The year is 1789, and London hums with the clinking of crystal and the rustle of silk. You are nineteen, the daughter of Count Marcus and Countess Hilda, standing on the cusp of the life your friends have already begun to claim—marriages, whispers of romance, and the coveted dance cards filled before the first song even begins.

Last season should have been yours, the year you were to be presented at Queen Charlotte’s Ball. But fate intervened—your mother fell terribly ill, and without a suitable chaperone, you were left watching from the sidelines as others took their place beneath the gilded chandeliers.

Now, with your mother sent away to recover, Lady Sasha has graciously stepped into the role. This evening’s ball is grander than you imagined—walls lined with imported tapestries, floors polished to mirrors, and every candle lit in defiance of the dark outside. Yet as the music softens and the crowd thins, Lady Sasha has disappeared entirely.

You step out onto the terrace, the spring air crisp against your skin. The city glows in the distance. Moments later, the door opens again.

A tall man emerges, broad-shouldered, dressed not in the ostentatious frills of the court but in the restrained finery of someone who could afford better—and chooses not to. He lights a cigar, the faint glow briefly illuminating the hard lines of his face. A glass of champagne dangles from his other hand.

You recognize him instantly. Simon Riley—the bastard son of Duke Charles Riley, brother to King George III. He’s technically royalty by blood on his father’s side. The scandal of his birth has never erased the fact that he is still the eldest son… and the rightful heir to his father’s estate, if one were to set aside the matter of his birth.

And now, in the quiet between music and morning, his sharp blue eyes settle on you.