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His sisters, particularly Caroline, would be horrified at the idea of him forming an attachment to a bluestocking of modest means and radical ideas.

And yet, the thought of Miss Meredith Martin—her bright intelligence, her passion for her cause, the way her eyes sparked when defending her beliefs—stirred something in him that he couldn't easily dismiss.

"You speak as though I've declared intentions that don't exist," Chilton said, more sharply than he'd intended.

"My apologies," Beaverbrook replied, clearly unconvinced. "I merely observed that your defence of the lady seemed rather personal."

Before Chilton could formulate a response, their conversation was interrupted by a shout from ahead. Sean had spotted a fox breaking cover, and several of the sportsmen were eager to give chase, though without hounds the pursuit was more for the pleasure of the gallop than any hope of capture.

"Shall we?" Beaverbrook asked, gathering his reins in preparation.

Chilton nodded, grateful for the diversion. As they urged their mounts forward into a canter, he pushed thoughts of Meredith and the implications of his defence of her to the back of his mind. For now, at least, he could lose himself in the simple pleasure of a good horse and open country.

But even as they raced across the autumn landscape, Beaverbrook's warning lingered.

Society had expectations of a baron—expectations that had shaped Chilton's life since birth.

His title came with responsibilities to family, to tenants, to tradition itself.

Could he reconcile those duties with the unsettling new perspectives that Miss Martin had introduced?

And more troubling still: why did he find himself increasingly unwilling to dismiss her ideas outright, as he would have done without hesitation mere days ago?

The questions pursued him like shadows throughout the remainder of the ride, refusing to be outpaced even by the finest horseflesh in Lord Thornfield's stables.

Later, as the riders returned to the stable yard, flushed and invigorated from their exercise, Chilton noticed Meredith walking in the formal gardens with Faith and several other ladies.

The morning sun caught the deep chestnut highlights in her dark hair, which was arranged in a simple but elegant style beneath a modest bonnet.

Unlike some of the other young ladies, whose morning walks seemed designed primarily to display their fashionable attire, Meredith appeared genuinely engaged in conversation, her hands gesturing expressively as she made some point to her companions.

"Your bluestocking appears to have captivated Lady Beaverbrook as well," Edward Linford commented, following Chilton's gaze. "A pity. I had thought her ladyship possessed better judgment."

Chilton bristled at both the possessive "your" and the continued dismissal. "Lady Beaverbrook is known for her discernment. Perhaps she recognizes quality where others see only deviation from convention."

Edward's eyebrows rose at the sharp retort. "My, my, Sutcliffe. You are smitten, aren't you? A word of advice, if I may—flirtations during house parties are all well and good, but do remember your position. A baron can't afford to be guided by temporary fascinations."

"I'm well aware of my responsibilities, Linford," Chilton replied coldly. "And equally aware that they don't include accepting guidance from those who mistake condescension for wisdom."

He handed his horse to a waiting groom and strode toward the house, irritation simmering beneath his carefully maintained composure.

Edward's warning echoed Beaverbrook's, though with none of the earl's thoughtful consideration.

Both men assumed an attraction that Chilton himself was reluctant to acknowledge, yet neither's caution had the deterrent effect they likely intended.

Indeed, each dismissal of Meredith only heightened his awareness of her worth—and his growing anger at a society that would judge her not by her considerable merits but by her failure to conform to arbitrary expectations.

As he entered the house, Chilton caught sight of his reflection in a gilt-framed mirror in the entrance hall.

He looked every inch the baron—his riding clothes impeccably tailored, his bearing confident, his expression suitably grave.

It was the face of Bartholomew Sutcliffe's son and heir, the fifth Baron Sutcliffe, guardian of a legacy stretching back generations.

But for the first time, Chilton wondered if that legacy might accommodate growth and change without being diminished. His father had valued tradition, certainly, but he had also been a practical man who understood that adaptation was sometimes necessary for survival.

There had been a small school to teach the very basics of numbers and letters to the tenant children, but the previous Lord Sutcliffe had allowed it to wither. Would he have opposed the further education of tenant children if shown the potential benefits?

Or was Chilton merely seeking justification for his growing interest in ideas—and a woman—that challenged everything he had been raised to believe?

As he ascended the grand staircase to change for luncheon, Chilton found himself caught between conflicting impulses: the security of adhering to well-established expectations and the unexpected exhilaration of questioning them.

His defence of Meredith had been instinctive rather than calculated, a reaction to the unfairness of dismissing her ideas without proper consideration.

Yet that instinctive defence had implications that extended far beyond a morning's conversation.

If Meredith's perspectives on education had merit, what other established "truths" might deserve reconsideration?

And what would such reconsideration mean for his role as Baron Sutcliffe, heir to centuries of tradition and responsibility?

The questions followed him like persistent shadows as he prepared to rejoin the company below, his customary certainty giving way to uncomfortable but strangely compelling doubt.