A Study of Courtship-Chapter 23: The Seymour Household in Uproar

The news reached Seymour House before luncheon—carried first by footmen, then by gossiping maids, then by Baroness Seymour herself, who burst into the morning room like a gust of scandal-laden wind.

"Margaret Amelia Seymour!"

Margaret froze mid-reach for a tea cake. This was never a promising start.

Her mother stood framed in the doorway, silk skirts swishing with the kind of fury that only the ton—and failed marriage prospects—could inspire. Behind her marched Baron Seymour, looking resigned, and Lord James, wearing the expression of a man wishing for immediate exile to Scotland. Little Agatha sat cross-legged on the carpet, making two dolls argue over which bonnet was prettier.

"Mama?" Margaret set down the pastry.

Baroness Seymour held up the crumpled note as though it were a death sentence.

"Lady Sophia Fiennes," she declared, "has just received a formal social call from Lord Benedict Montgomery. A courting call."

Lord James groaned.

Baron Seymour cleared his throat.

Agatha’s dolls continued bonking each other on the head.

Margaret blinked. "Benedict Montgomery? Courting Sophia?"

Her mother heaved a dramatic sigh. "YES, Margaret. Sophia Fiennes. The girl who debuted this season. The girl you insulted in Almack’s. The girl who is outshining you."

Margaret’s cheeks burned. "Mama, she—she’s not even—she did not—"

"She DID," Baroness Seymour snapped. "She has a marquess for a father, a duke for a grandfather, and a face that causes patronesses to whisper encouragement. And YOU—" she pointed an accusatory finger, "—have done nothing since last season."

"Mama," Lord James muttered, "that is unfair—"

"Oh do not begin with me, James," she snapped. "You are two and twenty and have yet to secure an advantageous marriage. Your sister is wasting her prospects, and you—well—you are hardly an example of success."

James rolled his eyes heavenward.

Baron Seymour rubbed his temples. "My dear, perhaps we should—"

"No!" Baroness Seymour marched forward. "Margaret must understand the severity of her situation. Sophia Fiennes—Sophia!—is about to be the envy of every debutante in London."

Agatha looked up, doll in each hand. "Is Sophia the one who said Margaret looks like a bird?"

Margaret nearly fainted. "I did NOT look like a bird, Agatha, she called me a—"

"Magpie," James supplied helpfully.

Margaret shot him a murderous glare.

Agatha nodded sagely. "Magpies are pretty."

"Agatha, darling, go back to your dolls," Margaret said through clenched teeth.

Baroness Seymour paced, muttering, "Montgomery... eligible... handsome... wealthy... and of age. Of course he would choose Sophia. The girl behaves like an intellectual heathen but oh, the privilege! The connections!"

Margaret balled her gloved hands into fists.

Sophia had everything handed to her—beauty, breeding, the patronesses’ approval, a duchess-grandmother, and now... Benedict Montgomery’s attention.

"Mama," Margaret said tightly, "I will not be overshadowed by Sophia Fiennes."

Baroness Seymour whirled toward her. "Then you had better begin behaving like a future viscountess—or better. Because if even Lady Fiennes, with all her strange notions and unfeminine habits, can captivate a man such as Lord Benedict..."

She shook her head dramatically. "...what excuse do you possibly have?"

Margaret swallowed hard.

Agatha held up a doll. "My dolly says you should be nicer."

"Agatha!" Margaret hissed.

But her little sister only giggled and resumed her game, blissfully unaware of the social ruination unfolding three feet away.

Lord James crossed his arms. "For what it’s worth, Margaret, Benedict Montgomery would never have considered you, regardless."

Margaret snapped, "Be silent, James!"

Baron Seymour sighed. "Children, enough. We must simply... improve our standing. Present ourselves well. And Margaret must mind her reputation more carefully."

Margaret straightened her spine, breath tight with a mixture of humiliation and determination.

If Sophia Fiennes thought she would glide effortlessly through society—with Benedict Montgomery at her side, no less— Then Margaret would simply have to. shine brighter

Hyde Park was awash in golden light — the kind that made even the most average gentleman look dashing and every ambitious mama sharpen her gaze like a hawk hunting prey. The air shimmered with gossip, perfume, and desperation.

It was, Margaret thought, the perfect hunting ground.

She walked beside her mother with practiced elegance, her parasol tilted at just the right angle to flatter her complexion. Two debutantes trailed her — the same pair who delighted in giggling at everything she said — and although Margaret found them tiring, they elevated her appearance. A small entourage always did.

Baroness Seymour murmured warnings under her breath the entire stroll,

"Keep your shoulders straight—"

"Do not scowl, Margaret—"

"Smile, smile, for heaven’s sake—"

But Margaret barely heard her.

Her attention was fixed elsewhere.

Because strolling along the main promenade, flanked by his mother and sister, was a man whose presence rippled through the ton like a knife gliding across silk,

Earl Frederick Lockhart.

