Chapter Text
You shouldn't be here. That much is obvious from the moment your heeled boots echo against the polished marble floors of Wendell Hall, every step a defiance. The air inside is stale with parchment and pomp, a faint scent of cigar smoke still clinging to the wooden panels despite the ban. The room is filled with men in deep coats and deeper voices, all gathered for a guest lecture on “Liberty and the Ethics of Rule” —which is to say, men talking about how other men ought to govern everything. Including you.
You slip into one of the upper rows of the tiered seating, cloak drawn over your shoulders, hat pulled low, the curve of your jaw a weapon as sharp as your mind. Seraphina had helped. Of course she had. Her innocent eyes were the perfect smokescreen for your aunt’s nosy questions.
Your cousin Jace, seated across the aisle in the crowd, doesn’t even pretend to be surprised when he spots you. He leans across during the applause that greets the guest speaker’s arrival, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear, “You really think I wouldn’t recognize you, even in that ridiculous bonnet?”
You give him a slow smile.
“I didn’t come here to be recognized,” you whisper back. “I came here to listen.”
“God help us all,” he mutters, shaking his head.
The room settles. The speaker begins—a renowned philosopher, old and rotund, with breath like damp wool and a voice like chalk against slate. But you listen. And your mind sparks. And you take notes in your head, biting the inside of your cheek every time someone says “naturally, women lack the constitution for governance.” But it’s not the lecturer who steals your attention first. No, it’s him.
Seated in the far right corner, his coat a precise obsidian, gloves still on, posture rigid but regal—as though the seat itself was carved around his spine. The Duke of Ashbourne. You’d only heard rumors. You’d never spoken. Never even been in a room with him until now. But there he is. Watching the speaker. Listening, but not quite still. You notice the way he taps one gloved finger once—once—against his knee when something idiotic is said.
And then, you feel his gaze. Not once. Not twice. But thrice. It drags along your profile like a cold wind curling over firewood—not blatant, not indulgent—but aware .
And then there’s another. A man you hadn’t noticed until he spoke.
“Quite the scene,” comes a warm, easy baritone beside you—a man with a softer coat, a charming smile, and eyes that glitter with just enough virtue to be suspicious. Lord Berkeley.
“You,” he murmurs, glancing toward you as if he stumbled upon a rose among thorns, “are the only reason I’ve remained awake. I rather think more women ought to attend these things. The room might be a touch more intelligent for it.”
You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Is that flattery or philosophy, My Lord?”
He grins. “Whichever gets the Lady’s attention.”
It’s charming. Not sincere. But the way he speaks of liberty, of choice, of women deserving a voice—it is refreshing. And part of you can’t help but wonder if he's just clever enough to believe what he says… or just clever enough to say it.
When the lecture ends, the crowd buzzes—mostly with murmurs about your presence. The Duke of Ashbourne walks out without a word. Without a glance. But you feel him pass. Like the press of a storm before the thunder.
Outside, Jace joins you under the colonnade, cloak around your shoulders.
“You’re going to regret this,” he says lightly, glancing toward the exit doors.
“Unlikely,” you reply. “I rather think I’ll enjoy it.”
But when you return to the Everthorne townhouse later, soaked in evening mist, your aunt is already waiting in the parlour. Tapping a spoon against a teacup, quietly. Like a sword against glass.
“Do you truly think I wouldn’t find out?” she says coldly. “Wendell Hall. A lecture reserved for men. What would your father say?”
And then Jace steps forward, arms crossed. “I had invited her.”
You blink. She blinks. He shrugs . “Don’t look at me like that, Mother. I needed someone to keep me from falling asleep.”
She groans into her hands. And somewhere far away, in the high towered silence of Ashbourne Hall, a certain Duke stands at his rain-slick window, his hands behind his back, and remembers the scent of bergamot, smoke, and roses.
————
The mornings are yours. Before the world awakens with its stifling rules and expectations. Before society dons its masks of silk and civility. Out here, on horseback, wind slicing your cheeks and damp grass whipping at your boots, you feel like something more than a daughter, more than a Viscount’s ward, more than a pretty porcelain on a shelf. You feel alive .
Your mare, bright and spirited, cuts clean through the fields at a gallop. The hem of your riding coat flutters behind you like a banner. There is nothing polished or polite about you at this moment. No pearls. No powdered scents. Just sweat, smoke, bergamot and the wild. Your signature.
The path curls lower as you guide the reins, pressing your heels lightly—your breath syncing with the rhythm of the ride, your thoughts silent for the first time in days. There is no one here to scold. No prying eyes. Only the wide stretch of moor and morning frost.
Unknowingly, the trees begin to thicken. You do not notice. Not at first. You’ve ridden this path countless times, though never quite this far. It winds like a whispered invitation between old oaks and yawning thorns. You think only of air and blood and freedom as you disappear into the edge of the forest. Ashbourne Forest. You don’t know it. Not yet. But he does.
Far above, standing still as carved marble on the jagged cliffs that rise behind Ashbourne Hall, The Duke of Ashbourne watches. He came to walk. As he always does in the early morning, when the rest of the world still sleeps. Dressed in black, boots crunching lightly over frost-bitten rock, coat collar turned up against the wind. He came to think. To be alone.
But then, he sees the figure on horseback. A streak of movement where there should be none. A figure too confident, too bold, not one of his stable hands, and certainly not from his household.
For a moment, he assumes it must be a reckless boy from the Everthorne estate. But then he sees the posture. The curve of a waist. The flash of unbound hair escaping a loose braid. The way your hand grips the reins—not like an amateur, but like someone born in a saddle.
