Chapter Text
The manor had not known this much noise in years.
Maids fluttered between corridors like startled birds, arms burdened with ivory silk, pearl-dotted gloves, and lace-trimmed slippers. Somewhere in the east wing, a heated debate arose about whether the new French ribbon complemented or ruined the eldest daughter’s gown. In the drawing room, their mother fanned herself with a fluttering hand and sighed dramatically into the air, as if managing two debutantes had taken five years from her life already—and it was only the first day of the Season.
You sat near the window, watching the grey spring clouds roll across the sky, utterly untouched by the chaos. Or at least pretending to be. Your reflection in the glass looked pale, thoughtful, expectant. As if even you weren’t quite sure what you were waiting for.
“Would it kill you to act excited?” came a voice behind you.
Your sister Eleanora glided into view like a well-practiced scene in a stage play—tall, elegant, every curl in place. Her dress had already been fitted days ago. Pale rose, delicate embroidery, soft gold accents. The kind of debutante gown that said: look at me, then look again. Her confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was simply inherited.
“I am excited,” you replied without looking at her, chin resting in your palm. “I’m vibrating with anticipation. Can’t you tell?”
She rolled her eyes and sank gracefully into the seat beside you. “Mother’s convinced I’ll receive a proposal by the second ball.”
You blinked slowly. “That’s optimistic.”
“She’s not wrong,” Eleanora said, half-smiling . “There’s already talk. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball. And he—well, you know how long the arrangement has been in place.”
Ah. Him. You’d heard the name whispered since you were old enough to understand what betrothal meant. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt. Promised to your sister since they were both children, in one of those quiet family agreements made with wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and fortunes. You’d never seen him. Never met him. But you’d heard of him quite a lot over the years.
They said he rarely came to town. That he’d been abroad for years. That he was... peculiar. Brilliant, but peculiar. That he collected ancient art and turned down nearly every social invitation. That he had no interest in courtship, except the one already chosen for him.
Your sister’s.
“I wonder if he’s dreadfully boring,” you mused aloud.
Eleanora snorted. “He’s a Duke , darling. I’d hardly be expected to love him. Only not embarrass myself at dinner.”
You turned to face her then. “Do you mind it?” you asked quietly. “That you’ve never met him. That it’s all been arranged.”
Her expression softened, then faltered for a second.
“I mind being married off like a trinket. But…I also mind not having a choice,” she said. “And choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well .”
A pause. “You’ll have more freedom, you know,” she added lightly. “You’re not promised to anyone.”
No. You weren’t. Not the eldest. Not the heir-maker. You were the afterthought in pearls. But freedom felt like such a fragile thing when it was wrapped in expectation and painted in powder and rouge.
There was a knock, then the door creaked open.
“The carriage is ready, Misses,” said a maid, curtseying low. “Your mother says the ball waits for no Lady.”
Your sister rose in one graceful sweep. You followed, smoothing your skirt and forcing a smile.You did not know it then. Not as you stepped into the carriage, nor as the first ballroom doors opened before you. Not as your name was announced or champagne touched your lips. But somewhere in the city, a man named Rafayel Vale had also dressed for the evening.
And with that, the Season had already begun.
—
The ballroom glittered like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloomed overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors. Laughter curled around the violins. Perfumed fans fluttered like butterfly wings. It was the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London had come to play their part.
Your mother had insisted on white for your debut—soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves just off the shoulder. You felt like a porcelain doll being paraded across a chessboard.
But Eleanora was art. A single glance at her, and suitors flocked like moths to a flame. Her rose-colored gown shimmered with every turn. Her laughter fell in just the right places. She danced as if she’d been born to do it.
She probably had. You didn’t really mind. You sipped at your champagne near the edge of the floor, nodding politely to a young gentleman who’d just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz began.
“She’s rather enchanting, your sister,” came a voice beside you.
You turned. A tall, freckled young man smiled at you, slightly flushed with wine. “But I find myself curious about the other debutante at her side.”
