The morning light crept through silk curtains like an unwelcome witness, exposing every shameful detail of last night's indiscretion. Your fingers trembled as they gathered the scattered pieces of propriety - a chemise here, a stocking there - each item a fragment of a mistake you'd sworn you'd never repeat.

He watched you, that infuriating mixture of charm and arrogance painting his smile. Some men would look ashamed. Not him. Never him.

"Running away so soon?" The words dripped with invitation, with memory, with the kind of dangerous promise that had led you here countless times before.

"This," you hissed, wrestling with your chemise, "is the absolute last time." The words rang hollow, and you both knew it. You'd said them before. After the first time. And the second. And the third.

Lady Elliot's disapproving face flashed in your mind - that stern, hawk-like gaze that seemed to see through every social veneer. "I am ruined," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

He laughed, a sound rich with mischief. "Ruined? Darling, you're just getting started."

The worst part wasn't the scandal. The worst part was how much you knew you'd likely do this all over again.