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Blanche stood before the tall looking glass in her bedchamber, gently adjusting the sprigs of lavender threaded through her loosely braided hair.

Her gown was modest but tasteful, perfectly suited for the scholarly lecture she was soon to attend at the Royal Society.

Today’s discourse promised to touch upon recent archaeological discoveries, and the very thought of it stirred that familiar flutter of anticipation in her chest.

As she reached for her shawl, the door swept open with a practised swish. Lady Isabella Wicksford entered, her expression already clouded with exasperation. Blanche turned, the quiet excitement that had filled her beginning to dim.

"Must you squander yet another day chasing after dusty relics and forgotten ruins?" Lady Wicksford demanded, casting a disapproving glance at her daughter’s attire. "Really, Blanche. It is not the sort of pastime that reflects well upon a young lady of your station."

Blanche drew a steadying breath. Her mother’s disdain for her intellectual interests was hardly new. "It is a lecture at the Royal Society, Mama. Mr Pratt, who was a close friend of Father’s, is delivering the address. I find great comfort in attending."

Lady Wicksford frowned, her gaze sharp. "Your father's eccentric pursuits brought us nothing of value, Blanche. His preoccupation with those dreadful artefacts left us with a tarnished reputation and a house full of worthless relics gathering dust!"

Blanche's heart sank at her mother's words, the sharp contrast between their perspectives stinging like an unhealed wound. She clasped her hands together, searching for the right words to defend her late father's legacy.

"Father's collection was his passion, Mother. It connected us to him, and I find comfort in preserving his memory through the artefacts," Blanche explained, her voice carrying a quiet determination.

Lady Wicksford shook her head, dismissing Blanche's sentiment.

"Were it not for my careful maneuvering, we would be social outcasts among high society.

I have laboured tirelessly to preserve our standing, and yet you persist with this reckless fascination for antiquities, do you not see how it imperils everything I have so diligently secured? "

Blanche's eyes lowered, her fingers tracing the pendant around her neck — the mosaic fragment she had found with her father. She was not blind to the financial strain her mother faced, but the sacrifice of her father's legacy seemed too great.

"I understand, Mother. I only wish to honour Father's memory and preserve the things he loved," Blanche whispered, her voice holding a hint of sorrow.

The dowager viscountess’s gaze softened momentarily, but the weight of societal expectations pressed upon her.

"You must reflect upon the consequences of your actions, Blanche.

Society does not look kindly upon eccentricity.

The time has come for you to set aside these romanticised notions of honour and attend, instead, to the realities of our situation. "

It was hard for Blanche not to get upset by this remark. She knew that she was never going to be seen as good enough in her mother's eyes. Her father adored her and shared her passions, they had shared so much, but with him now gone, life was starting to feel very challenging.

How could she ever find a way to be herself while also avoiding her mother's wrath now that she had no one to sneak her away to lectures such as this one?

"Blanche, must you truly squander the entirety of the Season poring over these trifling relics?

Can it be so great a burden to turn your attention, for once, to the matter of securing an eligible match?

" Isabella's voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet ambiance of the room.

"This is the very moment when you ought to be seen, to cultivate connections, yet you choose instead to bury yourself in antiquities. I confess, I cannot fathom it."

Blanche looked up from her feet, meeting her mother's stern gaze. "Mother, you know I am not interested in the Season. I do not care for dancing with gentleman who are looking for a wife on the meat market. It is humiliating for everyone."

Lady Wicksford interrupted with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Your father's eccentricities led to our low social standing.

You are on the verge of one and twenty, Blanche.

It is time to prioritise securing a match before you teeter into spinsterhood!

I cannot help you, if you will not allow me to. "

Blanche's brows furrowed, her resolve strengthening.

"I cannot marry merely for the sake of it, not where there is no shared passion or understanding.

I will not resign myself to a union devoid of true companionship.

The Season is naught but a grand arrangement of titles and connections, and I have no desire to be a party to such artifice.