Your brows lifted. “Curious, or drunk, My Lord?”
He laughed, unoffended. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”
You hesitated a little, then took his hand. The music rose, and so did you. You danced twice. Once with the freckled gentleman—Lord Daniel something—and again with a kind-eyed Viscount who fumbled through small talk but smiled at your wit. You laughed. You curtseyed. You did everything you were meant to.
But it was impossible to ignore how the room revolved around Eleanora. She hadn’t left the floor. A new partner every song. An admiring audience wherever she paused. You caught glimpses of her between turns, her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, posture perfect.
And then came an intrigued whisper. “Did you see? The Duke of Ravencourt is here.”
The name slipped between fans like a little secret.
“I thought he wouldn’t come.”
“He never does. But this Season—well, everyone knows why.”
“He’s to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”
“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”
“And is it true he—”
You turned too fast, looking for the voice, the source. But all you saw were swirling gowns and smiling mouths. No sign of him. Your heartbeat kicked just a little faster, for reasons you couldn't name. You’d heard the name all your life, but now he was here, present. In this very room, breathing the same air.
Eleanora laughed again, a musical sound that carried across the dance floor as she twirled in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you didn’t recognize. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps not. You watched and listened. But Rafayel Vale, the Duke of Ravencourt, remained as elusive as his reputation for now. Just a name. Just a whisper.
Another glass of champagne was placed in your hand—your third of the evening, perhaps fourth. The effervescence prickled pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness refreshing but not enough to cool the flush that had crept across your cheeks after so many turns about the ballroom.
You’d danced with no less than six gentlemen—each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.
“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh,” said one. “Your sister is lucky to have you by her side,” said another. “Might I call on you this upcoming week?” asked a third.
You smiled, curtsied, responded with the appropriate level of civility. However, your mind had long since drifted elsewhere—pulled by curiosity, by the weight of a name that kept brushing past your ear like a breeze you couldn’t quite catch.
Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one pointed him out. No introductions. No dramatic arrival. You were beginning to suspect he hadn’t come at all—despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room like a pebble dropped into still water.
You were about to take your leave from the floor when you caught the flicker. A subtle change in the atmosphere of the ballroom. The orchestra hadn’t stopped playing, neither did the conversations. Still, it was as if the air had gone still. You turned around, and there, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stood a man dressed in midnight black.
No one announced him. He didn’t need announcement, really. He stood with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveyed the ballroom below with the kind of expression that didn’t demand attention, but commanded it nonetheless.
He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful—elegant, distant, dangerous. His hair was tied loosely at his nape, the soft wave of it brushing against the collar of his coat. His eyes, from what you could see across the distance, were sharp. Watchful. His jaw cut clean beneath the candlelight.
You didn’t need to ask who the man was. You knew it was unmistakable that The Duke of Ravencourt has arrived, at last.
"Ah, there he is. The Duke." someone murmured near you, confirming it.
Your heart fluttered unexpectedly. He descended the stairs unhurriedly, greeted no one, and walked with the ease of someone completely uninterested in impressing. And yet, every head turned. Even Eleanora’s.
You watched her gaze snap upward, watched the moment his eyes met hers—just for a breath. Then, with unflinching grace, he crossed the ballroom and offered your sister a bow.
“Miss Everleigh.” His voice was low, velvet-draped steel. Refined. Controlled.
Your sister curtsied perfectly. “Your Grace.”
And for the first time in your life, you stood mere feet away from the man who had, without even knowing it, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. Rafayel Vale.
So this is the man my sister is to marry, you thought. So that was him. The man whose name had been sewn into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread. The Duke your mother spoke of in hushed tones. The one your sister had been destined for before she’d learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.
You didn’t linger on the sight of them two. You watched long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand. Watched him take it with a bow too shallow to be entirely respectful, too intimate to be entirely proper. Interesting, you thought, but not your concern, so you turned away.
