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edenityy · 1 month ago

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( chapter thirty-six ! )

"I met someone."

Sun, softened by the lacework of thin clouds, drapes the park in a flattering glow, and the pathways—though busy—are just wide enough for Leah and Elizabeth to stroll without the burden of unwanted company. Birds twitter in the hedges and a few little carriages wind along the far road. Early afternoon has always been forgiving to London's less serious pedestrians.

Pompom, energetic as ever, trots a few paces ahead, restrained only by the delicate silk ribbon Leah uses in place of a proper leash. His white coat looks nearly iridescent beneath the gentle light as he prances, tail curled high, thoroughly enjoying himself. Occasionally, he pauses to sniff a flowerbed, only to be hurried along by a subtle tug.

Leah glances sidelong at Elizabeth. "You met someone?" the words are carefully repeated, neither indifferent nor enthused—merely curious, as if testing the weight of them.

Elizabeth's bonnet dips as she nods, blonde curls bouncing slightly beneath the fine lace trim. "Yes, a gentleman. His name is Mr. Davis—Christopher Davis," her tone swells with quiet excitement, betraying her efforts to remain composed. "I met him at Lady Wetherby's dinner last week, though I scarcely thought to mention it before. He was quite.. agreeable."

The corners of Leah's mouth lift faintly as she adjusts her grip on Pompom's ribbon, allowing him a bit more freedom as they reach a quieter path lined with towering trees. "I imagine agreeable must seem like heaven after meeting some of the men in London," the teasing lilt in her voice is gentle, but not without sincerity. "Tell me, is he terribly handsome, or simply tolerable enough to excuse?"

A soft laugh escapes Elizabeth and she briefly hides her face behind her gloved hand. "Leah! I should not answer that. You would only make sport of it."

Leah hums, letting the matter rest for a moment. There is a distinct pleasure in letting Elizabeth flutter on with her girlish delight.

Pompom darts towards a small flock of pigeons and scatters them with theatrical barking, but his antics draw little more than an indulgent glance. Leah keeps a light hold on the ribbon, letting him believe himself the victor without dragging him away too soon.

Elizabeth steals another look at Leah. "I had worried you might think me foolish," she says, quieter now. "Considering.. well."

"You are often foolish, but not in this," Leah answers without malice. "I am glad for you," she means it. There is no bite or sharpness beneath the surface. Just the simple truth.

They stroll past a little pond where swans glide lazily across the water, indifferent to the attention they draw. Leah's skirts swish faintly against the gravel, their fullness occasionally brushing Elizabeth's. The fashion of the season may be dictated by English propriety, but Leah clings to the excesses of her French tutors' influence—flounces, ribbons, and colorful silks that border on indulgence. Even now, the pale rose fabric she wears is embroidered with delicate vines, the design more suited to Versailles than London, but she wears it unapologetically.

Elizabeth watches the swan but keeps glancing back to Leah, visibly relieved by her reaction. "You are certain? I had feared you might think it soon."

"Soon?" Leah raises a brow. "You are no longer a child, Lizzie. Neither am I. Soon becomes late faster than you'd think," there is no bitterness in her voice, but perhaps a hint of recognition. The season may be a formality for Leah, but there is no denying how quickly time presses on. Seventeen feels like an eternity and yet somehow almost an ending.

A cool breeze stirs the air, rustling the branches above and prompting Elizabeth to pull her shawl a little tighter. Leah, by contrast, lets the chill pass over her without much thought. She grew up with harsher winds and colder winters—even born in the middle of one. The softness of England's early spring is nothing compared to the sharp gales of her father's properties in the American countryside. There is something almost pleasant about it.

"You'll introduce me properly, I hope," Leah says after a beat, eyes fixed on the little dog who now wrestles with a fallen stick twice his size.

"Of course!" Elizabeth brightens again. "I had hoped you'd say so. He mentioned he would call at the next assembly, and perhaps—if you would not mind—you might.. assess him?"

Leah's lips twitch into something resembling a real smile. "What? You wish me to judge the poor man?"

"Only a little," Elizabeth admits with a sheepish look. "You are far more discerning than most and you know I value your opinion."

"Flattery," Leah says plainly, but not unkindly. "Still, I suppose I might. If only to ensure he isn't a card sharper or some other dreadful bore."

