A Study of Courtship-Chapter 22: Tea, Philosophy, and Other Dangerous Matters

Fiennes Estate, Drawing Room— Late Morning

The tea tray rattled.

The poor servant—an older man who had survived three Seasons, and every eccentricity Sophia had displayed since the age of ten—was visibly paling by the second. His hand trembled ever so slightly as he poured the next cup.

And it was entirely Sophia’s fault.

"Locke argues," she said with perfect, scholarly calm, "that if a government fails to protect the natural rights of life, liberty, and property, then—quite reasonably—its citizens have a duty to rebel."

"Duty?" Benedict echoed, blinking. He was holding his teacup but had momentarily forgotten what tea was.

"Yes," Sophia continued, utterly unfazed by her mother hovering in the hallway like a hawk. "A government derives its legitimacy from the consent of the governed. If it breaks that contract, then the governed are free to withdraw their consent. By force, if necessary."

The servant froze mid-pour.

His hand jerked.

Tea sloshed perilously close to the edge of Benedict’s cup.

"Miss... Lady Sophia..." the servant wheezed. "...p-please." 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

Benedict gently took the teapot from the man’s hand and set it aside before they all ended up drenched.

He lifted a brow at Sophia. "My lady," he said softly, "you cannot speak of revolution during a social call."

Sophia frowned. "Why not? It is only natural rights."

Benedict set his teacup down, leaned in slightly, and murmured: "Because the staff values their lives."

Sophia blinked. "Oh."

"And," he added, eyes glinting, "because I am attempting—quite heroically—to court you, not overthrow the crown."

She stared at him, scandalized. "I—milord—this is a discussion of political philosophy, not romantic—"

"Oh?" he teased. "Then why are you blushing?"

"I am not," she declared, blushing furiously.

"Of course not," he said with a soft laugh. "It’s merely the effect of Locke’s prose, I’m sure."

Sophia narrowed her eyes and launched straight into her counterargument, "You misunderstand Locke entirely—what he references is the consent of the governed and how—"

Benedict just smiled. It was not the smile of a man mocking her. It was the smile of a man who found her absolutely, devastatingly enchanting.

Sophia faltered mid-sentence. "...Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because, Lady Fiennes," he said quietly, "you speak of revolution with the same seriousness most ladies speak of ribbons."

Her ears burned. She tried to muster indignation. Instead she found herself staring at his jawline, which was unfairly distracting. "I—well—philosophy is important—"

"I agree."

Sophia blinked. "You do?"

Benedict nodded. "But I also think," he added gently, "that some contracts—social or otherwise—deserve to be rewritten."

Her breath caught.

This was no longer about Locke.

This was about them.

Before she could reply, the servant—who had aged ten years in five minutes—croaked:

"If milady intends to discuss rebellion, might I request to be excused?"

Josephine’s distant voice shouted, "YES, PLEASE LET HIM GO."

Sophia flushed.

Benedict laughed.

Sophia leaned forward, blue-sapphire eyes bright with intellectual fire, completely forgetting she was currently in the middle of a formal social call.

"If you study the origins of gunpowder, milord," she said earnestly, "the Chinese formulation is historically superior in stability and combustion. I could procure a small vial of it for you — purely for scholarly comparison, of course."

Benedict stared at her.

Blink.

Blink again.

"Gunpowder," he repeated slowly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, "for... courtship?"

Sophia blinked back at him, entirely serious. "Well, every couple exchanges something meaningful. For some it is poetry, or roses, or perhaps hair ribbons. For us, I thought... high-quality black powder seemed fitting."

The footman holding the tea tray went visibly pale.

Benedict’s shoulders shook. He bit back a laugh but failed spectacularly.

"Sophia," he whispered, voice warm, amused, and aching with fondness, "you cannot simply gift a gentleman gunpowder and expect him to remain composed."

She frowned. "Why ever not? It is practical, educational, and quite generous—"

He leaned in, lowering his voice, "—and it makes me adore you far more quickly than is safe."

Sophia froze.

Her breath caught.

She looked, for the first time, genuinely flustered.

"But—milord—that is not how this is meant to work," she stammered. "You tease me far too openly."

"Only because you are far too endearing when you are earnest," he murmured.

Sophia opened her mouth to argue—but the drawing room door opened.

Marchioness Josephine swept in like a general entering a battlefield, quiet but terrifyingly alert.

Her gaze flicked from her daughter, to Benedict, to the horrified servant still clutching the teapot like a holy relic.

"Sophia," Josephine said calmly, "one does not typically discuss flintlock pistols and Chinese gunpowder during a courtship."

Sophia straightened. "But Mama, Locke said—"

"I assure you," Josephine interjected, "Mr. Locke did not intend for his theories to be applied to firearms during tea."

Benedict choked on a laugh.

Josephine’s eyes snapped to him. "My lord, is my daughter... behaving?"

He nodded very quickly. "Your daughter is... unforgettable, my lady."

Sophia looked pleased.

Josephine did not.

Josephine moved to sit in the opposite chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, observing them like a scientist studying an unpredictable animal.

Sophia cleared her throat. "Well then. Since Mama is here, perhaps we may discuss a more appropriate topic."

Josephine exhaled in relief.

"Yes," Benedict said smoothly. "Something proper. Something gentle. Something more fitting for a lady’s afternoon conversation."