And then he knows . You. The woman from the lecture. Riding, wild and untethered, straight into his woods. And though you cannot see him—though the cliff is high and the distance vast—you feel it. That pull. That sudden prickle of awareness, as though the air has shifted. As though someone, somewhere, is watching .
You glance back over your shoulder. There is nothing there. Only trees and frost and the warm breath of your mare. But the sensation lingers. Crawls beneath your skin. For a single heartbeat, you feel… seen. Not in the way men at soirées look at you. Not like a commodity or curiosity. But like something... dangerous.
You don’t linger. Not after the trees begin to thin and the hush of the forest tightens around your chest like a too-tight corset. Not after the air shifts—too still, too sharp—and you feel the unmistakable press of something unseen along your spine. You pull at the reins gently, the mare slowing beneath your hands, her ears twitching at the wind.
You realize then, with a flicker of unease, that you’ve crossed too far. The Everthorne fields are behind you. You’re no longer riding on your family’s land. This is Ashbourne territory. And you, bold and brilliant and stupidly curious, have trespassed on the Duke’s domain.
You turn the mare with practiced ease, heart thudding low in your chest. It isn’t fear—not quite. But something colder. Sharper. As if the eyes that were watching still linger, even now that your back is turned. By the time you return home, the sun is higher, your boots muddied, your hair wind-tangled and wild. You’re met at the stables by your uncle’s steward, who hands you a sealed note from your aunt.
"Return by the drawing hour. We are to discuss London."
London. You knew it was coming. The Season always does. And yet... It feels heavier this year. Not the weight of gowns or expectations or the endless dance of introductions. But knowing that they expect you to choose. To settle. To be softened and shaped into something suitable. A match must be made, they’ll say. As though you are a thing to be traded. As though your fire can be measured by coin and lineage.
You dress properly that evening. You sit in the drawing room as expected, spine straight and lips still. You nod when your aunt speaks of carriages and trunks and guest rooms in the London manor. You are to leave in four days. With Jace and Seraphina.
A chaperone is not required for you, not anymore. You are not a fresh debutante, wide-eyed and simpering. You have already been presented. Already survived one Season—and emerged unmarried. It was a quiet scandal last year. This year, it will not be allowed.
You don't argue. You only murmur your agreement, then slip away before your aunt can ask about the state of your boots.
————
The night before departure you are summoned, not scolded. The note arrives at supper, tucked beneath your napkin in your uncle’s familiar hand.
“Meet me in the study. After.”
It smells faintly of pipe smoke and wax. You fold it silently, already knowing what this is. You do not expect affection. You certainly do not expect understanding . But you go.
The house is quiet as you move through it, the kind of stillness that settles before a great shift—like the breath before a storm or the ache before a goodbye. The door to your uncle’s study creaks slightly as you push it open, and he’s already there. Standing by the fire, brandy in one hand, his expression soft in that rare, unguarded way you remember from childhood.
"Come in, little thorn," he murmurs, using the name your father gave you once.
You shut the door behind you, blinking at the unexpected warmth in his voice. The study is old and heavy with memory. Books, firelight, shadows. You feel smaller here—but not unwelcome.
He doesn’t scold you for riding into the Ashbourne woods. He doesn’t mention the raised voices earlier with your aunt, or the way you refused to apologize for existing in a way society deems improper. Instead, he nods to the second glass already poured.
You cross the room in silence, settle into the chair opposite his, and take the drink with both hands. The brandy is sharp. Like the truth.
“I thought,” he begins, voice low, “that I had more time. When your father died.”
Your throat tightens. He doesn’t speak of him often. None of them do. As if grief is something best buried beneath expectations and silk-lined silence.
“He was reckless,” your uncle says, not unkindly. “And brilliant. Too brilliant, sometimes. Always thinking the world would catch him, no matter how high he leapt. You’ve got that in you too.”
You set your glass down, carefully. “I’m not reckless,” you murmur.
“You are alive ,” he says, with quiet conviction. “And in this house, that is almost the same thing.”
The silence stretches, long and aching.
“I was not meant to be a Viscount,” he admits. “I was the second son. The quieter one. I loved horses and poetry and chasing your father into all kinds of trouble. Then he was gone, and I had to grow up in a week. Your aunt married a man who barely remembered how to write a proper letter.”
You smile faintly. “She reminds you.”
He laughs, a real sound, low and warm. “Every day. And I let her. Because she’s often right, even when she’s… sharp.”
You look down at your hands. “She doesn’t like me.”
He exhales. “She loves you.”
You lift your eyes to meet his. Doubt etched in your brow.
“She doesn’t understand you. That’s true. But you frighten her in the same way your father frightened me—because you make the world bend around your will. And that kind of woman… is often punished for existing.”
That strikes deeper than you expect. You feel it all the way down to your spine.
“She wants to protect you,” he adds. “In the only way she knows how. By forcing you to fit into a shape society will not crush.”
“I don’t want to be shaped,” you say, fierce and soft at once.
He nods, eyes warm. “Then carve something new.”
The fire crackles. You want to remember this moment—this warmth, this rare truth—forever.
“But still go to London,” he says, after a pause. “Go with Jace. Go with Seraphina. See what the world offers. Not because you must find a husband, but because your father would never forgive me if I let you rust here in a cage you never asked for.”
You rise, and he stands with you. For a moment, you hesitate—then step forward and wrap your arms around him. He stiffens at first, then folds around you, one hand against your back, warm and steady. You smell smoke and old books and something like comfort. It matters more than you can say. You leave the study with your eyes burning, your chest heavy, and your heart—for the first time in weeks—just a little less angry.
————
The carriage ride is a balm you didn't know you needed. Jace sits beside you, boots crossed, book forgotten on his lap as he argues half-heartedly with his wife. Seraphina leans out the window despite the wind, her hair whipped in every direction, laughing like it’s a language only the two of you speak.
