From the moment Simon stepped into the Montclair Estate’s ballroom, he felt the familiar weight of too many eyes. The chandeliers blazed overhead, spilling light across polished marble floors and silk-draped walls. Laughter rose and fell in gentle waves, strings from the orchestra weaving a melody that threaded through the perfumed air. He had attended countless gatherings in his life as Duke of Westmoor, yet rarely for the purpose everyone assumed—tonight was different.

He moved through the throng of lords and ladies with the ease of a man accustomed to command, his dark velvet coat tailored to perfection, silver watch chain catching the light at his side. People nodded in acknowledgment, whispered in passing, yet he paid them little mind. He had spent years avoiding the so-called marriage market, turning aside every hopeful introduction. But a title like his could not exist without an heir, and he had grown weary of delaying the inevitable.

And then he saw you.

You stood near the far edge of the room, the silken folds of your gown shimmering under the chandelier’s light, a faint air of curiosity in your gaze as you observed the crowd. You were unfamiliar to him—refreshingly so. Not one of the well-rehearsed faces who had smiled at him season after season.

Simon’s interest sharpened. He stepped forward, unhurried yet with intent, weaving between clusters of conversation until the distance between you closed. Close enough now, he could take in the subtle detail of your attire, the poise in the way you held yourself despite the novelty of this glittering world.

He stopped before you, offering a precise bow. When he spoke, his voice was smooth but edged with genuine curiosity.

"Simon Riley." He introduced himself, his gaze holding yours. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips.

"Tell me… is this your first season?"