Chapter Text
Mayfair, 1814
~~~
Dearest Gentle Reader,
Spring returns, and with it, the start of another season — that most dazzling and dangerous of Mayfair traditions. Once again, gowns are stitched, jewels polished, and every eager mama prepares to thrust her daughter into the Queen’s merciless line of sight, each hoping Her Majesty might grant a nod, a smile, perhaps even a crown of diamond glory.
And what a parade awaits us this year. Miss Cressida Cowper, as tireless in ambition as ever; Miss Sita Malhotra, whose grace has already inspired whispers; and Miss Clara Livingston, whose fortune rivals even the grandest families of Mayfair. Yet it is Miss Yeri Harrington who is most eagerly anticipated. Spirited and sharp-tongued, she makes her debut with wit enough to set the ton alight. One recalls well last year’s choice, Miss Daphne Bridgerton, who was crowned the diamond and wed a duke. Expectations, then, run dangerously high.
But let us not forget, dear reader, that the Harrington family’s intrigue does not end with Miss Yeri. Indeed, it may be her elder sibling who proves the more captivating figure this season.
Viscount Seulgi Harrington — at five and twenty, head of her house, master of her estate, and perhaps the most elusive prize in Mayfair. Since inheriting her title far too young, she has carried the weight of her family with unyielding resolve. She is not one to be easily charmed. Yet one cannot help but wonder, does even the strongest fortress not hide a crack?
Suitors are plentiful. The line for her hand could fill the entire promenade at Vauxhall. To claim her fortune and title is one thing; to warm her heart, however, is quite another. For to melt Viscount Harrington’s icy composure would require nothing less than fire itself.
And so this season promises much more than its usual share of courtships and broken hearts. There is something in the air — a quiet stirring, a charge one cannot name. This writer dares to suggest that change is coming, and with it, scandal most irresistible.
Rest assured, Gentle Reader, every delicious detail shall appear here first.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown
~~~
The smoke of pipe tobacco and the clink of glasses hung thick in the air of Benedict Bridgerton’s bar, where gentlemen gathered to gamble, laugh, and drink away the weight of polite society. But beneath the polished wood floors and the hum of violins, the true spectacle of the early morning thrummed in the basement below.
A circle of men crowded close, their voices raised in fevered shouts as fists cracked against flesh. Sweat and blood stained the sand-covered ground, wagers exchanged hands, and at the center of it all, Seulgi Harrington moved like a shadow. Calm, deliberate, merciless.
Her opponent — broader, louder, desperate to impress — swung wildly. Seulgi slipped easily past the blow, her counter swift, sending the man sprawling to the floorboards to a roar of cheers and groans.
She extended a hand, steady and unhurried, pulling the defeated fighter to his feet.
“Next time, Edward,” she murmured, clapping him firmly on the back.
Edward could only grin ruefully, nursing his jaw as Seulgi climbed the narrow staircase towards the bar.
The noise of the basement faded as she entered the private area where Benedict lounged with a glass in hand, the latest scandal sheet open before him.
“Your reputation precedes you, my dear Viscount,” Benedict drawled, tapping the paper. “Lady Whistledown has seen fit to dedicate quite the passage to you.”
Seulgi fastened the clean shirt across her shoulders and let out a low scoff. “I’ve no interest in her chatter.”
“Ah, but her chatter,” Benedict said with a smirk, “is precisely what sets Mayfair alight.”
Seulgi leaned against the table, rolling her shoulders. “Let them talk. They will find new gossip by dawn.”
Benedict folded the sheet and set it aside, studying her with the easy familiarity of an old friend. “Tell me, when did you last sleep, truly sleep?”
Seulgi’s jaw tightened. “Does it matter?”
“It matters when you look as though you’ve carried your family’s estate on your back alone for ten years,” Benedict countered. His smile softened, though the teasing glint never left his eyes. “Though, I suppose the weight is made lighter when one is the most desired figure in the ton.”
Seulgi arched a brow. “Desired? I’d say cursed.”
“Do not pretend modesty now. Suitors line up endlessly for you, Seulgi. Unlike myself, you are a Viscount — and, regrettably, far better looking.”
Seulgi let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “That is debatable.”
“Perhaps,” Benedict mused, tilting his glass. “But who knows? Perhaps one of this year’s debutantes will surprise even you.”
