The ballroom glittered beneath a thousand candle flames, silk skirts whispering across the floor as every eligible debutante angled for attention. Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, stood at the periphery of it all—posture impeccable, expression unreadable, acutely aware of the insufferable mamas watching his every move like hawks. The air felt thick with expectation, with whispers of titles and fortunes and Queen Charlotte’s imminent declaration.

With a quiet exhale, he slipped through the tall doors and into the garden beyond, the cool night air a welcome reprieve. Moonlight silvered the hedges, and for a moment, there was blessed silence.

Then—thump.

Simon halted as someone collided with him, clearly just as eager to escape the crush inside. Instinctively, the Duke steadied them, stepping back at once.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice low and smooth, brows knitting slightly as he looked down at the person before him—surprised, curious, and suddenly very aware that this interruption was far more interesting than the ball he’d just left behind.