It had all begun on a bitter morning when your maid, Georgina, arrived with holes in her gloves. Not just frayed edges or worn seams—actual holes that exposed her raw, reddened skin to the cold. Her fingers, afflicted with dreadful chilblains, trembled as she tried to pin up your hair, her hands barely able to hold the comb.

And God, you weren't heartless.

How could anyone ignore something so plainly painful? The way she winced when she touched the metal pins, the way she tried to hide her hands behind her apron—it was impossible not to notice. You saw it. You felt it. And you knew something had to be done.

It had been an unrelenting spring and summer, soaked through with rain. The kind of rain that ruined crops and drowned hope. By winter, scarcity had settled in like a fog. For families like Georgina’s, food had taken precedence over warmth. Every shilling went toward bread, not boots. Potatoes, not petticoats. Gloves were a luxury they simply couldn’t afford.

When you asked her about it, she hesitated, then admitted the truth: she wasn’t the only one. Many of the less fortunate were scraping by, sacrificing comfort for survival. Children went to bed hungry. Mothers patched old coats with threadbare scraps. Fathers worked through frostbite. And damn it, it was nearly Christmas.

The next morning, you took one of your maids and your bleeding heart to a pawn shop in Westminster. You sold your most extravagant evening gowns—silks, satins, velvets embroidered with gold thread. Dresses that had once turned heads at balls now turned into coin, which you donated to those who needed it most.

What good were all those fineries when just beyond your gates, people were starving? When they should have been buying gifts and hanging holly, not rationing porridge and praying for warmth?

You didn’t send a servant. You went yourself. You delivered the funds directly to your father’s tenants, smiling as you handed over envelopes filled with enough to carry them through the season. And that, in your mind, was the end of it. You had done what was right. Quietly. Without expectation.

But the ton saw it differently.

Rumours spread like wildfire. Whispers turned into declarations. Your name was suddenly on every tongue, your kindness painted in glowing colours. You gained more attention than you’d ever wanted—or dared to hope for.

Your sisters, Constance and Maria, who had always basked in the spotlight, now found themselves eclipsed. Their suitors—once devoted, once dazzled—began turning their eyes toward you. The mamas, desperate to see their sons wed, flocked around you like hens in mourning, clucking about your grace, your virtue, your charitable soul.

You were quite certain your sisters would slit your throat in your sleep. All because you had, unintentionally, ‘stolen’ their most favoured caller.

Theodore Redbridge, Marquess of Winchester.

Former captain of His Majesty’s forces. Renowned rake. Nephew to the king himself. A man whose name carried weight, whose presence commanded rooms, whose reputation preceded him like a fanfare.

He was nauseating in his perfection. Tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes like storm clouds and a smile that could melt glaciers. And God, did he want you.

Not your sisters. Not the debutantes who fluttered their lashes and simpered at his every word. You.

He sought you out at every gathering. He lingered near your elbow, asked after your thoughts, your opinions, your dreams. He quoted poetry and offered you books. He watched you with a gaze that burned.

And you? You weren’t sure what to make of it. You hadn’t asked for this. You hadn’t planned to become the centre of attention. You had simply wanted Georgina to have gloves.

But now, the world had shifted. And you stood at the heart of it.