"She’ll catch a fever," Jace mutters.
"I’ll catch freedom, " Seraphina retorts. "Have you ever seen clouds this dramatic, or are you too buried in your maps?"
They squabble like that for miles. Loud and bright and ridiculous. You don’t even try to hide your grin. It is only with them that you feel this version of yourself—sharp-tongued and untamed. You are not Miss Everthorne , not quite. You are you.
"She’s smiling," Seraphina gasps with mock horror. "You’ve done it, Jace. You’ve made her smile before the Season. The world must be ending."
"Impossible," Jace says. "I haven’t even begun my lecture on noble etiquette and comportment."
"Do that and I will leap from this carriage."
"And I will push you," you offer sweetly.
The laughter bubbles again, loud enough to make the driver glance back once in amusement. You watch the trees blur past as the city looms closer, the sky bright with spring. Somewhere behind you lies the edge of Ashbourne Forest. Somewhere ahead, the Season waits with all its sharpened teeth. But for now, between the three, you are just you—untamed and unchosen, fire on the edge of being lit.
The London townhouse greets you like an old book someone else has read. Its walls echo with familiar voices—Jace’s steady calm, Seraphina’s bright laughter—but they feel like borrowed warmth, not yours just yet. Still, the fire is lit, your rooms are already prepared, and the windows let in the shifting grey of the London sky.
Seraphina wastes no time flinging open the drapes in your chamber, declaring that the dust of the countryside has no place in the capital.
“There are too many people here to waste a good view,” she says, hands on her hips like she rules the city.
You smirk from the doorway. “And too many people to hide from.”
She turns, grinning, eyes full of mischief. “You never hide . You terrify. It’s not the same thing.”
Jace lingers in the hall, arms folded, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he watches you both. The golden warmth between the three of you settles quickly—like you never left each other’s sides. The townhouse holds your laughter well. That night, you sleep in high-thread sheets and dreamless silence, the kind that only old cities can offer.
————
The carriage rocks gently over the cobbled street as you peer out at the mansion ahead—all crystal windows and gilded door frames. The chatter of debutantes and matrons swirls in your ears like perfume.
“I still don’t understand why this one is called a small gathering ,” you murmur.
Seraphina, resplendent in soft violet and starlight, giggles beside you. “Small means under a hundred guests.”
“Then I shall start referring to thunderstorms as light weather ,” you mutter.
Jace, across from you, snorts into his cravat. “You’re not required to dance tonight, you know.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, but neither am I permitted to scowl in a corner without your dear wife dragging me into conversation.” Seraphina beams, utterly unrepentant.
The ballroom is a hive—candlelight dripping from chandeliers, string music dancing through laughter, and the air thick with too-sweet perfume and too-eager glances. You are wearing midnight blue. Your signature scent—bergamot, firewood, something alive and untamed—follows you through the crowd like a dare. It makes some women narrow their eyes. Makes some men’s gazes linger longer than they should.
You navigate it all like a soldier through smoke. Not rude. Not afraid. But untouchable. And then— “Miss Everthorne.”
You turn. The voice is smooth, low, and achingly familiar. Too familiar. Lord Berkeley stands just behind your shoulder, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. Dark curls impeccably tamed, coat perfectly tailored, the picture of noble warmth. You blink, then smile—slow and amused.
“I should not wonder at our paths crossing again, My Lord.” you say, arching a brow. “It seems London is not as wide as it claims to be.”
A chuckle. “Or perhaps fate is not as subtle as it pretends to be.”
You tilt your head. “Or you simply haunt places where women gather, like a ghost with particularly charming manners.”
He places a hand to his chest, feigning injury. “Now that was unkind.”
You smirk. “Indeed, but not inaccurate.”
His eyes flick over your figure, not indecently, but not with disinterest either. “You look like trouble tonight, My Lady.” he murmurs. “Elegant, dangerous trouble.”
“Good,” you say, sipping from your champagne glass. “That means I’ve dressed correctly, My Lord.”
He laughs. It’s a pleasant sound—deep and easy. The kind of laugh you know how to distrust, even as it slides easily into your bones. Around you, the crowd stirs. Conversations and music continue. But the moment narrows, just a little.
He leans in, just enough to make you feel it. “I do hope you’ll save me a dance, Miss Everthorne.”
You smile, slow and sharp like a blade dressed in velvet. “I shall consider it.”
And you leave him standing there, still grinning after you, eyes gleaming with something you cannot yet name. You had just turned away from Lord Berkeley’s pleasant smile—far too charming for comfort—when the low murmur moved through the ballroom like wind through silk.
The Duke of Ashbourne had arrived. Not alone, of course. He walked in beside another tall figure—Lord Greystone, if you remembered correctly. A man more known for scandalous laughter and flirtation than the restrained thundercloud at his side. But it was the Duke who caught the room like flint to stone. Midnight black. From boots to gloves to the gleaming buttons of his coat, he was carved in severity, every movement controlled, like a man at war with his own presence.
And yet—people parted for him. Like the tide for the moon. He did not look around. He never needed to look around to be noticed. You, however, had quite enjoyed being the one watching. Until he turned his gaze and met yours. It was a blow, not a glance. Steady. Measured. So very unreadable.
“I feel cold,” Isabella murmured beside you, fanning herself furiously. “And I think I like it.”
You nearly choked on your laugh. Lord Greystone’s voice snapped your attention just in time, “Miss Fitzroy?”
Isabella blinked. “Yes, My Lord?”
The man was practically glowing, his boyish smile stretching wide as he stepped forward. “I’ve heard so much about you from Lord Everthorne. I confess I did not expect you to be quite so…”
She arched her brow. “So?”