Elizabeth laughs fully this time, the sound carrying over the quiet path. For a brief moment, the world seems simple again, as it had been when they were girls before duty and title began to twist everything into shape.

Further down the path, the sound of another carriage arrives, wheels cracking against gravel, but it is distant enough not to disturb them. The park, mercifully, seems their own for now. Leah shifts her attention back to Pompom, who has abandoned the stick in favor of flopping into a patch of clover, triumphant and tired. She lets the ribbon slacken, giving him leave to bask as he pleases.

"You must not let your heart get ahead of itself," Leah warns gently, eyes still on the small dog. "Not all agreeable men are worth the trouble."

Elizabeth does not immediately reply. Instead, she looks out over the pond, thoughtful, but not discouraged. "I shall try," she says at last, with a smile Leah suspects is more hopeful than cautious.

With that, they continue down the path, skirts swaying softly and Pompom trailing behind like a prince without a care.

═╬

The sound of carriage wheels grinding to a halt in the courtyard is nearly drowned out by the rain that has begun to fall in light, misty sheets. Though the afternoon had been dry, the evening air carries the scent of damp stone and fresh earth, creeping through the open windows of the Barrett townhouse.

Candles flicker in their sconces, and somewhere down the hall, the faint notes of a pianoforte drift from the parlor played with all the lifelessness expected of a household where music is an obligation rather than a pleasure. None of it matters, none of it even registers, because Leah is already halfway down the grand staircase before the footman has a chance to announce that the carriage has arrived.

She does not wait. The moment the doors swing open and the figure of Aunt Rosaline emerges from the shadows, shaking the rain from her cloak, Leah moves forward without hesitation.

"Aunt Rosaline," her voice is alight with something dangerously close to joy, restrained only by years of careful breeding. The world outside is cold and wet, but here, standing in the entryway with the warm glow of the chandeliers reflecting off polished floors, she feels nothing but warmth.

Rosaline lifts her chin slightly, taking in the grand house, the uniformed staff, and the picture of wealth and propriety that her niece presents. She has not seen Leah in years, but she has not forgotten her. "Leah," she acknowledges, her tone even and expression unreadable. However, there is the barest trace of something softer in her gaze as she removes her gloves and hands them to the waiting footman.

Leah does not lunge forward like a child or clasp her aunt's hands or weep with relief. That would be improper. Instead, she stands straight, her fingers twitching at her sides and her heart pounding with something she refuses to name. Rosaline had been the one constant in a world of uncertainty, the only person who had ever shaped her into something more than a burden to be cast aside. She had not been affectionate, but she had been present, and that had been enough.

"I trust your journey was comfortable," Leah continues, her voice perfectly smooth.

Rosaline steps further inside, allowing the butler to take her damp cloak. "It was tolerable," she replies, casting a brief glance around the hall. "Your father was kind enough to send a carriage, though I must admit, I did not expect such hospitality."

The words are neutral, but Leah hears the undercurrent, the unspoken understanding that Lucius Barrett does nothing unless it serves a purpose. Hospitality is a performance, one dictated by obligation rather than sincerity. But Leah does not care about her father's motives. Rosaline is here, in her house, if only for a few days, and that is all that matters.

"Come, we shall sit in the drawing room," Leah says, leading the way without waiting for an answer. It is a familiar dynamic—she had learned long ago that Rosaline dislikes wasted time. The house is warm and the fire in the drawing room crackles softly as they step inside. A tea tray has already been prepared with an assortment of delicate cakes arranged in perfect symmetry.

Rosaline takes a seat, her posture impeccable. She has not changed in the slightest. The years have left her with a few more lines at the corners of her eyes and a faint touch of silver among the dark strands of her pinned-up hair, but she is still the same woman who had once ruled over Leah's childhood with quiet authority. Albeit, only for about a year.

Leah sits opposite her, hands folded in her lap. "It has been some time," she remarks, watching as Rosaline reaches for her teacup.

"It has," Rosaline agrees, lifting the porcelain to her lips and she does not bother to elaborate.

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable, but it is charged with unspoken things. Leah has questions—so many of them—but she does not ask them yet because she does not need to. Rosaline is here, sitting before her, not some distant memory or ghost from her past. That is enough, for now.

A knock at the door disrupts the moment. Anna steps inside, her expression as unremarkable as always. "Would you care for anything else, Lady Rosaline?"

