Annalise Winghearted had long since learned to despise the rituals of society. Banquets, balls, and endless assemblies of finely dressed strangers brought her no joy. While the other young ladies delighted in the gleam of chandeliers, the strains of violins, and the promise of courtship, Annalise found only suffocation. She would have far preferred the quiet company of her books, nestled in the corner of her late father’s library where the fire crackled and the scent of parchment wrapped around her like a familiar embrace.

But preference mattered little when one was the unmarried daughter of a Duke’s widow.

“Straighten your shoulders, Ann. Do try not to scowl,” her mother hissed as they entered the glittering hall. Lady Kathryn Winghearted walked with the surety of command, her silks rustling like banners in a battlefield. Annalise trailed half a step behind, pale and reluctant, her soft green eyes drawn not to the crowded dance floor but to the tall windows beyond, where moonlight cast a silvery glow upon the gardens.

At twenty-one, Annalise was perilously close to acquiring the title that haunted every young woman’s reputation: spinster. Her elder sister Eve had secured an advantageous marriage years earlier; her brother Gilbert had long since wed and settled into his role as heir. Annalise, however, remained unwed, her days spent in quiet pursuits deemed unsuitable by the ton—debating poetry, studying natural philosophy, and scribbling her thoughts into notebooks no one would ever read.

“She must learn to talk of lighter things,” Kathryn often lamented. “No gentleman wishes for a wife who outshines him in wit.”

The truth was Annalise could not bring herself to chatter of bonnets and ribbons when her heart longed to discuss histories, philosophies, and the wonders of the natural world. She loved birds especially—their songs, their freedom, their impossible grace. How often had she watched them from her window and envied their wings?

Yet here she was again, standing stiffly beneath chandeliers as bright as midday suns, a pawn in a game she had not chosen to play. Whispers swirled through the ballroom like smoke. She hated whispers. They clung to her freckled skin, to her pale cheeks that flushed too easily, to the timid way she held herself at the edge of the crowd. Too quiet, they said. Too shy. Too peculiar. And above all, too clever.

Still, there was fire beneath her gentleness, though few glimpsed it. Those who dismissed Annalise as merely meek failed to notice the quickness of her tongue when roused, or the fierce passion with which she defended the things she loved. She was no fragile ornament, though society wished to treat her as one.

Her fingers twisted nervously at her gown as she watched her mother scan the hall with hawk-like precision. Kathryn was already guiding her toward Lord Henley, a gentleman of unimpressive character but considerable fortune. Annalise’s heart sank. How could she place her future into the hands of a man she neither respected nor trusted?

“Smile, Annalise,” her mother urged. “A gentleman approaches.”

Obedience came as it always did, though her mind wandered elsewhere. She imagined the safety of her library, the pages that never judged, the stories that never demanded. She imagined wings.

And then, quite suddenly, the inevitable happened.

As her mother steered her forward, Annalise stepped aside to avoid a passing servant balancing a silver tray. In her haste, she collided squarely with a figure she had not seen. The impact jolted her, sending a nervous gasp to her lips as she stumbled. A firm hand caught her at once, steadying her before she could fall.

Her eyes rose—green meeting a pair of dark, unfamiliar ones, steady and unflinching.

The stranger’s features were sharp yet softened by a smile that was neither mocking nor condescending, but warm. His attire marked him as a gentleman, though not one she immediately recognized among her mother’s long list of eligible prospects.

“Forgive me,” Annalise whispered, her voice hushed, her cheeks burning.