“Enchanting,” he said with a grin, utterly shameless. “Will you grant me the honor of the next dance, My Lady?”
You jabbed your elbow gently into her side.
“Go on,” you whispered, smirking. “You look like you’re considering setting him on fire anyway.”
“I might still,” she muttered, cheeks pink, but she accepted Lord Greystone’s arm, and off they went.
“Shameless,” you murmured after them.
“And hopeless,” Jace added, chuckling, before turning to Seraphina with a courtly bow. “Shall we, My Lady?”
Seraphina took his hand, the pair already melting into the rhythm of the room. And then it was only you—and the Duke. The silence between you was immediate. Not tense, but charged. Like the air before a storm.
You turned to him, a smile tugging at your lips, and tilted your head just so. “Do you dance, Your Grace?”
His gaze did not waver. “Not unless I am in a circumstance which forces me to.”
You blinked—then raised your fan, hiding the curve of your grin behind painted silk. “Charming.”
And then, just like that, you turned and walked away—unhurried, shoulders straight, the ghost of your laughter hanging behind you like perfume. He did not follow. But his eyes did.
The ballroom air had begun to thicken—heat from bodies and music and perfume settling like a second layer on your skin. You made a graceful escape under the guise of refreshment, weaving through silks and stares until you reached the edge of the room.
You plucked a glass of chilled cordial from a silver tray just as a familiar voice ghosted behind your shoulder.
“Careful, Miss Everthorne. If you stand too long alone, you may be mistaken for a ghost.”
You didn’t turn. You merely sipped, and smirked. “I assume that makes you the haunting type, My Lord?”
Lord Berkeley moved to your side with a smile that had probably unpinned more than a few hairpieces over the years. “Only at parties. The Duke tends to take all the brooding corners for himself.”
Your eyes flicked subtly across the ballroom—and yes, there he was. The Duke. Standing alone, half in shadow, posture straight and untouched by the music, the crowd, or the warmth of the room.
You hummed into your glass. “Yes, well. He did inform me he only dances under duress.”
Lord Berkeley laughed, and the sound was light enough to cut through the candle haze.
“He has not danced in years. Doesn’t speak unless forced. And still, every Lady in the room keeps glancing his way as though he might suddenly recite poetry and fall to one knee.”
You arched a brow. “And what about you, My Lord?”
He placed his hand over his heart in mock solemnity. “I would never deprive a Lady of poetry, should she require it.” You laughed despite yourself. He extended a hand, eyes glinting. “May I have this dance?”
You didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
The music swelled, and he led you to the floor—and for the first time that evening, you moved . Not politely. Not stiffly. But with freedom . Lord Berkeley was light on his feet and lighter with his conversation. He asked no prying questions, made no overreaching assumptions. He merely spun you in time with the violins and told you, quite sincerely, that your laugh was better than the champagne.
You smiled. You even forgot, for a moment, the weight of eyes. Until you glanced up—mid-turn, flushed and grinning—and saw him. Still against the wall. Still watching. But now, his hands were behind his back, jaw taut, gaze fixed on you like a blade waiting to fall. He said nothing. Did nothing. But he did not look away. Not once.
————
Three days pass. Three more events. Three more crowds full of powdered laughter and gold-rimmed gossip. And his name follows you through them all. The Duke of Ashbourne. You hear it behind gloved hands and beneath raised brows. Not shouted. Never that. But breathed—like scandal, like fire, like something no one dares touch directly for fear of what it might reveal.
He ruined a lady once, they say. Though no one agrees which one. He doesn’t dance. Doesn’t court. Doesn’t entertain a single name sent his way. And yet they all still try. Mothers with trembling fans. Daughters with eyes wide and rehearsed. They circle him like moths around a fire that never warms.
You sip your champagne slowly and listen. He never denies the rumors. That one, at least, is true. He doesn't defend. He doesn't explain. He doesn't engage . He simply stands—regal, motionless, black-gloved and perfectly unreadable. A figure carved out of winter and legacy. And silence.
He is incapable of love, one says, voice too bright to be casual. He is bound only to duty, says another, older, sharper. That one lands deeper. Not because it’s cruel. But because it feels true.
And then— Eirhart. That stops conversation. Always does. You’ve heard the name spoken before, always with the same air of reverence and unease. The Eirhart family. Ancient. Prestigious. Distant. There is power in that name—old power, deep and bone-quiet. They are respected, yes. But never embraced. People tip their heads in greeting and keep three steps’ distance. You have only just begun to understand why.
That night, in the quiet of your room, you find your thoughts straying. You could be thinking of Lord Berkeley. Of his beauty. His charm. His ease. His comfort. But instead, your mind is stuck wondering about someone uncomfortable . Someone who does not speak unless he must. Who does not look unless something catches. Someone who does not smile. But who for some reason, watched you dance.
There is something in him you cannot read. Something that makes you curious , intrigued even . And for you, that is new. And that, perhaps, is why you find it hard to look away.
————
The morning began with war. Or at least, it felt that way. Maids moved around you like soldiers in campaign—pinning, fastening, smoothing, powdering. Ribbons and silks and pinned curls flew through the air like artillery fire. A comb snapped in someone’s hand. Another shrieked about the placement of a floral rosette. You barely suppressed the urge to dive from the balcony in your shift.
“You’d think we were being offered to the Gods,” you muttered, as yet another petticoat was tugged into place.
“You are,” one of the maids said cheerfully. “Only the gods wear waistcoats.”
By the time it was over, you stood at the mirror, polished and pinned, wrapped in a pale blue gown that sparkled like frost kissed by sunlight. You looked... delicate. You hated it. But it fit the theme—and if you were to be paraded among fountains and florals like a prize mare, you might as well play the part.