Rosaline barely glances at her. "No, this will suffice."

Anna nods, her gaze flickering briefly to Leah before she turns to leave. She does not comment on Leah's uncharacteristic eagerness or the way she seems lighter and more at ease, but she notices.

When the door closes, Rosaline sets down her cup with a quiet clink. "Tell me, Leah. How have you fared?"

The question is simple, but the weight of it settles between them. Leah hesitates for only a moment before she smiles, a picture of practiced grace.

"I have done well," it is the answer she is supposed to give, the one that satisfies expectations. But Rosaline is not one for pleasantries and Leah knows that. So, after a pause, she allows a sliver of honesty to slip through. "It has been.. tiring."

Rosaline watches her for a long moment before inclining her head slightly. "Society is exhausting."

A quiet laugh escapes before Leah can stop it. "That is a polite way to put it."

Rosaline does not smile, but there is something knowing in her expression. "And your engagement?"

The mention of Ciel is expected, yet it still sends a strange thrill through her. "It is wonderful," she answers, lifting her chin. "He is currently attending Weston College."

Rosaline studies her. "You are content?"

There is no hesitation this time. "I am."

For the first time that evening, something shifts in Rosaline's demeanor. It is not quite approval or warmth, but something close. "Then I am pleased for you."

Leah exhales, though she had not realized she was holding her breath. For the first time in a long while, she feels something almost like peace.

The firelight flickers against the polished wood, casting shifting shadows over the drawing room walls and rain has softened to a steady patter against the windows, muffled by thick drapes. A small clock on the mantel ticks evenly, marking the passage of time in gentle, rhythmic beats. The tea, once warm, has begun to cool.

Leah swirls the last remnants in her cup before setting it down, fingers brushing lightly against the porcelain rim. "You intend to stay the full week?"

Rosaline regards her over the rim of her own cup, gaze level. "I do, unless your father's hospitality wanes," the words carry little inflection, neither a jest nor a complaint, merely an observation.

"It might," Leah does not attempt to soften the truth. Her father has moods like the tides—distant, indifferent, sometimes tolerable, other times less so. He plays at warmth when the occasion demands it, but such efforts are never sustained. If Rosaline stays long enough, she will see it for herself.

A faint hum of acknowledgment is all Rosaline offers in return. Setting down her teacup, she smooths the fabric of her sleeve, fingers lingering over the delicate embroidery. "I had wondered whether you would flourish under this house's influence or wilt. I see now that you have not done either."

The comment settles over Leah like a weighted veil. "I am not so fragile as to wilt."

"No," Rosaline agrees. "You were never fragile."

The words should please her, but instead, they linger in a way that is almost uncomfortable. Leah does not know what she wants to hear—perhaps nothing at all. Her fingers tighten in her lap as she tries to keep her expression as smooth as glass.

"You were always quite particular about your own expectations," Rosaline continues, "and you were always quick to anger when they were not met."

A sharp exhale presses against Leah's ribs. "I was a child."

"Yes," A pause, "now you are not."

Something in the quiet of the room shifts. Leah watches her aunt carefully, searching for some trace of judgment, but finds none. Rosaline has never coddled her. She had taught her discipline, shaped her into something refined, and made her unyielding where once she had been wild. She had done what no one else had bothered to do, but she had never been cruel.

A footman enters, setting a fresh pot of tea on the table before retreating without a word. The scent of bergamot drifts into the air, curling at the edges of Leah's thoughts.

The fire crackles softly, filling the silence between them. Leah has no desire to speak of her childhood, nor of the girl she used to be—impulsive, unruly, filled with an anger she did not know how to temper. That girl had been sent away and she had been reshaped.

"Your fiancé," Rosaline says at last, shifting the conversation as if sensing the direction of Leah's thoughts. "You have no doubts?"

Leah does not hesitate. "No."

Rosaline studies her. "You are young yet."

"I am not uncertain."

"No?" one dark brow arches ever so slightly. "And what of him? You are certain of his affections?"

A lesser girl might blush at the implication, might turn coy or evasive, but Leah does not. "He is not demonstrative most of the time," she admits, tilting her head slightly, "but his affections are not in question."

Rosaline does not press further and merely nods as if considering something privately. "It is good that you are fond of one another. Affection is a luxury in a match such as yours."