Seulgi straightened, adjusting her cuffs. “Speaking of debutantes, I must go. Yeri presents herself to the Queen today.”
“Ah,” Benedict said, raising his glass in salute. “May luck favour you — though I suspect you’ll need more patience than luck.”
“Patience I have learned,” Seulgi replied, her tone dry as she strode toward the door. “Luck I will gladly borrow.”
With that, the Viscount departed, the heavy door shutting behind her, leaving Benedict chuckling softly into his wine.
-----
The Harrington estate had never looked more alive. Spring had laid its hand upon the grounds, and every border bloomed with colour — tulips stretching towards the sun, lilacs perfuming the breeze. The gravel paths were swept to perfection, and the staff hurried to and fro with the nervous energy of those who knew the day’s importance.
Inside, the grand staircase gleamed, polished by careful hands, and the long corridors hummed with anticipation. But it was before one particular door, at the far end of the upper hall, that the true theatre of the morning unfolded.
Lady Aerin Harrington stood with her ear inclined toward the door, her lavender silk gown rustling faintly as she adjusted her posture. Beside her, Ara bent low, her navy tailcoat straining at the shoulders, breeches tucked neatly into polished black boots. Beomsu leaned so close to the door her cheek nearly pressed against it, while George shifted impatiently, tugging at the cuffs of his dark coat, his expression caught between nerves and amusement.
“Perhaps I ought to go in,” Aerin whispered, fanning herself gently, as though the action might calm her nerves.
“Mother, no,” Ara murmured firmly, resting a gloved hand on her arm. “Yeri was very clear — she wished to dress without assistance.”
Aerin’s lips pursed, though concern lingered in her eyes.
From the other side of the huddle, Beomsu whispered, “Will I be expected to dress alone, too, when I make my debut?”
George smirked and leaned closer. “If you do, I pray you manage your strings better than you did last week. One might have thought you were preparing to hang yourself.”
Beomsu’s cheeks coloured crimson, and Ara stifled a laugh, though the moment was cut short.
“Is Yeri ready?”
The voice came clear and authoritative, and the small group turned to see Seulgi striding toward them. Her black tailcoat was cut sharp at the waist, the snowy cravat at her throat tied with perfect precision. Every line of her attire was crisp, every button polished, and yet there was a shadow beneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
At once, the family hushed her, hissing and gesturing with frantic hands.
Seulgi paused, brows arching as she regarded the scene. “Why, are we huddled here like conspirators?” she asked, lowering her voice but not the bite in her tone. Her gaze settled on her mother. “And why has no one gone in to lend her a hand?”
“Because,” Aerin replied with forced calm, “Yeri insisted she could manage on her own.”
Seulgi exhaled through her nose, the faintest crease in her brow. “We cannot afford to be late. I shall knock.” She stepped forward, gloved hand rising toward the door.
Ara and George moved quickly, each catching at her arms. “Wait,” Ara urged. “You’ll only make her cross.”
Before further argument could ensue, the latch clicked. The door opened, and there stood Yeri.
She filled the frame with quiet defiance, chin tilted ever so slightly. Her pale muslin gown flowed in delicate folds to the floor, its high waistline adorned with a ribbon of deep green. Pearls glimmered at her ears, and her hair, pinned with careful precision, gleamed in the morning light.
The hallway stilled. A dozen words trembled on lips — admiration, pride, perhaps a jest — but Yeri lifted her hand swiftly.
“Do not,” she said, steady and clear. “Do not say anything. Let us simply be done with it.”
Aerin’s eyes softened, but she held her tongue.
Seulgi inclined her head, a soldier acknowledging a command. “Very well,” she said quietly. “Let us go, then.”
The Harringtons descended the staircase as a unit, the polished marble echoing beneath their steady steps. Outside, the spring air carried the sweet tang of lilacs and the faint clatter of hooves as the waiting carriages shifted restlessly on the gravel drive.
Yeri moved with her family, her gown whispering softly at her heels, though her pace betrayed the nervous twist inside her. She held her chin high — as she had practised — yet her fingers worried at the folds of her sash. Her jaw clenched, her brow drawn tight. No matter how many times she had told herself she was ready, her body betrayed her unease.
They reached the threshold, where the bright morning light spilled across the stone steps. Seulgi’s tall frame led the way. Ara followed at her shoulder, one hand smoothing the front of her waistcoat, her usual confidence sharpened by the gravity of the day. George trailed with a restless energy, glancing from sister to staff as though impatient for the journey ahead. Beomsu clutched Aerin’s hand, eyes wide with the pressure of the moment.