You descended the staircase like a lady, but your heart was already elsewhere—not in the salons or gossip, but in the winding walks of Vauxhall Gardens. It was the only thing about the day you did look forward to.
The gardens were madness dressed in flowers. Everywhere you turned: silks and lace, powdered curls, parasols like spun sugar. Music floated from the elevated bandstand, light and fluttering, and the walkways overflowed with laughter and carefully staged conversations. Gentlemen in fashionable coats bowed and blinked too much. Young ladies curtsied like porcelain dolls.
Vauxhall Gardens was a theatre—and you, reluctantly, were cast. You wandered along the gravel path, the sound of your heels lost in the hush of whispers and the steady trickle of water from marble fountains that seemed in competition with one another. The largest resembled a temple, flanked by statues of Roman gods and surrounded by a ridiculous number of cherubs.
At least the refreshments were divine. You helped yourself to a glass of lemonade—perfectly chilled—and eyed the endless parade of pastries, delicate sandwiches, and fruit tarts that disappeared faster than they arrived. No alcohol, of course. A fact you deeply resented.
But these parties offered a rare mercy, you could wander alone without scandal. That was the unspoken rule of Vauxhall—people watched, but they pretended not to. It was a theater with the curtain slightly askew.
You drifted past the grand rotunda and toward the less crowded west lawn, where the scent of roses nearly overpowered the perfume clinging to your skin. Your gown brushed over the grass, the pale blue fabric catching the sunlight like seafoam. Around you, voices carried;
“She’s still not married, poor thing—”
“—heard Lord Alton nearly proposed in Bath last year—”
“—and did you see Miss Farlow’s décolletage—”
You tuned them out. You let your steps fall where they pleased. You were not a debutante. You were not new . And for one golden afternoon, you were simply... free. Even if you wore blue. Even if your skin itched for shadow, and your thoughts wandered back to unreadable eyes in a crowd, black gloves resting behind his back, watching. But he wouldn’t be here. The Duke didn’t come to garden parties. Or so they said.
You were admiring a row of hedges sculpted into the shape of mythical creatures—a griffin with far too many feathers, a centaur mid-lunge when Lord Berkeley appeared.
“Miss Everthorne.”
You turned, expecting a greeting. Not the flower he extended between his fingers. A single, exquisite blue rose.
You blinked. “Is that for me, My Lord?”
He smiled, infuriatingly warm. “It is.”
You hesitated, staring at the bloom—its color unnatural and stunning, like moonlight soaked in ink. The petals curled at the edges like silk ribbons, almost glowing beneath the sunlight.
“You do realize,” you said slowly, “that blue roses do not exist in nature?”
“That is what makes them interesting,” he replied. “Much like you.”
You frowned, but not unpleasantly. “It must have cost a fortune.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “I noticed your necklace the other night. The sapphire pendant.” His eyes flicked briefly to the delicate piece resting against your collarbone— your mother’s , always worn, never mentioned. “It reminded me of this. I thought the match appropriate.”
Your fingers brushed the pendant instinctively. It was oval-cut, framed in gold filigree, cool against your skin. You had never taken it off. Not even for sleep. You weren’t certain you remembered how.
Your throat tightened. The necklace belonged to your mother. The only thing she left you that wasn’t measured in ledger books and distant mourning. You were still trying to find your voice when Jace arrived, Seraphina on his arm. His brows lifted slightly at the sight of the rose in your hands.
“Oh no,” he said dryly. “Lord Berkeley is giving you things. This is how it starts.”
Seraphina beamed like the devil in lilac silk. “That’s a very rare flower, My Lord,” she said sweetly. “I suppose next you’ll be offering to name a star in her honor?”
Lord Berkeley grinned. “Only if she’ll agree to claim it.”
You coughed, trying to suppress the blush threatening your throat. “You are all utterly ridiculous, My Lord.”
But you did not give the rose back. Seraphina leaned in slightly as Jace pretended to study a hedge shaped like a stag.
“He has taste,” she murmured in your ear. “A little dangerous, no?”
You said nothing. You looked down at the flower. You felt the weight of your mother’s necklace. And you tried—truly tried—not to look around for a flash of black coat or the sharp line of a jaw watching from somewhere deeper in the garden. You did not succeed.
You found Isabella near one of the marble fountains, caught mid-laugh as she tried to coax a pastry off a delicate silver tray without entirely dislodging her reticule or dropping her drink.
“Are you stealing?” you asked mildly.
“ Borrowing ,” she said with her mouth full of cream and sugar. “Temporarily.”
You handed her a linen napkin just as she nearly lost a raspberry tart to the breeze. The two of you wandered toward the refreshment tables, skirts brushing the clipped grass, plucking lemon cakes and tea sandwiches between jokes about terrible suitors and the woman near the gazebo who had clearly stuffed her corset with false padding.
“I think I spotted a scone in her décolletage,” Isabella whispered.
You snorted into your tea. “I’m serious,” she added. “It shifted when she laughed.”
“And how closely were you observing the upper scones, Miss Fitzroy?”
“I am a scholar of the absurd,” she said, lifting her chin with mock dignity. “And today, society is my lecture hall.”
You were still laughing when they appeared. From nowhere , naturally—as if conjured by the very laws of dramatic inconvenience. Lord Greystone. And beside him—all black, all silence—the Duke.
“Oh no,” you murmured, still chewing, “I feel a promenade coming.”
Isabella tried, valiantly, to look surprised.
“Miss Fitzroy,” Lord Greystone beamed, already halfway through a bow, “I’ve been looking all over the gardens for you.”