There is something almost dry in her tone, something edged with quiet understanding. 'I wonder if Rosaline had ever been afforded such a luxury herself.'

Outside, the rain continues its slow descent, casting rivulets against the glass. The house is quiet but not empty—footsteps in distant corridors, the occasional murmur of servants going about their duties. It is a house of presence without warmth, of people who exist alongside one another rather than with one another.

Rosaline taps a single finger against the armrest of her chair, a slow and measured movement. "The opera," she muses as if weighing the word itself. "I assume you will be on display."

Leah exhales a quiet breath. "I am always on display."

The amusement is barely there, but Rosaline catches it. "You have been trained well, then."

"I was trained by you," Leah counters, and for the first time that evening, something flickers between them—almost close to mirth and understanding.

Rosaline's lips press together in a manner that is not quite a smile. "I was thorough, at least."

The fire dims slightly as the logs settle, shifting with the weight of their own slow burn.

"Do you miss it?" Leah asks, surprising even herself with the question.

Rosaline tilts her head slightly. "Miss what?"

"The house," Leah clarifies. "Your lessons. Me."

A pause. Not a long one, but enough for Leah to notice it.

"I do not make a habit of missing what is no longer mine to tend to."

It is not a cruel answer, nor is it dismissive. It is simply the truth, stated plainly without embellishment. Leah nods once, accepting it for what it is.

═╬

Gilded chandeliers overhead cast a golden glow upon the lavishly dressed attendees, their jewels glittering like stars against the deep, velvet red of the opera house. The performance is nearing its crescendo, the soprano's voice soaring, yet Leah barely breathes for fear of missing a note.

She sits poised, hands delicately folded in her lap, but there is a brightness in her eyes that betrays her usual restraint. The music sweeps through her like a tide and for a rare moment, she forgets the obligations of the evening—the mingling, the careful restraint of her temper, and the ever-watchful eyes of high society dissecting her every move. Here, in this moment, she is simply a girl enraptured by the beauty of it all.

Lucius, however, is less enthralled. He shifts beside her, adjusting his cuffs with a touch too much force, and exhales sharply through his nose. The gesture is not loud, but it is noticeable enough that Rosaline flicks her gaze toward him with a look of restrained exasperation.

It is a wonder he has endured this long—opera has never been his taste, nor has anything particularly European, if he is being honest. While he has spent years assimilating into English society, there are certain things he refuses to relinquish and his disregard for their cultural refinements is one of them.

The long, drawn-out performances, the endless bowing and scraping, the way these men speak in circles rather than getting to the damn point—it grates on him. He has always preferred the briskness of business dealings, the directness of American enterprise, and the simple fact that in his country, a man does not have to pretend to like someone to succeed.

Still, he does not make a scene. He is, after all, a man of considerable wealth, and wealth affords one the privilege of impatience. Even the most self-important lord would hesitate before criticizing a man whose influence extends beyond mere titles and into the very mechanics of trade.

Vivienne, seated with perfect posture on Lucius' other side, remains composed, her expression unreadable beneath the delicate lace of her mask. Unlike her husband, she has always embraced the demands of high society, adapting to its unspoken rules with a grace that makes her nearly indistinguishable from those born into it.

However, even she has little interest in the opera itself. Her focus is elsewhere, her eyes subtly scanning the audience, observing and assessing. She notes which women wear last season's fashions, which gentlemen linger too long in conversation with married women, and which families appear particularly eager to align themselves with the Barrett's. A small smirk touches her lips—these people, with all their airs and carefully practiced etiquette, are as predictable as ever.

Leah does not concern herself with such things tonight. She has spent enough of the season wading through tedious conversation, biting her tongue when faced with the more insufferable members of the peerage, or curbing the sharpness of her wit for the sake of propriety. In this moment, she allows herself the pleasure of indulgence. The soprano's voice rises once more and she is spellbound.

Then, Lucius shifts again, more noticeably this time. A few heads turn in irritation at the disruption. He mutters something under his breath, something about the "damn unbearable seats," and Rosaline finally levels him with a look that could silence a storm.

"If you cannot remain still for another twenty minutes, then perhaps you should excuse yourself," she murmurs, her voice a blade wrapped in silk. "Unless, of course, you wish to be remembered as the American who could not endure an evening of culture."

Lucius snorts. "Oh, forgive me. I had forgotten that enduring discomfort for the sake of appearances is what passes for refinement here."