Sophia nodded, composed.

Then she said, "Tell me, Benedict — what is your preferred caliber of flintlock pistol?"

Josephine’s soul briefly left her body.

Benedict laughed and the servant nearly dropped the teapot.

Josephine did not need to raise her voice. One gently lifted brow was enough authority to halt an entire cavalry charge.

"Lord Benedict," she said with warm finality, "your allotted time for today’s social call has concluded. You are, of course, welcome to return on another morning."

Sophia snapped upright in her seat. "What? But Mama— I still intend to discuss flintlock pistols with him. And I have several topics yet unfinished—gunpowder mixtures, trajectory balance, the evolution of—"

Josephine’s tone softened but did not budge. "My dear, there will be... plenty of time for that."

Benedict, who had been valiantly attempting not to laugh, stood and bowed to both ladies.

"It has been an honor, Marchioness. Lady Sophia." His eyes warmed at her. "I look forward to continuing... all of our unfinished discussions."

Sophia’s lips parted, caught between indignation and a flutter she had no training to manage. "Milord, I— we— I did not even finish the explanation of—"

"Tomorrow, perhaps," he said softly, and the way his voice dipped made the servant holding the tea tray nearly drop it.

With one last lingering glance — one that unmistakably held the sparks of a man thoroughly smitten — Lord Benedict took his leave.

The drawing room door closed behind him.

A breath later, Josephine turned toward the footman waiting by the entrance. "Are there any remaining callers for my daughter?"

The footman flushed, bowed, and replied quietly, "None, my lady. When Lord Montgomery’s carriage arrived, the remaining gentlemen... departed at once."

Sophia blinked. "Departed? Why? Did I say something alarming? Did Jeremy frighten them? Did Kurt mention that boxing match?"

Josephine bit back a smile "My dear... I do believe they decided there was little point in competing."

Sophia frowned, utterly baffled. "Competing? Over what?"

But Josephine merely patted her shoulder and said, "Finish your tea, Sapphire."

The door of the Fiennes townhouse closed behind him with a soft thud, but Benedict barely heard it over the thrum of his own heartbeat. A footman opened his carriage door, and he stepped inside with the dignity expected of a duke’s son.

The instant the door shut—His entire composure shattered.

A slow, unstoppable smile stretched across his face—first polite, then pleased, then absolutely, irreversibly giddy.

He leaned back against the velvet seat cushions, eyes unfocused, letting the memory replay:

Sophia, pink-cheeked and blinking rapidly, stammering, "Surely you jest, milord?"

Sophia, quoting John Locke at him like it was perfectly normal courtship conversation.

Sophia, ready—eager, even—to discuss flintlock pistols, Chinese gunpowder, and armed rebellion over tea.

His Sophia.

He exhaled a laugh he could not contain, rubbing a hand over his face like a man who’d been struck by lightning.

The coach lurched forward and he didn’t even notice. He was too busy floating three inches above the seat.

He muttered to himself, low and amazed, "She blushed. She actually blushed."

Then, with absolutely zero self-preservation, he let his head fall back and grinned up at the carriage ceiling like a fool in love.

The coachman, hearing the faint sound of delighted laughter inside, raised an eyebrow at the horses.

"Must’ve gone well," he muttered.

Inside, Benedict straightened his coat, still smiling uncontrollably.

"She wants to discuss pistols with me," he whispered, utterly charmed. "And she called me her comrade in spirit... but she let me court her anyway."

His grin widened.

"By God," he breathed, "I’m done for."

The carriage jolted into motion, but Benedict hardly noticed. His mind was still back in the Fiennes drawing room — in the way she leaned forward when she argued, in the spark of mischief when she prepared to quote philosophers no courtship-minded young lady should ever mention, in the fire that overtook her sapphire-blue eyes the very moment she saw him.

And there it was.

That look.

He had seen her eyes light up with Ian.

With Jeremy.

With Earnest.

But it was different — worlds apart — when she turned that gaze toward him.

There was warmth in it, yes, but also something searching... something like a question she hadn’t quite dared to ask aloud. Something hopeful. Something that pulled at his chest every time she glanced his way and made him think absurd thoughts like:

Perhaps she sees me. Truly sees me.

Perhaps I am not only a comrade in spirit.

Perhaps... I could be something more.

He laughed again — quietly, helplessly — because by all standards of propriety, he should not be this moved by a woman who casually discussed Locke’s right to rebellion while he was trying to flirt.

But then again — it was Sophia.

Brilliant.

Odd.

Unorthodox.

A whirlwind in a silver gown.

And when her face brightened upon his arrival — when her lips parted in surprise, then curved into a smile meant solely for him — Benedict felt something in him settle.

He had seen admiration in her eyes for others.

But when she looked at him, there was something else.

A softness she didn’t seem aware she possessed.

A spark that made his heart forget its duties and simply... leap.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, still grinning like a man thoroughly undone.

If this was how she looked at him now...

What would it be like if she finally understood his intentions? If she finally saw that he wasn’t here to gossip, or play the part of a dutiful friend?

What if she saw that he had already chosen her — completely, quietly, irrevocably?

Benedict pressed a hand to his chest and exhaled, his smile refusing to fade.

Tomorrow, he thought, he would visit again.

And perhaps — just perhaps — she would let her eyes light up for him once more.