And Yeri, though dressed as fine as any debutante in Mayfair, felt the weight of the world pressing on her shoulders.
Until her gaze lifted.
Across the lane, at the house directly opposite, a figure stood framed in the doorway. Broad-shouldered in a well-cut coat of grey, dark cravat fastened neatly at the throat, hair brushed to a precise sheen.
Choi Kyung.
Yeri’s lips parted, her breath caught. Her best friend. Her constant. The sight alone steadied the tumult inside her chest.
Without thought, she quickened her pace as she rushed across the gravel.
Kyung’s expression softened the moment their eyes met. She stepped forward from the doorway, raising a gloved hand in greeting. When Yeri reached her, Kyung’s voice lowered, warm and gentle.
“You look…” She hesitated, a faint colour rising to her cheeks. “…truly beautiful.”
Yeri’s hand lifted at once, pressing lightly to Kyung’s arm in protest. “Do not. Please, not now. I am already strung tighter than a bowstring.”
Kyung’s smile tilted, rueful yet fond. “Then allow me to say nothing, only that I am glad to see you.”
Yeri exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. Yet her tongue moved quickly again, driven by nerves. “Did you read it? What Lady Whistledown has said of me?”
For the briefest instant, Kyung’s composure faltered. A flicker of alarm sparked in her dark eyes — a secret only she could feel. But in the next breath, it was gone, replaced with a practiced calm.
“I did,” she said evenly. “And I thought her words kinder than most. She spoke of your spirit, your wit… hardly damning.”
Yeri studied her, scepticism in her gaze. “Perhaps. But still, it is no small thing to have all of Mayfair watching one’s curtsy. The Queen’s choice last year changed the course of a life. And now…”
“You shall do well,” Kyung interrupted softly, stepping closer. Her hand brushed against Yeri’s sleeve, the contact fleeting yet deliberate. “I have never known you to fail when you set your mind to something.”
Yeri’s breath stilled. She looked up at her friend, truly looked, and for a moment the world seemed to pause. The noise of the household behind her, the creak of the carriages, the endless weight of expectation — all of it receded, leaving only Kyung’s steady eyes and the quiet promise in them.
Something unspoken passed between them. A flash of possibility. A spark quickly hidden beneath layers of propriety.
“Yeri!”
The voice thundered across the drive, breaking the spell at once. Seulgi stood near the carriage, impatience writ plainly across her face. “It is time.”
Yeri startled, the moment shattered. She forced a smile, stepping back from Kyung though her fingers lingered a heartbeat longer on her sleeve. “I must go.”
Kyung’s lips curved, though her eyes betrayed the faintest regret. “Then go. And return with triumph.”
Yeri nodded, her smile tugged into something softer. “I will see you later.”
“Good luck, Yeri!” Kyung called, her voice carrying across the lane.
Yeri did not look back, but the faintest glow of colour lingered at her cheeks as she crossed the gravel once more. She rejoined her family, her step surer now, though her heart raced in a rhythm she could not name.
Seulgi, waiting by the carriage door gave her a long look but said nothing. Only offered her hand to help Yeri inside.
The carriage door shut, the wheels turned, and the Harrington family rolled down the lane toward their fate in the Queen’s court.
Behind them, Kyung remained at her doorway, eyes following until the last glimpse of the carriage disappeared around the corner. Her gloved hand tightened once, then fell back at her side.
-----
The Palace gleamed beneath the pale light of morning, its great gates thrown wide as carriages lined the long approach. Inside, the grand hall was a vision of polished marble and gilded ornament. Chandeliers hung high, scattering the sunlight across mirrors and gilded frames, while courtiers lined the edges in quiet anticipation.
At the far end of the room, Queen Charlotte sat upon her throne, resplendent in silks the colour of wine, jewels glittering at her neck. Her gaze swept the chamber with the faintest air of boredom, as though the entire parade of hopefuls were but another performance staged for her amusement.
One by one, the debutantes entered, their steps measured, their nerves hidden behind the rigid elegance taught to them since infancy.
“Miss Cressida Cowper,” the herald called, “presented by her mother, Lady Cowper.”