His voice is low, but the distinct lack of effort in concealing his accent draws a few glances. It is not that his manner of speech is crude—his education and wealth ensure that he speaks properly—but there is a directness and an unapologetic sharpness that sets him apart from the men around him. The British have mastered the art of veiled insults and saying one thing and meaning another. Lucius, by contrast, sees little purpose in pretense.

Leah glances at him from the corner of her eye. She is accustomed to his impatience and irritation with the very world he insisted upon entering. For all his wealth and power, he will never truly belong here, not in the way Vivienne does or the way she has had to. But that is of little concern to him—he does not need their approval and never has.

Still, she wishes he would at least pretend to enjoy himself. His presence is a necessary one, if only for the sake of formality. Though her engagement to Ciel ensures her future is secured, there is still merit in maintaining their family's position and in proving that the Barretts are not outsiders but equals. Lucius' barely concealed disdain does little to help that cause.

A brief pause in the music allows for a shift in atmosphere, the audience stirring slightly before the next act begins. Leah takes the opportunity to compose herself, smoothing the skirts of her gown as she allows her gaze to wander. Across the theater, she catches sight of familiar faces—young women she has exchanged pleasantries with and gentlemen who have attempted to court her before realizing the futility of it.

The music resumes, sweeping through the theater with renewed vigor and she allows herself to be drawn back into its embrace. The night is not yet over and there is still much to be endured. But for now, she lets herself exist within this moment, where nothing matters beyond the music.

Below, the stage glows in the soft golden light of the chandeliers, the set a grand spectacle of painted backdrops and lavish costuming. Leah watches with quiet interest, her fan resting idly against her wrist as the lead soprano takes center stage again. The woman's voice is magnificent, filling the opera house with a resonance that sends a pleasant shiver up her spine.

Lucius leans back in his chair, arms crossed and eyes half-lidded in what could be mistaken for appreciation but is, in reality, boredom. "I fail to see what is so remarkable," he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for his wife and sister-in-law to hear. "A woman wailing for near an hour and the people cheer as though it were the second coming of Christ."

Vivienne doesn't so much as glance at him, her attention fixed on the performance. "Because it is art," she says, her tone clipped. "A concept lost on some, I suppose."

Rosaline casts Lucius a sidelong look, unimpressed. "Do spare us your theatrics. You are in a theatre, after all."

Leah suppresses a smirk, hiding it behind her gloved fingers. Her father huffs but does not argue, merely shifting in his seat as if to make himself more comfortable. It is a rare thing to see him so easily dismissed. Perhaps the opera has its merits after all.

A soft knock at the door draws her attention away from the stage as an usher steps inside, bowing briefly before speaking. "My Lord, my Ladies, you have a visitor—the Duke of Aylesworth requests a private audience with Miss Barrett."

Vivienne's head turns sharply, her lips parting in mild surprise while Lucius raises a brow but merely glances at his daughter, waiting to gauge her reaction. Leah remains composed, though inwardly, she wonders at the suddenness of the request. It is not uncommon for gentlemen to seek conversation during the intervals.

Curiosity piqued, she nods once. "Very well."

The usher steps aside and moments later, Henry enters the box. His bow is executed with an ease that suggests he has done it countless times before, movements smooth and assured. "Miss Barrett, I hope I am not intruding," his voice is pleasant and richer than she remembers, though perhaps that is simply due to the quiet of the box.

"You are not," Leah replies evenly. "Though I admit, I am surprised."

Henry smiles. "Then I shall take that as encouragement rather than deterrence," his gaze flickers briefly to the rest of her family. "Lord Barrett, Lady Barrett, Lady Martin."

Lucius regards him with vague recognition, Vivienne with polite indifference. It is Rosaline who watches him the closest, eyes sharp beneath the delicate lace trim of her mask.

He does not linger under their scrutiny. "I hoped to steal a moment of Miss Barrett's time. May I?"

Lucius waves a hand lazily, as though already growing tired of the exchange. "She is her own keeper. If she wishes to entertain you, I see no reason to object."

Leah rises, smoothing out the skirts of her gown. "We will remain within view," she says, a pointed reminder that, regardless of her independence, certain proprieties must be observed.

Henry inclines his head. "Of course."