“Miss Everleigh.” you faced the gentleman with a smile just sharp enough to cut through the fog of champagne.
“Lord Renswick,” you greeted, dipping into a curtsey. “You’ve finally decided to brave the dance floor?”
He grinned sheepishly. “It’s hardly bravery when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”
You tilted your head. “Flattery, my Lord? We haven’t even danced yet.”
“I’m hoping to improve your opinion before I embarrass myself,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”
You allowed him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble floor. You danced, and laughed, and when he stumbled, you teased. Another gentleman approached you before the music faded. Then another. The evening passed in a haze of pleasantries and compliments, silk gloves and careful steps, and smiles that never quite reached your eyes.
You were being seen. Not just as Eleanora’s sister but as yourself. But somewhere behind the swirling figures and murmured invitations, you caught the occasional sound of his name.
“The Duke hasn’t danced with anyone else.”
“He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with her.”
“They’re to be married before summer, I hear.”
You didn’t seek him out, but you did notice how he didn’t hover near the punch nor did he court attention. He simply existed, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room.
Eleanora had his company almost exclusively. They spoke often, heads bent slightly toward one another. She laughed in that polished way she’d perfected since finishing school. You only caught him smile once, or maybe you imagined it. He offered his hand to two other ladies for a dance. Out of courtesy, not interest. Both looked dazed when returned to their chaperones.
By the time the final waltz played, you found yourself near the windows again. A gentle breeze filtered through the open panes. The sky outside was deep and velvet blue, dotted with the promise of rain.
You pressed your fingertips to the glass, cooling your skin. Behind you, the ballroom glittered on. Your sister was still dancing with him. So that is the man who will be her husband, you thought again. You didn’t envy her, not truly. He was distant, unreadable. A mystery, yes, but not yours to solve. You were only curious a little, considering you heard his name spoken in whispers so many times from childhood until now.
The ride home was quiet at first. Outside the window, London twinkled beneath the night sky, gas lamps glowing like stars trapped in glass. The carriage wheels clattered softly over the cobblestones, a rhythmic lull that always came after a long night of dancing.
Inside, you sat across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand—more habit than necessity now.
Your mother sighed for the fifth time in ten minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage was hardly warm.
“Well, I’d say that was a successful beginning to the Season,” she declared. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” she turned to you, “were charming . I heard Lord Pelham compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love, not just your appearance. A rare thing.”
You offered a faint smile. “How generous of him.”
Eleanora chuckled softly, her face half-lit by the carriage lantern. She looked pleased—no, she looked content. A strange softness in her expression, one you didn’t often see outside the confines of private moments like these.
“Six dances,” your mother continued. “Four requests for calling hours, and—oh! Did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”
“I did,” Eleanora murmured. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”
Your mother’s fan stopped mid-wave. Her expression turned reverent. “ The Duke. Good heavens. I still can’t believe he came. I truly thought we’d have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”
“He was...unexpected,” Eleanora admitted, her gaze turning briefly to the window. “Not at all what I imagined.”
You looked at her then, with intrigue.
“What did you imagine?” you asked softly.
Eleanora tilted her head, thinking. “I suppose someone older. Colder. Not so sharp. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never empty.”
You hummed. “And?”
She smiled small, knowing. “He pays attention to everything around him.”
You raised a brow. “Even you?”
A shrug. “Especially me.”
Your mother gave a delicate gasp of delight and resumed fanning herself with renewed vigor. “Well, it is settled then. Wes shall expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps earlier, given how much time he spent at your side.”
“I don’t think he’s the sort to follow expected schedules,” Eleanora said, almost absently.
You didn’t say it aloud, but you agreed with her. You leaned your head against the side of the carriage, watching the lantern light flicker over your gloves.
The Season had begun. Your sister’s future—the one stitched in gold and promise—was unfolding. And in the shadows of it, a man made of silence and storm had finally stepped into the light.