The girl swept in, chin lifted high, her pale gown adorned with too many frills. She curtsied with practiced grace, but the Queen’s expression barely flickered.
“Miss Sita Malhotra,” came the next call, “presented by her mother, the Honourable Lady Malhotra.”
The young woman moved with striking composure, her silk gown cut clean and elegant. A murmur ran through the hall, appreciative but fleeting. Queen Charlotte’s eyes lingered a moment longer before drifting elsewhere.
“Miss Clara Livingston, presented by Lady Livingston.”
Clara made her entrance, pearls gleaming, her bow executed flawlessly. Yet still, the Queen’s face remained unsoftened.
Leaning slightly, Queen Charlotte sighed and said to Brimsley, “This is dreadfully dull.”
Brimsley bowed his head quickly, as though such words might be snatched from the air by unseen ears. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, the later presentations shall prove more entertaining.”
Queen Charlotte’s brows arched, and she leaned back against her throne, voice lowering in a sharp aside. “I do hope so, Brimsley. The last thing I should want is to give Lady Whistledown any excuse to take a jab at me. Imagine the scandal of it — Whistledown declaring I have lost my touch, that I no longer know how to select a diamond.”
Brimsley stiffened, his lips twitching into something almost like sympathy. “Perish the thought, Your Majesty. Lady Whistledown would never dare.”
The Queen gave him a cutting look, equal parts warning and amusement. “Oh she would. And she would enjoy it.”
At the side of the chamber, the Harrington family stood waiting, their eyes fixed upon the line advancing before the throne.
Ara shifted against the marble pillar, hands folded neatly in front of her. She leaned closer to her elder sibling, voice pitched low. “So sister, has any among them managed to stir your attention?”
Seulgi’s eyes cut toward her in a glare sharp enough to silence most men. “You know well I have no interest in such things.”
Ara smirked faintly. “You might at least attempt not to sound so very miserable. One would think you were attending a funeral.”
“I attend because I must,” Seulgi muttered. “Not because I expect to be charmed by a parade of painted smiles.”
“Perhaps your heart might surprise you,” Ara teased. “If only you allowed it the chance.”
Seulgi dismissed her with a roll of her shoulders, eyes fixed straight ahead. “My heart is well enough where it is.”
Before Ara could press further, the herald’s voice rang again: “Miss Yeri Harrington, presented by her mother, Lady Harrington.”
All heads turned as Yeri stepped into the light. She walked with measured grace, Aerin beside her, every step echoing through the silent hall.
“You do know” Ara said softly, her tone sly. “That our mother will not be content with only Yeri catching attention this season. She means for you to find someone too.”
Seulgi’s jaw tightened, her eyes never leaving Yeri as she walked. “I am aware of what she wishes. It does not mean I have to agree with it.”
Ara’s lips twitched with a small smile. “You know why mother wishes for you. The viscount needs a wife. An heir. Surely you cannot manage every matter of the estate alone forever. Even I see you have not slept soundly in a long time.”
Seulgi gave her sister a hard look. “I am doing just fine. The matter of sleep is hardly new to me, and no imaginary wife is going to mend it.”
Ara tilted her head, voice dropping to a murmur. “Still, you might find it easier if you allowed yourself to ease. The ton will not cease hounding you until you do.”
Seulgi scoffed under her breath, folding her arms across her chest. “Let them hound. It changes nothing.”
Before Ara could press further, Yeri’s chin lifted as she came before the throne. She curtsied, bowing deeply, the gleam of determination empty in her eyes.
The Queen regarded the young woman coolly, tapping one jeweled finger against the arm of her throne. For a moment, silence stretched thin. Then she gave the faintest nod — not displeased, though not delighted either.
Yeri rose, her jaw tight but her poise unbroken. She turned with her mother and left the platform, her family’s eyes trailing her until she disappeared into the gathering beyond.
“Well then,” George muttered, tugging at his cuffs. “Is that it? Are we finished?”
Beomsu elbowed him swiftly, her youthful voice carrying a teasing lilt. “You sound as though you’ve been sentenced. One would think you were not permitted supper until the Queen declares her diamond.”
George rolled his eyes, but Seulgi’s lips quirked, and Ara chuckled under her breath.
“I think we may go,” Seulgi said at last, adjusting her coat.
But as they turned to make their way out, the herald’s voice rang once more, clear and commanding.
