Aurelian woke the next morning with the uncomfortable suspicion that he had somehow continued being scolded in his sleep.
His head ached.
His eyes burned.
Even the sunlight slipping through the curtains felt accusatory.
He stared at the canopy above his bed and considered whether a man could reasonably claim illness after humiliating himself before half the royal court.
His mother would know.
With a groan, Aurelian dragged one hand over his face and sank deeper into his pillow.
“Lady Sera,” he muttered.
The name sounded harmless in the privacy of his bedroom.
It had apparently sounded considerably less harmless in a ballroom full of nobles.
Carina had explained that much very clearly the night before.
She had also explained the implications of inviting an unmarried duchess to Bellafonte, while Snyder alternated between questioning Aurelian’s judgment and opening the business correspondence that had begun arriving before supper.
By the end of the evening, Aurelian had apologized to both parents, Duchess Vaelmont despite her absence, and—after Snyder became distracted discussing the sudden interest in sunflower seeds—the Bellafonte agricultural economy in general.
A knock sounded at his bedroom door.
“My lord?” Vincente called.
“Are you awake?”
Aurelian pulled the blanket slightly higher.
“No.”
A pause.
“I have been instructed to inform you that the letters have been placed in the morning room.”
Aurelian closed his eyes again.
“How many?”
The next pause concerned him more.
“All of them.”
· · ─ ·☽𖤓☾· ─ · ·
The morning room had disappeared beneath paper.
Letters covered the long table, occupied both side tables, and filled baskets along the wall.
Several envelopes had escaped onto the carpet like casualties of an especially elegant battle.
Aurelian stopped in the doorway and slowly looked across the room.
Vincente stood beside him with the solemn expression of a man observing a natural disaster.
“Did every noble in Evelina write to us overnight?”
“I cannot confirm that, my lord.”
“That means yes.”
“It means three more deliveries are expected before noon.”
Aurelian turned his head.
Vincente looked back.
Neither spoke for a moment.
“Perhaps we should begin.”
They sorted the correspondence into piles.
The first belonged to Snyder: trade requests, seed quantities, shipping routes, crop yields, oil production, and merchants who had discovered a sudden passion for Bellafonte agriculture.
Aurelian opened a letter from a count who had never previously dealt with his family and scanned the first page.
“He wishes to purchase seven hundred sacks of sunflower seeds.”
Vincente placed it on Snyder’s pile.
Aurelian continued reading.
“He also wishes to know whether Duchess Vaelmont prefers them roasted or salted.”
Vincente silently moved it to another pile.
That pile was becoming alarmingly large.
The invitations were worse.
Families who had barely acknowledged the Bellafontes before now wished to host them.
Mothers with unmarried daughters had developed an unexpected fascination with southern farming.
Several young women invited Aurelian to musicales, poetry readings, garden walks, and one disturbingly private watercolor demonstration.
A viscount offered to send both of his daughters to Bellafonte so they might experience country life properly.
Aurelian stared at that letter for several seconds.
“We have never met either daughter.”
“That does not appear to concern him.”
Aurelian placed the letter aside and created a new pile.
“What shall we call this one?” Vincente asked.
Aurelian considered it.
“Ask Mother.”
It filled quickly.
By midmorning, Aurelian’s fingers were stained with ink and the floor around them had become an organized map of other people’s ambitions.
Business for Snyder.
Invitations.
Marriage prospects.
Requests to visit Bellafonte.
Questions about Duchess Vaelmont.
Questions pretending not to be about Duchess Vaelmont.
Letters Aurelian strongly suspected should never reach Carina.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his thumb against an ink stain on his finger.
“I do not understand any of this.”
“Which part?”
“Last week, some of these people could not remember our family name.
Now they have lifelong dreams involving coffee production.”
“Your association with Duchess Vaelmont may have encouraged their curiosity.”
“But we did not discuss trade.”
“No, my lord.”
“We discussed the weather.”
Vincente folded another letter.
“I am certain it was an influential conversation.”
Aurelian narrowed his eyes.
Vincente returned calmly to the letters.
Near the bottom of one basket, Aurelian found a cream envelope sealed with dark green wax.
Lady Primrose.
His posture straightened.
She had been one of the more difficult people to read at Beaumont’s tea.
While others laughed or whispered, Lady Primrose had watched him with the stillness of someone filing every mistake away for later consideration.
“An invitation?”
Aurelian broke the seal and pulled out the invite.
Lady Primrose requested his presence at a small afternoon gathering at the Primrose estate.
Several family members and friends would attend.
Refreshments would be served.
His company would be appreciated.
Nothing explained why she wanted him there.
That alone made Aurelian suspicious.
He had begun to understand that Evelina’s nobles rarely did anything without a reason.
They simply considered it impolite to reveal the reason before one arrived.
A smaller piece of paper slipped from the invitation and landed in his lap.
Aurelian caught it before it could slide to the floor.
The handwriting was uneven and carefully formed, with a small blot of ink at one corner.
Lord Bellafonte,
Thank you again for saving my ribbon.
It is my favorite one, even though Aunt Florence says I should not call things my favorite when I drop them.
I hope you will come to tea.
Cecily
Aurelian read it twice.
No questions about Duchess Vaelmont.
No request to tour the sunflower fields.
No sudden interest in southern trade.
Cecily simply wanted him to come.
His expression softened.
He smiled.
“What is it?” Vincente asked.
“A note from Cecily.”
“The young lady from the pond?”
“Yes.” Aurelian folded it carefully, making sure not to crease the writing.
“She thanked me.”
Vincente looked over the formal invitation.
“Lady Primrose rarely hosts small gatherings without purpose.”
“My mother said the same.”
“Then you intend to decline?”
Aurelian looked down at Cecily’s note.
Among a room full of people wanting something from him, it was the one letter that did not feel like a request disguised as a compliment.
He tucked it safely beside the invitation.
“No,” he said.
“I will attend.”
Vincente surveyed the paper surrounding them.
“Should I inform Lady Echo?”
Aurelian’s confidence disappeared.
“Yes.
Immediately.”