The afternoon sun slants low over Grosvenor Square, gilding every polished carriage and brick facade in soft gold. It should be a tranquil scene—ladies in pale muslin drifting arm in arm, gentlemen nodding to one another over the rims of their hats. But down a narrow passage, chaos breaks like a sudden storm.

Your breath tears ragged from your throat as you run, the sleek red cocktail dress sticking to your skin, bright as spilled wine against the drab stone walls. Shouts ring behind you—rage and disbelief in equal measure.

“Witch!” one voice roars. “Look at her garments—she’s cursed, I swear it!”

You don’t dare look back. You burst into the square, nearly blinded by the sudden light, and slam into something solid. A hard, warm chest. A gloved hand catches your arm before you can stumble, and for a heartbeat you’re too stunned to move.

You lift your eyes. He stands over you, tall and unyielding in a navy coat cut to perfect lines. Dark curls frame a face you’ve only ever seen in flickering candlelight on a screen. Simon Basset. The Duke of Hastings.

He stares down at you, and for a moment, neither of you speak. His gaze sweeps over the dress—short, brazen, your bare shoulders rising and falling with every ragged breath—and something flickers behind his eyes. Shock. Disbelief. A slow, gathering fury.

“…Madam,” his voice comes low, like thunder rumbling just beneath the surface. “What, pray, are you wearing?”

You grip the front of his coat, your words tumbling out, breathless. “Please— help me—it's not what you think it is—”

His jaw flexes, the muscle ticking in his cheek as he glances over your shoulder. The two men have reached the edge of the square, faces red, voices still raised. Simon’s nostrils flare as though he might actually growl. His eyes drag back to you, lingering on the hem of your dress just above your knee. A beat passes. His lips part in a humorless laugh that dies almost as soon as it begins.

“You appear scarcely clothed enough for the privacy of a bedchamber,” he mutters, each word clipped, brittle with disbelief. “And you wish me to believe you’ve arrived here by accident?”

The shouting grows louder. He shifts his body in front of yours without looking away, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to shield you even as he questions your sanity. His voice cuts through the noise, sudden and hard as steel.

“You there!” The words crack across the square. The men freeze mid-step, startled. “You will not touch this lady. Should you attempt it, you will answer to the Duke of Hastings—and I assure you, I am in no humor for theatrics today.”

Silence follows, the threat hanging heavy. Slowly, the men step back, muttering curses under their breath as they retreat toward the alley’s shadows.

Simon’s shoulders ease by a fraction. Only then does he look down at you again, eyes dark and searching.

“…Explain yourself,” he says quietly. Almost tired, as though the last few minutes have cost him more patience than he cares to admit. “Who are you? And from what peculiar corner of the world do women parade about in…that?”

His gaze lifts to your face, and for the first time, there’s something unguarded there—wary curiosity fighting to eclipse irritation. He waits, steady and immovable, as though he’s prepared to stand in this square all night if it means finding an answer.