You know this, we have spoken of it before. Why will you not heed me?"

Lady Wicksford dramatically threw her hands up, frustration etched across her features. "You are impossible, just like your father! You live in a world of fantasies and dreams. Mark my words, Blanche, do not blame me when you find yourself a sad and lonely old maid!"

The words hung in the air, stinging like a slap to the face. Blanche felt the weight of her mother's expectations pressing upon her, but she refused to let them dictate her path. Determinedly, she stood and reached for her bonnet, her eyes reflecting a mixture of hurt and defiance.

"I shall not abandon the pursuits that bring me joy and understanding, Mother.

If securing a match means sacrificing my passions, then I would rather forge another path," Blanche declared, her voice steady.

"I choose the path that brings me joy, because that is all I want from life.

Not every woman requires a husband to feel she has accomplished something of worth. "

"You think you know everything, Blanche, but I can assure you, you will regret this one day. You will wish that you had listened to me, but by then it shall be far too late."

Lady Wickford’s warning lingered in the room, but Blanche remained resolute. With a final glance at the relics that adorned her surroundings, she departed, leaving the echoes of her mother's disapproval behind. The Royal Society awaited, and Blanche refused to let societal expectations confine her.

She truly did not think that she would ever regret the choice to follow her heart and to do what she wanted with her life, regardless of her mother's warnings.

***

The grand lecture hall extended a welcoming embrace to Blanche, adorned with polished mahogany doors and resonating with hushed whispers of anticipation.

Taking her seat beside Penelope, a surge of excitement coursed through her.

The air thickened with intellectual curiosity, a shared passion binding the refined ladies and gentlemen assembled for the Royal Society's lecture.

Now this was the place where Blanche felt accepted, where she did not feel like she needed to change who she was to impress anyone. It was where she felt happiest.

These people understood her, just like her father did. Even if her mother would never take the time to get to know who she was and what she liked, these people did.

Most of all, Blanche was excited to see her best friend, Miss Penelope Hayward.

No one understood her as Penelope did. She was her kindred spirit—the one soul who truly grasped her yearning for something beyond the ordinary. With Penelope, Blanche could speak freely, without restraint, no matter what trials life placed before her.

Seated alongside her, Penelope leaned in, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "Blanche, have you heard? The Duke of Brooksdale is here today!"

Arching an eyebrow in surprise, Blanche discreetly glanced around. Penelope's eyes subtly gestured towards a dark-haired nobleman in an exquisitely tailored charcoal waistcoat, his athletic build contrasting the sea of pastels and lace surrounding him.

"The Duke of…. Who?" Blanche echoed in a whisper; her curiosity piqued. The reclusive Duke had become a mystery since inheriting the title two years prior, rarely seen in public.

Nodding, Penelope's excitement was contagious. "Rumour has it that he has transformed the Brooksdale Estate into one of the foremost antiquities collections in England. They say it rivals even the most celebrated collections in Town!"

"Oh my," Blanche gasped. "Now that I would like to see."

Penelope giggled. "I am sure it is truly fascinating."

Blanche's gaze lingered on the enigmatic Duke.

His presence, seemingly distant, held a certain magnetism.

Murmurs around him hinted at his reputation for both wealth and seclusion.

The thought of a kindred spirit, someone who shared her deep appreciation for antiquities, stirred newfound curiosity within Blanche.

As the lecture commenced, Blanche's attention wavered between the esteemed speaker at the podium and the mysterious Duke in the audience.

The discourse on archaeological discoveries became a backdrop to her wandering thoughts.

She found herself stealing glances at the Duke, intrigued by the enigma that surrounded him.

Who was this man with the slightly messy dark hair and the crisp tailored suit? What was hiding behind those piercing green eyes of his? And why was her heart racing as she drank him in?

She wanted to fix her attention upon Mr. Pratt’s words, yet it proved no easy task.

Perhaps, once the lecture concluded and the guests were permitted to examine the ancient tools more closely, she might at last direct her thoughts to what truly mattered.

***