“The final debutante — Miss Yoo Jaena, presented by her mother, Mrs Ming Young, and sponsored by Lady Danbury.”
The room stilled.
From the far end of the hall, a vision stepped forward. Yoo Jaena, radiant in a gown of soft ivory, her dark hair adorned with a single pearl comb. She moved with a natural grace, as though the weight of a hundred eyes upon her meant nothing at all. Her beauty was not merely striking; it carried with it a lightness, a poise that seemed to command silence without effort.
Even Queen Charlotte straightened, her gaze sharpening as the girl drew closer.
Ara leaned, voice dropping to a whisper. “Woah.”
Beomsu breathed softly, “She is… very pretty.”
George tilted his head, studying the girl. “I have never seen them in Mayfair. Are they new?”
No answer came. The entire chamber seemed to hum with subdued whispers, speculation curling at the edges of the hall.
Jaena came before the throne and sank into a curtsy, her movement smooth as water, flawless in its execution. When she rose again, Queen Charlotte’s lips curved into a rare smile. She stood, descending one step toward the girl, eyes glittering with triumph.
“Exquisite,” the Queen declared, her voice carrying through the chamber.
The words struck like a bell. A ripple passed through the assembly as the verdict settled.
Miss Yoo Jaena had been chosen. The diamond of the season.
And so, before the eyes of Mayfair, the course of the new season was set.
-----
The Harrington house hummed with restless energy as the family gathered in the drawing room. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching the polished sheen of mahogany furniture and the gold trim along the moulding. Outside, the gardens swayed gently in the breeze, but within, the air was alive with chatter.
George and Beomsu had claimed the centre of the room, already engaged in one of their customary skirmishes. George had snatched a ribbon from his sister’s sleeve and now held it high over his head, grinning with all the wicked delight of victory. Beomsu, red-faced, leapt and swiped, but at fifteen, George was long-limbed and agile, darting just out of reach.
“Give it back!” Beomsu cried, her gown rustling furiously as she lunged again.
“Catch me first,” George laughed, twisting away.
Ara sat by the window, legs crossed, staring absently at the play of light across the floorboards. For once, her usual composure was absent; she looked dazed, thoughtful, her mind clearly elsewhere.
Seulgi, however, had joined the fray, intercepting George’s dash with a swift grab to his collar. She tugged him backward with effortless strength, and in the same motion reached up to pluck the ribbon from his hand. She tossed it neatly back to Beomsu.
“There,” Seulgi said, her tone dry but affectionate. “Stop running around.”
George grumbled, rubbing his neck. “You always spoil the fun.”
Beomsu stuck out her tongue at him before retreating behind Seulgi’s chair, her prize clutched tightly in hand.
Lady Aerin, who had been pacing with a furrowed brow, paused at last. “Agatha never said a word about sponsoring anyone this season. Not a whisper. And then she arrives with that young lady, radiant as the sun, and—” She broke off, shaking her head. “The entire ton must be in a frenzy already.”
Yeri leaned back in her seat, folding her arms. “Perhaps she wished to keep it a surprise, mother. Lady Danbury has always enjoyed a dramatic reveal.”
Ara stirred then, her dazed expression giving way to a small, wry smile. “Will we attend her ball tonight?”
“Of course,” Seulgi said, the answer immediate. “We cannot very well absent ourselves from the first ball of the season.”
Aerin sighed, though her lips curved faintly. “Then I must go and pay Agatha a visit before the evening. I should like to know why she kept such a thing from me.” She swept from the room, leaving the younger Harringtons in her wake.
Seulgi glanced at Beomsu, who was smoothing her ribbon with great care. “Have you everything ready for Hastings?”
Beomsu nodded briskly. “Yes. I’ve been planning for weeks. Aunt Daphne says she will take me to the sea. I cannot wait to leave tomorrow.”
George snorted. “You needn’t wait. You could go now and spare us the shrieking.”
Beomsu’s head snapped up, her face flushed. “I do not shriek!” She launched herself at him, but George darted away, laughter spilling behind him as she chased him out of the room, her slippered feet pattering down the corridor.
Ara watched them go, then turned to Seulgi, her expression softening. “So. What do you think of her?”
Seulgi arched a brow. “Of whom?”
“The diamond, of course.”
“I think nothing,” Seulgi replied, tone clipped. “She seemed poised, well-mannered. Nothing more.” She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Why? What did you think of her?”
