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T here was nothing better than this!

Chilton leaned against the weathered door frame of his ivy-covered manor house, the crisp morning air carrying the scent of approaching autumn.

The late September breeze rustled through the ancient oaks lining the drive of his Berkshire estate, sending a shower of amber and russet leaves spiralling to the ground.

In his hand, he held Jasper's wedding invitation, the cream-colored paper thick and expensive between his fingers, embossed with the Linford family crest.

His forward momentum had been arrested by the tumult in his mind—a week-long house party at Jasper's father's estate, surrounded by his old schoolmates. Brilliant men. Scholars. Everything he had never quite managed to be.

The invitation trembled slightly in his tight grip as memories of Oxford's dreaming spires and cloistered quadrangles rose unbidden in his mind.

Plenty of reasons to decline presented themselves, most centred on the fact that Jasper's other guests were likely to be far more scholarly than he had ever been or wished to be.

During his years at Oxford, while other gentlemen had been pouring over ancient texts in the Radcliffe Camera or engaging in heated debates at the Union, he had found his place among the easy- going gentlemen who, like him, had treated their education as a pleasant diversion rather than a calling.

And yet.

Yet, there had always been an unspoken fascination in him for those who took their studies seriously—those who debated, discovered, and devoted themselves to learning. That admiration, however, had always been accompanied by a quiet certainty that he did not belong among them.

His gaze swept over the ivy climbing the stone walls of Sutcliffe Manor, the ancestral seat of the Loring family for over two centuries, and for a moment, it was as if he stood once more beneath the soaring spires and imposing facades of Oxford.

He supposed that was why he had enjoyed his time there, despite never distinguishing himself in his studies.

Just as he was almost convinced that he ought to accept Jasper's invitation, the village church bells began to toll. Their chime echoed with an eerie familiarity, mirroring the bells of Oxford, and his conviction wavered.

He wasn't going. The idea of feeling as out of place now as he had back then was not something he cared to entertain. The only thing that had saved him at University was that he fit in well enough with most of the students—just not the scholars.

From the stable yard came the sound of hoofbeats and the creak of a cart.

Chilton glanced over to see his head groom directing the delivery of fresh hay, the man's weathered face creased with concentration as he gestured to the stable boys.

The estate continued its daily rhythms, regardless of his personal deliberations.

And yet, those scholars were the men he had always envied. Not because of their knowledge, but because of their purpose.

Chilton had only attended Oxford because it was expected of him—his sisters had insisted.

And while he had enjoyed the experience, the reality remained that the education had been largely wasted on him.

He had gone through the motions, learned what was necessary to run his estate, and left with a respectable but unremarkable record.

What more did he need?

It was oddly disconcerting that it was the scholars with whom he wished to associate, despite the fact that they made him feel dull and unaccomplished. He couldn't help being full of admiration for their intellectual pursuits, despite his lack of true interest in them for himself.

Chilton had enjoyed the university experience immensely once he was there, aside from the fact that he felt the education was wasted on him.

All he needed were the basics in order to run his estate.

He had already known how to read, write, and do basic arithmetic before he showed up in those hallowed halls.

The morning sun climbed higher, casting the shadow of the ancient elm at the edge of the lawn across the gravel drive. A pair of pheasants emerged from the shrubbery, their plumage brilliant against the dark green of the boxwood hedges.

Chilton watched them for a moment, reminded that the shooting season would soon be upon them. He should be planning for that, not contemplating a house party that would only remind him of his shortcomings.

He entered the house reluctantly, the familiar scent of beeswax polish and old tapestries greeting him.

The great hall of Sutcliffe Manor stretched before him, its oak-panelled walls adorned with portraits of Lorings past, all looking down at him with what he sometimes fancied was disappointment.

The fifth Baron Sutcliffe, who had not managed to distinguish himself in any particular way.

"My lord?" His butler, Simmons, appeared with his usual impeccable timing. "Mr. Matthews has arrived for your meeting about the east tenant cottages."

