her second eldest son entered the room and threw himself down beside Hyacinth, the youngest of her brood, who was presently occupied with a plate of macarons.

He pressed his fingers to his temples, his eyes squeezed shut as though plagued by a dreadful headache. Yet, in truth, it was not pain that troubled him, but the thought of Miss Athena Huxley being wed to Lord Beaumont, when he but an hour prior, could have prevented it from happening.

"I do not believe he is well, Mama," Hyacinth observed, her voice muffled by the macaron she was devouring.

Benedict cast her a weary glance before eyeing the tray of macarons. "I assure you, I am perfectly well," he replied, though his tone was somewhat curt, as he swiftly seized a chocolate macaron.

"That was mine!" Hyacinth protested, attempting to retrieve her lost confection, but Benedict had already consumed it with haste.

He smiled, albeit somewhat mischievously, as he struggled to swallow. "I saw no name inscribed upon it," he managed to say, his words still somewhat garbled.

She set the plate upon her lap, her countenance marked by displeasure, and crossed her arms in a petulant manner. "Mark my words, Benedict, I shall have my revenge. Just you wait."

He chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "Oh, I eagerly anticipate it," he replied with a teasing smile, knowing well how such words vexed her.

"Benedict, why are you here, dear?" Violet interrupted, her tone gentle but probing, cutting through the playful exchange between her children.

Benedict hesitated, his gaze dropping momentarily as he took a few measured breaths, summoning the resolve to respond. "Why, can a son not visit his mother simply out of affection?" he replied, attempting a lighthearted tone, though it rang hollow.

Violet tilted her head slightly, her expression carrying the unmistakable air of a mother who could see through even the best of intentions. "Because I know you too well, my dear. You do not simply pay me a visit on a random Wednesday afternoon when it is only Hyacinth and I at home."

Benedict raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, a small smile playing at his lips. "You have caught me, Mother. The truth is, I was actually hoping to find Francesca and Eloise here as well."

Violet's eyes softened, though she still held a note of mild reproach. "You know full well they are not here on Wednesdays. Eloise is spending the day with Penelope, and Francesca is with Lady Danbury."

"Does it even matter? I am here now, and that is all that should concern us," Benedict declared, reclining on the couch and closing his eyes as if to shut out the world and its vexations.

Hyacinth returned to her macarons, delicately nibbling on the freshly baked confection. However, their mother remained intent upon Benedict, her gaze unwavering as if she could penetrate the veil of his thoughts and discern the burden he bore.

"You spoke with Mrs. Huxley, did you not?" his mother suddenly broke the silence, her voice betraying the thoughts that had occupied her mind since their family dinner the previous evening. She recalled Benedict's conversation with Anthony and Colin regarding a letter Mrs. Huxley had sent. Though propriety dictated she should not have eavesdropped, curiosity had gotten the better of her.

Her thoughts drifted back to the prior night, recalling Colin's counsel to Benedict—if Mrs. Huxley truly desired his company, it was for her to seek him out, not the other way around.

At the sound of Mrs. Huxley's name, Benedict's eyes opened, meeting his mother's gaze. "A bold assumption, Mother," he replied, his tone measured, though not entirely void of reproach.

Violet merely shrugged, a slight, graceful motion of her shoulders. "But correct, was it not?"

Benedict ran a hand through his hair, a gesture more of weariness than vanity, before rising to pour himself a small measure of cognac. The amber liquid was gone in a single, swift swallow. He returned to his seat, the weight of his thoughts still visible in his posture.

"She came to see me," he confessed, his voice quieter now, laden with the unspoken implications of that visit.

His mother tilted her head slightly, a small smile of satisfaction playing on her lips. She had managed to coax from him something he rarely shared—his feelings. It was an accomplishment, for Benedict was not one to readily unburden his heart, especially to her. When he did confide, it was typically to Eloise, Anthony, or Colin, his siblings with whom he shared a closer bond. Even among his friends at Oxford, he kept his emotions well-guarded, never quite trusting them enough to reveal the depths of his thoughts.

For Violet, this moment of openness was a rare victory, and though she cherished it, she knew better than to press further. Benedict's heart was a fortress, and the walls had only been lowered slightly for this brief exchange.

"I do not really know what she intended to tell me," Benedict admitted, a hint of bewilderment in his voice. "But she managed to ask me who I thought she should marry."

Violet leaned forward, her interest piqued. "She asked you that? And what did you say?" Her tone was eager, almost as if she anticipated the folly of whatever answer he had given Athena.

Benedict raked a hand through his already ruffled hair, a gesture that betrayed his discomfort. "I told her that she should marry him," he confessed, feeling a twinge of embarrassment as the words left his lips.

His mother sank back into her seat, taking a moment to compose herself with a few measured breaths before speaking again. "Benedict, my dear son, sometimes you are truly remarkable," she said, her voice carrying a blend of exasperation and affection. "Mrs. Huxley obviously came to you because she wanted you to say that you were the one she should marry. That you loved her far more than Lord Beaumont and that you were the only man who could truly make her happy."

Violet's words hung in the air, and for a moment, Benedict could not find a reply. He realized, perhaps too late, the significance of what Mrs. Huxley had sought from him—a declaration that he had failed to make.

"Well, there isn't much I can do now," Benedict said, his tone resigned. "She had made up her mind by the time she left." He reached over and snapped up another macaron from Hyacinth's tray. She opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it again, as if reconsidering whatever she had been about to say.

Violet shook her head slowly, a look of mild frustration crossing her features. "Sometimes, I truly believe you've inherited your father's obliviousness. He, too, was often blind to the signals others were sending him."

Benedict paused mid-bite, her words cutting through the haze of his thoughts. He could hear the gentle rebuke in her voice, the exasperation of a mother who saw more clearly than her son. The room fell silent, each of them lost in their own reflections, Hyacinth carefully avoiding eye contact while Benedict mulled over his mother's observation, wondering how he had missed what now seemed so obvious to her.

"But what could I do? She told me they were to announce it on Tuesday, which is in just two days," Benedict replied, a deep sense of regret settling over him. The events of the past few hours weighed heavily on his mind, and he couldn't shake the frustration that always seemed to accompany his inability to voice his feelings when it mattered most.

His mother's smile was gentle but firm, the kind that only a mother could offer in the face of her child's uncertainty. "You have 48 hours, Benedict," she said, her voice laced with encouragement. "That's more than enough time. You can do everything. Go, and do the right thing, son."

He rose to his feet swiftly, adjusting his jacket with newfound determination. Turning to his mother, Benedict declared, "There is no time to waste, then. I shall go."

Hyacinth, who had been quietly following the conversation, watched her brother intently as he made his way to the door. A small smile curved on her lips, and she waved at him, "Good luck."

Benedict chuckled, a lightness returning to him as he stepped through the door, leaving the two women behind. As he departed, the house seemed to breathe out a sigh, returning to its familiar, quiet rhythm, while Violet and Hyacinth shared a knowing glance, the hope of what might come next unspoken but understood between them.

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