——
The garden smelled of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spilled over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the edges of your teacup as you sat beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hummed lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirred the hem of your skirt, carrying with it the faintest echo of music from last night’s ball.
You swirled the honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and mother seated nearby. They were reading from The Society Pages, lips twitching with every name mentioned.
“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta—that will certainly be remarked upon,” your mother sniffed.
“And here— ‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’ ”
“They flatter,” Eleanora murmured, though her eyes gleamed over the rim of her teacup.
You didn’t comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze.
The first caller arrived before noon.
“Miss Everleigh,” the butler intoned with perfect composure. “Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”
You rose, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offered a pleasant smile as the young Lord was shown into the garden.
He bowed. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”
You didn’t roll your eyes, though it was a near thing. “Good morning, my Lord. How kind of you to visit.”
He spoke of the ball, of your dancing, of how he had hoped to see you again. You responded with grace, with interest even—but something inside you remained disinterested. He wasn’t unpleasant. None of them were, but they just lacked something.
A second gentleman came not long after. Then a third in the late afternoon, with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller was welcomed, each given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet…with every charming smile and gloved hand pressed to yours, you found your thoughts drifting to eyes that hadn’t yet sought yours. By the time the sun began to lower, streaking the garden in amber light, the butler reappeared once more.
You glanced up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”
He cleared his throat gently and bowed. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”
You nodded, not disappointed, not expectant—only thoughtful. “Thank you.”
You returned to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora had set aside her book and was absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers.
“He hasn’t called,” she murmured.
You looked up. “The Duke?”
She nodded once. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem, but...he did say he’d be in town this week.”
You sipped your tea. “He doesn't seem the type to rush.”
“No,” she agreed. “He isn’t.” Her voice held no bitterness, just plain observation. Eleanora didn’t chase affection—she expected it to arrive, eventually, on its own terms.
You glanced toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustled the hedges, but no footsteps came. Still, it was early. Much too early to assume anything. By evening, the callers were gone. Your mother was content. Your sister, thoughtful. You were content to watch. To listen. To wait for the Season to unfold as it always did; slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke was to be part of your sister’s story, he would arrive in time. And if he didn’t? Well, that too, would be telling.
——
The gown was periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You had said nothing when your maid fastened it, only watched your reflection in the mirror with mild detachment while she smoothed the folds. Your sister had gone through three dresses before settling on one.
“Do you think he’ll be there tonight?” she asked, not looking up as your mother arranged curls at the crown of her head.
You knew who she meant. “I imagine so,” you replied simply. “It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”
That was the third time she’d asked this week. He hadn’t called once. Not even a letter. After all the glances, the evening spent in her company, the conversations in corners and near the card tables, the dance others noted and still, nothing. The Ton had started to notice. Even the papers had commented on it, their tone careful, but curious.
Your mother tried to stay composed, but the tension in her voice betrayed her. “He’s a Duke, darling. He’s dreadfully busy, I’m sure. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business—men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlors.”
But it wasn’t poetry Eleanora wanted. It was certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, had offered none.
—
Lady Warwick’s ballroom was suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd was lively, the musicians sharp and practiced. By the time you arrived, the dancing had already begun.
You made your greetings, smiled when expected, and allowed a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laughed once—genuinely, this time. Eleanora remained composed beside you. Her gown was elegant, her posture perfect. But you knew her well enough to see the flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?
You saw him the moment he stepped into the room. He was dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He didn’t linger at the entrance and neither did he pause for greetings. He moved straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence. And then, there he was, standing in front of your sister.
“Miss Everleigh,” he said with a bow deeper than the one he’d offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”
Your sister turned to him and blinked. “Your Grace.”
He reached into his coat. From his gloved hand, he drew a small, velvet-wrapped box and placed it delicately in her palm.
“For my absence,” he said simply. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”
You didn’t look away from them, but you didn’t move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opened the box slowly. Inside was a brooch—silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its center. Not extravagant nor loud. It was tasteful, rare. Beautiful.