Ara’s lips parted, her voice low and thoughtful. “I found her to be… extraordinary.”
Seulgi gave a quiet huff, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “You saw her from across a crowded hall.”
“Even so,” Ara said, eyes alight, “I look forward to speaking with her tonight.”
Seulgi shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Incorrigible.”
Just then, the door burst open. George reappeared, flushed with exertion, hair mussed from his sister’s pursuit. “Seulgi! The new fencing equipment has arrived!”
Ara’s eyes widened with excitement, the daze of earlier vanishing at once.
Seulgi’s grin was slow, conspiratorial. “Well then. Shall we?” She rose, glancing toward the corridor where their mother had vanished. “But quietly, before Mother catches wind.”
Ara was already on her feet, and George practically bounced with anticipation. The three of them exchanged a knowing look before slipping from the room, leaving only the echo of their laughter behind.
-----
Elsewhere, the afternoon sun slanted across the Choi residence, filling Kyung’s chamber with a warm, steady glow. The tall windows were open to the garden, the scent of hyacinths drifting in with the breeze. The room itself was comfortable, a mixture of tidy order and lived-in corners: shelves lined with books, a writing desk scattered with half-finished notes, and a narrow bed neatly made — though at present, its order was disturbed.
Yeri lay sprawled across the coverlet, her gown wrinkling beneath her, her dark hair slipping loose from its pins. She exhaled deeply, one arm flung across her eyes. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am,” she said, her voice muffled by fabric. “Truly, Kyung, had I been chosen diamond, I think I would have fainted on the spot. Imagine it — every eye in the ton fixed on me. As though there are not already enough watching where I step.”
On the other side of the bed, Kyung reclined with a book in her hand, her coat loosened, boots set neatly at the foot of the bed. She turned a page, though her gaze lingered on Yeri. “If you are content not to be chosen, then I am content as well,” she said evenly. A faint smile tugged at her lips, though it faltered quickly. “Still, it was curious, was it not? That no one knew of Miss Yoo until today.”
Yeri shifted, lowering her arm to peer at her friend. “Curious indeed. They are certainly not of here, that much is plain. I should not be surprised if they are not even of England.”
Kyung’s brows drew together in thought. “A mystery then. And you are not the least bit curious to unravel it?”
Yeri rolled onto her side, propping her head against her hand. “Not particularly. What intrigues me far more is not the diamond, but Lady Whistledown.”
At that, Kyung stiffened ever so slightly, her fingers tightening around her book. “What?”
“Finding her,” Yeri said with sudden fervour. “Unmasking her. That is the pursuit I mean to chase this season.”
Kyung’s voice caught. “Yeri… your family forbade you from such foolishness.” She paused, almost stumbling over her words, before adding more softly, “Especially after… after what was written of you last season.”
The sting of memory flared sharp and immediate, though Yeri closed her eyes against it, refusing to let it rule her. The whispers of the ton, the harsh ink on paper, Miss Yeri Harrington, known to be seen about Bloomsbury in the dark hours, unchaperoned. The shame of it had lingered long after — her mother’s disappointment, Seulgi’s severe reprimand, the gossips’ delight.
She drew a steady breath, opening her eyes again. “If anything, that gave me more reason to continue. Lady Whistledown writes as though she sits above us all, untouchable, immune. But she is flesh and blood, same as we are. I swear, this season I shall find her.”
Kyung lowered her gaze quickly, but not quickly enough to hide the flicker of unease that crossed her face. Her hand trembled slightly against the page of her book, and she turned it with unnecessary care.
Yeri caught the look, frowning. “Kyung?”
Kyung forced a smile, the effort tightening the corners of her mouth. “I only… worry for you. I would rather not see you wounded again by her words.”
Yeri pushed herself upright, reaching across to take Kyung’s hand in her own. “Do not worry so much. I will be fine.” Her thumb brushed over Kyung’s knuckles, steady and reassuring. “Besides, you fret far too often for my sake. Who shall worry for you, if you spend all your worry on me?”
Kyung let out a soft laugh, though her chest still felt tight. “I manage well enough.”
“Good,” Yeri said firmly, before nodding at the book in Kyung’s hand. “Now tell me of this story that has you so consumed. What are you reading?”