"Ah, yes," Chilton replied, glad for the distraction. "Show him to the study. I'll be there directly."

As Simmons bowed and retreated, Chilton tucked the invitation into his coat pocket. Estate matters would soon drive these uncomfortable thoughts from his mind.

But as he settled behind the massive mahogany desk that had been his father's, and his grandfather's before that, his thoughts drifted unexpectedly to Miss Meredith Martin. The bride's friend. The last person he would have expected to take up residence in his thoughts.

He had met her only once, to his recollection, years ago, when he had called on Professor Somerton, one of the few academics he had ever truly enjoyed speaking with.

The professor had been explaining some astronomical phenomenon—Chilton couldn't recall the details now—when his daughter and her friend had entered the study, arms laden with books.

Miss Martin had been young then, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, but already she had carried herself with confidence and conviction, her sharp mind evident in every word she spoke.

When the professor introduced them, she had given him a curtsey that was technically perfect yet somehow conveyed her assessment that he was hardly worth the effort.

"Lord Sutcliffe," she had said, her voice cool, "I understand you're one of my father's and Professor Somerton’s students."

"Indeed," he had replied with his most charming smile. "Though I fear I am a terrible disappointment to them."

"I'm certain you are," she had responded without missing a beat, and to his surprise, Professor Somerton had laughed rather than reprimanding her for the impertinence.

The memory of her composed face and direct gaze still lingered. He wondered what had become of her. He had heard of her father's passing—surely that must have left her in a precarious position. She was likely married by now, perhaps to one of those earnest scholars she had seemed to prefer.

Still deep in thought, his booted foot scuffed absently in the plush Turkish carpet, tracing idle patterns. When he glanced down, his brows lifted in surprise. The rough outline of what he had drawn resembled a telescope.

"Am I suddenly interested in astronomy?" he mused aloud, shaking his head at the absurdity. "Not very likely."

The door opened, and Matthews entered, a leather portfolio tucked under one arm. The steward, a man of perhaps fifty, had served the estate since Chilton's father's time. His shrewd eyes missed nothing, including, apparently, his employer's distraction.

"You've received the Marquess of Thornfield’s invitation, then?" Matthews asked, nodding to the corner of cream vellum peeking from Chilton's pocket.

"News travels fast," Chilton observed with a wry smile.

"Small villages, my lord," Matthews replied, unperturbed. "The Marquess’ man stopped at the Green Man before delivering it. Said half the intellectuals of England are to be there."

"All the more reason to decline," Chilton muttered.

Matthews, who normally kept his opinions to himself when it came to his lordship's social engagements, paused in the act of opening his portfolio. "If I may, my lord—"

"Yes?" Chilton prompted when the steward hesitated.

"It might not be amiss to cultivate such connections. Some of these gentlemen have made remarkable improvements to their estates through their scientific knowledge. Lord Beaverbrook's crop yields have doubled since he applied some new method of soil management, or so I’ve heard."

Chilton raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I attend in hopes of learning agricultural techniques?"

"I merely observe that knowledge, even when it comes from unexpected quarters, can be of practical benefit," Matthews replied, his expression neutral.

With a scoff, Chilton straightened and moved away from the desk. "We have more pressing concerns than soil management theories. How are the repairs progressing on the tenant cottages?"

The steward accepted the change of subject with a slight nod, opening his portfolio. "The Wilson and Harris families have been temporarily relocated to the old gamekeeper's cottage while the work is completed. The roofs on both dwellings will need to be entirely replaced..."

As Matthews detailed the necessary repairs, Chilton found himself only half-listening. His mind kept returning to Oxford, to scholars, and inexplicably, to Meredith Martin's dismissive gaze.

With a nod of determination, Chilton picked up his pace as he neared the stable door after the meeting concluded. He needed one of his horses saddled—he had tenants to visit, and physical activity might clear his head.

The afternoon passed as it often did, filled with the quiet rhythms of estate life. At one of his tenants' cottages, he sat down with John Williams, a man whose fortunes had never been abundant.