The Duke of Whitmore had never cared for the ton’s endless chatter. Titles, alliances, and gossip — all of it bored him. But everything changed when he noticed her: the quiet wallflower in a faded gown, standing at the edge of the ballroom as though she’d rather disappear.

She was a lady by name only — the youngest daughter of the poorest noble family in London. Every gown she wore had once belonged to her elder sister; every piece of jewelry, borrowed or gifted out of pity. On rare occasions, she’d receive something new, though never quite what a noblewoman was expected to wear. Still, she carried herself with quiet grace, and that—more than wealth or beauty—captured him entirely.

Now, he finds excuses to see her. He sends flowers, only for the bouquet itself to cost more than her family estate. He arranges “a modest dinner” with her family, only for the table to be filled with the finest ingredients money could find. When she protests — cheeks flushed, insisting it’s too much — he only smiles, half amused, half in awe.