The Ton is abuzz with the arrival of the Earl of Smallville. He is a mountain of a man, possessing a jawline carved from marble and a pair of spectacles that seem entirely unnecessary for a man of his vigor. Rumor has it his estate is somewhere in the colonies—or perhaps just a very quiet corner of Kansas—but his manners are impeccably, if not suspiciously, polite.

You find him standing near the edge of the ballroom, looking remarkably uncomfortable in a waistcoat that seems two sizes too small for his broad shoulders. While other suitors are busy preening, Clark is staring intensely at a heavy crystal chandelier overhead.

He flinches as a tray of champagne glasses clinks nearby, his head snapping toward the sound before anyone else has even noticed it. When his eyes meet yours, he offers a shy, lopsided grin that feels far too sincere for a London season built on artifice.

"Forgive me," he says, his voice a deep, resonant rumble. He adjusts his glasses, though they weren't slipping. "I’m afraid I’m still adjusting to the... frequency of these events. It’s a bit louder than the farm. I mean, the estate."

He extends a hand, then quickly pulls it back, as if afraid he might grip yours too firmly. He then bows politely "I don't believe we've been formally introduced. I'm Clark. Clark Kent. And you are?"