“You needn’t have,” she said, voice softer now.
“I did,” he replied. Then, he added,“May I claim a dance, if you haven’t promised it to another?”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “Of course, Your Grace.”
You stepped back as he offered his arm. She took it. They moved to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch. You remained at the edge of the dancefloor, untouched by the drama, your fingers gently clasped, your thoughts still clear.
You didn’t watch them dance. Not because it hurt—it didn’t. Not because you were jealous—you weren’t. But because watching felt unnecessary. It was predictable—Rafayel Vale had returned, and he’d returned to your sister’s side as he was meant to. As he had been for years, in name if not affection. So you turned away and smiled when another gentleman bowed before you.
“My Lady,” came a smooth voice, warm like polished amber. “You’ve been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”
You lifted your eyes to the gentleman before you. He was striking. Not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke was. No, this man wore charm like a perfectly tailored coat. Light brown hair, elegantly curled. A golden signet ring on his right hand. A smile that curled ever-so-slightly at the edge—like he knew something you didn’t. And his title?
“Lord Wessex,” he said with an elegant bow. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I’m told I’m the more tolerable of the two.”
Your brows lifted, amused. “You’ve quite the opinion of yourself, My Lord.”
He grinned. “Only when justified. May I?”
You placed your gloved hand in his.
Lord Wessex was a skilled dancer. Not just in form, but in conversation. Where others had asked the same tired questions—What are your hobbies? Do you enjoy embroidery?—he inquired about the books you read. The places you wished to see. The way your eyes lit up when speaking of the sea, despite never having seen it.
He kept you laughing. Thinking. On your toes. And when he led you to the refreshments table, he didn’t hover or smother. He offered you a glass, nodded at your thanks, and kept the conversation moving like a current pulling you along.
“They speak of your sister and His Grace as though the match is already sealed,” he said at one point, gaze drifting toward the couple in question.
“It was arranged,” you replied lightly. “A long time ago.”
“Arranged,” he repeated. “That word always leaves such little room for choice, doesn’t it?”
You glanced at him. “Do you not believe in arrangements, My Lord?”
“I believe in lightning strikes, not family bargains.”
You tilted your head, a little smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”
He laughed. “You’ve no idea, Miss Everleigh.”
By the end of the evening, you’d danced with him twice more. Once by request. Once by invitation. Both times left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled. And while your sister ended the night with the Duke beside her—the talk of the room once more—it wasn’t his presence that lingered on your skin as you stepped into the carriage. It was Lord Wessex’s voice in your ear, still echoing, “Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I’m standing close when it happens.”
——
The sun had barely settled above the rooftops when the butler arrived in the parlor, his expression neutral, but his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.
“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”
Your mother nearly dropped her embroidery. Your sister froze, her teacup held midair.
You simply blinked. “Both?”
The butler inclined his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then your mother clapped her hands together as if summoned by divine will.
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely. That gown is ideal. And you, dear—yes, you’ll stay. It would be rude not to.”
You almost laughed. Rude, of course.
The drawing room had been polished to near-blinding shine. Fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids had barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men were escorted in.
The Duke entered with the same quiet command as he had at the ball—dark coat, silver cufflinks, gloved hands behind his back. He bowed with effortless grace, and his gaze settled on Eleanora with a soft nod.
“Miss Everleigh,” he greeted. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”
Eleanora curtsied, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, Your Grace.”
And beside him—light, where Rafayel was shadow—stood Lord Wessex. Smiling, charming, a pale waistcoat and a sunlit presence. His gaze found you immediately.
“Miss Everleigh,” he said warmly. “I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”
You raised a brow. “That would’ve been quite the feat, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper, My Lord.”
He grinned. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often to defend my honor.”
Tea was served. The Duke sat beside Eleanora. Their conversation was soft, low, and polite. Words about estates, travel, the architecture of Bath.