The change of subject was a relief. Kyung’s smile grew genuine at last as she lifted the book, the title glinting faintly on the cover. “It is a collection of essays on natural philosophy. There is one piece in particular on the order of the heavens that I have read thrice already. Did you know there are those who believe the stars themselves may exert an influence over our very lives?”
Yeri raised a brow, settling back onto the pillows. “And do you believe it?”
“I am not certain,” Kyung admitted, her voice taking on a rhythm that meant she had already forgotten her nerves. “But I do know it pleases me to think the world is larger than what Mayfair imagines of itself. That beyond these streets and scandals, the universe is moving — immense and unknowable.”
She went on, her words tumbling faster as her passion took hold. Yeri listened, half-smiling, watching the way Kyung’s eyes brightened and her hands moved as she spoke.
-----
Afternoon had long since settled over the Harrington estate. Inside, most of the household lay quiet.
In the Viscount’s study, Seulgi sat at her desk. She wore only her shirt and her waistcoat, sleeves rolled back from her forearms. Shadows played across her face as she bent over a spread of papers — accounts, ledgers, reports from tenants, lists of expenses for the coming season. The ink smudged faintly at her fingers, a testament to how long she had been at the task.
A soft knock preceded Mary’s entrance. The head housekeeper carried a tray with a steaming cup of tea. She crossed the room with the quiet authority of one who had served the family for decades, setting it down carefully at Seulgi’s side.
“I thought you might need this” Mary said.
Seulgi leaned back, rubbing at her brow with two fingers. Her other hand gestured toward the glass at her elbow, amber liquid catching the candlelight. “You are kind, Mary, but I think this requires something stronger.”
Mary’s eyes flicked to the glass of whiskey. She said nothing, only nudged the teacup closer. “Just in case. It will be here if you change your mind.”
Seulgi’s lips curved faintly, the closest she came to a smile at such an hour. “And is everything prepared for Beomsu’s departure tomorrow?”
Mary nodded briskly. “Her trunk is packed, her riding cloak mended, and the carriage has been arranged to leave at first light. I have spoken with the footmen about the luggage, and the cook has prepared a basket for the journey, as you instructed.”
Seulgi exhaled, glancing at the endless list of notes scattered before her. “Thank you Mary, truly.”
“Of course my Lord,” Mary returned gently. She dipped a small curtsy.
As Mary slipped away, the door opened again. This time it was Aerin.
Seulgi straightened, reaching to gather the mess of papers. “Mother. Is everything alright?”
Aerin arched a brow. “I might ask you the same.”
“I am only trying to settle this month’s accounts,” Seulgi replied, gesturing at the desk. “With the season begun, we shall have balls to host, appearances to make. It is best to have all in order.”
Her mother did not reply at once. She stood watching, hands folded before her, her gaze lingering on Seulgi with a tenderness edged by worry. After a beat, she spoke. “I spoke with Lady Danbury.”
Seulgi’s head lifted. “And?”
“It seems the new diamond, Miss Yoo Jaena, and her family are from Joseon. They arrived scarcely three months past. Mr Yoo had passed a year ago, and so the mother came here with her two daughters — Miss Jaena, and an elder sister, Ms Yoo Jaeyi.”
Seulgi’s brow furrowed, though she only shuffled the papers into a neater stack. “I see.”
“Lady Danbury had kept it a secret in hopes to surprise the Queen…which she did quite successfully.” Aerin stepped closer, her voice lowering. “They are Joseon people, Seulgi. As are we. Perhaps…” She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “Perhaps you might consider Jaena as a possible wife.”
“Mother,” Seulgi said, a weary edge in her tone.
But Aerin pressed on, cutting her off. “How long do you mean to live like this? You spend your time with ink and numbers, your days burdened with matters of land and tenants. You deserve to live beyond these papers.”
Seulgi leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing. “I do live, Mother.”
“Fighting in Benedict’s ring does not count,” Aerin snapped, her composure cracking for an instant.
The room fell silent.
Aerin turned her gaze towards the window. Her expression softened. “Your father and I… we loved in a way that consumed us. I would wish the same for you. A love that is not a burden, but a gift.”
Seulgi’s throat tightened, though she masked it with a long sip of whiskey.
At last she spoke, her voice quieter. “I am not interested in Jaena. If anything, Ara seemed far more taken with her.”
“Then it need not be Jaena,” Aerin said, her tone gentler now. “But it has to be someone. Someone to share your days, your nights, your burdens. You are not made to stand alone, no matter how well you pretend.”
