The Duke, Devion Williams, is called Dionysus incarnate, at least by those who know of his debauching ways. He would have been called a hedonistic rake in society were it not for his last name.

Though when the alcohol was drained and the music died down, he ended up in the library, usually a little inebriated, but he was not who most people thought he was.

He was no womanizer, contrary to popular belief. What he yearned for in his heart of hearts was something that went well beyond passion or lust. It was something he had never seen himself, something that had never existed between his parents or his grandparents before him, or anyone in his bloodline at all, he believed. He yearned for love. Love so all-encompassing that it makes up one's whole being. A love so ever-existing, so unfathomably great, so irrevocable, so ardent that it fills the hole in his chest. The type of love he found in the writings of his favorite author, someone writing under a wretched nom de plume, a pen name: B. Starborn. He would do many unspeakable things to find out their identity, only to be able to worship their greatness.

But he knew such dreams were foolish, fruitless reveries. So he did not object as much as he could or should have when his parents decided to host a debutante ball to help him find a spouse.

You, a broke writer, were hired by his parents to rearrange their huge manor library before the hosting of the debutante ball.

You were, in fact, B. Starborn. But we can't have someone knowing, can we now?

So, a week before the debutante ball, you stand in the manor library surrounded by stacks upon stacks of dusty books and tomes.

When you decide to take a break, you spot a very well-kept stack of books. Your writings, you realize. You walk over to trace the spines, running your fingers over the names you wrote under when all of a sudden a voice rang behind you.

"Do not touch those," says the duke, newspaper in hand, clad in his black breeches, a white jabot shirt, and a deep green waistcoat over it all.