They move to the edge of the box, where a pair of seats offer a degree of privacy without complete seclusion. The sounds of the opera swell in the background, voices soaring over the soft hum of the audience.

"I admit," Henry begins, "this is the first time I have gone to such lengths to speak with someone. It is rather unlike me."

Leah tilts her head slightly. "Then I shall consider myself flattered."

He chuckles. "As you should. Though I would not wish to bore you with pleasantries—I am certain you have endured more than enough of those this season."

The remark earns him a small, genuine smile. "A perceptive observation, as always."

"Perceptive, perhaps, but not particularly remarkable," he says. "Anyone with eyes can see the season is a tedious affair. For ladies such as yourself, especially. It must be dull sifting through the same rehearsed conversations and the same declarations of admiration from men who hardly know a thing about you."

Leah regards him with interest. "And what of you, Your Grace? Have you come to add to the tedium?"

"On the contrary," he leans back slightly to emphasize his ease. "I came because I realized I know little about you beyond what society dictates I should. That is an oversight I mean to correct."

Her fingers toy with the edge of her fan, considering. "You are confident in your success."

Henry smiles. "I am determined. There is a difference."

It is difficult not to be at least somewhat amused. He is far from unpleasant company and unlike so many others, he does not seem to be approaching this conversation with the expectation of something more than civility. There is no cloying flattery, no attempt to impress her with exaggerated wit. 'It is.. refreshing.'

She studies him for a moment longer before speaking. "Very well. If you truly wish to know me beyond the season's formalities, then ask what you will."

Henry's expression brightens slightly, though he does not gloat. "A dangerous offer," he muses, "but I shall restrain myself."

The next few minutes pass in an easy rhythm, conversation drifting between topics that have little to do with the season. He speaks of travel, of places he wishes to visit, and she finds herself sharing small details in turn—nothing overly personal, but enough to make the exchange feel genuine rather than forced.

At some point, he glances toward the stage, then back at her. "What of the opera? Do you enjoy it?"

Leah exhales a quiet breath, considering her answer. "I do. The performance is exquisite."

"And yet," Henry observes, "you are here speaking with me rather than watching it."

A soft, almost imperceptible laugh escapes her. "You make an excellent point."

"Then perhaps I should count that as a victory," he says lightly, "to have held your attention even briefly."

A voice interrupts before she can respond. "Leah."

Turning, she finds Rosaline watching from a few feet away, expression unreadable. It is not a summons, but it is certainly a reminder. Time is not limitless, nor is the patience of those observing.

Henry seems to understand as well. He rises, offering a hand to help Leah stand. "I will not keep you further," he says. "But I do hope this will not be our last conversation."

She hesitates for the briefest of moments before offering a polite nod. "We shall see."

It is noncommittal, as it should be, but there is no outright dismissal.

Henry smiles. "Then I shall have to hope for the best."

Giving a bow, he steps back as she returns to her family's side. The performance continues below, voices soaring, but the air between them lingers with the remnants of conversation yet unfinished.

Soon enough, the intermission arrives and hums with the low murmur of conversation, nobles moving through the gilded corridors of the opera house like peacocks at leisure. Amidst the crowd, Lucius and Vivienne stand apart—not by decorum, but by the sheer absurdity of their ongoing argument, conducted in hushed but pointed tones.

"I hardly see why it matters," Lucius mutters, arms crossed, his expression carrying the distinct weariness of a man forced into an inconsequential debate. "If the man chooses to eat fish at such an establishment, that is his prerogative."

Vivienne's eyes narrow, her delicate gloved fingers tightening around the stem of her champagne flute. "It is vulgar, Lucius. Who in their right mind orders fish at a place renowned for its venison? It speaks to a certain.. lack of refinement."

"You detest venison."

"That is entirely beside the point."

Seated between them, Leah watches the exchange with detached amusement, accustomed to the silly subjects her parents could turn into battlefields. A flicker of something like recognition passes through her. She and Daniel had inherited this very trait—the ability to make the pettiest of grievances a subject of heated debate. At least they knew when to stop before it spiraled into true animosity.

Lucius sighs, exasperated. "You act as though the man has committed a crime against the Crown."

"I am simply stating that it reveals something about his character," Vivienne retorts. "One's choices in dining are a reflection of one's upbringing."

Leah, against her better judgment, lets out a quiet laugh. "If that were true, I'd imagine my upbringing to be a great point of concern."