“Have you, My Lord?” she said, straightening slightly. “How very concerning.”
“I was hoping,” he continued, “you might allow me the honor of a promenade.”
You arched a brow at her sidelong. She shot you a look that said Help me. You smiled.
“I’m afraid I promised Miss Everthorne I’d remain at her side today,” Isabella said sweetly.
You began nodding—just as Lord Greystone turned to you with a grin.
“Then allow me to propose a brilliant solution,” he said, clapping his hands together. “A shared promenade. The four of us.”
The air shifted. You swallowed. Well, damn me, you thought. Thank you so much, Isabella. You glanced sideways. The Duke hadn’t flinched, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t breathed, as far as you could tell. He was all stillness and sharp lines, eyes fixed on some distant point behind your shoulder.
Isabella looped her arm through yours with the grace of a traitor. You turned to the Duke, hands folded primly at your waist.
“Shall we, Your Grace?” you asked, voice sweet as sugar left too long in the sun. “I promise not to lecture you on the dangers of fresh air.”
His eyes flicked to yours. Cold. Precise. And something else—something faintly annoyed. Good.
“Lead on, Miss Everthorne,” he said simply.
You walked side by side, behind the more animated pair of Lord Greystone and Isabella, who were already several paces ahead and deep in some ridiculous conversation about Greek myths and dancing. You and the Duke… did not speak.
You tapped your fan against your palm idly. "You are very quiet, Your Grace."
"I have little to contribute regarding whether Persephone would prefer waltzing or the quadrille."
“A pity. I imagined you had strong feelings about classical symbolism.”
A pause. “I do. I simply keep them to myself.”
You hummed, amused. “Fascinating.”
He glanced down at you. “What exactly do you find fascinating, Miss Everthorne?”
You met his gaze with a smile that bordered on mischievous. “How little I know about you. You’re like a statue someone placed at every party—admired, avoided, and thoroughly unreadable.”
“That is by design.”
“Even so,” you said, tapping your chin with your fan, “I find myself terribly tempted to read you anyway.”
He looked forward again, jaw tight. But his stride stuttered—just once. You grinned. The path through Vauxhall’s west garden curved gently around a copse of trimmed hedges, the gravel soft beneath your slippers as the four of you promenaded together—though it hardly felt even.
Lord Greystone and Isabella were already several paces ahead, now lost in conversation about the absurdity of fashionable boating hats. You adjusted your grip on the blue rose in your hand—still impossibly vibrant, still drawing the eye. You noticed his glance before he spoke.
“A blue rose,” he said. “Interesting.”
You turned your head, calm and unreadable. “What’s so interesting about it, Your Grace?”
“They’re rare.”
You smiled faintly. “I’m well aware. Lord Berkeley was very kind to give it to me.”
“Interesting choice of a courting gift.” His tone was deadpan, unreadable. But the edge of it? Sharp.
You kept your eyes forward. “And may I ask why, Your Grace?”
He paused, just a beat too long. “Blue roses symbolize unattainability. And unrequited love.”
You chuckled—warm, but wicked. “They also symbolize mystery . Then perhaps such a rose should be given to you instead?”
That stopped him. He did not laugh. “I’ve no interest in such things.” He didn’t look at you when he said it.
You tilted your head. “Flowers… or love, Your Grace?”
His jaw flexed. “Neither.”
You nodded, as if that answer were predictable—expected, even. “Not many can afford such a privilege.”
His eyes flicked to you then, briefly—something unreadable tightening behind them. “I suppose Lord Berkeley could be a comfortable match for you, then.”
You laughed, low and dry. There was no humor in it. “I’ve no interest in a comfortable match, Your Grace.”
His mouth opened slightly, but you cut him off with a tilt of your head. Then, his voice smooth as silk drawn across a blade. “Then what are you interested in, Miss Everthorne?”
You smiled. The kind of smile that did not touch your eyes. “I want a man who sets fire to my reason and leaves me breathless with wanting,” you said. “Either that, or nothing at all.”
Ahead, near the edge of the lake, you spotted Lord Berkeley leaning lazily near the boats, speaking with another gentleman. His coat was open, posture relaxed, unaware of the heat humming behind you like a spark in a dry forest.
You turned to the Duke and dipped into a perfect little curtsey. “Do excuse me, Your Grace.”
And just like that—you left. No backward glance. No explanation. You walked away, rose in hand, breath steady. And behind you, the Duke stood very still. As if you’d thrown the flower at his feet.
The lake glistened like glass beneath the late afternoon sun, its surface dotted with decorative row boats painted in soft pastels—blue, green, a faded gold that shimmered like champagne. You’d barely taken three steps toward the bank before Lord Berkeley appeared at your side like a shadow made of charm.
“Miss Everthorne,” he said with a bow, eyes twinkling, “may I offer you a moment of freedom before the orchestra begins its attack on Haydn’s Fourth?”
You laughed, unable to help it. “Freedom and a boat ride? My Lord, you’re spoiling me.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said, gesturing gallantly. “I find it my civic duty to rescue ladies from suffocating promenade partners.”
You arched a brow as he helped you into the boat. “Then consider this a formal thank you for helping me escape a most grievous torture.”
He grinned, taking the oars with the practiced ease of a man born to flirt and row at the same time. “I do what I can for the helpless and oppressed.”
You gave him a look. “Helpless?”
He smirked. “Momentarily oppressed, then.”
The boat drifted into the gentle current. The sun dappled across the water, catching the edges of your gown and his smile. The conversation, like the breeze, was light—playful. He made you laugh without effort. You didn’t notice the edge of the path. You didn’t see the shadows beneath the line of manicured trees. But someone else did.
