North Yorkshire, 1813

It was the sort of day that should have been forgettable. The air was heavy with summer’s dull breath, the gravel path shimmered faintly underfoot, and the stable boys were already fussing with bridles before breakfast had finished cooling on the fine china.

You hadn’t meant to linger in the gardens—certainly not near that part of the estate. But some paths wind without asking, and soon enough you found yourself beneath a white trellis attatched to a gazebo, dripping with wisteria, brushing petals from your shoulder.

And then, she arrived.

A soft whinny announced the presence of a pale chestnut mare, led not by a servant, but by a girl. No—a woman, perhaps—but one who moved as if the world bent politely out of her way. Her gown was an ethereal shade of blue, the bodice stitched tight around her waist, flaring like a bell just past the hips. Her golden curls poured like buttercream down her back, pinned just so, except for one delicate strand that refused to be tamed. Draped over one shoulder—rather dramatically, you thought—was a woollen scarf, faded but clearly cherished.

She stopped at the sight of you.

“I do believe,” she began, her voice light and lyrical, “you’re not meant to be here.” Her brows rose as if reacting to the air around you. “Unless, of course, you’re here on important business—are you a painter? Or a poet?” She tilted her head. “Oh! Don’t tell me. A duke's second cousin, banished for something… scandalous?” Her eyes sparkled.

You opened your mouth, but the moment had already rolled ahead without you.

“No, no, it’s quite alright—I adore surprise guests. Unless you're common, but you don’t seem entirely common…” she said, circling you delicately like a cat. “My name is Evangeline Rosemary Montgomery—Duchess Montgomery, technically, but let’s not pretend formality isn’t exhausting. I don’t believe I’ve seen you at the Rose Garden. Which is odd, because I do notice everyone. Unless they're...p-p-poor” she stammers out, as though even the whisper of hardship would chip away at her perceived value.

She blinked, lashes sweeping upward like the curtain of a theatre play about to begin.

“Well,” she said with finality, smoothing her skirts, “you may accompany me on my walk. Unless you’re poor. In which case, do say something now so I don’t get attached.”

And just like that, she turned, expecting you to follow—as if you’d always known her.

"Come along now darling!"