Both parents turn to her at once, expressions shifting from irritation to scrutiny.

"And why is that?" Vivienne asks, voice slow, measured.

"Because I have been known to order whatever I please, regardless of what is expected," Leah lifts her glass to her lips, feigning nonchalance. "A terrible flaw, no doubt."

Lucius gives her a flat look. "That is hardly the same."

"No?" Leah tilts her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Then what does it say about me?"

Vivienne does not answer. Not because she lacks one, but because there is no response that does not lead into treacherous waters.

Rosaline, who has been listening in silence, finally decides to intervene. "Do stop this ridiculous quarrel," she says, not unkindly but with the air of someone who has tolerated quite enough of their antics for one evening. "We are in public."

Vivienne exhales sharply, looking away. Lucius, still visibly irritated, takes a sip of his brandy and mutters something under his breath that Leah cannot quite catch.

For a brief moment, peace settles over them. Then, just as Leah is beginning to enjoy the quiet, a voice—syrupy and edged with barely concealed disdain—cuts through the lull.

"My, Miss Barrett," coos a woman to Leah's left. "What an enviable position you find yourself in this season."

Leah turns, already schooling her expression into one of polite disinterest. The speaker is Lady Adeline Warrington, a woman whose fondness for inserting herself where she is least wanted is only rivaled by her talent for veiled insults. Older, but not yet past her prime, with a sharp gaze that lingers too long on Leah's gown, her jewels, and the curve of her mouth as if searching for some imperfection to latch onto. 'Oh dear God, please.. I don't know how much more I can take speaking about the same topic every day.'

Composing herself, Leah inclines her head. "Lady Warrington."

"A diamond, an engagement to the Earl of Phantomhive, and the admiration of all—one might say you have won the season," the words are pleasant, but the smile that accompanies them is anything but.

Leah is accustomed to such women. Women who speak in sugared tones but wield their words like daggers, waiting for a misstep or a crack in the porcelain. She has spent years perfecting the art of remaining unshaken.

"A most fortunate position," she agrees mildly. "Though I should think the season is not a competition to be won."

"Oh, but it is, dear," Lady Warrington says, tilting her head as though to assess her more closely, "and you have set quite the standard. Though I do wonder, does it not feel terribly dull to have your fate already decided? To enter a season not as a hopeful debutante, but as one merely fulfilling an obligation?"

There it is. The barb is subtle but deliberate. A challenge.

Leah does not rise to it. She merely allows the corners of her lips to curve in the faintest hint of amusement. "I would hardly call securing one's future dull," she replies, tone airy. "In fact, I find the certainty rather comforting."

Lady Warrington's expression flickers, just briefly, but it is enough.

Vivienne, who has thus far remained silent, finally interjects. "It is quite the spectacle, is it not?" she muses, swirling the champagne in her glass. "A season where some are fortunate enough to enter with their futures secured, while others must fight tooth and nail for even the slightest consideration."

Lady Warrington stiffens ever so slightly. She has daughters, after all. Daughters who, despite their breeding and their tireless efforts, have failed to make advantageous matches in previous seasons.

Lucius chuckles under his breath, taking clear enjoyment in his wife's words. "It is a rather fascinating thing to witness," he remarks. "The desperation and maneuvering," he sips his brandy. "Quite like a game of chess."

Rosaline offers a deceptively pleasant smile. "One should be careful with such games, though. One wrong move and it all comes crumbling down."

Lady Warrington presses her lips together, the first true sign of irritation showing through. Leah watches, sipping her champagne, feeling the small and quiet satisfaction of victory.

The woman recovers quickly. "Well," she says after a moment, "I do hope you enjoy the remainder of the evening, Lady Barrett. I look forward to seeing how the season continues to unfold."

With that, she sweeps away, the scent of jasmine trailing behind her.

Leah exhales, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Insufferable."

Lucius huffs a laugh. "You shall meet many more like her before the season's end."

Vivienne simply lifts her glass to her lips. "And you shall learn to tolerate them."

Watching Lady Warrington disappear into the crowd, Leah smiles against the rim of her glass.

"I sincerely doubt that."

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #elizabeth midford #multiple ocs #ocs #i love my ocs #long fic #long reads #bridgerton inspired #locked tf in #slowly losing my mind #slow burn

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