The Duke stood at the northern edge of the garden walk, coat still buttoned to the throat despite the warmth, his gloves clasped behind his back. He had not expected to see you so at ease. In a boat. Laughing. His jaw tightened.
You tipped your head back and laughed again—loud enough that it carried across the lake. The wind caught your hair, loosened it slightly from its pins, and he watched—stared—as you pushed it back with one unguarded hand. The blue rose was still in your lap. His jaw flexed once. Twice. The muscles at his temple flickered. He did not speak. He did not move. He did not blink.
You returned to the lawn with slightly flushed cheeks and an extra curl loose from your temple. Isabella found you near the lemon cakes, still nibbling on your victory. She looked like she’d seen something entirely more entertaining than anything Vauxhall had yet offered, or something Lord Greystone might have said.
“What?” you asked, reaching for another tart.
She leaned in, voice low and laughing. “What did you do to the Duke, exactly?”
You blinked. “What?”
“The poor man looked like he was about to shoot arrows out of his eyes. At you.”
You smirked. “Hm? I may have insulted his entire bloodline or something of the sort. No idea, really.”
She nearly choked on her pastry. You popped a raspberry into your mouth and looked out across the crowd. You didn’t see him now. But you felt it. He had seen you with Lord Berkeley. He had looked . And he hadn’t liked it.
The day faded in soft colors and laughter. You, Isabella, Jace, and Seraphina stayed longer than most, indulging in lemon pastries, live musicians, and the firework display that lit the gardens in streaks of gold and blue. It ended in laughter, not scandal. For now.
————
Three days later, you stood in your chamber with your arms raised halfway while Seraphina circled you, scrutinizing the fit of your ivory linen day gown as though preparing you for battle.
“It’s too proper,” you muttered.
“It’s appropriate ,” Seraphina corrected, hands busy with the sash. “This is a race viewing, not a masked ball.”
“You say that like those are two different things.”
Jace’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “I heard that, you know!”
You and Seraphina shared a look and promptly rolled your eyes in unison.
“Honestly,” Seraphina said, straightening the neckline with one last tug, “he’s more excited for this horse race than he was for our wedding. ”
You snorted. “He thinks he’s going to be asked to judge something.”
A pause. Then Seraphina’s grin bloomed. “We should tell him it’s a fashion competition. Watch his entire sense of identity collapse.”
You both burst out laughing just as Jace stepped through the open door, impeccably dressed in a deep green coat with gold trim and the sort of expression that screamed importance. “What, may I ask, is so amusing?”
You gestured vaguely at his existence. “You. And your unwavering belief that today’s event will change the course of English sporting history.”
He didn’t flinch. “You underestimate the significance of Thoroughbred bloodlines.”
“You underestimate how loudly you said that just now,” Seraphina murmured.
Still, you let them banter, smiling faintly as Seraphina hooked her arm through his and pulled him toward the stairs. The sun outside was already high, pouring golden light over the cobblestone streets of London as the carriage waited.
There would be crowds, laughter, excitement—and hopefully, pastries. And perhaps, if luck continued to stir as it often did when you least expected it, a certain Duke whose presence you could tolerate ... if only for the opportunity to tease him a little more.
————
The race grounds were a riot of color and anticipation. Silks rustled in the breeze, sunlight glinted off parasols and polished boots, and gentlemen clustered near the track like roosters before a storm. The scent of cut grass and trampled petals lingered under the crisp scent of tea and citrus pastries being passed around on silver trays. The main promenade was flooded with bright gowns, hats the size of serving trays, and fashionable lords pretending they understood Thoroughbred lineages more than they actually did.
You stood beside Seraphina, watching Jace lean far too enthusiastically over the fence, pointing at one of the black horses as if the beast would somehow remember his encouragement.
“Look at him,” you murmured. “He’s ready to challenge the horse to a duel.”
“He’s naming it in his head,” Seraphina said, sipping her tea. “He’s probably composing a poem to it.”
You tilted your head. “Something beginning with 'To the beast of my heart—’”
“'Whose hooves beat like thunder, and mane like the sea—’” Seraphina added.
You both burst out laughing. Jace turned slightly. “I can hear you, you know.”
“We know,” you said in unison, not even pretending to be sorry.
He wandered off soon after to join a group of lords talking loudly near the refreshments table—all waistcoats, monocles, and wild declarations about bloodlines. You and Seraphina drifted toward one of the viewing pavilions shaded in pale silk, where cushions and small garden stools made lounging in lace slightly more bearable.
That’s when Isabella found you. She wore a sun-yellow dress and had a pastry in each hand. Her smile was wide, her expression nothing short of delighted.
“I’ve made peace with the fact I’ll be rolled home like a jam tart,” she announced. “And you’re both coming with me.”
Seraphina reached for a pastry with one hand, linking arms with her in the other. “If I’m to perish, it shall be under sugar and scandal.”
The three of you found a patch of shade, shoes nestled in grass, skirts tucked carefully, laughter flowing like wine.
You leaned closer. “How many Lords have offered to explain the rules of racing to you so far?”
Isabella held up three fingers. “But one tried to rhyme with ‘derby,’ so he’s been disqualified from life.”
Seraphina snorted, shaking her head. “You know, when my parents come to these things, they spend more time critiquing the color palettes of the banners than the horses themselves.”
“Oh yes,” you smiled, “The Duke and Duchess of Ravencourt are known to inspire whispers when they attend anything involving dirt.”
Seraphina gave you a sideways grin, her voice softening. “They never minded that I didn’t care for horses, either. I liked books. And laughter. And questions. They had told me little me asked my father why bees loved lavender so much. And why he kissed my mother that often.”
You tilted your head. “What did he say?”
