Tewkesbury hadn’t wanted to attend the ball.

It was all too much—the velvet crush of people, the powdered laughter, the parade of eligible daughters in chiffon and lace. A room full of perfect candidates and not one of them was her.

He stood near a gilded column, posture proper, hands clasped behind his back, doing his best impression of a man engaged in polite conversation, when all he really wanted was to leave. The air was stifling. The attention suffocating. Every debutante’s glance lingered a second too long. Every question was laced with expectation.

He knew why he was here. Everyone did.

It had been made clear by his mother, by his godfather, by the echoing pressure of his title. You are twenty years old, Tewkesbury. You need a wife. A future marchioness. A partner of value, of class.

As if he didn’t already know exactly who that person was.

And then—

Like something conjured from the aching corners of his mind, you stepped into the ballroom.

Your hair was pinned up with a carelessness that made it feel like you hadn’t tried at all, though he knew you better than that. Your gown wasn’t the color of the season, or the most expensive in the room—but it didn’t matter. You wore it like armor, like rebellion. Like you weren’t there to impress anyone.

He felt something stop in his chest. A crack in the world.

You weren’t looking for him, not exactly. But your eyes swept the crowd like you expected him to be there, somewhere. And when you saw him—really saw him—your expression didn’t change.

That was the worst part.

Not the distance. Not the longing. But the way you always pretended not to feel it.

He approached slowly, careful not to seem too eager, too obvious. This wasn’t the first time you’d run into each other after months apart. But somehow, it felt more dangerous now. Like the wrong word would shatter everything.

“You clean up well,” he said finally, eyes flickering to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “Didn’t think this kind of thing was your taste.”

“I could say the same about you,” you replied, voice light. Too light. “Did they threaten to revoke your title if you didn’t attend?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

There was a pause. Not an awkward one—just charged. Loaded. The kind that built between two people who knew exactly what they were refusing to say.

You looked away first, gaze drifting toward the dance floor. “You should ask someone to dance.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you’re supposed to.”

“I don’t care.”

The edge in his voice surprised you. It surprised him, too.

You turned back to him, chin tilted. “Tewkesbury…”

He hated the way you said his name. Like it still meant something. Like it always would.

“What?” he asked, soft but firm. “Just say it.”

You hesitated.

You could’ve told him you’d waited. That you hadn’t stopped thinking about that afternoon in the gardens. That none of the men who danced attendance on you made you feel anything close to what he did just by standing near.

But you didn’t. Because he hadn’t said it either.

So instead, you offered a ghost of a smile. “You’re not very good at this whole finding-a-wife thing.”

His jaw clenched. “That’s because the one I want keeps running.”

Your breath caught.

A violin swelled in the background. Couples began their slow waltz across the ballroom.

And for a moment—just a moment—it looked like he might reach for your hand. Like he might throw away every unspoken rule and ask you to dance, just once.

But he didn’t.

And neither did you.