You and Lord Wessex on the other hand, drowned in laughter, in playful remarks. A small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies, and a question about your favorite poet, which—unlike others—he actually listened to. He watched you speak with a kind of gentle interest that was easy to receive, easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looked your way.
——
The party was held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-colored canopies and strings of flowers that fluttered like silk ribbons in the breeze. There were games set up on the lawn. Plates of sugared strawberries. Lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walked beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels. She wore a lilac gown. You wore blue. And they were there, as they always seemed to be, now.
The Duke, tall and composed in a dark grey coat, standing close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree, listening as she spoke, offering a quiet smile when she made some soft remark. And across the lawn stood your suitor. Lord Wessex, lounging like he belonged in every summer painting ever created. When he caught sight of you, his expression lit up immediately.
“Miss Everleigh,” he called, rising with one graceful movement. “You’ve saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”
You glanced at your sister. She gave you the faintest nod. And so you did. You walked the gardens with him, spoke of travel and philosophy and music you weren’t supposed to enjoy. He offered you a wildflower he plucked from the hedgerow. You laughed and told him it clashed terribly with your gloves.
And when you paused to rest beneath the roses, you found yourself glancing across the lawn. The Duke was still there, standing just a few steps behind your sister now as she spoke to another couple, but his posture had shifted slightly.
His gaze was no longer on Eleanora. It was on you. Not direct nor rude, but unmistakable in your direction. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath between pages. And then, as if realizing it himself, he looked away, just as Lord Wessex turned to say something clever that made you laugh again.
——
The grand hall was glowing. Every window draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmered with perfume and warm anticipation. Music poured from the raised platform where a quartet played their first waltz of the evening.
You had barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appeared.
“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex. Handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox. His smile was brighter than the chandeliers. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”
You lifted your chin. “You assume I’d say yes, My Lord.”
He bowed low. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”
You let out a soft laugh and extended your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”
He looked triumphant. The dance was effortless. You moved together as if you’d done it a hundred times before. You knew he’d make a joke right before the turn. That he’d lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm, but never improper. Never forward. He was a gentleman with a wild spark.
Afterwards, he offered his arm and guided you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish Lordling cut in. You spent the next hour beside him—talking, sipping chilled wine, laughing so hard once you had to hide your face behind your fan. He made it easy. He made you feel seen.
Across the ballroom, the Duke stood by Eleanora once more. They spoke in quiet tones. He escorted her to a dance. Then another—not hers, but another lady’s, whom he partnered with as expected.
His face remained unreadable, his words careful. But every time your laughter rang out or your gown brushed past the edge of the room, his eyes found your silhouette, just for a second.
Lord Wessex offered you another dance before the night ended, and you accepted with no hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asked none of you. But watched—just once more—as you danced away, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.
——
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as you stepped inside. It was cooler here, dimmer. The thick scent of paper and aged wood pressed gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves towered around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings. A world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.
You pulled your gloves off delicately, tucking them beneath your arm as you wandered. Most ladies preferred the modiste, the milliner or the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here, you could breathe.
You found yourself in the poetry section, of course. One gloved finger brushing the titles, searching for something half-remembered, brow slightly furrowed, alone with your thoughts. Until a soft shift of leather soles caught your ear. You turned, expecting a clerk, and froze.
He stood not three paces from you, dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves. Simpler than usual, though no less composed. The Duke of Ravencourt. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The absurdity of it made your lips twitch—of all places. He regarded you with that same unreadable expression, as if trying to make sense of something.
“Miss Everleigh,” he said at last, voice low and measured. “This is unexpected.”
You curtsied ever so slightly, regaining your composure. “Your Grace. I might say the same.”
A pause. His gaze flicked briefly to the book in your hand—Keats, you realized. Then back to your face. “Do you favor poetry?”
“On quiet days,” you replied. “And rainy ones.”
Another pause. He nodded, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”
You waited, wondering if he would say more. He didn’t.
