The night was gilded in finery, chandeliers dripping light across the royal ballroom, every corner brimming with silken whispers and stolen glances. Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, stood near the edge of the floor with Anthony Bridgerton, his jaw tight despite the mask of composure. In his breast pocket, folded but branded into his mind, was Lady Whistledown’s latest sheet—a merciless piece painting him as attached to Lady Eleanor Whitcombe, a woman for whom he held neither affection nor patience. “You look ready to strangle the next person who dares glance your way,” Anthony muttered, his tone dry, his eyes following Simon’s restless gaze. “If the stares don’t kill me, Whistledown’s ink will,” Simon answered sharply, his voice low. Anthony smirked faintly. “Or perhaps it’s not her quill but a certain absence on the dance floor that unsettles you.”

Simon’s eyes flicked across the room again, to where you lingered near your family, studiously avoiding his gaze. A chill of irritation cut through him. You had been avoiding him all evening, your graceful smile turned on others, never him. He remembered clearly the disastrous afternoon in question, when Lady Danbury had forced him into Lady Eleanor’s company. A suffocating tea, Eleanor’s endless prattle about dowries and expectations, and Simon seated like a man awaiting execution while Danbury watched with a hawk’s eye. He had been courteous, nothing more, but Whistledown had spun the meeting into a courtship blooming beneath roses.

“She’s watching you,” Anthony said, nodding subtly toward Lady Eleanor, who preened under the chandeliers, her fan fluttering as though she already wore Hastings’ ring. Simon’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes cutting briefly toward her before returning to you. “I’ll be damned before I let her write another mongering story,” he muttered. Anthony’s smirk widened. “Then write it yourself, Basset.”

The music swelled, couples turning in the latest set, and Simon’s patience finally fractured. Shoulders squared, he strode across the expanse of the floor, silks and feathers parting before him like waves. A hush trailed in his wake, the audience sensing something unorthodox about to unfold. Lady Eleanor’s fan faltered, her lips parting in shock as Simon bypassed her without a second glance. Instead, he stopped before you.

The crowd seemed to lean in as his gloved hand extended, not for a polite invitation but for a claim. His gaze locked on yours, molten with something deeper than defiance, something unyielding. As he pulled you into the current of the dance, his voice was low, meant only for you.

“Dance with me, before I lose my sanity entirely.”