Seulgi stared at the amber liquid swirling in her glass. “I will try to keep an open mind.”
Her mother’s eyes caught hers, steady and searching. “And an open heart?”
Seulgi said nothing. The silence was its own answer.
Aerin stepped close, her palm resting against her daughter’s cheek. “At least try to show little interest at Agatha’s ball tonight.”
And with that Aerin left.
Seulgi remained at her seat, watching the door long after it had closed. The study was quiet again, save for the rustle of papers that still waited to be read.
She lifted the glass to her lips, and sat once more before the mountain of responsibilities that tethered her to the desk.
-----
At that same hour, across Mayfair, the house of Lady Danbury was ablaze with staff preparing the house for the first ball of the season. Servants hurried to and fro. Inside, the air hummed with the early stirrings of music and the scent of roses twined along the bannisters.
One carriage halted before the steps, and from it descended Ming Young with her youngest daughter at her side. Jaena’s gown, shimmered faintly in the glow. She clutched her mother’s arm with the eagerness of youth, eyes wide as she drank in the splendour before her.
Ming Young, regal in her dark silk, leaned close as they ascended the steps. “With this dress we have secured for you, Jaena, it is only a matter of time before you catch the eye of a worthy suitor. All that remains is for you to stand with confidence.”
Lady Danbury, walked by their side like a general inspecting her troops, gave a firm nod. “And now that you wear the crown of diamond, you must do justice to it. Every gesture, every word must carry the weight of that honour. No slouching, no timidity. The eyes of the ton will follow you.”
“Yes, yes,” Jaena said quickly, half-distracted as she peered down the corridor. “But first, I must find my sister. She must know—”
“I already do,” came a voice from the shadows of the hall.
Jaena’s head whipped around. Her face broke into a radiant smile as she spotted Jaeyi approaching. She rushed forward, dress swishing lightly, and threw her arms around her elder sister. “How did you know already?”
Jaeyi returned the embrace, steady and warm. “Word travels fast in Mayfair. Faster than you might believe.”
Jaena drew back, her eyes shining. “I wish you had been there. You ought to have seen it. The Queen herself—”
“Jaena, you know why,” Ming Young interrupted gently. “We agreed it was for the best.” With that, she moved into the drawing room.
Left in the corridor, Jaena turned back to her sister. She took her hands and laid them softly over the curve of Jaeyi’s abdomen, where the swell of her fourth month was now plain. Her touch lingered there, tender and protective.
“You should have been beside me,” Jaena whispered.
Jaeyi offered a small smile, though her eyes flickered with something harder to name. “I was with you, even if not in the room.”
Before either could say more, Ming Young’s voice carried across the room. “Girls, go upstairs and change at once. Appearances matter now more than ever.”
Lady Danbury, fixed Jaena with her piercing gaze. “You heard your mother. All eyes are upon you now, Jaena. Let them see only brilliance.”
Jaena nodded, the brightness returning to her expression. She squeezed her sister’s hand tightly before moving toward the staircase. “I will not disappoint.”
“See that you do not,” Lady Danbury said, though her tone softened with the faintest hint of approval.
As Jaena ascended, Jaeyi remained behind, her hand still resting protectively on her stomach. For a moment she lingered, caught between pride for her sister and the gnawing awareness of her own circumstance.
She turned to Lady Danbury. “Thank you… for everything. For helping her, for helping us.”
Lady Danbury’s expression did not alter, though her eyes sharpened. “Do not thank me, child. Your sister did the work. She curtsied, she smiled, she carried herself as she must. I simply opened the door.”
Jaeyi’s lips curved faintly, an acknowledgment of truth.
But Lady Danbury was not finished. Her gaze flicked deliberately to the roundness of Jaeyi’s figure. “Do not think for a moment that you are invisible. There will be eyes on you too, Ms Yoo.”
Jaeyi’s breath caught. “I know.”
“You remember what we spoke of?” Lady Danbury pressed.
Jaeyi inclined her head slowly. “Of course. I will not ruin this for my sister.”
“And for your mother and yourself,” Lady Danbury added.
At that, She swept past, her cane clicking smartly against the polished floor as she disappeared into the great hall.
Left alone, Jaeyi lowered her gaze to her stomach.
“I will not ruin this for you, Jaena,” she whispered, the words trembling with determination and fear alike.