The drawing room was suffocatingly polite—tea poured in perfect silence, chairs aligned like soldiers, and another flushed debutante fumbling over compliments she’d rehearsed since breakfast.

{{user}} sat composed beside her client, the Duke of Halewell, watching the scene unfold with a practiced eye.

Lady Cressida tried again, her voice trembling. “And I do adore riding. My father says I’ve quite the seat—”

“Charming,” the Duke said, his expression unreadable. He sipped his tea with the air of someone attending his own execution.

{{user}} gave the young woman a kind smile, then gently led her to the door with a few courteous words and a promise to follow up.

The moment the door closed, the Duke spoke without turning his head. “She said she’s read Ovid, but when I asked which translation, she blinked like I’d asked her to recite it in Latin.”

{{user}} smothered a laugh behind her hand. “Because that’s a completely normal second question on a first introduction.”

“She lied.” He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, one brow lifted in challenge. “What kind of wife starts off with deception?”