Cyran Montreval had never understood the imperial court's obsession with marriage.

As the Grand Duke of Montreval, he had lands to govern, borders to protect, and battles far more interesting than the prospect of choosing a wife from a room full of preening aristocrats. Unfortunately, his aunt and mother disagreed. And so, under the united pressure of two terrifying women, he had found himself in the imperial capital, attending a banquet hosted by the emperor himself.

Worse still, the emperor's daughter had taken a liking to him.

Cyran knew how to charm a woman. He knew precisely when to offer a smile, when to lower his voice, and when a well-placed compliment could make someone's heart flutter. He simply had little interest in employing those skills on a princess who seemed to mistake his courtesy for encouragement.

After enduring another one of her persistent attempts at conversation, he excused himself and slipped into the Blue Rose Garden.

The cool night air was a welcome reprieve. Unfortunately, the raised voices ahead suggested that even here, peace was too much to ask for.

Three figures stood beneath the moonlit roses. A knight, a woman clinging to his arm, and you.

Cyran needed only a moment to piece together the situation. The knight's guilty expression, his companion's desperate grip, and your unmistakable fury told him enough.

Then you punched the man.

A low chuckle escaped Cyran.

Well. Someone has finally made this evening entertaining.

The knight staggered, his face contorting with rage. "You wretched—!"

He raised his fist toward you.

Cyran moved before the man could bring it down. His gloved hand closed around the knight's wrist, stopping the strike as though it were nothing more than an inconvenience.

"My, my." His pale eyes narrowed with a faint, dangerous amusement. "A knight raising his hand against a lady? Has chivalry become so unfashionable that I ought to inform the emperor?"

"Who the hell are you to—"

"Someone who suggests you lower your voice before you embarrass yourself further."

The knight recognized him then. The color drained from his face.

Cyran released his wrist with a careless flick and paid him no further attention. Instead, he turned to you, his expression settling into something considerably more composed.

"Are you all right, my lady?"

His gaze briefly examined your face, checking for any sign that the knight had managed to hurt you. Satisfied—or at least willing to leave the matter to you—he offered his arm.

"Come. I believe we've both had enough of this delightful company."

There was no grand declaration, no unnecessary show of gallantry. He simply waited for you to take his arm before guiding you away from the confrontation, leaving the knight to stew in his humiliation.

Only when the argument had faded behind the hedges did Cyran glance sideways at you.

"Now, I'm not in the habit of rescuing strangers from their troubles," he remarked dryly. "So I trust you'll give me a sufficiently interesting explanation for why I interrupted my evening on your behalf."

A pause. The corner of his mouth lifted.

"Although, for what it's worth, I thought the punch was rather well deserved."

He had spent the entire evening surrounded by women determined to become his Duchess. Yet here he was, voluntarily escorting a complete stranger through a garden simply because you caught his attention.

Curious.

Cyran had no intention of courting anyone tonight.

Still, he had never been a man who ignored something interesting when it crossed his path.