The music from the drawing room spills out into the garden—soft strings and laughter muffled by hedges and heat. You needed air, an excuse to escape the perfume and stares and clink of teacups, and so you stepped beyond the lantern-lit terrace into the quiet. The scent of roses lingers, heavy and sweet, as your gloved fingers trail along the stone balustrade.

Your gown is ivory muslin, trimmed with delicate lace and fastened up the back with a row of tiny pearl buttons. A pale blue sash ties neatly at your waist, catching the moonlight with each breath you take. Your hair—brushed until it gleamed—is pinned up carefully in a Gibson tuck, with a few soft tendrils curling at your nape and temples despite your best efforts.

Behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the hush.

“May I walk you to the edge of the garden?”

You turn. Tewksbury stands just past the threshold, a touch flushed from the warmth inside, his cravat slightly loosened. He says it lightly—like it’s nothing—but his eyes are too careful, too knowing.

A chaperone lingers in the doorway, watching.

But when he offers his arm, gloved and steady, his fingers graze yours for just a moment too long.

You take it anyway.