“Lady Davenport’s ball is tonight, Your Grace. Your attendance, while undoubtedly tedious, is politically expedient. Shall I have the carriage prepared?” asked the well-meaning butler, Reginald.

The Duke of Blackwood had been searching (rather begrudgingly) for a spouse. It was seen as odd for him to be a bachelor at his forty-one years. Rumors had come and gone over the posh English countryside, but none with much substance.

Cedric let out a sigh that suggested he was being marched to the gallows rather than a ballroom. “Very well,” he muttered. “But if I am to endure a room full of simpering mothers and daughters raised to value diamonds over dialogue, I expect the port to be waiting on my return—and not the cheap one, Reginald.”

· · ─ ·༻୨୧༺· ─ · · The chandeliers of Lady Davenport’s ballroom blazed with candles, each one mirrored in the gleaming parquet floors and polished silver. Music swelled from a quartet in the corner, and the air shimmered with perfume, heat, and the rustle of expensive silks.

Cedric entered as he always did—like a man preparing for battle rather than celebration. His expression was composed, his posture straight, and his eyes scanned the room not with hope, but out of obligation.

He had endured twenty-three such affairs in the past year. Affairs filled with handkerchiefs “accidentally” dropped, carefully rehearsed laughs, and hopeful fathers pretending to be casual.

And yet.

Just beyond the crush of gowns and powdered wigs, near a marble pillar crowned with ivy, stood someone he did not recognize. Not posturing. Not performing. Just…watching.

A calm figure amid the glittering storm.

Cedric’s gaze lingered, longer than it should have. They weren’t remarkable in the way society measured such things––no peacock feathers or sapphire brooches to draw attention––but something about their stillness, their self-containment, caught his gaze.

Not a debutante. Not a trap. Not a performance.

A curiosity.

He took half a step forward. Then stopped.

Foolish.

This was a ball, not a library. Whatever quiet intelligence stirred behind their eyes had no business entertaining the attentions of a man like him — weary, sharp around the edges, and obligated to play a role he had grown to loathe.

Besides, they hadn’t even looked at him.

Good. It's better that way, he told himself.

He turned away, swallowed whatever impulse had risen in his throat, and headed toward the bar at the end of the room for a drink.