“He said lavender was soft and stubborn, just like her. And some things you never stop loving, even if you don’t understand why they matter to anyone else.”
Her voice grew more wistful, her eyes bright with quiet affection. “Evelyna’s the one who takes after him. All sharp eyes and sketchbooks and observations about cloud shapes. She’s got a mind like a silver knife. She once told me she wanted to grow up and ruin men with her intellect. ”
You nearly choked on your tea. Seraphina smiled.
“And Theodore... Well, he thinks the garden belongs to him and that the sun rises only because he woke up. He’s got ink on his nose every other day and pockets full of flower petals. And somehow still manages to charm everyone .”
You rested your chin on your hand, smiling faintly. “Your family sounds like poetry.”
Seraphina’s voice turned soft. “They are. Wild, disorganized poetry. But still.”
The crowd suddenly roared with excitement as the jockeys began guiding their horses toward the start line, and the buzz of anticipation rolled like thunder through the grass. You stood, brushing your skirt, and let your eyes drift over the crowd. A world of silks and society, of smiles and wagers and stares. And somewhere—you could feel it—a certain pair of unreadable hazel eyes, watching you from a distance you hadn’t yet turned to find.
The viewing terrace was draped in white linen and the smell of too many expensive colognes. Polished benches stretched beneath fluttering awnings, all arranged for the best view of the racing green below—where the horses were lining up, stomping the earth with impatient hooves.
Your party had been given prime seating, naturally. Jace and Seraphina took one end, deep in whispered mockery of the powdered man to their left who’d already dropped his opera glasses twice. You were seated beside Lord Berkeley, who had already offered you a second fan, two sugared almonds, and a commentary on each rider’s waistcoat.
Across from you sat Lord Greystone, practically vibrating with delight, and Isabella, who looked both amused and alarmed. And then, at the far end—slightly turned from the group, boots crossed neatly, gloves folded in one hand—sat the Duke. Silent. Sculpted. Watching the field as though the sun was a personal offense.
You hadn’t spoken with him yet. But you knew he could hear you. The moment the first horn sounded and the riders took off—thunder across the field—your entire posture changed. You leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the dark bay at the edge of the pack, your hands tightening in your lap. You did not sit like a lady watching horses. You sat like someone who understood what they were doing.
“Watch the left, My Lord” you said softly to Lord Berkeley, though your eyes never left the track. “That one’s pacing too high. He’s trying to burn them out before the turn.”
Berkeley blinked. “Should I be taking notes?”
You didn’t answer, you were too focused on the race. You were up out of your seat half a second later, as the horses thundered past the first corner. “That’s it, that’s it—take the inside line— yes!
You clapped once, grinning. A bright, genuine, unapologetic thing. The others laughed—not at you, but with you. Isabella leaned over to give you a look. “I’d pay to watch you ride one.”
You waved her off, but your eyes never left the finish line. When the dark bay crossed first, you let out a triumphant, “ I told you! ” that startled the man in the row behind you into spilling his cordial.
You turned to your friends, glowing, still smiling—and found him watching you. The Duke . Expression unreadable, but... not empty. His eyes narrowed slightly. Like he was cataloguing something. Like he’d just heard a new language and wasn’t sure whether he liked the sound of it — or was already memorizing it.
Your smile curled. You raised a brow. “What, Your Grace?” you asked, casually. “Surprised?”
His gaze flicked to the track. Then to you again. “Not entirely,” he said. “You strike me as the sort who prefers to win, Miss Everthorne.”
You tilted your head. “And you strike me as the sort who doesn’t like surprises, Your Grace.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a fraction. But you saw it. And then he looked away again, as if you hadn’t said anything at all. But he had heard you. You knew it. The moment the race ended, Lord Berkeley turned toward you with a smile that hadn’t dimmed since the boat ride at Vauxhall Garden.
“Well,” he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his cuff, “I appreciate horses as much as the next gentleman, but I confess I haven’t the faintest clue what actually just happened.”
You laughed—warm, genuine. “Don’t worry, My Lord. I’ll teach you.”
He smiled wider, clearly pleased with himself. You didn’t notice the beat of silence beneath the joke—the lightness with no depth behind it. He meant well. Always did. Just didn’t speak your language. Not really.
You settled back into your seat as the chatter around you swelled—other matches were still being set, more races to come. Lord Greystone, who had spent the last twenty minutes alternating between cheering like a child and whispering increasingly ridiculous commentary into Isabella’s ear, turned toward you with an easy grin.
“That was rather impressive,” he said, nodding at you. “You really do love this.”
Isabella leaned over slightly, sipping from her lemonade. “Oh, she knows a lot about those things, My Lord.”
You gave her a look. “Do not make it sound like I collect riding manuals in secret.”
“Do you not?” she asked sweetly.
Lord Greystone laughed, then glanced past you to the far end of the bench. “You also love these things, Zayne ,” he said over your head, a little louder than necessary.
You felt the shift instantly. The name. Zayne. You turned your head, just slightly—not to look at him directly, not yet, but enough to catch the angle of his profile. The Duke sat as still as ever, but… his eyes were sharper now. The air around him felt taut, drawn. He didn’t respond. Not immediately. Then, quietly— too quietly—he said, “I do.”
Two words. Clipped. But they held weight. You blinked. He does? You hadn’t expected that. Something about his silence, his stillness, had made you assume the races were simply part of his endless tolerance for society’s charade. But now…now you wondered. How much does he know?
You felt the weight of his stillness differently after that. Less like boredom. More like observation . You didn’t speak to him, not directly. But as the next match was announced and the horses trotted onto the field, your gaze slid to him more than once.
And once—just once—you caught him watching you back. Not smiling. But not looking away either.