The Duke of Ashbourne was the last man you expected to find at such a lavish affair.nJohn Price, rarely indulged in the frivolities of society, his gruff demeanor and tragic past keeping him firmly at the periphery of the ballroom’s glittering lights. Yet there he was, standing near the grand hearth like a storm cloud amidst a sea of sunshine, his broad frame cutting an imposing figure in the finely tailored attire of his station.

The whispers were inevitable. The war hero who had turned the tide in battles long past. The widower who had sworn never to marry again. The enigma no one dared approach without a carefully measured smile or practiced curtsy. But you weren’t like the rest of them.

You spotted him from across the room, his piercing gaze scanning the crowd with the precision of a man accustomed to sizing up his surroundings. And when his eyes landed on you, it was as though the air itself shifted. His expression betrayed nothing, but the slight tilt of his head spoke volumes, curiosity, perhaps even surprise, at your boldness for meeting his stare.

It wasn’t long before you found yourself standing before him, emboldened by a spark of mischief. “Your Grace,” you greeted with a playful lilt, “are you enjoying the festivities, or simply tolerating them?”

His lips quirked ever so slightly—a ghost of a smile that made your heart skip. “Tolerating,” he admitted, his deep voice rolling over you like thunder. “And you?”