Twenty years old.

Tall. Well-dressed.

Carrying the composure of someone raised to believe the world naturally rearranged itself for his convenience.

His family disliked the Fiennes. Disliked the Montgomerys. Disliked nearly everyone who outranked them.

Perfect, Margaret thought.

Frederick Lockhart was not simply eligible — he was useful.

He paused to greet an acquaintance, the light catching the wave of his chestnut hair. A few ladies glanced toward him with interest. Margaret felt her heartbeat quicken.

He would not be dazzled easily. Which meant dazzling him would be that much sweeter.

Margaret adjusted her shawl, tilted her parasol, and lowered her voice.

"Mama, I believe I shall stretch my legs a little further," she said smoothly.

Baroness Seymour raised a brow. "Do not embarrass me."

"As if I ever would," Margaret replied with a soft, graceful laugh.

And she drifted away — right into the path of Earl Frederick Lockhart as though the meeting were pure accident, a delightful coincidence engineered by fate itself.

His eyes flicked to her immediately — cool, evaluating, vaguely intrigued.

Margaret’s heart fluttered.

She dipped into a perfect curtsy.

"My lord Lockhart," she said sweetly, "what an unexpected pleasure to find you here on such a fine afternoon."

He bowed in return, polite yet detached, "Lady Margaret," he replied, "the pleasure is mine."

Behind her, the whispers began. She could practically feel the eyes of debutantes burning into her back, their envy coiling around her like perfume.

Margaret lifted her chin, smiled prettily, and thought, "Let Sophia have Benedict Montgomery. Let her have the whispers and the attention. I will have a man the Fiennes despise — and I will outshine her yet."

They walked together—slow, leisurely, visible.

The conversation flowed more easily than she expected. Frederick was handsome in that polished, superior way that suggested he believed compliments were a gift he bestowed upon the world.

And Margaret? She was desperate for someone—anyone—to see her as more than the debutante who insulted Lady Sophia in Almack’s.

Frederick’s gaze appraised her like a jewel he wished to appraise further.

"I confess," he said, lowering his voice as they passed other walkers, "debutantes like you are increasingly rare. Beautiful. Agreeable. Sensible of society’s expectations."

Margaret nearly glowed.

Agreeable.

Beautiful.

Sensible.

Finally. Finally someone understood what she had been taught her entire life to be.

"And unlike certain young ladies..." Frederick continued casually, "you do not parade around speaking about philosophy or pistols as if you wish to be mistaken for a man."

Margaret’s smile tightened—but only slightly.

He went on, "I admire ambition, Lady Margaret. The kind that comes from knowing one’s role. The kind that strives for elevation. You, for instance, strike me as the sort of woman who would do anything to marry well."

Margaret’s pulse fluttered. Finally. Someone who didn’t want a philosopher, a revolutionary, or an Amazonian horse-riding spectacle.

"Yes," she said sweetly. "I do intend to make a beneficial match."

Frederick’s lips curled into a conspiratorial smirk. "Then perhaps..." he leaned in slightly, "we may form an alliance."

Margaret blinked. "An alliance, milord?"

He nodded once, sharply. "To outshine both the Fiennes and Montgomery families."

And there it was.

The spark.

The temptation.

The invitation to step fully into the role the ton had already cast her in—the beautiful antagonist, the elegant rival, the girl determined to reclaim what Sophia had carelessly stolen.

Margaret lowered her lashes. "An alliance, you say?" Her voice was honey.

Frederick offered his arm once more.

"Yes. One that will benefit us both... and humble those who need humbling." 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Margaret placed her hand lightly atop his forearm.

A ripple of murmurs followed them like a trailing veil.

"Is that Earl Lockhart?"

"With Lady Margaret? He never accompanies anyone."

"He’s from that family that despises the Fiennes and Montgomerys..."

"Oh dear, are they aligning?"

"Her mother must be in raptures."

Margaret pretended not to notice, though her chin rose just slightly — enough for simpering debutantes nearby to widen their eyes and whisper behind gloved hands.

She had grown up among these whispers. She knew their meanings intimately.

Simpering. Scheming. Magpie.

Titles dressed as insults.

But today?

She was reclaiming them.

Beside her, Frederick Lockhart walked with deliberate leisure, dark coat immaculate, expression amused. He knew exactly how many heads were turning. He savored every whisper.

"I must say, Lady Margaret," he murmured, "you are causing quite the spectacle."

Margaret smiled sweetly. "Only because you chose to accompany me, milord."

He chuckled — a low, appreciative sound. "Flatter me all you wish. I enjoy agreeable company."

For the first time this season, the ton wasn’t whispering about Sophia Fiennes.

They were whispering about her.

Margaret walked forward with Frederick Lockhart, letting the whispers follow her like a triumphant train.