The aftermath inside White's looked nothing like the dignified sanctuary of gentlemen it pretended to be. Chairs were askew, several lords appeared to be recovering from shock, and the footmen were whispering furiously behind gloved hands as if they had just survived a small battlefield.
At the center of it all sat Lady Sophia Fiennes of Kent—fist bloodied, expression defiant, and posture far too triumphant for someone who had just punched an earl in the face.
Benedict was on one knee beside her, sleeves rolled up, carefully tending to her bruised knuckles with a cloth dampened in brandy. His jaw was tight with worry, and Sophia could practically feel the tremor of restrained emotion in the way he held her wrist—gentle, almost reverent.
"You should not have done that," Benedict murmured, voice low, warm, shaken. He dabbed at a particularly raw spot, and Sophia winced.
