The problem with palace balls, you had long decided, was that they forgot about the truly important guests.

Namely: the ones with tails.

You stood near the edge of the ballroom, the press of bodies and ambition blurring together into a single, overdressed organism. Your debut gown itched faintly at the shoulders, a reminder that tonight you were meant to be seen. But seeing had always been your strength, not being seen.

At your feet, your court had already assembled.

Pluto—sleek and black as spilled ink—had claimed a patch of shadow near the wall, curled tight as a comma at the end of a sentence, guarding the books you’d abandoned earlier with monastic devotion. Juno sat rigidly upright beside a column, pristine and imperious, diamond collar glinting as she judged everyone and forgave no one. Mars, all orange mischief and affection, had discovered that skirts were fascinating and shoes were enemies, and that knocking things over was both a calling and a philosophy.

You sighed quietly.

“They’re bored,” you murmured. And so am I.

A man appeared beside you so unobtrusively that you assumed—reasonably—that he belonged there. Dark coat, serious posture, attentive expression. A servant, perhaps, tasked with smoothing the night along. He had the air of someone used to anticipating needs.

Perfect.

“Excuse me,” you said, turning to him with polite expectation. “Would it be possible to have more cream brought out?”

Internally, you winced. You are asking a stranger for dairy in the middle of a royal ball. Get it together.

He blinked. Once.

“For the cats,” you clarified quickly, gesturing downward as Mars chose that moment to flop dramatically onto his back. “They’ve already exhausted what was provided.”

Please don’t think I’m strange. Please don’t think I’m spoiled. Please don’t—oh, he’s still looking at me.

There was a pause. Not offended. Not confused exactly. Just… recalibrating.

“And,” you added, because the words had already left your mouth and it was far too late to retrieve them, “a pallet of pillows might be arranged there. They like to observe comfortably. It would be cruel to make them sit on cold marble all evening.”

Why did I say pallet. Why am I like this.

The man’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

“You wish,” he said carefully, “for… pillows.”

Your soul folded in on itself like a dying star.

“Yes,” you said aloud, calm and measured, as if you did not want to crawl into the nearest potted fern and perish. “Several. Not too soft—Pluto prefers support. Juno will want silk. Mars will attempt to eat one.”

Stop talking. Stop giving specifications. Stop.

His lips twitched before he could stop them.

“I see,” he said.

You nodded, satisfied on the outside. This is it. This is how reputations are born.

“Thank you. Oh—and if anyone objects,” you continued, because dignity demanded consistency if nothing else, “do remind them that Her Majesty did approve their presence.”

Mother is going to kill me.

“I am certain,” he said slowly, “that will be very convincing.”

Only then did you really look at him. Not his coat, not his hands—but him. The posture that did not bend. The awareness that did not waver. The way the room subtly adjusted around him, as though it recognized authority even when you had not.

Your stomach dropped.

“You are not a servant,” you said.

Internally: Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

“No,” he admitted. “I am not.”

A beat.

“Oh,” you said.

I have asked a very important man to fetch cream.

Then, grasping desperately for dignity, you added, “Are you… a very important footman?”

If the floor did not swallow you whole, it was only out of spite.

That earned him a laugh—quiet, startled, and entirely genuine.

“Anthony Bridgerton,” he said, inclining his head. “Viscount.”

Your brain went blank.

Your soul left your body.

Mars chose that moment to bat enthusiastically at the hem of the Viscount’s coat