“And you, Your Grace?” you asked, a touch of amusement laced through your words. “Are you here for poetry, or politics?”
His lips curved just slightly. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or anything with weight.”
You arched a brow. “Is that so, Your Grace?”
He looked at you for a long moment, still distant, but not unkind.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said finally. “But I am not displeased.”
Your heartbeat ticked once, then twice.
“Nor am I, Your Grace.” you said simply. “But I shall let you return to your…weighty thoughts.”
He inclined his head. “And you to your verse.”
You curtsied, slight but proper. He bowed in return. No lingering glances, no breathless goodbyes. Just a few pleasantries exchanged, two minds acknowledged. And a silence that somehow said more than the words themselves.
——
It was one of those warm spring afternoons where everything felt too golden. The garden terrace was filled with soft laughter and the rustle of silk gowns. Ladies fanned themselves under shade trees. Gentlemen clustered near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrived beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes—one of the wheels had needed adjusting.
“Smile, darling,” your mother said as she adjusted your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of color in your cheeks wouldn’t hurt either.”
You smiled. You nodded. You adjusted. Eleanora had woken feeling unwell—no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never allow a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair.
“You’ll attend in her place,” she had said. “Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.”
So now you stood in her shadow—only without her beside you to cast it. You moved through conversation with practiced ease. Three ladies asked after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly called you by her name. You corrected him gently, no sting in your voice. And then you excused yourself, moving toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offered a moment of quiet. You were just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifted behind you.
“Miss Everleigh.” You turned. There he was, the Duke, alone. Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another Lady to dance with. He stood a respectful distance away, one hand loosely behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.
“Your Grace,” you greeted calmly, offering a curtsy. “I’m surprised to see you without company.”
His lips twitched. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”
His eyes studied your face, not in a way that lingered, but in a way that made you feel slightly restless. “Is your sister not attending?”
You shook your head. “She is unwell, Your Grace. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”
“I am sorry to hear it.” his voice was quiet, smooth as ever. But beneath it, there was something unreadable once again.
“I hope you do not feel...obligated to entertain me in her absence, Your Grace.” you added, careful carefully.
“I do not.” The reply came quicker than expected. Not curt, just honest.
Your brows lifted, amused. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, Your Grace?”
“Curiosity, perhaps,” he said. Then added, almost like a confession, “You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”
You blinked and smiled a little. “I assure you, Your Grace. I do not do it on purpose.”
“Pity,” he murmured. “It is becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”
You didn’t have time to answer because someone was calling your name—Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the edge of the terrace with that signature grin.
You turned back to the Duke. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”
He inclined his head. “Of course.”
You curtsied again. He bowed, and you walked away toward the man who wanted you, and away from the one who had only just started to wonder if he should.
“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex asked, offering his arm as you returned to the center of the terrace.
“It was, My Lord.” you replied, fingers brushing the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accepted.
“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”
You smiled. “He was polite. Curious, perhaps. But no frowning.”
He clicked his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”
You laughed, soft and warm, as he guided you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hung low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walked in companionable silence for a moment.
“You always find me easily, My Lord.” you said lightly.
“That is because I always look,” he said without hesitation. That stilled you just a fraction, surprised at the sincerity.
The conversation drifted easily, like it always did. He asked about your favorite lines from the bookshop. You asked about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He made you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.
It was easy, this thing between you. Not dull or predictable, but certain, somehow. And when he asked you for a dance under the stars, you said yes without thinking twice. You danced in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above. His hand was steady, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You are quiet tonight,” he murmured as you turned.
“Apologies, My Lord. I had not realized.”
“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”
“No,” you said truthfully. “Just enjoying this moment.”
He smiled at that. “Then I’ll consider myself fortunate.”
Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke danced with another Lady. He did not fumble, did not charm, did not smile too wide or step too close. He was composed, as always. Fulfilling his role, bowing when required, saying the right words. But when your laughter drifted once more across the lawn, his eyes—just for a second—turned toward the sound and lingered again.