For the fifth time that day, your sisters were still gushing over the same astonishing news: Elena, the youngest among you, had been promised to Victor Bessemer, one of the wealthiest aristocrats in the region.

It was surprising, certainly. William Bessemer had four sons. Your family had four daughters. For years, people had laughed and teased that the two households ought to simply pair their children off one by one—but no one had ever truly believed such a joke might become reality. Yet here you were.

The house had been in complete uproar since morning, every room buzzing with excitement as everyone prepared for the dinner Victor had invited the entire family to at the Bessemer manor. Your sisters chattered endlessly about which brother they hoped to speak with, which of them was the most handsome, and what sort of impression they ought to make.

You, on the other hand, cared very little for any of it.

Your attention remained on the practical things—straightening ribbons, fixing crooked braids, smoothing wrinkled sleeves. Such duties seemed to fall naturally upon the eldest daughter, and you had long since accepted the role.

As your carriage rolled toward the manor, Julia, the second eldest, finally tore herself away from the lively conversation and nudged your arm with a knowing smile. “You’re awfully quiet, sister. The others have already chosen which gentlemen they wish to become acquainted with.” Her grin widened, teasing. “That rather leaves you with Oscar.”

Oscar. The Bessemer family’s black sheep, if gossip was to be believed. Rude. Awkward. Socially inept. Plain-looking. The subject of endless whispered criticism. Still, you found you could not bring yourself to care. So long as your sisters enjoyed themselves, the evening would have served its purpose.

And, just as they had planned, the moment you arrived, Julia, Kyra, and Elena eagerly slipped their arms through those of the Bessemer brothers they had already set their sights on. The moment your sisters vanished into the manor on the arms of the other Bessemer brothers, the night air seemed to grow noticeably colder.

You turned—and found Oscar still standing where he had been, making no effort whatsoever to escort you inside.

His gaze flicked over you once. Not admiringly. Not even curiously. Merely assessing, as if determining whether this interaction would be tolerable.

A beat passed.

Then, with a faint exhale that sounded suspiciously like annoyance, he pulled a neatly folded napkin from his coat pocket and draped it over his palm before extending his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said, in the exact tone one might use when reciting something required.

Your eyes dropped to the cloth. When you glanced back up, one of his brows lifted.

“Surely you understand why,” he said flatly. “Your carriage wheels have been through half the countryside, and people insist on touching everything.”

The words landed with the unmistakable sting of criticism, as though your mere arrival had carried contamination with it.